Sugar Rush

Moving van

2006-12-12T10:01:00.000-05:00

Jump on in, folks. I'm moving to a new blog url.

Yes I know, I could just change the title up there, but then it wouldn't match the url, and well, that'd cross the line into unbearable. Did I mention I'm a fierce type-A?

So please join me over at 60piggies. And kindly update your bookmarks and links.

PS I think it's quite funny that none of you opted to tell me that Sugar Rush is the name of a semi-popular Brit novel/TV series. Being that I'm straight, almost thirty, and relatively crime-free, I can't imagine all the false advertising that name construed.

Wishing my nine(!) year old

2006-12-09T20:18:00.000-05:00

a thoroughly piratical birthday.

Sibling love

2006-12-08T14:43:00.000-05:00

After naptime, Em likes to walk into his little sister's room and say, "Good morning! It's a shiny day!"

Makes me smile every time.

harbinger

2006-12-07T20:45:00.000-05:00

Elle is great.

When she's heartbroken, which occurs about twice every hour, she gets her lower lip quivering in the most pathetic of ways. On command.

It's quite impressive, and she's only two.

So I'm thinking we might be looking at a long sixteen years.

Procrastination

2006-12-06T14:35:00.000-05:00

This is going to be a sashing quilt for Jer&Ann's lil girl. Any day now.

Confession: I haven't worked on it since the last time I posted about it, which was, oh, August I think. So my new strategy is to post an image so you all can say, "And by the way, Nicki, how is that quilt coming along?" And I can fidget and hem and haw and we can enjoy an awkward silence together, and then perhaps I shall be motivated to get my butt in gear.

You never know.

O Tannenbaum

2006-12-03T21:10:00.000-05:00

So we did the tree thing.

I like the idea of cutting our own tree; honestly I do. But for one thing, all the forests around here are owned by people with hunting rifles.

And then there's the tree farm idea, which is charming in theory. We tried it once, and the reality turned out to be more of a wet, freezing, whiny mess of a thing that yielded one stubby tree. It was trying to be a handsome tree, but this just wasn't in its genes.

So. We took the ~~easy~~ smart route this year and went to Lowe's. Lovely place, Lowe's. And we paced the aisles and held up this tree and that tree until they all looked the same and we bought one.

(And I am wondering, sort of as a sidenote here, how it is that a tree can be perfectly straight at the store, but you get home and the trunk is bent and angled in the most obvious of ways. I'm smelling a conspiracy.)

So the decorating part went well. Elle gave her ornaments to her brothers, as she was having trouble negotiating hooks over prickly branches. But she was quite good at pulling glittery, breakable tidbits off the tree, and walking around ooohing and wowing to herself about just how glittery (and breakable) they were. And then Zee knocked the tree over at one point. Plus somehow five billion ornaments ended up on the bottom 1/10th of the tree. So all in all, it went well.

And tonight we gathered round the crooked tree and read Christmas stories and carolled to ourselves amidst twinkle lights and the faint scent of fraser-fir.

What a lovely little tree. I suppose it can stay.

abit on the frigid side

2006-12-01T13:06:00.000-05:00

It's a blustery sort of day in that charming, freeze-your-boots-off kind of way.

A day where the wind sweeps all color from the sky and tangles your hair with stray snowflakes.

A day where the only sensible cure is a mug of hot chocolate.

Cheers.

gamboling

2006-11-28T10:21:00.000-05:00

A fallish sort of afternoon spent with my favorite boys.

More of Zee:

(Not that he likes to pose or anything.)

Gives a whole new meaning to the word

2006-11-22T14:27:00.000-05:00

Gratitude
(by Nichole Nordeman from her 2002 Woven&Spun Album)

Send some rain, would you send some rain
'cause the earth is dry and needs to drink again
and the sun is high and we are sinking in the shade
Would you send a cloud, thunder long and loud
let the sky grow black and send some mercy down
Surely you can see that we are thirsty and afraid
But maybe not, not today
Maybe you'll provide in other ways
and if that's the case--

We'll give thanks to you with gratitude
for lessons learned in how to thirst for you
How to bless the very sun that warms our face
if you never send us rain

Daily bread, give us daily bread
Bless our bodies, keep our children fed
Fill our cups, then fill them up again tonight
Wrap us up and warm us through
tucked away beneath our sturdy roofs
Let us slumber safe from danger's view this time
Or maybe not, not today
Maybe you'll provide in other ways
and if that's the case--

We'll give thanks to you with gratitude
A lesson learned to hunger after you
That a starry sky offers a better view
if no roof is overhead
and if we never taste that bread

Oh, the differences that often are between
everything we want and what we really need

So grant us peace, Jesus, grant us peace
Move our hearts to hear a single beat
between alibis and enemies tonight
Or maybe not, not today
Peace might be another world away
and if that's the case--

We'll give thanks to you with gratitude
for lessons learned in how to trust in you
That we are blessed beyond what we could ever dream
in abundance or in need
and if You never grant us peace

But, Jesus, would you please

Thankful

2006-11-22T14:15:00.000-05:00

So I was tagged to post about gratitude. Lucky for me, I already turned in this assignment a while back. (See this post.)

But I'll add one little thing to that list. A small thing, but still lovely.

I'm grateful for rainy days (except for six rainy days in a row, in which case I am only thankful for the first two).

I love 'em because they give you a reason to hole up in the house and do this:

or this:

with whomever means family to you.

Home

2006-11-21T13:18:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we got back from a five-day conference. This is the first time we attended sans children, a feat only accomplished through the bravery of Todd's mom (GIANT smooches to her!!).

We arrived home to a menagerie of posters:

It's good to be missed.

It's good to be home.

last Wednesday: Elle in residence

2006-11-20T20:13:00.000-05:00

As every parent worth their weight in Cheerios knows, one ought never leave a two year old unattended for the length of an entire five minutes. This is three hundred uninterrupted seconds of opportunity.

Usually Elle is smack up beside me in the bathroom, wanting powdered and deoderized and chapsticked right along with me as I ready myself for church.

But on this particular day, she was playing cars with her brothers in the sunroom. Or so I thought.

Turns out, she was painting her socks.

Plus her palms, her leg, and the back of one arm, but mostly her socks.

And on a day when we were actually going to be on time for church.

So much for that.

thoughts du jour

2006-11-18T16:56:00.000-05:00

I'm at NYWC in Cincinnati and just have a quick minute here...

1. We're on the top floor of an incredible restored hotel, upgraded for free...and that's not even the best part. The best part is we've got Crabtree & Evelyn amenities--the standard two soaps, shampoo, conditioner, lotion, plus optional shower cap--AND a toiletry kit and peppermint mouth wash. I think I might have to move in.

2. Yesterday I had the brilliant idea of walking down the stairs (we're on the 29th floor, which could be worse, but still) for our daily exercise. Today my legs hurt, and that might be an understatement.

3. You've probably seen this, but just in case, take a look. It's frightening that the image our youth are desperately trying to replicate doesn't even exist.

4. I didn't even know it, but I so needed this conference. This is the sixth one we've attended in the past seven years, so I thought it would be old stuff by now. But so much is fresh and real and exactly what I needed.

5. Not only is David Crowder an unbelievably talented musician, he's fabulously funny.

Quite possibly the shortest-lived illness

2006-11-15T08:26:00.000-05:00

Ever.

Em (who has this weird love for medicine) walks past a bottle of Triaminic.

"Mommy," he says, eyeing the pink stuff, "I think I am feeling sick." He holds his tummy for dramatic effect.

"Oh dear," I tell him. "Guess you'd better go lie down, then."

Two second pause.

"But I think really I am better now," he says.

Am I ever on to that kid.

:)

Belatedness+Selfishness=Me

2006-11-13T13:20:00.000-05:00

Okay, so once upon a long time ago in May when we moved into this place, my MIL stayed back at the old place for a few hours and cleaned it out. No, you can't have her. She's mine.

And in gratitude, I'd planned on making her a jewelry something of sorts, with just the right blend of delicate and earthy.

But first, I had to give her the twenty questions on what she craves in a piece of jewelry.

And then I had to order more coppery-brown beads.

And then I had to lose my stringing material and purchase more of that.

And then I got fed up with my pliers and bought new pair.

And then I needed more sterling head pins.

And then (of course), I had to obsess over the design element for a few days.

And once I finally started, I had to restring the thing a good six times before it was oh-just-right.

So now, six months later, here it is:

Just a sneak peek for y'all.

Plus, I had to post this here because I fell so crazy in love with the thing that I almost kept it for myself. I'd still like to keep it for myself. It looks lovely on me.

But now that you all have seen this post, I am duty-bound to fork it over. Sigh.

one more

2006-11-11T09:33:00.000-05:00

From Amber's blog.

A) Four jobs I have had in my life
1. Greeter Girl @ Express (does the joy ever end?)
2. Art teacher
3. Mom
4. Designer-seamstress-small business owner (I adore the term "cottage industry"...and it's a cozy cottage at that)

B) Four movies I would watch over and over
1. Sweet Home Alabama
2. Ocean's Eleven
3. You've Got Mail
4. Runaway Bride (yes, I'm an official sap)

C) Four places I have lived
1. Nanakuli, Hawaii (no recollection of these 6 months)
2. Mililani, Hawaii
3. Wakarusa, Indiana (loved this town)
4. Morenci, Michigan

D) Four TV shows I love to watch
1. Grey's
2. hmmm...I like those interior design shows I get to watch at the in-laws'
3. I don't know...I've watched Shark twice and it's okay...
Great quote in this last one; what was it now?...something like, "You would think I'd get tired of constantly being right. And yet it never gets old."
4. Whatever CSI show it is that hubby watches with Gibbs on it. Is that even how you spell Gibbs? It's how I spell Gibbs. What a fun name. Gibbs Gibbs Gibbs.

E) Four places I have been on vacation
1. New York, New York
2. Vancouver, Canada (and we almost had to live there forever because my parents didn't know we kiddos needed passports to get back into the US...)
3. Seattle, Washington (Mercer Island)
4. Cape May, New Jersey (lots of spiders...don't ask)

F) Four Websites I visit daily
1. webmail.juno.com
2. Yahoo mail
3. eBay
4. SouleMama or some other blog or Etsy
pretty much in that order, too (type A here)

G) Four of my favorite foods
1. Pie. Especially tart fruit pies.
2. Tortilla soup
3. Broccoli (I suspect this is due to a mutant gene from my uncle)
4. Bread. Preferrably Euro style. I could never go on an Atkins diet because I so love bread and pasta...plus I think any nutritionist with half a conscience would say Atkins is the scariest thing next to cabbage-soup diet.

H) Four places I would like to be right now
1. A South Pacific island, in a hammock
2. On a luxury train somewhere in Europe
3. Christmas shopping in New York or Chicago
4. Four hours into the future where all my cleaning and sewing for the day is done but I didn't have to actually do it

And now to reveal the real reason I'm doing this meme (and you thought it was a scheme to kill you with boredom):

I hereby tag all those people related to me who only manage to post on their blogs once every three weeks. Instant topic. I'm helping you out here.

And I specifically tag Kristin, who now has the subject of her first post. Go at it, Kris. :)

Indian Summer

2006-11-10T10:17:00.000-05:00

So I suppose a single day doesn't constitute Indian Summer. But what a day it was.

Mid-sixties, full sun, with just a brush of breeze. Perfect November weather.

Perfect for reading "Snuggle Puppy" on a blanket, cookie in hand.

Perfect for silly dances and raining leaves on your head.

Perfect.

Bittersweet

2006-11-09T10:55:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it's hard to be six and have a little sister who sneaks your chocolate when you're not looking, and crayons your homework, and cries when you walk out of the room.

Sometimes it's hard when you're two and full of liking your brother so much, but he calls you a bad girl and stomps all over your feelings and closes the pocket door so you can't follow him into the hallway.

That was yesterday.

But today Elle has found a new brother to shadow, and Zee is back to loving his baby sister.

No batteries required

2006-11-07T10:02:00.000-05:00

All aboard the Em Express!

Don't forget your hats and silk scarves. (Train rides demand high fashion.)

What we learned today

2006-11-04T20:16:00.000-05:00

So here's the thing. If you're going to put a bunk bed together, first of all, do not inform your children that you are putting their bunk bed together let alone promise them that they will be able to sleep in it tonight. Because chances are, you are lying.

Second, do not tell your husband, "No, go ahead honey, I'll do it myself and you can just help me lift the top bed up at the end." Especially if he is on his way out the door as you say it, because then you have to actually mean it.

Third, in light of number two, do not succumb to your overambitious urges and attempt to hoist the top bunk into place yourself. This is A Bad Idea.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Today I learned that I am really good at assembling bunk beds. Plus, I am really bad at assembling bunk beds. This actually does make sense.

I am totally Bob Vila's twin because if you put some bunks together 3 1/2 times in one evening, you get to be good. (The first time my husband was helping, so I'm only taking half the blame.)

I'm really bad at it because of, well, the 3 1/2 times.

So.

Practical lesson number one: let's just say that in spite of the fact that all the pieces look the same, it does matter which goes where. This is because of the little pre-drilled holes that you only notice after you've tightened all the screws.

Lesson number two: try not to lose your instructions two houses ago.

Lesson number three: if you happen to snap some of the wood off (twice), just flip the piece over and drill your own holes. Yes, I know how to use a drill. I told you, Bob Vila's twin here.

Lesson number four: no matter how Bob Vila-ish you may be, unless you have 8-feet-long arms, you will not under any circumstances be able to place the top bunk on the bottom bunk yourself. Although you might manage to mash your thumb a good one.

But.

Three hours later, the screws are in place, the kids are in bed, and my thumb is still attached to my hand. So I'm categorizing this one as a success.

Just call me Bob. Or else. Did I mention I have a drill?

A walk through someone else's life

2006-11-02T09:53:00.000-05:00

A must see (click here). Be sure to take a peek at the "best pictures" and "archive" as well.

a wednesday dozen

2006-11-01T13:58:00.000-05:00

1. I am on a mission to reclaim my body. The story goes like this. Last July I started a much-needed prescription, which had the lovely side-effect of a twenty pound weight gain. Oh, the joy. So now I am running (read: very slowly jogging) 1-2 miles/day, 5 days/week...a gradual start so I don't keel over and die on the spot from being so terrifically out of shape.

The idea here is to be able to fit into my clothes again. My weight management strategy is as follows: never buy clothes in a larger size. When they get tight, I am forced to lose the weight. This is a brilliant plan, except for right now, when it is not so brilliant a plan.

But it will be brilliant again soon, when it works. Just wait.

2. It is perfectly acceptable to use either "most importantly" or "most important" at the beginning of a sentence. Many people (okay, a blessed few people who are more obsessed with grammar than I am) will try to sway you one way or the other, with convincing arguments on either end. Ignore them and employ whichever suits you best.

3. Shopping for the person who has it all? Try here.

4. Zee insists that he is not learning about letters in kindergarten, he is learning about alpha friends. And we mustn't talk about either of the two at home, because all that stuff is for school, and my name is Mom, not Mrs. His Teacher. So. If he happens to become passably literate before age 12, it will be no thanks to me.

5. Zee has also lost his first tooth. The second is hanging by a thread. I think this afternoon I shall tell him to stand outside in the wind a bit with his mouth open. That should do the trick.

6. I also had to explain to him that the tooth fairy at our house is not as rich as the tooth fairy at other people's houses, so get used to it now, buddy.

7. I love sweatshirt-and-jeans weather, double socks. It makes me think of Christmas. My husband finds this amusing, but I have a reasonable explanation: where I grew up, sweatshirt-and-jeans weather meant Christmas. Or January. Makes me want to lick a candy cane, just talking about it.

8. I am very picky.

9. I thought maybe I'd grow out of number 8, but so far no such luck.

10. But we shan't give up hope. It could be just a very long phase. I'm certain it'll be over in another 60 years or so.

11. (When I am either dead or senile.)

12. While we're on the subject, please somebody outlive me and incorporate this quote in some manner at my funeral:

“Someday you will read in the papers that D. L. Moody of East Northfield is dead. Don’t you believe a word of it! At that moment I shall be more alive than I am now..."

“I was born of the flesh in 1837. I was born of the Spirit in 1856. That which is born of the flesh may die. That which is born of the Spirit will live forever.”

(by DL Moody, in case you didn't catch on to this)

13. Happy Wednesday. Oh, look! A baker's dozen. (Either that, or the senility's kicking in early.)

Okay, so

2006-10-31T10:59:00.000-05:00

The following post is a vignette I wrote several years ago, loosely inspired by my grandfathers. To anyone who knows them and their farms, yes, I've made up/altered the details. But hopefully the overall spirit remains true.

Farmers' Hands

2006-10-31T10:34:00.000-05:00

Written by Nicole Owens

Pappy and Grandpa J have the same kind of hands. Dark from the sun, with soil pushed up under their fingernails. Weathered and strong from working the earth. Farmers' hands.

Grandpa J lives two plane rides away in Pennsylvania. His white farm house perches at the end of a dusty lane. Sam and Max, his German Shepherds, catch us halfway down the lane.

Most times we visit in the summer, when the fields swirl with wheat and the corn is as tall as my brothers. Every third day is my turn to help harvest. Grandpa lifts me into the cab of the combine, where there's only room to stand, and I study the metal blades combing through the wheat. Chaff spews behind us in windy somersaults of gold.

My brothers help Grandpa J catch a pig he's sold. I have to watch from the bottom rail outside the pen, since the pigs weigh more than I do. I'm part-way jealous, but still it's nice to stay out of all the stink and the squealing.

Sometimes Grandma sends us raspberry picking. The fat berries slip off when I touch them. Our fingers and lips are stained purple when we set the half-full baskets in the kitchen. Grandma smiles and shakes her head, but she still has enough to bake two pies.

We spend afternoons racing a rusty wagon down the hill by the barn. My brothers steer wild, and I end up with dust in my teeth from tumbling down the hill. When I need some quiet, I climb in the old tire hung from the apple tree and carve slow arcs against the sky.

After supper, we rattle down the dirt road to Cousin Mike's house. All the kids get a turn cranking the handle of the wooden ice cream barrel. Sometimes Grandma brings an apple crumb pie, and I eat till my tummy aches with sweetness.

Sunday mornings, I slide next to Grandpa J on the cold wooden pew. You can hear every sound in the small country church, so Mama shushes me lots. I lean over Grandpa's stiff coat sleeve and try to read the words in his Bible.

We scrape up the noon meal while Grandpa J hooks a cart to his tractor. He tows us to a quiet pond in the woods behind his farm. The sun stays awake past nine o'clock, and we fish from a wooden boat, slapping at mosquitoes.

After almost a month of apples and chickens and harvesting, it's time from the long flights home. I hug Grandpa J so close I can feel his whiskers. He tells me I'm his best granddaughter, then winks deep and gives me a throaty laugh, since we both know I'm his only granddaughter. His hand waves a slow goodbye until we're so far away that my tears blur his fingers together.

***

Pappy's farm is a whole different flavor. It's a quiet farm; no chickens or dogs or combines. No tractors coughing smoke. Just rows and rows of fruit trees and silent vegetables, drinking in sun.

Pappy lives on an island in Hawaii, like we do. His farm is twenty minutes away on a little plane. Our suitcases bump along in his truck down the winding dirt road to his house.

On Tuesday mornings, we fill Pappy's truck with bananas, papayas, avocados, and Chinese cabbage. His stand at the farmer's market is crowded and damp with people. When it gets hot, the lady beside us slips me a tangerine from her ice box.

Some days Pappy stops work early, and we drive to the beach. We climb the waves on Styrofoam boogie boards and follow fat black crabs across the rocks. My hair ends up tangled and salty, and my cheeks rosy warm.

Fridays we visit Nana's bakery. She hands us a bag of day old bread, and we tote our poles to the koi fish lagoon. I roll little balls of bread for the hook, and yell when the pole yanks from my hands. Pappy helps me wind up the fish, wet and flapping, and we toss it back in the water to breathe.

One morning, Pappy pays my brothers and me a dime for every weed we dig in his yard. After an hour, his grass is speckled brown with holes, and our pockets jingle with coins. I buy two almond cookies from the noodle shop with my new riches: one for me, one for Pappy.

Most days I wake up early with the sun to see Pappy's straw hat disappear down the rows of papaya trees. I follow him to the edge of the trees, before his land stretches down into the valley. Mama says to wait right there, since the valley is steep and rocky, and sometimes wild animals trample Pappy's vegetables.

After two weeks of quiet and salt and sun, when it's time for us to travel home, Pappy hugs me to his canvas shirt. "Girlie," he calls me. "Girlie, you come back and see me soon." We walk to the truck, and he holds my palm in his strong, calloused hand.

Pappy and Grandpa J breathe different worlds, stretched apart by miles of forests and mountains and ocean. But their hands are the same. Blistered and sturdy from years full of living. Wrinkled and worn from loving the earth. Farmers' hands.

a sunday drive

2006-10-30T10:00:00.001-05:00

with elle:

What a glorious afternoon for a drive.
Let's hop on in.

Check the gas gauge. Yep, we're good.

Adjust the seat. Now the mirror.

But wait. I have the nagging feeling I'm forgetting something.

Ah yes. Of course. I haven't packed the trunk!
Hmmmn. What shall we bring?

Leaves! Yes, leaves.
When in doubt, go with leaves.

Okay, one trip. Two trips. Three trips of leaves.

There we go. All set. Except.

We still have a few inches of space at the top.

What else shall we cram in?

More leaves! We could always use a few more. Two handfuls. Just in case they're out of leaves at the other end of the driveway.

Okay, all set. Well, alright. Maybe just one more bunch of leaves.

Now we're off.

Although.

Such a lovely shade of red. Perhaps I'll take the tricycle instead.

Toodle-loo!

sorry folks

2006-10-30T09:51:00.000-05:00

...but I am alive.

First I had an unexpected sewing frenzy, and then we were out-of-townish, but never fear, I have returned.

Let the merriment commence.

Pied Beauty

2006-10-24T13:11:00.000-04:00

"He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise Him."

--Gerard Manley Hopkins (Pied Beauty)

a note on brothers

2006-10-22T13:49:00.000-04:00

Em in training to become Buzz Lightyear. Bee playing Army. It's strangely wonderful how brothers can play two different things, together, and both have a joyful afternoon.

October

2006-10-22T13:29:00.000-04:00

Autumn alone is enough reason to live here. I joke that it's all of two weeks, but it's probably more like three. Three glorious weeks.

The towering maple out back is decked out in a rusty sort of cranberry, and the way those leaves flap and twist in the sun makes up for five long months of frozen, slushy muck. Five long months of muggy nights, laced with mosquitoes.

It's almost like a year's worth of beauty gets crammed into three small weeks, saturated to the point that I can hardly stand it, that it's almost unbearable to walk outside into the middle of all that autumn.

more randomnity

2006-10-20T14:15:00.000-04:00

Our local crayon population is housed in a washed-out hot chocolate canister. When we close that plastic lid, they self-reproduce. It’s a little eerie.

So from time to time, when the crayons outgrow their space, I find myself sorting through them yet again. Discarding scraps of wrapper. Throwing out colors worn down to a nub too small to grip.

Today was a sorting day. And as I placed the keepers back in the canister, I found myself reflecting (with a smidge of nostalgia, I kid you not) on how my crayon preferences have changed over the years.

In grade school, I coveted the 128 pack of crayons with a built-in sharpener in the back. The boy who sat beside me in sixth grade had a box of those beautiful things, with tiers of crayons placed in ascending height, like a stadium. Once, when we had made divided circles with arrow spinners for some kind of math game, we quietly played “Wheel of Fortune” instead. Black Sajak was the host, with his sidekick Vanna White.

I am not making this up.

Black would call down a contestant, “Cadmium Blue, come on down!” and the stands of crayon crowd would go wild while Cadmium spun the wheel. Did I mention we were gifted and talented students? Explains a lot, really.

In college, when I should have been long past crayons, my favored bunch was the scented kind from Crayola. Think chocolate and cherry, but also clean cotton and blue sky. Which brings me to say: no mortal should attempt to capture the smell of sky. It’s just not going to happen.

Now that I’m a mom, I prefer the washable to the scented, since heaven knows Elle doesn’t need another incentive to stick those babies up her nose. Although really, if money were not an object (and pigs flew and bunions sang etc.), I’d go for these beeswax crayons, made in Germany by Stockmar. Gorgeous.

one more photo

2006-10-19T22:48:00.000-04:00

because I don't already post enough pictures of elle...

A few more snippets

2006-10-18T22:10:00.000-04:00

of everyday life:

On Saturday, Em, Elle, and I read board books and sang fingerplays (itsy bitsy spider, three little monkeys) in the van while Todd froze his ears off on the soccer fields. Em informed me that the monkeys did get away because "monkeys are very brave and do NOT let crocodiles eat them." Just so you know.

Each night, right after teeth brushing, Elle makes her rounds for bedtime kisses. She is very particular about how she receives these. If you do not smack her square on the lips, she makes you try again.

She is also displaying remarkable gains in the arenas of fine and gross motor skills, especially as they apply to dressing/undressing herself. It is not unusual to walk into the living room and find her completely in the buff, sitting happily on the couch, singing along with Dora and Boots.

This, we hope she outgrows. Soon.

The report

2006-10-16T13:41:00.000-04:00

To all of you who have asked, my family in the islands are fine. My grandfather (in his early nineties) and aunt (whose age will remain undisclosed LOL) from Kauai were actually at my parents' place over the weekend, taking care of doctor visits and such. So they got to pass the time 'round the dining table playing cards till the power was restored.

Oahu is quite far from the Big Island, the quake's epicenter, so my parents experienced no structural damage. Just a good shaking.

And a rumbling reminder of how, in a single instant, everything can change. My mom is nodding at this, I'm sure. A reminder of how easily all that you've poured your life's effort into building can quite literally come crashing down around you. A reminder to invest ourselves in things of eternal value.

To all of you who have asked, thank you for your kindness.

Anomaly

2006-10-15T20:16:00.000-04:00

We've been vacationing the last few days. Sort of. As in we haven't actually gone anywhere, but the hubby is off work, and we are Lying Low. Screening phone calls. Sleeping in. And not going to our church.

See, normal people can attend church when they're sort of on vacation but haven't gone anywhere. Of course, normal people actually go somewhere, but that's another discussion entirely. But for my family, all of my life, for my growing-up-family and my here-and-now-family, church=work, so on vacation you Lie Low. Maybe go to somebody else's church. Maybe have a do-it-yourself thing at home with the kids and a bible and a scattering of singing with some made-up words.

Our normal Sunday means hubby is up and out at sunrise. I'm showering. Drying my hair. Pretending to dry Elle's hair. Confiscating swords while somebody wails, "Mom! He poked out my eye! I'm blind! I'm bleeding! I'm dying!" Looking for Em's other shoe. Re-pinning Elle's hair for the fifth time. Herding everyone out to the van. Running back in to grab their church bags because they get points for bringing those bags and oh-how-I-despise-those-blasted-things. Buckling a round of car seats. Jogging back in because I realize I'm still in my house slippers. Out again with boots.

Showing up at church ten minutes late. Someone inevitably remarking on how much fun it must be getting four kids to church and aren't I a saint? Me nodding with a half-laugh but harboring zero saint-like feelings on the inside.

And then, in the afternoon, I bring them home and hub pops in for an hour or two, then U-turns on back to church till nine or ten.

And I can't wait for Monday to begin.

But.

This morning, for us, held pancakes. Small stacks of them, doused in homemade cinnamon syrup. Whipped cream. Chocolate chips. And a tableful of sticky smiles.

A Sunday unlike any other as far back as my memory can stretch.

It feels good to breathe, doesn't it? Every once in a while, so good to breathe.

Celebrating the spirit of opposition

2006-10-13T09:02:00.000-04:00

I've been working with Elle on saying her age. The conversation mostly ends up like this:

"Sweetie, how old are you?"

"No. No how old you."

"Are you two? Can you say two?"

"No. No two."

"Yep, you're two alright."

Deux

2006-10-12T11:27:00.000-04:00

She blew

and blew

and blew and blew and blew

finally Daddy helped

and those candles went out!

Few things are sweeter than the first afternoon of being two.

Happy birthday, Elle.

can you make out a pulse?

2006-10-09T00:12:00.000-04:00

I apologize for the uncharacteristic silence, although perhaps you are secretly rejoicing at the temporary reprieve.

Either way, I'm off to a conference/retreat tomorrow. See you all on Thursday.

Try to generate some missing-of-Nicki feelings in the meantime. :)

Juxtaposition

2006-10-06T12:58:00.000-04:00

Something about autumn makes me want to frolic, and I'm not the frolicking sort.

I think it has something to do with muggy puffs of breath against chilly windowpanes. Sun against brisk air. Jeweled trees against a cold, clear sky.

Part three

2006-10-05T08:39:00.000-04:00

One last thing.

Again in the intro of The Four Loves, Lewis touches on something discussed later in depth, and this something resonated with me at that particular point in my life. I suppose this is why I first found him brilliant; he takes ideas I've felt (by experience) to be true all along, and articulates them, validates them. Validates me, I guess.

Drawing on M. Denis de Rougemont's remark that "love ceases to be a demon only when he ceases to be a god," Lewis proposes the opposite corollary: "Love begins to be a demon the moment he begins to be a god."

He writes: "This balance seems to me an indispensable safeguard. If we ignore it the truth that God is love may slyly come to mean for us the converse, that love is God."

"I suppose that everyone who has thought about the matter will see what M. de Rougemont meant. Every human love, at its height, has a tendency to claim for itself a divine authority. Its voice tends to sound as if it were the will of God Himself. It tells us not to count the cost, it demands of us a total commitment, it attempts to over-ride all other claims and insinuates that any action which is sincerely done 'for love's sake' is thereby lawful and even meritorious."

Further down the page: "Now it must be noticed that the natural loves make this blasphemous claim not when they are in their worst, but when they are in their best, natural condition; when they are what our grandfathers called 'pure' or 'noble.'"

And then: "Our loves do not make their claim to divinity until the claim becomes plausible. It does not become plausible until there is in them a real resemblance to God, to Love Himself. Let us here make no mistake. Our Gift-loves are really God-like; and among our Gift-loves those are most God-like which are most boundless and unwearied in giving. All the things the poets say about them are true. Their joy, their energy, their patience, their readiness to forgive, their desire for the good of the beloved--all this is a real and all but adorable image of the Divine life....Meanwhile, however, the likeness is a splendour. That is why we may mistake Like for Same. We may give our human loves the unconditional allegiance which we owe only to God. Then they become gods: then they become demons. Then they will destroy us, and also destroy themselves."

This, I suppose, was what I needed to face at that moment. The thing I thought I'd left at home had tagged along five thousand miles and was right there, in print, staring at me. Unblinking.

But that's quite enough on that.

I've shared pieces only from the introduction so I can then say this: Read the rest.

Buy the book. Or borrow it. Or beg it off a friend, but whatever you must do, get a hold of a copy in your hands and read the thing. (Even you, Dad. Skip the convoluted, old-fashioned words and you'll find it reads like a dream.)

Really.

Read it.

Highlight

2006-10-04T21:06:00.000-04:00

of my day:

Bee comes racing in after school and spots an oversized box just inside the door.

"Mom!" he says. "Did we get a brand-new vacuum cleaner?"

"Yes, honey, we did."

"Brand new???"

"Brand new."

He hurries down the hall. "This is so exciting I have to use the bathroom!"

I know, I know

2006-10-03T14:10:00.000-04:00

...I'm supposed to be sewing, but I'm taking another break (read: procrastinating). This probably means I'll be up till midnight, bleary-eyed, squinting at my thread, but no matter. I'll deal with that when it comes.

Right now I am enjoying an ice-cream sandwich, the skinny, store-bought kind that comes eighteen-to-a-box, the kind where the chocolatey sandwich part sticks to the back of your teeth. Mmmm.

The taste brings to mind a fragment of memory: high school, sitting in Emi's white car in Town Center parking lot, the pair of us consuming a box of ice cream sandwiches before church. Licking the wrappers, even. (Well, probably not her, she was too polite, but I was surely engaging in some serious wrapper-licking.)

Such a lovely thing, memory. But okay, right, the sewing. I'm off.

This was their idea

2006-10-03T12:38:00.000-04:00

for nap:

Cute, but just not going to happen.

The gem

2006-10-03T11:42:00.000-04:00

So back to Lewis.

At the very start of Freshman Orientation, we were each handed a copy of The Four Loves...or, more likely, we were required to buy it for the course. However it happened, the result was me, sprawled across my dorm bed the second night of college, devouring the book from start to finish.

To this day, I'm fairly certain that I'm the lone person in my freshman class who actually read the thing. Which is a minor travesty, because this is C.S. Lewis at his best.

I can't get past the introduction without ramming head-first into portions I just have to (have to) share with you.

"I was looking forward," Lewis explains,"to writing some fairly easy panegyrics on the first sort of love [Gift-love] and disparagements of the second [Need-love]. And much of what I was going to say still seems to me to be true. I still think that if all we mean by our love is a craving to be loved, we are in a very deplorable state. But I would not now say (with my master, MacDonald) that if we mean only this craving we are mistaking for love something that is not love at all. I cannot now deny the name love to Need-love. Every time I have tried to think the thing out along those lines I have ended in puzzles and contradictions. The reality is more complicated than I supposed."

And this is what I like about Lewis; I mean, yes, he's remarkably brilliant, but he still talks with us as if he's a regular old chap just sifting out his thoughts as he shares them.

Further on in the introduction:

"Every Christian would agree that a man's spiritual health is exactly proportional to his love for God. But man's love for God, from the very nature of the case, must always be very largely, and must often be entirely, a Need-love. This is obvious when we implore forgiveness for our sins or support in our tribulations. But in the long run it is perhaps even more apparent in our growing--for it ought to be growing--awareness that our whole being by its very nature is one vast need; incomplete, preparatory, empty yet cluttered, crying out for Him who can untie things that are now knotted together and tie up things that are still dangling loose."

And later:

"Thus one Need-love, the greatest of all, either coincides with or at least makes a main ingredient in man's highest, healthiest, and most realistic spiritual condition. A very strange corollary follows. Man approaches God most nearly when he is in one sense the least like God. For what can be more unlike than fullness and need, sovereignty and humility, righteousness and penitence, limitless power and a cry for help?"

Yes, all this in the first four pages, before the meat of the book even begins.

But alas, I hear my sewing calling. So I suppose this shall have to be part two in a three-part series. Toodles for now.

Banality in motion

2006-10-02T22:23:00.000-04:00

(Warning: If you are currently in college, especially a freshman in college, DO NOT under any circumstances read this post. And if you ignore my warning, as I’m certain you will, I disclaim any responsibility of the possible demise of your college education. Just FYI.)

I don’t know if this is common to every college/university, but mine had a ~~cantankerous~~ jolly good thing called “Freshman Orientation.” You know, the semester-long deal where they teach you the fine art of succeeding in big-bad-college-world. I suppose the intentions behind it were rational enough, but the problem, as I see it, is twofold:

A. No one paid attention in that class. Like, ever.

B. Anyone who actually needed direct instruction on how to thrive in college was either cutting that class, snoring in that class, or lofting airplane notes across that class.

I, of course, was sitting in the back of the auditorium, studiously doodling in my notebook. It’s not called a Bachelor of Arts degree for nothing.

But. If I concentrate particularly hard and do the half-squint thing with my left eye, I can actually recall a few things I “learned” in Freshman Orientation.

For instance, I remember the thing with the jar and the rocks. Oh, and I think there might have been sugar. The jar was our life or our time or something; the rocks were important things like Prob&Stats homework and working our food service shift and volunteering at the Y; the sugar was bowling alley dates, pedicures, and all things fun. And the point was that our jar could fit both the fun and the necessary if we dropped the rocks in first and then poured the sugar.

Me, I just stuck things in as I went along and it all worked out fine. Maybe my jar was big; who knows.

I also remember, quite clearly, the speech about how this is not teen camp and as much as we’d like to, we can’t stay up till two every morning and still pass our classes. I’d have to say this is an outright lie. We were lucky to be sleeping by three, no exaggeration, every night that entire first year. And again, got that Doodling Degree just fine.

Hmmmn. Sadly, that appears to be the sum total of what I learned in that course, and I’m guessing Mum and Dad are at-this-very-moment rejoicing that it was free. But, were it not free, had we paid actual money for it, here’s the one gem of a thing that would’ve made it worth the $500 per credit hour. Are you ready? It’s a beauty:

Freshman Orientation introduced me to C.S. Lewis.

I mean, I knew Lewis, I did the whole Narnia shebang in grade school, but that was just the popsicle tip of a rather profound iceberg.

And I have much more to say about Lewis, but it is late and I still have an avalanche of sewing to return to, and anyhow, this digression has already been—how do I say it?—ah yes, jolly good fun.

So more tomorrow. Do check back. Hey, you can always sit in the back and doodle.

A boy and his hat

2006-10-01T14:54:00.000-04:00

Em spends most of his life in a hat. He's got a variety of them, all that same fisherman-camping style, but this one in particular is his favorite.

It is the one constant in his wardrobe.

He wears it for days on end, and quite often in bed as he sleeps, although we sometimes manage to convince him to hang it on the corner of his footboard instead. It’s not unusual to find him stripped down to his undies and white tee, galloping about the house, hat firmly in place.

This loving-of-hats is mostly cute and occasionally disturbing, but today a downright blessing.

See, last night Em got a haircut. An unwilling haircut. A crooked haircut. From me.

And today we had church, and that wonderful hat kept my ineptitude under wraps.

Of course, if you’d asked me about it, I would likely have told you that he was wiggly during the cutting, which is true, but the rest of the truth is that the crookedness is still about 80% my fault. So.

Here’s to random childhood obsessions. You never know when they might come in handy.

Okay, so I didn't give in

2006-09-30T12:11:00.000-04:00

but I sure wanted to.

Yesterday: We're finishing up some errands when Em's plaintive voice calls from the back of the van. It's a guileless voice, small and full of being four years old.

"Mom?" he says. "When we're all done can we go to the pet shop? Because I want to get a kitty."

I'm allergic to cats, on top of which we've got more than our share of chaos, noise, and mess as it is...so a pet is not in anyone's near future.

Still, I found myself battling the inexplicable urge to buy a kitty.

Why I’m grateful

2006-09-30T11:51:00.000-04:00

for my husband:

1. I have severe tendencies toward cynicism, arrogance, self-absorbancy, obstinateness. And yet he’s still here.
2. Not only does he not mind when I borrow his Hawaiian-print boxer shorts, he thinks it’s cute. Or maybe this is just what he tells himself so he won’t mind. Hmmmn.
3. He buys me chocolate. (This is a critical quality in a spouse.)
4. He loves God.
5. He loves me.
6. He loves our kids.
7. He’s kind. And he’s mellow. And that might seem like a silly thing, but compared to the harsh brutality in which many people exist, this is huge.
8. He’s got the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen, with the perfect amount of curve. No wait, that’s what annoys me about him. Sorry, wrong list.
9. He’s blind in the most endearing of ways. As in he thinks I’m hot, in spite of the fact that I’m, well, me.
10. He also thinks I’m smart and funny. Or maybe he just lets me think he thinks I’m smart and funny. In any case, he doesn’t seem to mind that I over-analyze everything.
11. He loads the dishwasher at night. And he shows up when he says he will. And he’s a natural in the spotlight. And a jillion other things, but I’m liking the number eleven today so we'll end here.

Which is why.

The list

2006-09-29T10:31:00.000-04:00

okey dokey artichokey, for those of you who have pleaded with me to furnish some b-day ideas for the lil Elle, your wish is granted:

Here's a bunch of stuff Elle wants. Okay, so it's really stuff I want. But she will like it too, promise.

1. Is this growth chart not insanely cute? And it would look simply smashing against the olive paint on her walls...

2. And perhaps one of everything from this gorgeous store. Or at least these hair clips or any of these whimsical jewelry cases. Sublime.

3. If you've never shopped Oompa, you've got to check them out. I'm especially fond of their plush toy selection (because Elle is SO lacking in the stuffed animal department LOL), namely this funny fellow, and this here chicken, although now that I look at them, they're kind of expensive. But Elle makes the cutest chicken noises if that helps justify the cost any. ;)

(Not for gifting purposes, but while you're in the neighborhood take a look-see at this delightful wall-art collection. I'm a-thinkin' I might need to bust out those paint brushes again...)

4. And then there are books. Elle loves books. I love books. And board books are especially perfect, with their sturdy, Elle-proof pages. Check these out:

Good ol' Olivia

More More More

anything by Leslie Patricelli

~~Oh Elle!~~ I mean Oh David!

And the most addicting dog book ever

So there ya go. :) Happy browsing!

PS Kindra, your baby is destined to receive the best gifts ever, 'cause after all my practice I am seriously an expert kid-gifter. If I do say so myself. heehee

Me

2006-09-27T09:46:00.000-04:00

The idea of servitude is counter-cultural to Americans. To the human race, perhaps, but especially Americans. We are a me-first, claw-my-way-to-the-top, look-out-for-myself-'cause-no-one-else-will society to the core.

So if/when we open our Bibles and scan a verse talking about valuing the needs of other people, about dying to ourselves, we think, "Ha ha, Jesus, that's a good one. But seriously, now."

But I think he knew a thing or two about serving.

"When Jesus washed the disciples' feet, he taught them a final lesson about serving. Two of those feet belonged to Judas.

Judas Iscariot.

Just saying the name leaves a bitter aftertaste on the tongue. For it is a name synonymous with the most treacherous of betrayals--the betrayal of a friend." (Ken Gire)

"It has been said that forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that crushed it. Could there be a fragrance as sweet in all the world as that of Jesus having washed the very heel that was poised to crush him?" (again, Ken Gire)

And then, of course, he also died to benefit the very people who were killing him.

So he modeled not only general servitude, but also serving those who despise you, even when the personal cost is overwhelming. I don't know about you, but I have a hard time with that one.

It's like swimming upstream, and I don't mean going against the crowd. I mean struggling against the inclination of every cell in my body.

I penned (okay, keyed...but "penned" reads so much better, don't you think?) this bit last night, in reference to this dying to self principle:

It’s that hour when dusk falls down, settles in the cracks like ash, scatters the light from the air. It’s a somber time, the pause after sunset’s explosion, with leftover color sinking through the earth.

Melancholy.

That sad smear of resignation that comes when you’ve done all your trying, and it just isn’t working. I’ve tried.

I really have.

But tomorrow will bring the sun back, and I’ll try yet again.

A sneak peek

2006-09-27T09:40:00.000-04:00

...at my next ensemble:

Love those harvest hues!!

Simple pleasures

2006-09-25T18:48:00.000-04:00

Mondays are for walking with someone you like, someone just the right size for hand-holding, who won't get too far ahead of you.

Makes you smile a little, doesn't it?

And then there's this flawless lil apple ensemble crafted by my friend Whitney, a maven at classic designs. Love her!

When I grow up

2006-09-24T11:32:00.000-04:00

I'm a small group leader of a bunch of teenage girls, and I tell you what: they can make me crazy, but I love them with a fierceness too wide to wrap words around.

A few weeks back, one of our discussion topics went something like, "Describe your dream job." And they all took turns interrupting each other with grandiose future plans.

I didn't share mine, of course, because they think I'm all grown up and should be able to mark this topic "NA," but here's what I was thinking.

My dream is to go to med school, practice pediatrics for a few years to pay off the school bills, then set up pro-bono medical care clinics in the most desperate reaches of the earth--East Timor, maybe, or Somalia. And forty years down the line I'd retire to a cabin ensconced in curls of woodsmoke, and write it all down.

So there you go. Nothing terribly romantic, no wild success or lofty prestige, but I think this dream fits me quite nicely.

Someday.

Because it's Friday and all

2006-09-22T11:03:00.000-04:00

Twenty Ways to Maintain (In)sanity
(A smidgen of hilarity passed on by my friend Kris Craft.)

1. At lunch time, sit in your parked car with sunglasses on and point a hair dryer at passing cars. See if they slow down.

2. Page yourself over the intercom. Don't disguise your voice.

3. Every time someone asks you to do something, ask if they want fries with that.

4. Put your garbage can on your desk and label it "In."

5. Put decaf in the coffee maker for three weeks. Once everyone has gotten over their caffeine addictions, switch to espresso.

6. In the memo field of all your checks, write "For Smuggling Diamonds."

7. Finish all your sentences with "In accordance with the prophecy."

8. Dont use any punctuation

9. As often as possible, skip rather than walk.

10. Order a diet water whenever you go out to eat. Keep a serious face.

11. Specify that your drive-through order is "to go."

12. Sing along at the opera.

13. Go to a poetry recital and ask why the poems don't rhyme.

14. Put mosquito netting around your work area and play tropical sounds all day.

15. Five days in advance, tell your friends you can't attend their party because you're not in the mood.

16. Have your coworkers address you by your wrestling name, "Rock Bottom."

17. When the money comes out of the ATM, scream, "I Won! I Won!"

18. When leaving the zoo, start running towards the parking lot, yelling, "Run for your lives, they're loose!!"

19. Tell your children over dinner, "Due to the economy, we are going to have to let one of you go."

20. And the final way to keep a healthy level of insanity...

(Addendum: So it turns out there was actually supposed to be a #20 and it just got cut off in her email, but it's so much more appropriate this way. Heheh...)

Give a girl a mirror...

2006-09-22T08:39:00.000-04:00

Who knew brushing teeth could be so much fun?

Wealth

2006-09-20T09:14:00.000-04:00

At some point they may realize that they'd have more in the way of a wardrobe and a college fund if we'd had fewer in the way of offspring. Or maybe this won't ever cross their minds. Maybe they'll just always know, intuitively, that they're so much richer for having each other.

Water Fowl

2006-09-19T09:32:00.000-04:00

I’m not convinced you can say you have truly lived, till you’ve played a few rounds of Duck-Duck-Goose with Em and Elle.

It began while I was on the phone with a friend, discussing details of some graphic design work ~~she’s roped me into~~ I cheerily volunteered for.

Em’s at my side. “Can we play Duck-Duck-Goose, Mom?”

I hold up my palm. Wait.

So of course, the rest of the phone call is interrupted at twenty second intervals by:

“Now, Mom?”

“Can we play now?”

“How ‘bout now?”

About thirty-six interruptions later I hang up the phone, and Em’s eyes brighten in my most favorite of ways. “I want to be the ducker!” he calls.

Our Duck-Duck-Goose skills could use a bit of polishing, but we’re getting the hang of it. We can usually convince at least one person to sit down, and even Elle has mastered the fine art of smacking someone’s head with the accompanying, “Dut” or “Doose.” And then of course, most of the game is spent with everyone running around in personal orbits, eventually plopping down when the moment seems right. It’s a jolly good bunch of fun.

And since we’re discussing how cute my kids are (you didn’t know we were discussing this, but I’m sneaky like that), Elle is the cutest walker-down-the-haller I’ve ever laid eyes on. She does it differently each time, sometimes with a good dose of arm-swing, sometimes humming and up on her tippy-toes, sometimes in that half-squatting sumo-wrestler walk. We’ve got a whole lot of hall in our house, so the cuteness goes on for a while. My advice to all the mom-to-be’s: Get a good length of hall. It’s sure to do wonders for your kid’s cuteness quotient.

Temporary Lapse

2006-09-18T10:51:00.000-04:00

A decade ago, The Harvard University Gazette ran an article debunking the theory that aging adults lose oodles of brain cells daily (okay, so they didn't say "oodles," but it's such a fun word; they really should have). It was a fascinating piece that I mostly didn't read. William J. Cromie concludes the article with this cheery news: "You can feel good about the fact that you're not losing your mind at the rate of thousands of brain cells every day."

Well, I, for one, beg to differ.

My memory is shot, has positively gone-to-pieces, is now a muddled blur of a thing that I no longer trust. I am sure of this because any self-respecting neuron left in my brain would have reminded me of my affection for all-things-Pooh during my recent seven-day series on "What I Love."

And for certain, some kind soul wants to jump in at this point and console, "But look, you did remember. Just a bit belated is all." Which is sweet of you, thanks a bunch, but the thing is that it's not so much I remembered as it is that someone else brought it up.

But however it is we got here, I now recall that I'd like to share a bit of Pooh simpleness with you. So here we go.

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.

"Pooh!" he whispered.

"Yes, Piglet?"

"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you."

There now; I feel enormously better. And now that I've been reminded, I shan't forget again. Hopefully. Perhaps.

Hmmmmn.

I'm sorry; what were we talking about again?

Go with the pink

2006-09-17T14:33:00.000-04:00

In The Secret Life of Bees, August Boatwright is a woman of considerable class and intelligence; a woman who, nonetheless, paints her house Caribbean Pink.

Never mind that it’s the most garish shade of paint she’s ever seen.

Never mind that half the town will talk.

She paints with shocking pink because her sister May has picked it. May, who crumbles beneath a world’s worth of suffering. 'Cause if it’ll lift May’s spirit, August reasons, it’s a good choice of paint.

Midway through the story, the book’s teenage protagonist, Lily, asks August about the unexpected hue. And following the explanation, August starts to add: “The problem with most people--”

But Lily interrupts, supplying, “--is that they don’t know what matters and what doesn’t.” She’s proud of herself, assuming she has completed August’s thought. She’s wrong.

August clarifies that what she was going to say is this: “The problem with most people is that they know what matters, but they don’t choose it.” She knows that May’s well-being is vastly more important than painting the house a reasonable color. But still, she confesses, it was hard to go with the pink.

I find this maxim at work in my life, too. It’s hard to go with the pink.

I know it’s the littlest things that end up mattering. Building train tracks with Em when I’m wilted from exhaustion. Letting Elle crack an egg for the batter, even if it sends me fishing out bits of the shell. Stopping my work at the sewing machine to look at Bee or Zee when they talk, to hear the heart veiled within the words, to listen. But these are such little things, really, so easy to not do. Yet all these bits collect, add up to form the people my children will become.

So I’m working on it, practicing this choosing-that-which-matters, trying to value the valuable and set the rest at the curb. Never mind the inconvenience. Caribbean Pink it is.

Pieces

2006-09-15T10:52:00.000-04:00

Whenever some gal at church arranges a newborn in my arms, the same two thoughts seize my brain, unbidden.

First: What if I break it? This is a ridiculous thought for the mom of four children, but still it’s there.

And clipping at the heels of thought numero uno comes this one: I have absolutely no recollection of my children at this age. Not even a skinny shred of memory.

So every once in a while I like to transcribe a bit of who my kids are right now, because as deeply as I’ve memorized them, I’m apt to blink ten years from now and not remember this child at all.

Yesterday Em and I went for a walk. My, that boy can talk. He’s got this smile so infectious that, even when he’s a whole bunch of sweaty kid, you just want to squeeze him. He was telling me that Daddy said not to get lost, and he said he won’t get lost but if he does maybe someone will find him. It was an adorable conversation, one I didn’t entirely follow, but that worked out okay since it was coming along nicely with very little input from me.

Elle’s birthday is a few weeks away. Someone needs to tell her she’s not yet two. She’s got the arm-crossing, hmmph-ing thing going on in earnest, and she bops on down the hall like she owns the place. She’s quite accomplished at reaming out her brothers with a bunch of angry pointing and indecipherable syllables peppered with the word no. Nobody knows exactly what she’s saying, but we get the point. Today she felt the need to argue with Em, so she held onto my arm and told him, “My mommy! Mine!” which Em found wildly funny.

Zee made a Lego sword this morning, then ran to the couch wailing when his little brother smashed it with a sword of his own. A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom with a self-applied toilet paper bandage around his hand. (I did try, folks, but I wasn’t allowed to take a picture.) He’s got two wiggly teeth up front, leaning forward in a way that can give you the willies. Behind them are the permanent teeth growing in, but he braces at the mention of losing the little ones. He’s firmly opposed to blood.

Bee showed me around his school last night. He zips ahead, weaving through the crowd out of sight, but then hurries on back to be sure I’m not lost. Much of life—math, soccer, drawing, making friends—comes easily to him, so when he’s not good at something from the start, he thinks he can’t do it, doesn’t want to try. He’s in that big-little boy stage, on the brink of some serious growing up, which is exhilarating but also, for me at least, a bit sad. He’s still proud that his class has collected the most Box-Tops; his definition of “cool” is having his hair spiked—and I think, Just one day longer, please. Don’t let it end just yet.

So there you go. A few pieces of daily life, bits of nothing and everything.

What I love: words

2006-09-14T09:56:00.000-04:00

By now you’ve likely picked up on this, on my ardor for well-chosen words. You’re sharp like that. :)

This maxim pops up from time to time around our place: “Sticks and stones may break our bones, but words will break our hearts.” Which drives at a larger, deeper truth, I know--but also demonstrates the raw power of words, their ability to maim or heal. Their weight is impossible to overestimate.

So in celebration of my love for words, here’s a poem j’adore. Found it as a freshman in high school, but it’s still poignant, maybe even more so today.

“Love is not like that, is not like
that easiness-in-getting
along that they call
Love; it is not like that, is not
like that desiring-companionship that
they call love; it is not like that, is not
like that desiring-of-one-beautiful
that they call love; it is not like that.
When will they learn that love is not
like that?

Ask St. Valentine—he was beheaded
because of love; ask St. Francis—
call him a sissy, but he became
a beggar because of love; ask
all those who know and they’ll tell
you that
Love is not like that; ask Jesus Christ.”
--David DeBolt

So I’m thinking I’ll pull a switcheroo on that “Daily Groaner” in the right column...with my apologies to all who appreciate a good, dry joke (which is maybe all of one person: Kristin)...and let “Brain Fodder” take up residence instead.

What I love: mes amis de la haute ecole

2006-09-13T11:44:00.001-04:00

'Kay, so admittedly, I'm too far removed from my meager deux ans of high school French to know if that title is correct, but it's supposed to read "my high school friends."

Love those guys.

Emi: the friend who's constant. Our friendship began when my preschool self purportedly brought her a cup of juice after she jumped (fell? was pushed?) from the swing and broke her arm. I have no memory of my act of kindness, but she claims it's true, which is one reason I like her. To this day, she's the most likely to be there--to drop an email, to hang out when I fly home, to call on my birthday.

Karen: my twin in a whole lotta ways...just as stubborn as I am, for starters. Full of memorable one-liners and brilliantly caustic humor. I can't help but love her, especially when I think about her leaning over my lunch tray, fork poised in mid-air, eyeing my oranges while I talk on and on and on (some things don't change, eh?), asking, "You gonna eat that?" And yes, she's a skinny bit of a thing.

Gina: my kind of person. The one who loved blowing bubbles, who wore knee socks before the rest of us found out they were cool, who hollered warnings from a van window: "Don't eat my dog!" in not-the-best-part-of-town. Who strung vegetables into leis and played Power Rangers with me in the supermarket. (Sorry, White Ranger, the secret's out.)

I've been lucky enough to have seen them all in the past year, to witness that yes, they are still incredible people. But a sprig of sadness wends up through it all, too, for the quiet, unnamed space that slips between us. A casualty of time.

Which means I'm off to email them. Not so much to recapture the old bonds as to forge new ones, one conversation at a time.

What I love: comfort

2006-09-12T12:13:00.000-04:00

Mornings soggy and gray. Hot chocolate on the stove. Sweet crackers for dipping. Does it get any better than this?

And now for the recipe:

(Well, we'll get to the recipe, but first a warning. I don't quite do recipes. Recipes are for people who can be bothered by such trivialities as measuring, which seems like something a Type-A-er such as myself would do, but alas. This is one of my many contradictions.)

(Warning continued: I do sometimes measure things I think may be important, such as amounts of flour, but I never--and I do mean never--slide the knife across the top to get a level cup. So for all of you purists who are gasping at that, I suggest you stop reading here. It only gets worse.)

(More warning: so the joke at my house is if you like a particular dish, too bad. It will never taste this way again. I'm like the chef on television who pours oil directly from the bottle, commenting, "That's about two tablespoons," or the DIY guy on a show I once saw who said, "There's a saying, 'Measure twice, cut once.' I have a different saying. 'Close enough.'" This is me.)

Okay, so the recipe:

Milk
unsweetened baking chocolate, finely chopped
sugar
cinnamon sticks
whipped cream
miniature chocolate chips or sprinkles

Pour a bunch of milk into a heavy pan. The amount of milk, seriously, depends on how much you hot chocolate you want to make. I'd figure 1.5 cups per person, or 2.5 if you like to use those giant soup mugs. Whole milk tastes better, but skinny milk can work.

Heat the milk till frothy but not boiling. This probably translates to "Stir constantly over medium heat till frothy."

Add chocolate and sugar. I don't know how much of a chocoholic you are, but my mantra is: "The more the better." Stir till completely dissolved. If you, like me, rarely buy baking chocolate, use whatever kind you've got on hand. For us this generally means choc chips. (If you're using reg chocolate, don't add the sugar.)

Serve w/cinnamon sticks for stirring, plus a good dollop of whipped cream and some sprinkles.

I know, this recipe is largely useless, but it's how I do it. You're welcome.

What I love: Early sun

2006-09-11T10:17:00.000-04:00

...the first brushes of dawn, with fingerlings of new sun just beginning to cup the earth, gaining color, trying themselves out.

Though I admit I’ve forgotten how to be a morning person and am rarely conscious during this display, but never mind that.

(Note the lack of an accompanying picture. The original idea was to get up at 6 and try a few dawn photos, but the problem, as it turned out, was that I also love a good book. So I was up till 2:38 finishing The Secret Life of Bees. Sorry.)

What I love: Anyway

2006-09-10T13:56:00.000-04:00

The late Mother Teresa's version of The Paradoxical Commandments:

"People are often unreasonable,
illogical and self-centered;
Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind,
people may accuse you of selfish ulterior motives;
Be kind anyway.

If you are successful,
you will win some false friends and true enemies;
Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank,
people may cheat you;
Be honest anyway.

What you spend years building,
someone could destroy overnight;
Build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness,
they may be jealous;
Be happy anyway.

The good you do today,
people will often forget tomorrow;
Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have,
and it may never be enough;
Give the world the best you've got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis,
it is between you and God;
It was never between you and them anyway."

What I love: Zee & soccer

2006-09-09T12:46:00.000-04:00

Last year we cheered from the sidelines as Zee ran away from the ball.

Today, at his first game in the U-8 bracket, Zee spent the first half running parallel to the ball. A drastic improvement, but still the source of much hilarity.

Second half, though, he got in that muddle of legs several times, and gave the ball a good kick. He even stole it from an opposing player, and popped back up when someone leveled him (and it was a very illegal leveling at that).

So perhaps we've still got some hope for this lil soccer player.

What I love: S

2006-09-08T09:05:00.000-04:00

Right, I totally stole this from Soulemama's blog, which makes it all the sweeter. A week's worth of things I love. Which is intended to give you seven insights into my soul or something. Hmmmn. I don't know what I'll love the next six days, but whatever it turns out to be, I wouldn't recommend reading very far into it.

So, what I love today:

Sidewalk chalk and September mornings and siblings who collaborate on masterpieces. And, apparently, things that start with "s."

More tomorrow. :)

At a glance

2006-09-07T08:52:00.000-04:00

When I first began teaching, all of us first years attended (by force) these insipid seminars and get-to-know-you deals. During one of those, we shared artwork we'd made about who we are; the following poem was the crux of my me-collage. So I guess this is a glimpse at what grips my heart, makes it beat. And makes it stop.

We Are Responsible
by Ina Hughes

"We are responsible
for children who put chocolate fingers everywhere,
who like to be tickled,
who stomp in puddles and ruin their pants,
who sneak popsicles before supper, who erase holes in math workbooks,
who can never find their shoes.

And we are responsible
for those who stare at photographers from behind barbed wires,
who can't bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers,
who never "counted potatoes,"
who are born in places we wouldn't be caught dead,
who never got to the circus,
who live in an x-rated world.

We are responsible
for children who give us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions,
who sleep with the dog and bury goldfish,
who judge us in a hurry and forget their lunch money,
who cover themselves with Band-Aids and sing off-key,
who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink,
who slurp their soup.

And we are responsible
for those who never get dessert,
who have no safe blanket to drag behind them,
who watch their parents watch them die,
who can't find any bread to steal,
who don't have any rooms to clean up,
whose pictures aren't on anybody's dresser,
whose monsters are real.

We are responsible
for children who spend all their allowance before Tuesday,
who throw tantrums in the grocer store and pick at their food,
who like ghost stories,
who shove dirty clothes under the bed, and never rinse the tub,
who get visits from the tooth fairy,
who don't like to be kissed in front of the carpool,
who squirm in church and scream in the phone,
whose tears we sometimes laugh at and whose smiles can make us cry.

And we are responsible
for those whose nightmares come in the daytime,
who will eat anything,
who have never seen a dentist,
who aren't spoiled by anybody,
who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep,
who live and move, but have no being.

We are responsible for children who want to be carried,
and for those who must.
For those we never give up on,
and for those who don't get a second chance.
For those we smother
...and for those who will grab the hand of anybody kind enough to offer it."

And I'm guessing that now you're all thinking the same thing I'm always told whenever I speak my passions for a few minutes: that I've missed my call to missions. Which may be true, but I'd like to think it's still coming.

After the arrival of several of my offspring, I sometimes feared it was coming. I dreamed about arriving in Africa, with the land shadowed and literally writhing with venomous snakes and spiders and crocodiles, and I was trying to hold all my children at once, to keep them from death. I woke with cold fear coursing through me.

But I've come to terms, since then, with what I already knew: that my children can die anywhere. They can suffer and die right here, in the safe midwest of safe, affluent North America, surrounded by the best hospitals and technology and surgeons. And that there are worse things than dying.

And that, ultimately, the safest place--the best place--to be is exactly where God wants you, doing exactly what he's asked you to do.

enteros

2006-09-06T11:50:00.000-04:00

So I haven't given away points for a while. Thought I'd better remedy that.

Twenty to Noel for concocting the most outlandish cow story I've ever read. (I'm not entirely sure he's related to me. I think he and my dad are both adopted, however that works out.)

Twenty to Aunty Carol for being one of the most generous people I know. (The serger arrived, yippeeee! And it's a beauty.)

Ten to Rob for linking to me on his blog. Time to replace that good ol' "Google News," eh? Plus, I was a little insulted that you linked to Slabaugh and not me, since, honestly, mine has to be funnier than Mark's. That is, until I read Mark's. And it was clever. Darnit.

Ten to me for giving this backlighting technique a whirl:

Fifteen to Uncle Kevin for being a quality science teacher and owning a volcano video so I could borrow it. Which reminds me, I suppose you're wanting it back, huh?

Twenty to Mom because, well, between raising Nate, Noel, and me, we can all see you deserve it.

And now I'm fresh out of generosity.

In celebration of Labor Day

2006-09-04T20:16:00.000-04:00

I thought it might be mildly amusing to start a labor-related meme.

FIRST JOB: Classroom custodian, age 14 (the epitome of boring, but still a paid 90 minutes of solitude each afternoon).

WORST JOB: Greeter girl at Express, age 17. Time. Went. By. So. Slow. Ly.

SHORTEST LABOR: With Elle, about two hours from the time we arrived at the hospital. Although the contractions officially started about three months before that.

DREAM OCCUPATION: Ice Cream Tester. Speaking of which, I googled Ice Cream Tester just to see exactly who it is I'm coveting, and I happened across this personality test. Can't recommend it based on fun-quotient (questions were reminiscent of teen mag tests, uck), but here are my results:

CHERRY GARCIA!
You scored 70% SWEET, 59% CHUNKY, and 55% UNIQUE!

cherry sweet cream base with cherries and fudge chunks

Awesome...you are one of my personal favs: Cherry Garcia. You fall in the middle on all measurements- sweet, wild, and unique, but not overwhelmingly so on any of those. You make a good friend, able to share your unique perspectives on things, and able to have fun without winding up in jail or something. Good job.

(Not sure how I feel about having a chunky rating, but good to know I'm not likely to do a significant amount of jail time as I don't much like bright orange.)

OCCUPATIONS I'D LIKE TO TRY FOR ABOUT SIX MONTHS IF THIS WERE ECONOMICALLY FEASIBLE:
Cake decorator, lawyer (get paid to argue?!?! How sweet is that!), pro soccer player (although it would take them like 6 seconds to permanently bench me), potter, interior decorator, bakery owner (with a thick-glass display case of oversized cupcakes iced w/buttercream frosting and old-fashioned sprinkles), wedding planner (and as a bonus, maybe I could look like Jennifer Lopez for six months!! or not), architect, photographer.

Anyone else?

Just add pixie dust

2006-09-03T17:19:00.000-04:00

Ann Wood's airships are molded bits of artistic genius. Neverland, here we come...

faux zzzzz's

2006-09-01T08:17:00.000-04:00

A cute but futile attempt to convince me that nap should happen in the living room.

(Me: "'Kay, guys, time for nap!"
Em: "But Mom, we already are taking a nap, see?"
Fake snoring by Elle in the background.)

A true story from Carrick-on-suir, Ireland

2006-08-31T09:39:00.000-04:00

(I found this while searching for a "daily groaner." I'm putting it here instead because: a) it's actually funny, and b) it's too long to place in the index.)

"Recently a routine Gardai (police) patrol parked outside a local neighbourhood tavern. Late in the evening the Garda noticed a man leaving the bar so intoxicated that he could barely walk. The man stumbled around the carpark for a few minutes, with the Garda quietly observing.

After what seemed an eternity and trying his keys on five vehicles, the man managed to find his car, which he fell into. He was there for a few minutes as a number of other patrons left the bar and drove off.

Finally he started the car, switched the wipers on and off (it was a fine dry night), flicked the indicators on, then off, tooted the horn and then switched on the lights.

He moved the vehicle forward a few cm, reversed a little and then remained stationary for a few more minutes as some more vehicles left.

At last he pulled out of the car park and started to drive slowly down the road.

The Garda, having patiently waited all this time, now started up the patrol car, put on the flashing lights, promptly pulled the man over and carried out a Breathalyzer test.

To his amazement the Breathalyzer indicated no evidence of the man having consumed alcohol at all! Dumbfounded, the Garda said, 'I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the Police station; this Breathalyzer equipment must be broken.'

'I doubt it,' replied the man. 'Tonight I'm the designated decoy!'"

Mr. Potato

2006-08-31T09:30:00.000-04:00

brings out the Picasso in all of us.

mine

elle's

mine with improvements (em insisted mr. P needs a hat)

"Foot, Mommy, foot!"

"Take one of me, Mom!"

All in all, a sublime way to spend a Wednesday afternoon.

A quiet moment

2006-08-29T10:19:00.000-04:00

A random dozen

2006-08-29T09:58:00.000-04:00

A take off my FIL’s blog on “random thoughts,” here are twelve random tidbits about me.

1. I love it here. Really, I do. Early on in summer, I was stretched out on backyard grass with wind in my hair, sky so blue it might burst above me, sunlight washing everything molten gold. It was the first time I consciously recognized how beautiful it is here.
2. Jan through March, I hate it here.
3. Chocolate chip cookies taste better with peanut butter and a bit of cinnamon mixed in, IMO. (For everyone Swiss or married to someone Swiss, IMO=in my opinion. Notice I didn’t use IMHO, which means in my humble opinion, as I would have been lying.)
4. I am not-so-secretly horrified at the number of structural errors in the classroom newsletters written by my children’s teachers throughout the year. These are the very people charged with the duty of teaching my sons how to spell, punctuate, and properly construct a sentence. (What was I thinking?) Tres annoying.
5. Not anywhere nearly annoying enough to persuade me to homeschool.
6. I am, right at this very moment, observing my daughter as she licks pencils. And wondering whether or not I should be concerned.
7. In spite of number 4, I have a penchant for using fragments, particularly for emphasis. Like this. But in my defense, it’s a stylistic thing, or at least that’s what I tell people.
8. My favorite Sesame Street characters are those weirdo jelly guys from outer space who only say, “Yep yepyepyepyepyep, Uh-huh, uh-huh,” followed by the Tweedlebugs who live in Bert’s flower box. The Count would be a distant third. (He has a great laugh.)
9. I’d still watch Fraggle Rock if it were on. (Yes, it’s supposed to be “were,” not “was,” because of the subjunctive mood. I think.)
10. I used to make fun of people who religiously watched Grey’s Anatomy and rehashed the drama between Meredith and McDreamy after each episode. And then I actually watched a show. And now I’m hooked, although I could do without all the extramarital steaminess.
11. I started a quilt for Ann and Jer’s baby two months ago. I joked w/Jeremy that hopefully it’ll be done before C graduates, but now it looks like maybe I wasn’t actually joking.
12. Despite living in this house since May, we still have a garage half-full of packed boxes. This gnaws at me, but then I unpack a box and I’m good for a week.

Okay, who's next?

Addendum: So now I'm seized with guilt for being the person who complains about hardworking teachers (I've always despised that person). So here's the thing:
Yes, I do realize that we cannot reasonably expect to attract the creme de la creme with such meager pay (haha, when I first typed that, I wrote "suck meager pay"...Freudian slip??). So this is a sad case of getting what we pay for.

Also, I don't actually expect them to be perfect. Just pretty darn close (LOL). See, I taught with people who were incredibly gifted and very easily could've gone into, say, neurosurgery, but instead chose education because of their passion for teaching and, apparently, for being poor. (Which prompts yet another disclaimer: I know that most Americans are ludicrously wealthy compared to most of the world's population, but that's a soapbox I'll save for another day, count your lucky stars.)

So anyway, I guess I just keep hoping that my children will end up with those teachers. The ones who defy logic. And you know, sometimes my children do. But the odds are not in my favor, so I will do my best to shut up about educators in general from now on.

Turning corners

2006-08-27T20:48:00.000-04:00

So I probably shouldn't be posting again, as whenever I post ten thousand times in one day (or twice, if you're not participating in my exaggeration) I'm struck with the fear that I'll wake up tomorrow with nothing to say to you all. I know, that would be the day. Indeed.

And now that we've squelched those qualms, here is what was oh-so-important that I just *had* to write you all again.

See, Elle's birthday is right around the corner (okay, it's in October, so more like around the corner and down two blocks, close enough), so isn't someone just *dying* to get her this? And in case you've had a long day, the correct answer to that question is yes, you are all dying to race to Gymboree and buy that. Except that the mall is closed by this time on Sundays, so I guess you'll have to wait till tomorrow.

And in case you've had an exceptionally long day, click on the word "this" in the above paragraph--it should be colored, which is a big giant hint that it's a link. We won't mention the names of those of you who just recently learned this, but you know who you are, and you just might be Swiss.

Alright, sorry, negative twenty points for me.

And just in case, I'm joking about the purse; if it makes it to clearance, I'll purchase it for Elle myself. And I may have to borrow it from her, come to think of it.

a note on wood

2006-08-27T14:42:00.000-04:00

In SS class today we talked about sawdust vs planks and our indelible need to point out other people's flaws, disregarding our own fault-riddled selves. We all know, and sometimes are, the person who rants on about how unreasonable or selfish Miss PseudoChristian is being, how she seems to ferret out ways to make us miserable. "How can she claim to be a follower of God?" we wonder with all piety.

Somebody hand us a mirror and quick.

Susanna, who led today's class, said that after awhile we notice that these rantings tell us more about the ranter than the people he/she's recriminating. Well said.

A few years back, we hobbled through some difficult days. In that time, I learned that loving someone says a whole lot about who I am, and virtually nothing about who the someone is--like whether or not they deserve it, or how lovable they might be. I can choose to love someone who spitefully uses, belittles, wrongfully accuses me--or worse, my family. I can love them, not because of who they are, but because of who I am--a child of the Author of grace, forgiven of so much myself.

PS--And I'm still working on this, will probably always be working on this. Why do I find it so easy to cast stones?

Post Post Script--And by "love," I *don't* mean feeling all warm-and-slooshy inside everytime I see their face. I mean treating them with kindness (yes, even behind their backs, which is way hard), and wanting good to happen to them. Like I said, still working on this one.

Brokenness

2006-08-26T13:14:00.000-04:00

“If my life is broken when given to Jesus, it is because pieces will feed a multitude, while a loaf will satisfy only a little lad.”
--Ruth Stull, Peru

A dozen years ago, I had this scrawled on a Post-it and stuck to the wall of my dorm room.

Something in those words resonated within the core of me; not the me who joked and sang and grinned in public, but the me who was when no one looked on. It was how I felt at the time: fragmented, piecemeal, torn apart from the inside. It’s how I still feel some days.

Inevitably, when someone heard where I was from, their response included something along the lines of, “And you gave up the ocean for here?” And I would elaborate on why I chose that Midwest college, citing scholarships and family ties and such.

But the truth is, that’s hardly why I left the islands. I didn’t leave because I wanted to. I left because I couldn’t stay.

It’s impossible to explain without rehashing years I’d just as soon forget, but I will say this: my life wasn’t broken because I gave it to Jesus. It was broken because I kept it from him. I made someone else my god, and that someone simultaneously loved me and tore me to shreds, and I think I’m still in the sluggish process of recovering.

And I don’t know exactly why I’m writing this today except that it’s therapeutic, I guess. And to say that I’d trade my brokenness for that which Ms. Stull speaks of in a heartbeat, never looking back.

People often say that God gives us everything for nothing if we just ask, but that’s not really true. Not at all true. He demands it all, everything we hold dear, our entire lives sacrificed at his feet.

Our tired, shattered, misshapen lives. Our emptiness, every last drop of it.

And in return, he gives us life, full and free and unending.

Not so bad a deal, if you ask me.

Hazel Woods

2006-08-25T15:07:00.000-04:00

My latest listing, in rusty autumn hues.

Mothers: Every Year is Their Year

2006-08-24T09:29:00.000-04:00

(I didn't write this, but I should have, LOL)

This is for all the mothers who DIDN'T win Mother of the Year in 1999. All the runners-up and all the wannabes. The mothers too tired to enter or too busy to care.

This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at soccer games Friday night instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see my goal?" they could say "Of course, wouldn't have missed it for the world," and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here."

This is for all the mothers of Kosovo who fled in the night and can't find their children.

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and made them homes.

For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes.

And all the mothers who DON'T.

What makes a good mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, fry a chicken, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?

Or is it heart?

Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?

The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?

The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby dying?

I think so.

So this is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies.

And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't.

This is for reading "Goodnight, Moon" twice a night for a year. And then reading it again. "Just one more time."

This is for all the mothers who mess up. Who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet like a tired 2 year old who wants ice cream before dinner.

This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school.

And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.

For all the mothers who bite their lips -- sometimes until they bleed -- when their 14 year olds dye their hair green. Who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won't stop.

This is for the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for all the mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home.

This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children's graves.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can't find the words to reach them.

This is for all the mothers who sent their sons to school with stomachaches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away.

This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go. For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without.

Author Unknown

Ready or not

2006-08-23T12:15:00.000-04:00

here he comes. (Zee's first day of kindergarten.)

PS The house is so quiet it's a little unnerving.

For the record

2006-08-22T14:11:00.000-04:00

(Most of you have this figured out, but just in case:)

No, I did not name my children Bee, Zee, Em, and Elle. These are the first letters of their names.

C'mon folks, I'm odd, but not that odd.

Mom, I'm entirely too cool to be doing this

2006-08-22T09:55:00.000-04:00

Bee's first day as a third grader (Zee's first day of school is tomorrow; kindergartners don't start till then):

Caption below: "Mom, stop taking pictures of me!"

I just look at him and think, when did he go and get all grown up? Oh, how time whirls by.

Somebody give the girl some paper

2006-08-20T20:24:00.000-04:00

Ah yes. My daughter, the artist.

Five Things

2006-08-20T20:11:00.000-04:00

Okay, so the other day I read on someone’s blog (too lazy to look up whose; sorry) that Carmen wants us all to post a minimum of five things we’re thankful for. Now, I don’t know who this Carmen-gal is, exactly (or at all), but if you do, tell her this was a fabulous idea.

Five things (serious version)

1. Hope

Hub and I borrowed “United 93” (which, in case you’re dying to hear my review, was good in theory but lacking in execution), and this prompted a discussion about how people face death. Watching the video, you could almost grip the despair, it was so palpable.

I can’t imagine the horror, the consuming sadness of approaching death bereft of hope. It was hard to watch.

2. Forgiveness

I’ve been the sole founder of many less-than-stellar-moments, to put it mildly. Without forgiveness—a wiped out past, clean start—I don’t think I could have lived with myself, and I do mean that quite literally.

3. Family

They’re strange but they’re mine and I’m blessed.

4. Memory

A blessing and a curse, and (at least in my case) growing increasingly unreliable with time...but memory is essential to who we are at our very core, y’know? (Don’t think about this one too much, it’ll keep you up at night. Or maybe that’s just me. Is it just me? Okay, it’s me.)

5. I don’t know what to choose here...there are just too many candidates...color and companionship and peace and laughter and quiet and health and language and touch and music and emotions and literature and light...love ‘em all...

Five more things (not so serious)

1. All things chocolate. Except for maybe chocolate covered pork fat. That’s just wrong.

2. Toilet paper (okay, you’re making a face, but really, I know you’re grateful for this one too...)

3. Duct tape. Good for all occasions. Incidentally, have you ever made a duct-tape wallet? Tres chic, I tell you. And tres cheap, too.

4. Bubbles. They’re just so happy.

5. Dishwasher. Ingenious piece of work; I would like to personally kiss whomever is responsible for it.

So there you go. See? I can be thankful if I try.

Lifeline

2006-08-19T21:19:00.000-04:00

Sometimes when I'm flailing, drowning in this thing I call my life, I search out this passage:

"Have you not known?
Have you not heard?
The everlasting God, the Lord,
The Creator of the ends of the earth
Neither faints nor is weary.
His understanding is unsearchable."

(Isaiah 40.28)

As someone said to me recently, "God knows." So much lies within those two words, don't you think? God knows. He knows the intricacies of all I grapple with, the depth and fullness of my fears, longings, regrets. He knows.

It may not make everything instantaneously perfect, but it's enough.

Pennies&Magic

2006-08-19T12:15:00.000-04:00

A sampling of the latest package (thanks, Mum!) delivered by Mr. Postal Guy:

Clockwise from top left:

Origami paper, to coax out the inner-crafty-folder lying dormant in us all

Rolls of pennies for the kids (I think my mum is funding Em's future dinner complaints)

Okay, so these look like just rocks, but they are not just rocks. They are *magic* rocks. When you put them in your mouth, they abscond their rockhood and become chocolate. My theory: they were created by some guy who was sick of his coworkers robbing his candy stash. Now he can set a very zen-like bowl of decorative (chocolate) rocks in his cubicle, and sneak a couple every now and then when everyone else is busy telemarketing toothpaste insurance. Hey, it could happen.

Pure Punk

2006-08-17T23:34:00.000-04:00

I've got this funky new set listed...my first whirl at a tutu, and in black of all things. Definitely not for the faint of heart, but of course, Elle makes all outfits look sweet.

Good for a (dry) laugh

2006-08-16T09:57:00.000-04:00

So I entered, then promptly lost, an informal corny-joke contest on someone else's blog. I'm unclear on whether I should feel disappointed or relieved.

Either way, I've added a "Daily Groaner" spot--check the sidebar at right--to post horribly dry jokes for your enjoyment. I forewarn you not to take the "daily" part too literally.

Email me if you've got a groaner you'd like me to consider posting here...clean jokes only, please.

Literary Brilliance

2006-08-13T14:16:00.001-04:00

I’m a self-appointed book critic with enormous emphasis on the “critic” part. In my grand opinion, bookstores are littered with shelves of wasted trees laden with flat characters, contrived plots, preaching authors, mind-numbing prose...ugh. The name Picky Nicki was well deserved.

Every now and then, though, I stumble across a book—or better yet, an author—that/who floors me. Sue Monk Kidd is one of those authors.

I like to fancy that I can write, but “The Mermaid Chair” bashed that notion into fine dust. She can write. Oh, can she write.

Her prose reads like poetry, woven through with gilded imagery, and she has this way of peeling back the callused skin of life and piercing right into the marrow of things.

(Disclaimer: This book is honest, so those of you who find yourselves easily offended may want to steer clear.)

I devoured (yet savored) this novel, cover to cover, in a single evening. It’s that good.

Go dust off your library cards, folks.

maintenance issues

2006-08-12T22:22:00.000-04:00

okay, just some technical updates here--

I changed my comments settings to hopefully: a)allow my brother to post, and b)disallow weirdo spam people/machines to post

So now you'll have to verify your comment by typing in some letters...yes, very annoying, but so am I and yet you're still reading this. :)

And also I think I might have to approve your comments before they'll actually post, so if your comment doesn't show up immediately, don't resubmit it. Just breathe in...breathe out...and repeat about 5,000 times.

Thanks, guys.

Sweets

2006-08-12T21:46:00.000-04:00

My mom's friend Phe crocheted (or knit?) this delightful strawberries-and-cream medley for Elle. Now if it would only fit my extra-large noggin...

Pining for Aunthood

2006-08-12T11:56:00.000-04:00

Okay, so we’ve all heard the adage, “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride,” right? Well, now you have. I’m like the opposite of that in terms of parenthood.

Hang with me here, I’m about to make sense.

See, I’m always a mother, never an aunt. Seriously. We show up at, say, Christmas, or 4th of July or something, and I realize: I’m the only one having kids around this place.

So now that I’m really done having kids (the last two times I said that, I was apparently just kidding), I’ve been hoping--ironically--for a baby. Preferably the very-cute-related-to-me kind of baby that goes home to someone else’s place to wake them up at 2:00 in the morning. That kind.

My side of the family offers zero hope, since Noel is apparently allergic to marriage, and Nate has (wisely) opted not to have kids, for fear that they will turn out like him.

But. We have light at the end of the tunnel, folks.

(Insert drumroll) And so I hereby award 80 points to Kindra for making me an aunt. (Okay, Seth gets five points for having something to do with it.) She is due in March (yippee!) and she doesn’t look pregnant yet, but I am confident she will be very cute.

Aunthood, here I come.

Punctuation is for the birds

2006-08-11T08:50:00.000-04:00

My definition of a mid life crisis is when you wonder if this really is indeed your life and what exactly you were doing while it got this way

This is me currently except that I use the term mid life rather loosely as I do aspire to live past fifty-nine

But

Sometimes in the dead of night I imagine I once held a big bright bottle of Potential but it toppled somewhere along the way and now the sparkling stuff slips through my cupped hands as through a sieve and the drip drip dripping ticks off the seconds of my life

Because

These days all my old school chums are a variety of doctors with a lawyer or two sprinkled in for good measure and back then I beat them all

every
single
one

but now that they are doctorly lawerly folk and I am just me I think this means that I am losing except I can’t decide whether or not to care

Thursday

2006-08-10T14:08:00.000-04:00

So today seems like a good day for points.

Ten to Loren for sacrificing his fingers in the name of home improvement.

Fifteen to Nate for being the first person to send me his meme. Those of you who have not yet returned yours are delinquent.

Twelve points to Grandma for making the best cream pies this side of Cleveland. Somehow when I make them (using her recipe, mind you), the insides turn out gloopy. Yes, that is a word. I suspect she has deliberately omitted a key ingredient to insure that she will be the supreme pie maker, but this has yet to be confirmed.

A penny for your complaints

2006-08-07T21:22:00.000-04:00

It’s apparent that Em knows the relative value of coins.

Me: “The next person who complains about dinner is going to owe me money.”

Ten second pause.

Em: “But I don’t like potatoes!” (for the fifth time)

Me: “Go get your coins.”

Em, returning with piggy bank in hand: “Mommy, I don’t think you need a quarter. I think maybe you just need a penny.”

Turning four

2006-08-05T16:21:00.000-04:00

It was a full day.

We gathered a few of the highlights:

Em cleaning up after cake mixing.

(For the record, I do appreciate the potential hazards of licking batter containing raw eggs, but this is one area in which I am an indulgent mum, and feel the guaranteed joy outweighs the unlikely risk. If it makes you feel any better, I'll give myself a minus ten points and keep Loren company in negative land.)

Birthday candle blowing.

Ah yes. The blessed moment where the whole cupcake sits in your hand...

Frosting tester (somebody's gotta do it).

Bliss.

The inevitable bit of pouting by Zee, a staple of everyday life.

The gifts.

The playing that comes after the gifts.

And now we are four. What a delicious age.

Stolen meme

2006-08-03T10:12:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I got this from Sara, aka the bluecanopy, whose blog I sometimes read and who doesn't know I exist. But Sara, if you ever stumble across this post, thanks. It was fun.

1. FIRST NAME: Nicole
2. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? Uh...I don’t think so. Was I?
3. WHEN DID YOU LAST CRY? Sunday, in church (in spite of the fact that I really despise crying in public).
4. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? I used to. It’s kind of evolved into this rushed mess of a thing these days, and even when I slow down I can’t get it to look like it did when I first married.
5. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? Roast beef from the deli counter, probably because it’s so expensive that I like never have it.
6. DO YOU HAVE KIDS? Um, that would be an understatement.
7. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? Hmm...maybe, if I ever got to know me. Chances are pretty good I’d just refer to me as the lady with ten thousand kids.
8. DO YOU HAVE A JOURNAL? Just this blog.
9. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? Not so much anymore. It’s cutting, and I’m trying to be kinder than that.
10. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Yep. I think.
11. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? Depends. I was a lot more daring pre-kids.
12. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Crispix.
13. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? No. Which drives my husband insane.
14. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? In what sense? Yes, I tend to think I’m strong, but this belief is interspersed with episodes of crushing helplessness.
15. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? At the moment, Breyer’s Light Mocha Silk something-or-other.
16. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE? Their breath. Seriously, I don’t know. Probably the way they carry themselves.
17. RED OR PINK? The lesser of two evils: pink.
18. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? My self-absorbancy.
19. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? I go through these phases of intense, to-the-bone, longing for people. Right now it’s for my high school friends.
20. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU? Uh, yah. Either email it or post it as a comment, or better yet, start a blog of your own (ahem, Kindra. Kristin too).
21. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES YOU ARE WEARING? White AE boxers with Carribbean colored tropical print, no shoes. Ah, the blessedness of working from home.
22. THE LAST THING YOU ATE? Chocolate milk, does that count?
23. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? A tv duet by Ernie and Big Bird; Em crying because he can’t eat his Cocoa Pebbles in the living room.
24. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? Some kind of a muted blue.
25. FAVORITE SMELL? Hmmm...that’s a tough one. Here are a few: morning ocean, Elle’s hair when she’s warm, fruit pies baking, lilacs in June.
26. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? My madre, last night.
27. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU? Well, technically, she didn’t send it to me, I more like lurked around her blog and stole it, plus I don’t know her, but she seems like a decent sort.
28. FAVORITE DRINK: hot chocolate, Mexican style
29. FAVORITE SPORT: soccer (like there's any other sport)
30. HAIR COLOR? boring brown
31. EYE COLOR? equally boring brown
32. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? If I didn’t, I couldn’t be answering this question.
33. FAVORITE FOOD? um...ice cream? steak? I love tortilla soup.
34. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDING? No scary movies for me.
35. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED? Bringing Down the House (on video, free from the library. Good thing it was free).
36. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING? grey
37. SUMMER OR WINTER? Summer, although I really prefer autumn.
38. HUGS OR KISSES? Depends on whose doing the hugging and kissing. Mostly hugs I guess.
39. FAVORITE DESSERT? oh goodness, are you really making me choose? Hmmm...I really like these Dole fruit bars (frozen chunks of fruit) cloaked in dark chocolate...but of course they don’t make them anymore...sigh. And it was even sort-of healthy.
40. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Kristin
41. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Poley
42. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING? Other than the Bible? Ummm...Blue Like Jazz (or maybe I finished that one...it's been a while)
43. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? support.dell.com (hey, it was free)
44. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT? Todd was watching some kind of comedian reality show, and CSI, so I sort of watched a little bit here and there.
45. FAVORITE SOUNDS? Rain, the ocean at night, Elle singing her way through life or saying the word Milk (“milp”)
46. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? Who? haha...seriously, I’m too young.
47. THE FURTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME? I don’t know, how far is Spain from Hawaii? Ten thousand miles?
48. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT? Uh...I can bend my thumbs back at the first knuckle to a 90 degree angle...does that count?

Okay, folks, get to it.

In a box

2006-08-02T10:12:00.000-04:00

Twenty points to Mom for sending a little bit of Christmas in a box.

Packages from Grandma are always one part tangible love, one part magic. The contents prove you know your grandkids well:

--purple glue sticks and boxes of fresh, pointy crayons for children who are forever crafting paper kingdoms from cerebral blueprints

--cups of chocolate pudding for their inherited sweet tooth

--clear sacks of those gummy treats for which Elle has an incurable fetish

all packed up tight in a flat rate box, delivered in the full-bloomed heat of mid-summer.

Grazie.

All dolled up

2006-07-28T08:22:00.000-04:00

Isn't it glorious fun being a girl?