All right. I'm not famous for my patience. But I feel that this is due more because of the definition for patience most individuals choose to use. For instance, if I have a clear objective in which I am determined to succeed, and there are certain requirements that must be accomplished in order to meet my objective, even if these requirements take me years of incessant, unrelenting, hard work, doing things I truly dislike on a molecular level, I will in fact do them, in a constant cloud of irritation, but still giving 150% all the time.
However, there are other things that I cannot endure for 45 seconds. Take for instance the classmate who desires my assistance with some difficulty he is experiencing in grasping the concepts and executing the homework requirements of a course. Should this individual begin, after my inquiry as to the specificities of his confusion, by spending 1-5 minutes describing his emotional state as a result of being unable to "get" the material--within about 10 seconds, steam will begin to come out of my nose...followed speedily by steam escaping from my ears and eyes, my eyes turn red, horns begin emerging from my skull, and by minute 2, steam is escaping from every pore of my body with the exuberant abandon of a steam locomotive having arrived joyfully at the station, think circa 1890.
But what is remarkable is that I do not lash out verbally enlightening the student as to his insurmountable state of idiocy in wasting precious time examining his emotional state rather than fixing the actual problem, but instead I put in my imaginary ear plugs, turn away from the noise box, open my text, and resume my work. This is a feat of amazing patience! (As an aside, what is truly impressive is that 9 times out of 8 this individual will continue talking as if he were paying me $200 an hour to lie on the sofa and tell me about his problems and will eventually drift into the consciousness and attention of a fellow student who makes the mistake of looking interested, at which point the aforementioned dullard carries on with the new student as if a transition never took place).
However, if a student, in response to my query, explains precisely the point of confusion, I will take an extensive amount of time in carefully going through the problems, sharing my notes, giving clues as to short cuts and helpful supplemental instruction, and providing support not only in that moment but ongoing throughout the remainder of the course.
In dealing with my children, I can only say that I could never be an adoptive parent. I need the absolute assurance when dealing with the ineptitude of small humans, that I am entirely responsible for all the bad traits, illogical habits, and the genetic composition that produces a catastrophe on this level which I have to deal with on a second by second basis.
The other day, when I would have done better to put in my ear plugs, apply duct tape to my mouth, and continue on with my own homework rather than overseeing the work of the resident humans, Oliver asked," Mom, do you even have a fuse today? Because I'm sensing there is only the bomb." To which I responded," I have a very long fuse when I'm not dealing with complete idiots." At this juncture four people exploded in laughter and Oliver voiced the opinion of the whole with the words," Yeah, that means you have no fuse today."
Mmm. Perhaps the lack of fuse is the reason that these people have the epidermis of a rhino hide. Just a thought.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Thursday, July 9, 2015
An Open Letter to all Female Adventurers in Dieting (and those who wish to laugh with/at us)...
Dear Fellow Diet-"er,"
I have been in the process of removing the 10-15 lbs I have acquired as to my lack of exercise and my bounty in chocolate cake over the past several years in school...With these preliminaries...on to the adventure...
A most dreadful thing happened to me this morning, due to my horrific optimism. I had noticed that my feet are getting smaller as a result of my diet. This unfortunately led me to believe that the rest of me was getting smaller also. One dilemma I have is that the arm holes, also known as sleeves, in my short sleeved blouses, are too small for my big, fat, chunky arms. By too small, I do not mean a slight degree of discomfort. I mean, so tight that you couldn't possibly undo the button with my arm encased.
I have been in the process of removing the 10-15 lbs I have acquired as to my lack of exercise and my bounty in chocolate cake over the past several years in school...With these preliminaries...on to the adventure...
A most dreadful thing happened to me this morning, due to my horrific optimism. I had noticed that my feet are getting smaller as a result of my diet. This unfortunately led me to believe that the rest of me was getting smaller also. One dilemma I have is that the arm holes, also known as sleeves, in my short sleeved blouses, are too small for my big, fat, chunky arms. By too small, I do not mean a slight degree of discomfort. I mean, so tight that you couldn't possibly undo the button with my arm encased.
Back to this morning, being in slight haste thanks to a 9am class 45 minutes away, I chose a pink skirt, A line, which means it fits for about 6 sizes, and then couldn't find a white top beyond a massage school t-shirt. I rummaged through my white blouses and found a cute one-- size medium, not extra small. I figured I had lost enough weight for a medium, made sure the side zip was open along with the buttons, enthusiastically pulled it over my head, past my bosom (which should have been a glaring clue that enough weight loss had not occurred if I was in possession of a bosom)...and then I was at the point of no return...my arms had become one with the sleeves, and by one, I do in fact mean one. I immediately broke out into a sweat, which was a bummer since not only was the blouse clean, having been laundered and ironed several years back, but I was freshly showered, and also sweat doesn't generally aid the process of removing apparel. Or putting it on, for that matter.
I could see my email to my professor:
Dear Professor,
I would have preferred being at stats this morning, but instead I had to wrestle my way out of a blouse with arm holes so tight, that it cut the circulation off in both limbs, and I had to get my children to cut me out of the damn thing with a pair of scissors. That may have been the most terrifying part of the process. AND I had to bribe them all not to tell ANYONE about this, which cost me a fortune, as you can well imagine....
My imaginary letter never became reality because my frantic requests that ascended into the heavens were answered! I was able to extricate my self from the blouse, my poor fat arms didn't appear to be bruised from the assault, and a much wiser me, hung the blouse back in the closet, with the other forsaken for the sake of fat, blouses.
I then donned the white t-shirt with massage school lettering, whose arm holes were plenty big, and took my much humbled self to school.
~Jenny
P.S. There is simply no justice in the world when after weeks of dieting, your feet are so small that you have to walk funny to keep your shoes on when you walk, and all your clothes are still too small.
P.P.S. My dad sent me a Valentine card yesterday which contained a $100 bill. Random valentine cards with $100 are very pleasant.
P.P.P.S. I therefore took my plump body and skinny feet to DSW where I bought two pair of the world's most comfortable shoes. It cost $98.67.
P.P.P.P.S. Heretofore, I had concluded that I simply love myself too much to take up some obscene habit like jogging. I may be forced to reconsider. The universe is a mean place.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
And Mother of the Year goes to....Mama Hodge
And then I woke up, before I even gave my acceptance speech.
About 4 years ago Caroline spent months squinting, running in to things, if I gave her that dirty mom look meaning "you're going to catch it" she pretended she couldn't possibly see my face from across the room, and so forth. "I need glasses," was her common wail. I finally caved and took her to the optometrist. $75 later she was declared to be the owner of perfect vision. Yup. That's my Hollywood bound Carebear.
So she gave up the charade, temporarily. It began again 2 years ago. I rolled my eyes and told her I would give it careful thought and consideration, the Easterman code word for "I've forgotten your request already." (Easterman is my maiden name, in case you wondered and my dear Daddyoski made that phrase famous).
She really has kicked it up a notch the last few months and Sunday's performance was worthy of a Golden Globe. I was actually torn, should I take her to the optometrist or Austin's really fantastic school for the blind? Glasses or a walking stick?
Today in Dr. Duke's office I made a disconcerting discovery. She is in fact blind. Very blind. So blind, I'm amazed she can read her music in orchestra or function on any level. She's almost as blind as I am and I put my glasses on if I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night when you can't see anything anyway. I just want the darkness to be 20/20, what can I say?
After my jarring discovery, Caroline got one of her own. She's a serious dork in glasses. It is bad. She may be going to a government school this fall (McCallum Fine Arts Academy, so government school with pink frosting), she may get in with the wrong crowd (at which point she is being promptly shipped to the most horrid convent), but she will be a virgin by choice. It may not be her choice, but I don't think they make better birth control than Caroline's adorable pixie face behind a set of frames and a mouth full of metal and 2 sets of neon colored elastic bands. I offered to wax her eyebrows sympathetically as we went through every pair of glasses in the place. And finally, way off in the corner, we found a "vintage" pair, perfect small gold circles. "Mom, no way,"she protested," those are Harry Potter glasses. "
(Interesting. I'm not sure I'm capable of even grasping that description as my familiarity with Harry Potter is very limited, though my curiousity was recently piqued by a reference my sister-in-law made on Facebook to amazing food descriptions in the books which did motivate me to watch the first movie. After about 20 minutes of the first movie and no food, I was demotivated and had to turn it off but nonetheless, I digress; back to more on my phenomenal abilities in parenting teenage daughters).
Since she had tried on every other pair in the shop (and the staff was on hands and knees pulling bins out of dark recessed cabinetry), she finally donned the vintage pair and voila' it looked half way decent. Or to be more honest, it didn't look really hideous. So she ordered them and they'll be ready in a week.
I'm wondering if sight will have a profound change on Caroline; maybe she'll be a cheerful morning person. Maybe she'll always do a stellar job on the kitchen without being asked. That may be optimistic to the extreme. It'll probably mean in about 3 months she'll start begging for contacts. Hehehe. I could get her hard lenses and watch her enjoy that sandy feeling for a month while making every effort not to complain. That does sound like fun. And my mom card will get punched. I'll probably get Mother of the Year again. Oh, yeah.
About 4 years ago Caroline spent months squinting, running in to things, if I gave her that dirty mom look meaning "you're going to catch it" she pretended she couldn't possibly see my face from across the room, and so forth. "I need glasses," was her common wail. I finally caved and took her to the optometrist. $75 later she was declared to be the owner of perfect vision. Yup. That's my Hollywood bound Carebear.
So she gave up the charade, temporarily. It began again 2 years ago. I rolled my eyes and told her I would give it careful thought and consideration, the Easterman code word for "I've forgotten your request already." (Easterman is my maiden name, in case you wondered and my dear Daddyoski made that phrase famous).
She really has kicked it up a notch the last few months and Sunday's performance was worthy of a Golden Globe. I was actually torn, should I take her to the optometrist or Austin's really fantastic school for the blind? Glasses or a walking stick?
Today in Dr. Duke's office I made a disconcerting discovery. She is in fact blind. Very blind. So blind, I'm amazed she can read her music in orchestra or function on any level. She's almost as blind as I am and I put my glasses on if I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night when you can't see anything anyway. I just want the darkness to be 20/20, what can I say?
After my jarring discovery, Caroline got one of her own. She's a serious dork in glasses. It is bad. She may be going to a government school this fall (McCallum Fine Arts Academy, so government school with pink frosting), she may get in with the wrong crowd (at which point she is being promptly shipped to the most horrid convent), but she will be a virgin by choice. It may not be her choice, but I don't think they make better birth control than Caroline's adorable pixie face behind a set of frames and a mouth full of metal and 2 sets of neon colored elastic bands. I offered to wax her eyebrows sympathetically as we went through every pair of glasses in the place. And finally, way off in the corner, we found a "vintage" pair, perfect small gold circles. "Mom, no way,"she protested," those are Harry Potter glasses. "
(Interesting. I'm not sure I'm capable of even grasping that description as my familiarity with Harry Potter is very limited, though my curiousity was recently piqued by a reference my sister-in-law made on Facebook to amazing food descriptions in the books which did motivate me to watch the first movie. After about 20 minutes of the first movie and no food, I was demotivated and had to turn it off but nonetheless, I digress; back to more on my phenomenal abilities in parenting teenage daughters).
Since she had tried on every other pair in the shop (and the staff was on hands and knees pulling bins out of dark recessed cabinetry), she finally donned the vintage pair and voila' it looked half way decent. Or to be more honest, it didn't look really hideous. So she ordered them and they'll be ready in a week.
I'm wondering if sight will have a profound change on Caroline; maybe she'll be a cheerful morning person. Maybe she'll always do a stellar job on the kitchen without being asked. That may be optimistic to the extreme. It'll probably mean in about 3 months she'll start begging for contacts. Hehehe. I could get her hard lenses and watch her enjoy that sandy feeling for a month while making every effort not to complain. That does sound like fun. And my mom card will get punched. I'll probably get Mother of the Year again. Oh, yeah.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Let me guess...You didn't graduate from high school a couple years ago?
Going back to college offers some interesting opportunities. For instance, introducing your classmates to your oldest son and trying not to notice that they are "checking him out." Yeah, that scores WAY up there on the seriously weird scale. Getting tutored by people almost half your age. Finding yourself admonishing and checking up on classmates: "Why weren't you in class today? You didn't get your homework finished? Don't miss the review, you need to be ready for the test?" And then I would remember that I'm not their mother. :)
I decided that I should apply for JAMP, a premed scholarship program for students in Texas that includes tuition money for undergrad and med school, 5 week intensives during undergrad summers to prepare for the mCAT, an opportunity to meet and study with professors in the different med-schools, and a guaranteed "you are in the door" to med-school immediately following college graduation. Yeah, it's a huge deal.
So I went in to see Dr. Altmiller who is the "good shepherd" for pre-med students and oversees student applications, etc., for things like JAMP. Dr. Altmiller was highly amused as I sat down across from him. "Um, let me guess," he began, "You didn't graduate from high school a couple years ago?"
"That's a very good guess," I responded," I graduated almost 2 decades ago."
Dr. Altmiller got a little more serious. "Well, for the purposes of JAMP you are too old and too white. Do you have any minority in your background? What about Native American?"
"I'm the ultimate minority. I'm a mother with six children going back to school to become a doctor. How many of those are there?" It was a good sign when Dr. Altmiller laughed heartily.
So since JAMP does make exceptions (Dr. Altmiller assured me they wouldn't in my case), and I'd rather have an outright rejection than an assumed rejection, with Dr. Altmiller's blessing I'm going through the tedious process of applying to JAMP, and I'm almost FINISHED! I think I'll be able to wrap up the application tonight and I already turned in the arduous stack of paper work.
One minor detail about being a science major, decent grades are not enough. If you have less than a 3.5 GPA, you don't get a letter of recommendation from Dr. Altmiller for med school. So this definitely adds to the general strain of classes.
My first Chemistry exam was a rude awakening to say the least; 60. Uh, huh. A 6 and a 0. I redoubled my efforts, got up every morning at 4am, timed myself working through all the problems, made flash cards (which do not help me, by the way), and faced Exam 2 with more optimism. Optimism that was apparently missplaced when I got my exam back with a big 71 across the top. This is when I did the only rational thing a student can do. I changed my major from Biology to Chemistry. Biochemistry, actually, since it is the most difficult degree St. Ed's offers, and I'm a natural at Chemistry. Because clearly I loved chemistry and chemistry loved me. Furthermore I requested that my advisor be Dr. "K" who was also my current Chemistry teacher. I mean, clearly she loved me, thought I was amazing and would give me excellent guidance as I continued to bomb my way through countless Chemistry exams. I also signed up for vast quantities of tutoring. And thought about Ceasar some more, burning his ships at the coast of Britain. If ever a ship was burned, I felt confident that my status as pyromaniac numero uno was firmly secured.
I quadrupled my efforts. I quintuplled my efforts (how do you spell that?). Meanwhile, I was busy keeping up my grades in Chem lab, Bio lab, Biology II, Intro to Calculus and Speech (which doesn't really count except that I did have to write quite a few speeches, do power points AND take tests, so of course, I got an A, but it wasn't entirely without due diligence).
The next Chemistry exam arrived, thankfully for once not on a day I also had a Biology exam. And I was ready, excited, determined. I would make a 100 and redeem myself. A few days after the exam Dr. K was beaming at me. "Do you want to see your exam?' YES. In eager anticipation I took it and looked at the bright red lettering at the top. 91. "91?" I wailed quickly flipping through the pages looking for my error. I landed on the hybridization problem which was so easy I hadn't spent any time on it. Sigh. WHY do I always miss whatever is easiest? I was crestfallen, disappointed, frustrated. Dr. K was amazed. "Jenny, can you not see all the things you did right? You can only see what you did wrong? That was an excellent grade. Enjoy it. And get out of my office." (Dr. K is truly the best :). It is kind of a problem. I can't really enjoy what I get right because I'm always busy lamenting what I've gotten wrong.
Well, onward ho, my turn around began, and thanks to Dr. K's gracious policy of the largest improvement grade replaces the lowest grade, my 60 was also a 91 and I went into the final exam with at least a solid B, which I had by then more than reconciled myself to.
You could just feel the tension enveloping the science building like a heavy fog around the Austin river as finals approached. In the last two weeks of school, I had 8 exams. The 4th exam for nearly every subject followed by finals and I was not sleeping and stressed and of course, there were plenty of extra curricular needs in my family unit.
By the time my Chem final arrived I was deliriously tired with Gabriel in tow, who had a headache, and wanted to stay with me. We sat in the back corner of the classroom and two hours ticked by, very slowly for Gabe. When time was called, I turned in my packet completely dejected. We all congregated in the hall after the exam to "compare notes," Gabriel was horrified to hear me say that I thought I bombed the exam and by the time we got to the car, he burst into tears.
I was astonished. "Gabriel, what on earth is wrong?"
"You've been working so hard. All you ever do is study, and now you think you did terrible on your important exam," he sobbed out, and it was a for real, snot slinging sob fest. Thankfully, I keep kleenex in the car. Actually, I keep a roll of toilet paper in the car for use as kleenex and I handed him a wad of paper to mop up his face. So I gave him a pep talk and I gave me a pep talk. God had it all under control. Of course, I would get into med school in spite of a C, and more along those lines.
And thus began the eternal 5 day wait for grades to roll out. My greatest terrifying fear was a C on my transcript. Dr. Altmiller, amongst other things, had certainly put the fear of the C in me in our very brief chats. I couldn't sleep. I would get up early in the morning and go over all my Chemistry notes remembering the most bizarre mistakes I had made on the exam.
Other grades rolled in. A in Biology, A in Biology Lab, A in Communications, B in Intro to Calculus (that made me mad. The median grade on the final was a 55 because the department head wrote the exam. And you can bet what was on the exam was not the content of the classes we'd been attending for 4 months). Chem Lab and Chem were the last grades to be posted, and finally they were up. Do I need to tell you how much courage it took to open that file? A in Chem Lab. I was searching for the C. It wasn't there. I checked the subjects again. There was chem...a B. I can tell you I have never been so deliriously happy to get a B in all my life and I hope I never will be again. In my complete and utter joy I finally did the one rational, logical, expected thing I had done the entire semester.
I had a total and complete sob fest. And 1/2 a box of kleenex and 20 minutes later I began to feel a little better about the whole thing. So I guess you could say I survived the first semester in college. Maybe not with flying colors, but with 4 A's, 2 B's and a 3.71 GPA. It is my hope that this will be my worst semester. I guess we'll all just have to wait and see.
I decided that I should apply for JAMP, a premed scholarship program for students in Texas that includes tuition money for undergrad and med school, 5 week intensives during undergrad summers to prepare for the mCAT, an opportunity to meet and study with professors in the different med-schools, and a guaranteed "you are in the door" to med-school immediately following college graduation. Yeah, it's a huge deal.
So I went in to see Dr. Altmiller who is the "good shepherd" for pre-med students and oversees student applications, etc., for things like JAMP. Dr. Altmiller was highly amused as I sat down across from him. "Um, let me guess," he began, "You didn't graduate from high school a couple years ago?"
"That's a very good guess," I responded," I graduated almost 2 decades ago."
Dr. Altmiller got a little more serious. "Well, for the purposes of JAMP you are too old and too white. Do you have any minority in your background? What about Native American?"
"I'm the ultimate minority. I'm a mother with six children going back to school to become a doctor. How many of those are there?" It was a good sign when Dr. Altmiller laughed heartily.
So since JAMP does make exceptions (Dr. Altmiller assured me they wouldn't in my case), and I'd rather have an outright rejection than an assumed rejection, with Dr. Altmiller's blessing I'm going through the tedious process of applying to JAMP, and I'm almost FINISHED! I think I'll be able to wrap up the application tonight and I already turned in the arduous stack of paper work.
One minor detail about being a science major, decent grades are not enough. If you have less than a 3.5 GPA, you don't get a letter of recommendation from Dr. Altmiller for med school. So this definitely adds to the general strain of classes.
My first Chemistry exam was a rude awakening to say the least; 60. Uh, huh. A 6 and a 0. I redoubled my efforts, got up every morning at 4am, timed myself working through all the problems, made flash cards (which do not help me, by the way), and faced Exam 2 with more optimism. Optimism that was apparently missplaced when I got my exam back with a big 71 across the top. This is when I did the only rational thing a student can do. I changed my major from Biology to Chemistry. Biochemistry, actually, since it is the most difficult degree St. Ed's offers, and I'm a natural at Chemistry. Because clearly I loved chemistry and chemistry loved me. Furthermore I requested that my advisor be Dr. "K" who was also my current Chemistry teacher. I mean, clearly she loved me, thought I was amazing and would give me excellent guidance as I continued to bomb my way through countless Chemistry exams. I also signed up for vast quantities of tutoring. And thought about Ceasar some more, burning his ships at the coast of Britain. If ever a ship was burned, I felt confident that my status as pyromaniac numero uno was firmly secured.
I quadrupled my efforts. I quintuplled my efforts (how do you spell that?). Meanwhile, I was busy keeping up my grades in Chem lab, Bio lab, Biology II, Intro to Calculus and Speech (which doesn't really count except that I did have to write quite a few speeches, do power points AND take tests, so of course, I got an A, but it wasn't entirely without due diligence).
The next Chemistry exam arrived, thankfully for once not on a day I also had a Biology exam. And I was ready, excited, determined. I would make a 100 and redeem myself. A few days after the exam Dr. K was beaming at me. "Do you want to see your exam?' YES. In eager anticipation I took it and looked at the bright red lettering at the top. 91. "91?" I wailed quickly flipping through the pages looking for my error. I landed on the hybridization problem which was so easy I hadn't spent any time on it. Sigh. WHY do I always miss whatever is easiest? I was crestfallen, disappointed, frustrated. Dr. K was amazed. "Jenny, can you not see all the things you did right? You can only see what you did wrong? That was an excellent grade. Enjoy it. And get out of my office." (Dr. K is truly the best :). It is kind of a problem. I can't really enjoy what I get right because I'm always busy lamenting what I've gotten wrong.
Well, onward ho, my turn around began, and thanks to Dr. K's gracious policy of the largest improvement grade replaces the lowest grade, my 60 was also a 91 and I went into the final exam with at least a solid B, which I had by then more than reconciled myself to.
You could just feel the tension enveloping the science building like a heavy fog around the Austin river as finals approached. In the last two weeks of school, I had 8 exams. The 4th exam for nearly every subject followed by finals and I was not sleeping and stressed and of course, there were plenty of extra curricular needs in my family unit.
By the time my Chem final arrived I was deliriously tired with Gabriel in tow, who had a headache, and wanted to stay with me. We sat in the back corner of the classroom and two hours ticked by, very slowly for Gabe. When time was called, I turned in my packet completely dejected. We all congregated in the hall after the exam to "compare notes," Gabriel was horrified to hear me say that I thought I bombed the exam and by the time we got to the car, he burst into tears.
I was astonished. "Gabriel, what on earth is wrong?"
"You've been working so hard. All you ever do is study, and now you think you did terrible on your important exam," he sobbed out, and it was a for real, snot slinging sob fest. Thankfully, I keep kleenex in the car. Actually, I keep a roll of toilet paper in the car for use as kleenex and I handed him a wad of paper to mop up his face. So I gave him a pep talk and I gave me a pep talk. God had it all under control. Of course, I would get into med school in spite of a C, and more along those lines.
And thus began the eternal 5 day wait for grades to roll out. My greatest terrifying fear was a C on my transcript. Dr. Altmiller, amongst other things, had certainly put the fear of the C in me in our very brief chats. I couldn't sleep. I would get up early in the morning and go over all my Chemistry notes remembering the most bizarre mistakes I had made on the exam.
Other grades rolled in. A in Biology, A in Biology Lab, A in Communications, B in Intro to Calculus (that made me mad. The median grade on the final was a 55 because the department head wrote the exam. And you can bet what was on the exam was not the content of the classes we'd been attending for 4 months). Chem Lab and Chem were the last grades to be posted, and finally they were up. Do I need to tell you how much courage it took to open that file? A in Chem Lab. I was searching for the C. It wasn't there. I checked the subjects again. There was chem...a B. I can tell you I have never been so deliriously happy to get a B in all my life and I hope I never will be again. In my complete and utter joy I finally did the one rational, logical, expected thing I had done the entire semester.
I had a total and complete sob fest. And 1/2 a box of kleenex and 20 minutes later I began to feel a little better about the whole thing. So I guess you could say I survived the first semester in college. Maybe not with flying colors, but with 4 A's, 2 B's and a 3.71 GPA. It is my hope that this will be my worst semester. I guess we'll all just have to wait and see.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
With My Eyes Wide Shut...
I was informed that I was brave and courageous to go back to college. I didn't really feel brave and courageous. I felt excited and relieved that the time had FINALLY arrived because of all the hurdles to even get to the moment of sitting in my first class, attempting to take in vast quantities of a foreign language (Chemistry) and feeling as if I were attemping a sip from a fire hydrant.
I have a special knack for attempting things that are not entirely possible. When I met with the admissions director in the fall of 2012, she told me I didn't qualify for acceptance because I had a mere 10 credit hours (16 if my AP English Exam score of 5 were rolled in as 6 English credits) and 30 were required for admittance. Being a rational, logical creature, I applied anyway, and the director sent my stacks of papers and application on to a "board" that decides when to make exceptions to the rules. And after a few weeks on pins and needles and finally resigning myself to applying for admittance to the local community college, I got the beautiful, colorful, seriously expensive printjob of a congratulations, you're a St. Ed's student letter. With that crazy sentence, you can safely assume I'm not an English major.
Next up, HOW AM I GOING TO PAY FOR THIS? Um, yeah. We are kinda a "no debt" sort of couple. The idea of school debt is terrifying to my husband, and St. Ed's is a whopping 15k per semester. Uh, huh. So like me, my husband cried when I got my acceptance letter, but for another reason entirely.
I went in to see my assigned financial advisor. OH, NO! She was black. Yeah, I know, that isn't necessarily a problem. Frankly, I prefer black people. However, when you need a black person's help, you also need them not to imagine a) all white people are born into immense wealth with a trust fund the size of Texas, b) everything is easy for white people, c) if it isn't easy for them, it's about time they had it hard. As I sat in the chair opposite her taking in her face and tone and her total LACK of helpfulness, my heart sank. I signed on the dotted line committing myself to a vast sum of money and thought of Ceasar burning the ships at the shore of Britain. I had to succeed now. And get a new financial advisor.
In the meantime, I applied for financial aid (insert nervous 3 week wait here) AND received a scholarship and a grant which at least covered two thirds of my tuition and I figured even I could find some private scholarship to cover the other third, and I could apply in all my spare time during the semester (insert loud hysterical laugh here).
On to registering for classes. So I sat down with all the necessary materials and plotted out how to graduate by spring of '15. By taking 18 hours a semester, going during the summer, never sleeping, I could definitely pull it off. With this bright enthusiasm I went in to see my advisor. He was highly amused, and joined in with equal enthusiasm registering me for a stack of impossible classes. When he bid me adieu he said, "I'll see you by the end of week 1 when you decided to be an English major and change classes." That did give me a bit of a jolt. Me, English major? Fat chance. I was going to take the Science department by storm.
It was a storm all right. Of bad grades, late nights, wee hours of the morning, and a general frantic state of realization, catching up was not going to happen. The object of the game was to try not to fall too far behind. I was drowning. It was like the time I was learning how to ski, my cousin gave a quick demo, tossed me the line, and I sat at the edge of the deck, skis properly positioned, life jacked firmly strapped on, breathing in nervous anticipatiion. My cousin failed to mention that when I fell off the skis, I should simultaneously let go of the line. Perhaps he felt that part was rather obious. Instead when I fell off the skis, I held more firmly to the line, and went half way round the lake taking in a good deal of water, sea weed, algae and passing some very amused ducks while my cousin laughed hysterically and attempted to yell, "let go of the line, Jenny!" Let go of the line? Processing, processing. Oh, let go of the line. And I did, and floated and bobbed in the water, my legs pulled up to my chest for fear something in the murky dark water would pull me to the bottom, while my cousin circled the boat.
No one is circling the boat, coming for you when you're an old person in college trying desperately to catch up and keep up with a vast quantity of kids who in spite of partying regularly, relationship and room mate drama, and piles of school debt, seem to breeze in and out of classes with a sleepy nonchalance that's quite impressive, when you think about it.
But slowly I adjusted. I adjusted to no sleep, intense concentration for hours on end, going to school and for hours on end forgetting I was a wife, a mother, a human. I was just a robot attempting to stay on top of an impossible load. I discovered free tutoring, SI sessions, better note taking systems. Students began asking me for help and requesting my notes when they missed class. There's no fixing feeling incredibly old and experienced when on campus with a lot of people around the age of 20, but I was slowly beginning to fit in..the way the Amish fit in at Superbowl Sunday.
In fact, there were some theories stirring amongst the student body to attempt to explain what a bizarre person I was, sharing jokes with the teachers, laughing hard in a room full of silent students, why I dressed so...modestly, for lack of a better word. (The students should thank me on that score as my body has seen the ravages of downloading six humans. This is a human delivery system that needs clothing). The students knew I was old, but in their minds that meant 27. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
And my family, where were my six children and my husband in all this? Jon took over the laundry on day one knowing that the possibility of his finding something to pack for business trips had just gone to negative digits unless he saw to it. My children were proud of me. Some more than others. Charles would glow. "Wow, Mom, you are the most amazing mom, ever. What other mother with six kids would study all the time and become a doctor?" Mmmm. Maybe that's because the other mothers still have some remaining intelligence, which I apparently left behind long ago.
I learned to climb out of bed at 4 am, look a bit jealously at my slumbering husband and head out to the dining room to pour over Biology texts and chemistry problems. I learned to listen to the sounds of my family hanging out, laughing it up, watching movies on the weekends, while I bent over my books at my desk and wished for ear plugs so I could focus better. I learned to hold Vivs or Gabe in my lap while working through math problems. I learned to let the kids do as much for themselves as they could.
But did I learn enough to maintain a good GPA? And did I get the private scholarships? Guess you'll have to read the next posting...
I have a special knack for attempting things that are not entirely possible. When I met with the admissions director in the fall of 2012, she told me I didn't qualify for acceptance because I had a mere 10 credit hours (16 if my AP English Exam score of 5 were rolled in as 6 English credits) and 30 were required for admittance. Being a rational, logical creature, I applied anyway, and the director sent my stacks of papers and application on to a "board" that decides when to make exceptions to the rules. And after a few weeks on pins and needles and finally resigning myself to applying for admittance to the local community college, I got the beautiful, colorful, seriously expensive printjob of a congratulations, you're a St. Ed's student letter. With that crazy sentence, you can safely assume I'm not an English major.
Next up, HOW AM I GOING TO PAY FOR THIS? Um, yeah. We are kinda a "no debt" sort of couple. The idea of school debt is terrifying to my husband, and St. Ed's is a whopping 15k per semester. Uh, huh. So like me, my husband cried when I got my acceptance letter, but for another reason entirely.
I went in to see my assigned financial advisor. OH, NO! She was black. Yeah, I know, that isn't necessarily a problem. Frankly, I prefer black people. However, when you need a black person's help, you also need them not to imagine a) all white people are born into immense wealth with a trust fund the size of Texas, b) everything is easy for white people, c) if it isn't easy for them, it's about time they had it hard. As I sat in the chair opposite her taking in her face and tone and her total LACK of helpfulness, my heart sank. I signed on the dotted line committing myself to a vast sum of money and thought of Ceasar burning the ships at the shore of Britain. I had to succeed now. And get a new financial advisor.
In the meantime, I applied for financial aid (insert nervous 3 week wait here) AND received a scholarship and a grant which at least covered two thirds of my tuition and I figured even I could find some private scholarship to cover the other third, and I could apply in all my spare time during the semester (insert loud hysterical laugh here).
On to registering for classes. So I sat down with all the necessary materials and plotted out how to graduate by spring of '15. By taking 18 hours a semester, going during the summer, never sleeping, I could definitely pull it off. With this bright enthusiasm I went in to see my advisor. He was highly amused, and joined in with equal enthusiasm registering me for a stack of impossible classes. When he bid me adieu he said, "I'll see you by the end of week 1 when you decided to be an English major and change classes." That did give me a bit of a jolt. Me, English major? Fat chance. I was going to take the Science department by storm.
It was a storm all right. Of bad grades, late nights, wee hours of the morning, and a general frantic state of realization, catching up was not going to happen. The object of the game was to try not to fall too far behind. I was drowning. It was like the time I was learning how to ski, my cousin gave a quick demo, tossed me the line, and I sat at the edge of the deck, skis properly positioned, life jacked firmly strapped on, breathing in nervous anticipatiion. My cousin failed to mention that when I fell off the skis, I should simultaneously let go of the line. Perhaps he felt that part was rather obious. Instead when I fell off the skis, I held more firmly to the line, and went half way round the lake taking in a good deal of water, sea weed, algae and passing some very amused ducks while my cousin laughed hysterically and attempted to yell, "let go of the line, Jenny!" Let go of the line? Processing, processing. Oh, let go of the line. And I did, and floated and bobbed in the water, my legs pulled up to my chest for fear something in the murky dark water would pull me to the bottom, while my cousin circled the boat.
No one is circling the boat, coming for you when you're an old person in college trying desperately to catch up and keep up with a vast quantity of kids who in spite of partying regularly, relationship and room mate drama, and piles of school debt, seem to breeze in and out of classes with a sleepy nonchalance that's quite impressive, when you think about it.
But slowly I adjusted. I adjusted to no sleep, intense concentration for hours on end, going to school and for hours on end forgetting I was a wife, a mother, a human. I was just a robot attempting to stay on top of an impossible load. I discovered free tutoring, SI sessions, better note taking systems. Students began asking me for help and requesting my notes when they missed class. There's no fixing feeling incredibly old and experienced when on campus with a lot of people around the age of 20, but I was slowly beginning to fit in..the way the Amish fit in at Superbowl Sunday.
In fact, there were some theories stirring amongst the student body to attempt to explain what a bizarre person I was, sharing jokes with the teachers, laughing hard in a room full of silent students, why I dressed so...modestly, for lack of a better word. (The students should thank me on that score as my body has seen the ravages of downloading six humans. This is a human delivery system that needs clothing). The students knew I was old, but in their minds that meant 27. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
And my family, where were my six children and my husband in all this? Jon took over the laundry on day one knowing that the possibility of his finding something to pack for business trips had just gone to negative digits unless he saw to it. My children were proud of me. Some more than others. Charles would glow. "Wow, Mom, you are the most amazing mom, ever. What other mother with six kids would study all the time and become a doctor?" Mmmm. Maybe that's because the other mothers still have some remaining intelligence, which I apparently left behind long ago.
I learned to climb out of bed at 4 am, look a bit jealously at my slumbering husband and head out to the dining room to pour over Biology texts and chemistry problems. I learned to listen to the sounds of my family hanging out, laughing it up, watching movies on the weekends, while I bent over my books at my desk and wished for ear plugs so I could focus better. I learned to hold Vivs or Gabe in my lap while working through math problems. I learned to let the kids do as much for themselves as they could.
But did I learn enough to maintain a good GPA? And did I get the private scholarships? Guess you'll have to read the next posting...
Monday, May 13, 2013
Remember Me? I'm not really recognizable, but I am still insane...
Hi, I'm back. Ready to communicate with the 4 people that have subscribed to my blog eons ago to hear about an inept mother of many with three in diapers and a lot of laundry. You wouldn't really think this would be fodder worthy of 4 subscribers. Maybe you guys are really bored. Or think your life is the pits and my journey made you feel better about yours.
So since one of the people subscribed to this blog is dead, I'll just reintroduce myself to the remaining three of you. I'm old. 37 to be exact. More importantly, my children are getting oldER which means they are that much farther from having worn diapers and that much closer to moving out. Both very good things.
Jonathan is 16, a junior in high school, who attends a government school, aka Fine Arts Academy, where he brings back hilarious stories and very good grades. He's also a violinist, composer, guitarist. He's destined to be poor and philisophical and snobby. And I love him, a lot. His sense of humor is really pretty good. He could always fall back on being a comedian. As his mother, I've given him years of material.
Caroline is 14 and finishing 8th grade. She's still stormy, and moody, and blond. She's a cellist, she's got a great sense of humor when she chooses to use it, and this summer she'll be gone working as a nanny. This gives us a wonderful break from each other.
Charles is 12, violist, dependable, traditionalist, the spitting image of his father.
Oliver is 10, a violinist, great student, sparkly, bubbly, and loves to irritate. Caroline receives most of his attention and is rewards him with all the umbrage he longs for.
Gabriel is my son with a sense of style and art who does not enjoy activities that include sweat or sunlight. He turned down the deep sea fishing trip. However, had he been told his Grand-dad was coming along on the deep sea fishing trip, I think he would have gone. The child adores his grand-dad and the feelings are pretty mutual, I think. He plays the cello, draws rather well, and makes straight A's. He is 8, and I've decided I'll keep him a few more years anyway.
Vivian got through a pretty serious illness that lasted for nearly 3 years. Before the illness she was feisty, headstrong, and joyful. After the illness she's clingy, needy, timid, insecure, and will get very ill very quickly if parted from me long. She's willing to endure the most boring hours of waiting in order to be always with me. And she's a just turned 7 year old dolly.
We live in Austin, Texas because 3 years ago my husband Jon was offered a position with the same company he's been with nearly 15 years now, and an executive re-lo package, and we thought, Austin sounds cool.
Austin is cool. Very cool..and windy..and hot, incidentally. We attend an awesome church, we have a very satisfactory circle of friends (though we miss our Atlanta crowd LIKE CRAZY) and all in all, life is pretty good. And different. Definitely different.
In the summer of 2011 I decided it was time to go back to school to become a doctor, as in, an MD. Because I'm bored and seeking fulfillment. No, not really. But I've gotten the opportunity to experience a lot of the brokenness of western medicine, and I'd like an opportunity to make that brokeness more whole for a community of people beyond the reaches of hospitals...but hopefully not beyond the reaches of hot water, because I'm exceedingly fond of hot showers in the morning.
In order to make my education as drawn out as possible I first attended and graduated from the Lauterstein-Conway School of Massage and got my license as a massage therapist. I really enjoy being a massage therapist except when I don't. :) I'll leave that part to your imagination since there's that whole client therapist confidentiality thing. Anyway, I got my license so I could expand my knowledge base of osteopathy via The Jones Institute which you can google if you really are curious. And in order to take their courses and eventually stand for the 3 day exam to get certified you must be a massage therapist, or an OT or a PT. So there you have it.
Then I went on to St. Edward's University, an awesome private school here in Austin, where I'm majoring in Biochemistry, because I'm a glutton for punishment and that is the hardest degree they offer, so I thought, great! Sign me up.
And that's where this blog re-begins. My adventures as a wife, mother and pre-med student. If you're looking for inspiration, I suggest you move on. If you are looking for laughs and an opportunity to better appreciate your personal sanity and the quality of your existence, look no farther. I hope to provide you ample opportunities for all of that. And much, much more.
So since one of the people subscribed to this blog is dead, I'll just reintroduce myself to the remaining three of you. I'm old. 37 to be exact. More importantly, my children are getting oldER which means they are that much farther from having worn diapers and that much closer to moving out. Both very good things.
Jonathan is 16, a junior in high school, who attends a government school, aka Fine Arts Academy, where he brings back hilarious stories and very good grades. He's also a violinist, composer, guitarist. He's destined to be poor and philisophical and snobby. And I love him, a lot. His sense of humor is really pretty good. He could always fall back on being a comedian. As his mother, I've given him years of material.
Caroline is 14 and finishing 8th grade. She's still stormy, and moody, and blond. She's a cellist, she's got a great sense of humor when she chooses to use it, and this summer she'll be gone working as a nanny. This gives us a wonderful break from each other.
Charles is 12, violist, dependable, traditionalist, the spitting image of his father.
Oliver is 10, a violinist, great student, sparkly, bubbly, and loves to irritate. Caroline receives most of his attention and is rewards him with all the umbrage he longs for.
Gabriel is my son with a sense of style and art who does not enjoy activities that include sweat or sunlight. He turned down the deep sea fishing trip. However, had he been told his Grand-dad was coming along on the deep sea fishing trip, I think he would have gone. The child adores his grand-dad and the feelings are pretty mutual, I think. He plays the cello, draws rather well, and makes straight A's. He is 8, and I've decided I'll keep him a few more years anyway.
Vivian got through a pretty serious illness that lasted for nearly 3 years. Before the illness she was feisty, headstrong, and joyful. After the illness she's clingy, needy, timid, insecure, and will get very ill very quickly if parted from me long. She's willing to endure the most boring hours of waiting in order to be always with me. And she's a just turned 7 year old dolly.
We live in Austin, Texas because 3 years ago my husband Jon was offered a position with the same company he's been with nearly 15 years now, and an executive re-lo package, and we thought, Austin sounds cool.
Austin is cool. Very cool..and windy..and hot, incidentally. We attend an awesome church, we have a very satisfactory circle of friends (though we miss our Atlanta crowd LIKE CRAZY) and all in all, life is pretty good. And different. Definitely different.
In the summer of 2011 I decided it was time to go back to school to become a doctor, as in, an MD. Because I'm bored and seeking fulfillment. No, not really. But I've gotten the opportunity to experience a lot of the brokenness of western medicine, and I'd like an opportunity to make that brokeness more whole for a community of people beyond the reaches of hospitals...but hopefully not beyond the reaches of hot water, because I'm exceedingly fond of hot showers in the morning.
In order to make my education as drawn out as possible I first attended and graduated from the Lauterstein-Conway School of Massage and got my license as a massage therapist. I really enjoy being a massage therapist except when I don't. :) I'll leave that part to your imagination since there's that whole client therapist confidentiality thing. Anyway, I got my license so I could expand my knowledge base of osteopathy via The Jones Institute which you can google if you really are curious. And in order to take their courses and eventually stand for the 3 day exam to get certified you must be a massage therapist, or an OT or a PT. So there you have it.
Then I went on to St. Edward's University, an awesome private school here in Austin, where I'm majoring in Biochemistry, because I'm a glutton for punishment and that is the hardest degree they offer, so I thought, great! Sign me up.
And that's where this blog re-begins. My adventures as a wife, mother and pre-med student. If you're looking for inspiration, I suggest you move on. If you are looking for laughs and an opportunity to better appreciate your personal sanity and the quality of your existence, look no farther. I hope to provide you ample opportunities for all of that. And much, much more.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Jolly Ollie
Over the summer Charles injured his toe very badly. He dropped the x-box on it such that the toe swelled to an enormous size, the nail gradually turned black, and then at camp the nail fell off (and you thought this post was going to be about Oliver).
When the kids were all at camp, Charles big toe nail fell off and the news spread like wild fire. There were 5 other classes at camp who had a kid related to the kid who lost his nail. So 6 people got to feel relatively important with the loss of Charles toe nail. A trophy he carried around in his pocket for weeks.
The notoriety didn't go far enough for the psycho member of the family, namely Oliver, who peppered me with questions along the lines of: "How common is it to lose a toe nail? Do very many people lose a toe nail? How badly do you have to hurt the nail in order for it to fall off?" What he was really asking was: "What are my chances, mom, what are my chances?"
Yesterday, Oliver decided to take his scooter out around the neighborhood, shoeless as always. He ended up crashing on some lever, I really don't know the details as I never had enough curiosity to garner them, but suffice it to say he came in proudly with a bloody stump of a big toe. He calmly displayed the toe to me and said with great hope," Do you think the nail will fall off?"
After inspecting it, I informed him it was a mere flesh wound and wished him better luck next time. He was completely crestfallen but my parting "blessing" gave him hope and he bounced back pretty quick. Enough so that he was back on the scooter with the bloody toe stump (still no shoes) in a very short amount of time.
When the kids were all at camp, Charles big toe nail fell off and the news spread like wild fire. There were 5 other classes at camp who had a kid related to the kid who lost his nail. So 6 people got to feel relatively important with the loss of Charles toe nail. A trophy he carried around in his pocket for weeks.
The notoriety didn't go far enough for the psycho member of the family, namely Oliver, who peppered me with questions along the lines of: "How common is it to lose a toe nail? Do very many people lose a toe nail? How badly do you have to hurt the nail in order for it to fall off?" What he was really asking was: "What are my chances, mom, what are my chances?"
Yesterday, Oliver decided to take his scooter out around the neighborhood, shoeless as always. He ended up crashing on some lever, I really don't know the details as I never had enough curiosity to garner them, but suffice it to say he came in proudly with a bloody stump of a big toe. He calmly displayed the toe to me and said with great hope," Do you think the nail will fall off?"
After inspecting it, I informed him it was a mere flesh wound and wished him better luck next time. He was completely crestfallen but my parting "blessing" gave him hope and he bounced back pretty quick. Enough so that he was back on the scooter with the bloody toe stump (still no shoes) in a very short amount of time.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Things My Kids Say....
My children tell me some of the most shocking things without shame or inhibition of any kind. It's amazing. I would never, ever, ever have told things of the same nature to my parents....or anyone for that matter, had the thoughts crawled across my brain. But at our house, anything is acceptable fodder for conversation with mom, or so it would seem.
When Jonathan was a lot smaller, he was telling me some rather incriminating things and I said,"You know, maybe you should talk to your dad about that," to which Jonathan got very serious and said,"Oh, no, mom, I could never tell dad. He doesn't sin." I laughed hard. I guess that makes me an approachable sinner. I can handle that.
Tonight at dinner--and to give you more of a sense of the moment, I shall offer the seating arrangements. Jon sits at the head of the table, though he's mostly gone these days, so the head of the table is empty. I sit to what would be Jon's right, Vivian next to me, Caroline next to Viv, Jonathan at the foot of the table, and then continuing counter clockwise, Oliver, Gabriel and last Charles who sits directly across from me.
There were a few moments of silence this evening as bowls of chicken, rice and vegetables with a yummy broth were handed round the table. In the silence Gabriel suddenly piped up. "Mom, when I'm 7 my foot will be 12." I had to pause and do what Jonathan calls "processing" and then I realized he was talking shoe size. For Gabriel that was a rather deep thought. "Yes, Gabriel, when you are 7, your foot will probably be 12." He responded," And then I'll need new shoes." "Yes," I confirmed, "Then you will need new shoes." He thought about this. "I will need flip flops." I looked at Gabriel and said, "You brain is a very interesting place. How did you land on flip flops? " Caroline chimed in,"I was thinking about flip flops,too." To which Jonathan said, "that doesn't surprise me."
(This reminds me of when the family was in the suburban together over the weekend. Jon was driving, I was knitting and there was a general sense of noise and chaos. Through the noise I began to focus on what Caroline was saying and I interrupted her. " Caroline, that conversation will stop now. You have said nothing of substance and the sum total of what you are saying is drivel, and frankly none of our business." There was silence for a few moments. Jonathan piped up," Um, mom?" "Yes," I answered. Jonathan cleared his throat, "Just for the record, there was no conversation. Caroline was talking in monologue. I had tuned out a long time ago.")
On to dinner tonight:
"Mom, do you think there are aliens, because I'm really beginning to think it's possible with all these astronomy classes," said Charles. "I mean the universe is just so huge! Anything could be out there." I remained silent as the other children weighed in. "Of course there are aliens," Jonathan offered," Where do you think we got Caroline?"
I decided to bring up blends with Gabriel. "Gabriel, do you remember your new blends?" I asked. He got all excited. Together we said "st, st, stick" and then "gr, gr, green." Oliver decided to pipe up, "br, br, breast. That's an important one, Gabriel." I rolled my eyes.
Charles hit the breast topic like a duck on a june bug. "Did you know that there was once a woman with three breasts?" I was rather intrigued. "Really? Where was the third?" He was ready for that question--"I learned all about it in that book about historical mutants. The third breast was on the side of her leg." You know I asked the obvious question. "Well, did it produce milk?" That was the very question he had hoped I would ask-"Yes, it did. In fact there was a drawing of her nursing her third child with the breast on the side of her leg while nursing her younger twin babies in the regular way."
I had to digest that idea for a moment. "Wow, that'd be a bit of a shock I think to marry someone and not know ahead of time about that sort of thing." But the train of thought was interrupted by Vivian who pulled on my arm." Want to see my lucky freckle?" she said with immense enthusiasm followed by," It has a hair in it" and everyone exploded into laughter and I looked at Vivian wondering where in the world that came from.
The entire conversation devolved from there rather rapidly. I had to bring everyone back to order. "Enough," I said. In the short pause, Boofin-Biddles came up.
Let me explain the origin of Boofin-Biddles. In the book of mutants, there is a wee man whose trunk is of proper size as are his head, hands and feet. But he has no arms or legs. Only hands and feet that come out where his limbs should come out of his trunk. Charles will tuck his arms into his shirt so only his hands are visible, and then pull his shirt over his knees to the floor as he crouches down, and he calls himself Boofin-Biddles when in this attitude. He gallops across the floor and does the most hilarious stunts and such. One day he was doing a Boofin-Biddles demonstration and he lost his balance and was on his side, his hands and feet flailing a bit but he stayed in form. "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up," and he rocked around on the floor in this pose. We were laughing until the tears fell.
So of course at dinner Boofin-Biddles came up, and Charles struck the pose instantly leaping from his chair and landing to the floor crouched low.
Charles also has created his own nonsense language that does have a very particular cadence and consonant arrangement. Gabriel attempted to speak in Guddish, as it is called. Charles corrected him with a stream of perfectly cadenced Guddish that is so nonsensical you can't help but laugh, and when Charles spoke it, it did in fact sound proper, and when Gabriel spoke it, it sounded wrong.
At the end of dinner, after I'd said more than once, "Ok, enough. Have you people no shame? Do you not realize that I don't want to know every thought that crawls through you brain?" Charles said," But why not? Our thoughts are so interesting." You know, he has a point.
After dinner--and we had dinner rather late--I announced it was time for a moonlight walk around the neighborhood. Everyone scattered to get their shoes and walk accoutrements. I walked around making sure pre-dinner chores had been completed. They had not been completed and the sinners stayed behind while the saints took Daisy for a walk.
Four children were left home soberly completing their chores, Jonathan and Oliver came with me. Oliver gleefully grabbed my hand thrilled to be able to hog me for the entire walk. "Mom, right over there the other day I found 2 dead toads," he announced after we'd gone maybe a hundred feet. "But don't worry, I grabbed them quick and put them in my treasure box." I took in the information silently thinking," So that would explain the smell in your room." Another block and Oliver suddenly released my hand, darted right, and then caught back up next to me with a HUGE toad in his hand. "This is a nice one," he said admiring it. I just raised my eyebrows and nodded.
Oliver then piped up again," I'm glad you brought wine cuz now I can smell the yumminess through the whole walk." I did in fact have a glass of wine in hand. When we got home, Oliver wearily departed. He said," I gotta go recharge my batteries," and off he went.
The house is silent, even Daisy is asleep. It's almost tragic to go to bed rather than sit here and enjoy the quiet.
When Jonathan was a lot smaller, he was telling me some rather incriminating things and I said,"You know, maybe you should talk to your dad about that," to which Jonathan got very serious and said,"Oh, no, mom, I could never tell dad. He doesn't sin." I laughed hard. I guess that makes me an approachable sinner. I can handle that.
Tonight at dinner--and to give you more of a sense of the moment, I shall offer the seating arrangements. Jon sits at the head of the table, though he's mostly gone these days, so the head of the table is empty. I sit to what would be Jon's right, Vivian next to me, Caroline next to Viv, Jonathan at the foot of the table, and then continuing counter clockwise, Oliver, Gabriel and last Charles who sits directly across from me.
There were a few moments of silence this evening as bowls of chicken, rice and vegetables with a yummy broth were handed round the table. In the silence Gabriel suddenly piped up. "Mom, when I'm 7 my foot will be 12." I had to pause and do what Jonathan calls "processing" and then I realized he was talking shoe size. For Gabriel that was a rather deep thought. "Yes, Gabriel, when you are 7, your foot will probably be 12." He responded," And then I'll need new shoes." "Yes," I confirmed, "Then you will need new shoes." He thought about this. "I will need flip flops." I looked at Gabriel and said, "You brain is a very interesting place. How did you land on flip flops? " Caroline chimed in,"I was thinking about flip flops,too." To which Jonathan said, "that doesn't surprise me."
(This reminds me of when the family was in the suburban together over the weekend. Jon was driving, I was knitting and there was a general sense of noise and chaos. Through the noise I began to focus on what Caroline was saying and I interrupted her. " Caroline, that conversation will stop now. You have said nothing of substance and the sum total of what you are saying is drivel, and frankly none of our business." There was silence for a few moments. Jonathan piped up," Um, mom?" "Yes," I answered. Jonathan cleared his throat, "Just for the record, there was no conversation. Caroline was talking in monologue. I had tuned out a long time ago.")
On to dinner tonight:
"Mom, do you think there are aliens, because I'm really beginning to think it's possible with all these astronomy classes," said Charles. "I mean the universe is just so huge! Anything could be out there." I remained silent as the other children weighed in. "Of course there are aliens," Jonathan offered," Where do you think we got Caroline?"
I decided to bring up blends with Gabriel. "Gabriel, do you remember your new blends?" I asked. He got all excited. Together we said "st, st, stick" and then "gr, gr, green." Oliver decided to pipe up, "br, br, breast. That's an important one, Gabriel." I rolled my eyes.
Charles hit the breast topic like a duck on a june bug. "Did you know that there was once a woman with three breasts?" I was rather intrigued. "Really? Where was the third?" He was ready for that question--"I learned all about it in that book about historical mutants. The third breast was on the side of her leg." You know I asked the obvious question. "Well, did it produce milk?" That was the very question he had hoped I would ask-"Yes, it did. In fact there was a drawing of her nursing her third child with the breast on the side of her leg while nursing her younger twin babies in the regular way."
I had to digest that idea for a moment. "Wow, that'd be a bit of a shock I think to marry someone and not know ahead of time about that sort of thing." But the train of thought was interrupted by Vivian who pulled on my arm." Want to see my lucky freckle?" she said with immense enthusiasm followed by," It has a hair in it" and everyone exploded into laughter and I looked at Vivian wondering where in the world that came from.
The entire conversation devolved from there rather rapidly. I had to bring everyone back to order. "Enough," I said. In the short pause, Boofin-Biddles came up.
Let me explain the origin of Boofin-Biddles. In the book of mutants, there is a wee man whose trunk is of proper size as are his head, hands and feet. But he has no arms or legs. Only hands and feet that come out where his limbs should come out of his trunk. Charles will tuck his arms into his shirt so only his hands are visible, and then pull his shirt over his knees to the floor as he crouches down, and he calls himself Boofin-Biddles when in this attitude. He gallops across the floor and does the most hilarious stunts and such. One day he was doing a Boofin-Biddles demonstration and he lost his balance and was on his side, his hands and feet flailing a bit but he stayed in form. "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up," and he rocked around on the floor in this pose. We were laughing until the tears fell.
So of course at dinner Boofin-Biddles came up, and Charles struck the pose instantly leaping from his chair and landing to the floor crouched low.
Charles also has created his own nonsense language that does have a very particular cadence and consonant arrangement. Gabriel attempted to speak in Guddish, as it is called. Charles corrected him with a stream of perfectly cadenced Guddish that is so nonsensical you can't help but laugh, and when Charles spoke it, it did in fact sound proper, and when Gabriel spoke it, it sounded wrong.
At the end of dinner, after I'd said more than once, "Ok, enough. Have you people no shame? Do you not realize that I don't want to know every thought that crawls through you brain?" Charles said," But why not? Our thoughts are so interesting." You know, he has a point.
After dinner--and we had dinner rather late--I announced it was time for a moonlight walk around the neighborhood. Everyone scattered to get their shoes and walk accoutrements. I walked around making sure pre-dinner chores had been completed. They had not been completed and the sinners stayed behind while the saints took Daisy for a walk.
Four children were left home soberly completing their chores, Jonathan and Oliver came with me. Oliver gleefully grabbed my hand thrilled to be able to hog me for the entire walk. "Mom, right over there the other day I found 2 dead toads," he announced after we'd gone maybe a hundred feet. "But don't worry, I grabbed them quick and put them in my treasure box." I took in the information silently thinking," So that would explain the smell in your room." Another block and Oliver suddenly released my hand, darted right, and then caught back up next to me with a HUGE toad in his hand. "This is a nice one," he said admiring it. I just raised my eyebrows and nodded.
Oliver then piped up again," I'm glad you brought wine cuz now I can smell the yumminess through the whole walk." I did in fact have a glass of wine in hand. When we got home, Oliver wearily departed. He said," I gotta go recharge my batteries," and off he went.
The house is silent, even Daisy is asleep. It's almost tragic to go to bed rather than sit here and enjoy the quiet.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Tonight I Took Daisy for A Walk
If you know anything about a 'coon dog, you know that this is a story of lies because no one can take a 'coon dog on a walk. Or if you have ever heard of such a person, unless you see it with your own eyes, don't believe it.
Daisy is a 'coon dog, which means if you were to compare her body parts in terms of effectiveness, her nose would be about the size of the lies told in the 9/11 commission report (notice the lie theme :-). She can smell anything and everything, and she's big, and she's strong. That said, when Daisy is on her leash, you are essentially at the mercy of her good will because she is stronger than you, and her will is a thing to behold. Especially if you come across a small deer or a 'coon in the course of your whiplash style jaunt across the neighborhood.
Today was an especially long day and not because it was filled with many exciting though exhausting events. First, I was awakened before 6 by the chime sound of Daisy's collar. I'm a light sleeper and if anyone or thing is stirring in the night, I know about it immediately. Since I am also the janitor of all Daisy's gastro-intestinal problems or when her nose gets the best of her and she must ransack the garbage can in the kitchen, if I hear the collar too early in the morning signaling Daisy is up and about, I bolt.
So it was this morning. Around 5:30 Daisy was up and about, I hastily got out of my bed, stopped to put on my flip flops and softly called to Daisy in the darkness. She came immediately. I took her out to the backyard and she set to work exhibiting all the lovely symptoms of a full and complete puke fest. Unfortunately for Daisy, Jon had just cut the grass over the weekend, so she had to scrounge a bit to find nice grassy bits to get the job done. I sorrowfully remembered that I had pitied her hound dog eyes last night and given her the remnants of pork roast and gravy. I knew better then, and I knew even better now.
I settled into a folding chair I brought from the sunroom since the teak chairs were soaking wet from the rain, wrapped up in an afghan (incidentally, the afghan my Aunt Ann crocheted for my step-dad a few years before I was even born which made me rather happy--I love things with stories), and enjoyed the sun rise to the sounds of the poor puking, gagging, Daisy.
Daisy got it worked out of her system by the time the sun was up and it was time for me to get the kids and breakfast going. And so the long day was off to a running start. I cleaned out a disgusting clogged toilet (small people who over use toilet paper....sigh), mopped the bathroom floor--(yeah, that's gross when the toilet over flows), taught school, did the radio show, produced 3 meals, did the dishes, took the kids to the park, took out garbage, milled wheat, and stirred up biga and started several batches of bread for tomorrow...yeah, I was tuckered out and needed a walk.
It was after 10 pm and I had my hand on the door knob when the hound dog eyes that had been my downfall the night before were again upon me. Surely I was not going to galavant across the neighborhood and leave my faithful friend behind? I sighed. No, I was not. Instead, I was going to put on her leash (just for show since the security patrol is usually cruising the neighborhood on the lookout for frisky 80 year olds keeping the neighbors up with their high action and rather loud basketball games) and let her drag me around for several blocks.
She was out the door in a flash, sniffing the air with an eager fascination. We made it past 3 houses before the sounds of a cooped up canine or three became very audible. Daisy had to respond in her hoarse hoop for a bark. I was exasperated. "Come on, Daisy, for heaven's sake." Heaven must have heard because Daisy was suddenly silent. I was cautiously pleased and she continued, nose to the ground, meandering along the sidewalk, first one side, then the other, than darting back under a bush, than darting forward sensing something. I soon wished I had worn different foot wear from the flip flops. But in a bit that would be the lesser of my problems.
I will pause here to say that dog owners who walk their dog and leave behind their dog's exhaust for others to step in and otherwise enjoy, should be shot along with their dog at sunrise the next morning. That is my pet-test of pet-peeves. There is a special place in purgatory for you if you leave behind dog poop. I don't even believe in purgatory, but I think hell might be going a bit far. For instance when I weigh Hitler sending all those millions to their deaths and leaving behind dog poop, I'm thinking Hell for Hitler and Purgatory for the Poo Leaver. But currently I'm having a lovely glass of wine, so I might feel differently in the morning. Check back.
Back to the story, we were many more blocks from the house than I could count, I was enjoying a moon that was bursting through breaks in the clouds which were finally clearing up after a fiesty late afternoon rainstorm, and Daisy was maintaining a somewhat predictable cycle of jog, trot, dart, stop, jerk, and pull that could be enjoyed on some sick level. Suddenly, she got that position and I realized I had left home without the poo bag. "Noooo" I mournfully said as Daisy finished up her business. This dog never poops on walks. I mean, NEVER.
I looked around to see if I had been spotted by neighbors on the prowl. All was quiet. I checked for some sort of block identification since I was going to have to trot back, bag in hand, a little while later. When I did get back home, Caroline was sprawled on the sofa reading. "I thought Daisy never left exhaust on walks?" I whined--or maybe sighed is a better word. Caroline affirmed my thinking. "Yeah, mom, she never does unless you forget the bag. It's the strangest thing."
I got a couple bags and headed back out. It was at this time that I was a bit pleased I had to go fetch the exhaust because it gave me an opportunity to wander along in the moonlight at a happy pace unencumbered by a crazy 'coon dog intent on nabbing some furry animal in the midst of a concrete jungle. Mission accomplished a short time later and my guilt relieved. The patrol car lazily moseyed on by, the window down. "Evening," said the patrol man who looked a decade or two past retirement age. I cheerfully said evening back and went on my way. A few silent bicyclists went by and I was back home.
Daisy is a 'coon dog, which means if you were to compare her body parts in terms of effectiveness, her nose would be about the size of the lies told in the 9/11 commission report (notice the lie theme :-). She can smell anything and everything, and she's big, and she's strong. That said, when Daisy is on her leash, you are essentially at the mercy of her good will because she is stronger than you, and her will is a thing to behold. Especially if you come across a small deer or a 'coon in the course of your whiplash style jaunt across the neighborhood.
Today was an especially long day and not because it was filled with many exciting though exhausting events. First, I was awakened before 6 by the chime sound of Daisy's collar. I'm a light sleeper and if anyone or thing is stirring in the night, I know about it immediately. Since I am also the janitor of all Daisy's gastro-intestinal problems or when her nose gets the best of her and she must ransack the garbage can in the kitchen, if I hear the collar too early in the morning signaling Daisy is up and about, I bolt.
So it was this morning. Around 5:30 Daisy was up and about, I hastily got out of my bed, stopped to put on my flip flops and softly called to Daisy in the darkness. She came immediately. I took her out to the backyard and she set to work exhibiting all the lovely symptoms of a full and complete puke fest. Unfortunately for Daisy, Jon had just cut the grass over the weekend, so she had to scrounge a bit to find nice grassy bits to get the job done. I sorrowfully remembered that I had pitied her hound dog eyes last night and given her the remnants of pork roast and gravy. I knew better then, and I knew even better now.
I settled into a folding chair I brought from the sunroom since the teak chairs were soaking wet from the rain, wrapped up in an afghan (incidentally, the afghan my Aunt Ann crocheted for my step-dad a few years before I was even born which made me rather happy--I love things with stories), and enjoyed the sun rise to the sounds of the poor puking, gagging, Daisy.
Daisy got it worked out of her system by the time the sun was up and it was time for me to get the kids and breakfast going. And so the long day was off to a running start. I cleaned out a disgusting clogged toilet (small people who over use toilet paper....sigh), mopped the bathroom floor--(yeah, that's gross when the toilet over flows), taught school, did the radio show, produced 3 meals, did the dishes, took the kids to the park, took out garbage, milled wheat, and stirred up biga and started several batches of bread for tomorrow...yeah, I was tuckered out and needed a walk.
It was after 10 pm and I had my hand on the door knob when the hound dog eyes that had been my downfall the night before were again upon me. Surely I was not going to galavant across the neighborhood and leave my faithful friend behind? I sighed. No, I was not. Instead, I was going to put on her leash (just for show since the security patrol is usually cruising the neighborhood on the lookout for frisky 80 year olds keeping the neighbors up with their high action and rather loud basketball games) and let her drag me around for several blocks.
She was out the door in a flash, sniffing the air with an eager fascination. We made it past 3 houses before the sounds of a cooped up canine or three became very audible. Daisy had to respond in her hoarse hoop for a bark. I was exasperated. "Come on, Daisy, for heaven's sake." Heaven must have heard because Daisy was suddenly silent. I was cautiously pleased and she continued, nose to the ground, meandering along the sidewalk, first one side, then the other, than darting back under a bush, than darting forward sensing something. I soon wished I had worn different foot wear from the flip flops. But in a bit that would be the lesser of my problems.
I will pause here to say that dog owners who walk their dog and leave behind their dog's exhaust for others to step in and otherwise enjoy, should be shot along with their dog at sunrise the next morning. That is my pet-test of pet-peeves. There is a special place in purgatory for you if you leave behind dog poop. I don't even believe in purgatory, but I think hell might be going a bit far. For instance when I weigh Hitler sending all those millions to their deaths and leaving behind dog poop, I'm thinking Hell for Hitler and Purgatory for the Poo Leaver. But currently I'm having a lovely glass of wine, so I might feel differently in the morning. Check back.
Back to the story, we were many more blocks from the house than I could count, I was enjoying a moon that was bursting through breaks in the clouds which were finally clearing up after a fiesty late afternoon rainstorm, and Daisy was maintaining a somewhat predictable cycle of jog, trot, dart, stop, jerk, and pull that could be enjoyed on some sick level. Suddenly, she got that position and I realized I had left home without the poo bag. "Noooo" I mournfully said as Daisy finished up her business. This dog never poops on walks. I mean, NEVER.
I looked around to see if I had been spotted by neighbors on the prowl. All was quiet. I checked for some sort of block identification since I was going to have to trot back, bag in hand, a little while later. When I did get back home, Caroline was sprawled on the sofa reading. "I thought Daisy never left exhaust on walks?" I whined--or maybe sighed is a better word. Caroline affirmed my thinking. "Yeah, mom, she never does unless you forget the bag. It's the strangest thing."
I got a couple bags and headed back out. It was at this time that I was a bit pleased I had to go fetch the exhaust because it gave me an opportunity to wander along in the moonlight at a happy pace unencumbered by a crazy 'coon dog intent on nabbing some furry animal in the midst of a concrete jungle. Mission accomplished a short time later and my guilt relieved. The patrol car lazily moseyed on by, the window down. "Evening," said the patrol man who looked a decade or two past retirement age. I cheerfully said evening back and went on my way. A few silent bicyclists went by and I was back home.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Saturday Morning....Seen One, Seen 'Em All.
I feel rather sorry for the vast majority of Americans who will never know what it is to be in possession of a good many little people, because the interplay is priceless and not reproducible on any satisfactory level.
Being isolated in Austin affords the opportunity to ruminate and enjoy (or otherwise, as the case may be) this aforementioned interplay as our family is always together. (The exception being Jon who is a field sales man and thus on the road much of the time).
Saturday mornings are essentially one and the same. First, it is the one morning in the week where I do not have to get up at any particular time nor do I need to do anything particular. (The joke every Saturday morning is "What time do we have to be at the abortion clinic? Where's the parade this afternoon? and so on and so forth, the scarring memories of my past life as an activist not being that far removed from the memories of my children).
Of course, the laundry must be done (I stain treat and start the loads and Jonathan Jr. takes over from there), and advance planning for whatever Sunday activities/meals are in store, but there is no agenda per say. Since the master bedroom is in the back of the house and more like a bunker than a bedroom having no windows to the outside world, there is no chance of birds singing or sun shining to beckon me forth (sniff, sniff).
However, there are 3 little boys who share the room down the hall, and they are intimately aware of when the sun rises, the lizards are again in play, and it is time for battles to be staged, pillow fights to be launched, and forts to be erected. Next down the hall the girls slumber peacefully and rarely venture forth of their own will, and at the end of the hall is Bomethius, the resident teenager, who needs vast quantities of sleep within his man cave which is littered with books and musical instruments.
Around 7am it begins. Oliver arises--an occurrence that is heralded by the sounds of someone bounding from his bed, pawing at the bathroom door knob, clunk goes the toilet lid, a sound akin to pressure washing, flushing, and then a return to the bedroom which seems to be a path riddled with potholes, large trees, angry and hostile giants, and perhaps some artillery. Oliver, having safely made it back to the bunker, surveys the peacefully slumbering combatants. Gabriel, being the most accessible in his little youth bed against the wall, is his first victim.
His approach is always the same, and will probably give Gabriel life long nightmares that would give Vietnam vets some measure of sympathy. He bounds atop Gabriel in the spirited exhilaration of a Greek god going into battle knowing himself to be immortal. "Let's fight, let's fight" Oliver eagerly cheers while the little Gabriel in a slumbering haze, emerges from blankets wishing himself in the top bunk.
Charles, having heard the ruckus from his top bunk perch, slowly sallies forth, feeling some measure of defensiveness for Gabriel's plight, and some measure of frustration for Oliver's exuberance. The battle is on, three boys embroiled with an energy field that would challenge black holes or Bermuda triangles. In short order screeching turns to laughing, thunks commence on all 4 walls, and one would think that the half dozen offspring are all in the same room.
The parental units are tired. The night before they were able to enjoy the sounds of a massive moth, whose girth would dwarf a humming bird, going through the 12 hour death rattle, flapping against the blinds, the walls, the fan, and so on and so forth. I didn't hear the sounds until nearly 5 am. "Who is there and what do you want," I whispered in the darkness wondering what kid was producing the very bizarre noise. "It is the stupid moth the boys caught yesterday," Jon responded,"or rather didn't catch but herded into our bedroom." I had seen the moth the day before. I supposed it had gone into the sunroom which is connected to the sewing room which is connected to the master bedroom and so made its way to our room. Jon got up and headed to the bathroom, and I decided that if there was any hope for another hour of sleep, I would have to get the moth out.
I opened the door to the sewing room, turned on the light, and carefully got back to my bed hoping the moth would be attracted to the light. The moth was incapable of being attracted to anything, his remaining energy being saved for wildly careening into walls and furniture, its final hoo-ray for bidding this cruel world farewell. I must confess that it was alarming to observe something so big flailing about, and I cowered under my blankets with a "please God don't let that thing come over by me!" Yes, it is rather shameful. I had the good sense to at least laugh at myself in a valiantly mocking tone. Thankfully, God either answered my prayer or the moth had pity on me. At any rate it landed under the armoire and breathed its last with a final flutter of its broad wing span.
So back to the boys and the Saturday morning ritual. The noise level had reached that point at which the slumbering teenager decided to take action. He burst onto the battle field hissing threats with an aggression that would have floored most transgressors. But this crew was accustomed to such things and merely blinked back with unconcerned amusement, waited for Jonathan to return to his room, and resumed their battle.
Next up, mom had "had enough!" words frequently heard around our place. So I opened the door and hissed that everyone better get back in bed, NOW. Then I got back to my side, pulled the covers over and attempted to return to Zzzz land. The boys know the drill. They merely must reduce the noise level so that mom reaches a point of slumber such that she will not be motivated to re-emerge. So within short order they were back at it. Finally, the last strains of the last movement in the Requiem gave way, the notes Jonathan and I were waiting for.
The King of the Castle had had enough--words he never says but doesn't need to. Jon got out of his bed with the authoritative air that cannot be mimicked- you either have it or you don't, opened the door and bellowed forth a remonstrance that meant certain execution for rebellion to his supreme command. Silence immediately ensued save a little voice belonging to the pint size prima donna who sang a song of her own spontaneous making with complete calm and unconcern for the uproar. The General delivered another bellow and Vivian was taken from the throne of her imagination and sent back to the reality of the life of the other soldiers. Real silence enveloped the fort, Jonathan and I grinned from opposite ends of the hall in the darkness, and slumber was happily resumed.
My apologies for having relayed this tale with regular changes of verb tense. As it is a scene that has happened, is happening and will happen again, it lends itself to a confusing tapestry of tense that would make every grammar teacher shudder and bemoan any hopes of my children gaining an acceptable command of the English vernacular under my tutelage. It is my hope that this person will soon arrive and take over so I can go back to my other world and have my school room exposure happily reigned in.
Being isolated in Austin affords the opportunity to ruminate and enjoy (or otherwise, as the case may be) this aforementioned interplay as our family is always together. (The exception being Jon who is a field sales man and thus on the road much of the time).
Saturday mornings are essentially one and the same. First, it is the one morning in the week where I do not have to get up at any particular time nor do I need to do anything particular. (The joke every Saturday morning is "What time do we have to be at the abortion clinic? Where's the parade this afternoon? and so on and so forth, the scarring memories of my past life as an activist not being that far removed from the memories of my children).
Of course, the laundry must be done (I stain treat and start the loads and Jonathan Jr. takes over from there), and advance planning for whatever Sunday activities/meals are in store, but there is no agenda per say. Since the master bedroom is in the back of the house and more like a bunker than a bedroom having no windows to the outside world, there is no chance of birds singing or sun shining to beckon me forth (sniff, sniff).
However, there are 3 little boys who share the room down the hall, and they are intimately aware of when the sun rises, the lizards are again in play, and it is time for battles to be staged, pillow fights to be launched, and forts to be erected. Next down the hall the girls slumber peacefully and rarely venture forth of their own will, and at the end of the hall is Bomethius, the resident teenager, who needs vast quantities of sleep within his man cave which is littered with books and musical instruments.
Around 7am it begins. Oliver arises--an occurrence that is heralded by the sounds of someone bounding from his bed, pawing at the bathroom door knob, clunk goes the toilet lid, a sound akin to pressure washing, flushing, and then a return to the bedroom which seems to be a path riddled with potholes, large trees, angry and hostile giants, and perhaps some artillery. Oliver, having safely made it back to the bunker, surveys the peacefully slumbering combatants. Gabriel, being the most accessible in his little youth bed against the wall, is his first victim.
His approach is always the same, and will probably give Gabriel life long nightmares that would give Vietnam vets some measure of sympathy. He bounds atop Gabriel in the spirited exhilaration of a Greek god going into battle knowing himself to be immortal. "Let's fight, let's fight" Oliver eagerly cheers while the little Gabriel in a slumbering haze, emerges from blankets wishing himself in the top bunk.
Charles, having heard the ruckus from his top bunk perch, slowly sallies forth, feeling some measure of defensiveness for Gabriel's plight, and some measure of frustration for Oliver's exuberance. The battle is on, three boys embroiled with an energy field that would challenge black holes or Bermuda triangles. In short order screeching turns to laughing, thunks commence on all 4 walls, and one would think that the half dozen offspring are all in the same room.
The parental units are tired. The night before they were able to enjoy the sounds of a massive moth, whose girth would dwarf a humming bird, going through the 12 hour death rattle, flapping against the blinds, the walls, the fan, and so on and so forth. I didn't hear the sounds until nearly 5 am. "Who is there and what do you want," I whispered in the darkness wondering what kid was producing the very bizarre noise. "It is the stupid moth the boys caught yesterday," Jon responded,"or rather didn't catch but herded into our bedroom." I had seen the moth the day before. I supposed it had gone into the sunroom which is connected to the sewing room which is connected to the master bedroom and so made its way to our room. Jon got up and headed to the bathroom, and I decided that if there was any hope for another hour of sleep, I would have to get the moth out.
I opened the door to the sewing room, turned on the light, and carefully got back to my bed hoping the moth would be attracted to the light. The moth was incapable of being attracted to anything, his remaining energy being saved for wildly careening into walls and furniture, its final hoo-ray for bidding this cruel world farewell. I must confess that it was alarming to observe something so big flailing about, and I cowered under my blankets with a "please God don't let that thing come over by me!" Yes, it is rather shameful. I had the good sense to at least laugh at myself in a valiantly mocking tone. Thankfully, God either answered my prayer or the moth had pity on me. At any rate it landed under the armoire and breathed its last with a final flutter of its broad wing span.
So back to the boys and the Saturday morning ritual. The noise level had reached that point at which the slumbering teenager decided to take action. He burst onto the battle field hissing threats with an aggression that would have floored most transgressors. But this crew was accustomed to such things and merely blinked back with unconcerned amusement, waited for Jonathan to return to his room, and resumed their battle.
Next up, mom had "had enough!" words frequently heard around our place. So I opened the door and hissed that everyone better get back in bed, NOW. Then I got back to my side, pulled the covers over and attempted to return to Zzzz land. The boys know the drill. They merely must reduce the noise level so that mom reaches a point of slumber such that she will not be motivated to re-emerge. So within short order they were back at it. Finally, the last strains of the last movement in the Requiem gave way, the notes Jonathan and I were waiting for.
The King of the Castle had had enough--words he never says but doesn't need to. Jon got out of his bed with the authoritative air that cannot be mimicked- you either have it or you don't, opened the door and bellowed forth a remonstrance that meant certain execution for rebellion to his supreme command. Silence immediately ensued save a little voice belonging to the pint size prima donna who sang a song of her own spontaneous making with complete calm and unconcern for the uproar. The General delivered another bellow and Vivian was taken from the throne of her imagination and sent back to the reality of the life of the other soldiers. Real silence enveloped the fort, Jonathan and I grinned from opposite ends of the hall in the darkness, and slumber was happily resumed.
My apologies for having relayed this tale with regular changes of verb tense. As it is a scene that has happened, is happening and will happen again, it lends itself to a confusing tapestry of tense that would make every grammar teacher shudder and bemoan any hopes of my children gaining an acceptable command of the English vernacular under my tutelage. It is my hope that this person will soon arrive and take over so I can go back to my other world and have my school room exposure happily reigned in.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
School Schedule Begins Tomorrow....Really?
I'm not entirely certain where the summer went. I have a few sneaking suspicions but no conclusive data. Tomorrow we begin school schedule and next Monday we start school. I always need a week to acclimate everyone to getting out of bed at 6:30 and getting chores and instrument practice accomplished by 9. Quiet time is 1-3pm--sometimes I creep around quietly after 3 hoping no one will notice and come out of their rooms, the quietness is so nice. :-) It means going to bed early, which clearly I'm not accomplishing tonight.
This week I finish ordering a few last minute school supplies like a full size skeleton and our science curriculum. I'm returning to the once every other month cooking method after three years off. Have dusted off my old notes and menu calendars, compiled a new latest and greatest 60 day plan and have garnered non-aluminum disposable baking pans to finish off the project. We shall use my two small freezers to maximum capacity.
The new chore rotation is up and running, and Caroline has voluntarily decided she will man the dishes dutifully, with Jonathan deciding the pastures in the laundry room are decidedly greener. So as to save myself some stress, I cleared off some shelf space and moved the melamine camp dishes out of the pop-up camper and into the kitchen for use Monday thru Friday. This way I won't have broken dishes as Caroline gets the hang of things. Today at lunch Gabriel saw the camp dishes on the table and said," Oooh, they're so beautiful." And Oliver said,"Does this mean we are leaving to go camping?"
We are getting settled into our new church very nicely. God is so good. I was convinced that I'd be spending months unhappily visiting one church after another, especially after the regular diet of soul food served weekly by our dear Pastor Bright. Of course, God provided. The church we are attending is really a wonderful fit. The children love their Sunday school classes, and Jonathan and I are getting plugged into the music ministry. The church is full of homeschooling mothers and there is a once a week Classical School that meets at the church. The pastor has an excellent sense of humor and enough scars and callousness that he seems quite battle hardened for spiritual warfare--though perhaps it should be better stated battle softened as we become more tender to the piercing Spirit as we struggle through sin and challenges.
This morning's sermon seemed especially appropriate as we all get into disciplined, structured, industrious mode: Heb. 12:4-29 was the text, though we made it only to verse 14. "My son, do not regard lightly the discipline of the Lord, nor be weary when reproved by him. For the Lord disciplines the one He loves, and chastises every son whom he receives.....For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it."
To all you mommies out there taking a deep breath and getting ready to take on a new school year full of challenges, we are more than conquerors! :-) May you always sleep deeply, may your irritating children make you laugh often, and may you never run out of butter when company comes to visit.
~Jenny
This week I finish ordering a few last minute school supplies like a full size skeleton and our science curriculum. I'm returning to the once every other month cooking method after three years off. Have dusted off my old notes and menu calendars, compiled a new latest and greatest 60 day plan and have garnered non-aluminum disposable baking pans to finish off the project. We shall use my two small freezers to maximum capacity.
The new chore rotation is up and running, and Caroline has voluntarily decided she will man the dishes dutifully, with Jonathan deciding the pastures in the laundry room are decidedly greener. So as to save myself some stress, I cleared off some shelf space and moved the melamine camp dishes out of the pop-up camper and into the kitchen for use Monday thru Friday. This way I won't have broken dishes as Caroline gets the hang of things. Today at lunch Gabriel saw the camp dishes on the table and said," Oooh, they're so beautiful." And Oliver said,"Does this mean we are leaving to go camping?"
We are getting settled into our new church very nicely. God is so good. I was convinced that I'd be spending months unhappily visiting one church after another, especially after the regular diet of soul food served weekly by our dear Pastor Bright. Of course, God provided. The church we are attending is really a wonderful fit. The children love their Sunday school classes, and Jonathan and I are getting plugged into the music ministry. The church is full of homeschooling mothers and there is a once a week Classical School that meets at the church. The pastor has an excellent sense of humor and enough scars and callousness that he seems quite battle hardened for spiritual warfare--though perhaps it should be better stated battle softened as we become more tender to the piercing Spirit as we struggle through sin and challenges.
This morning's sermon seemed especially appropriate as we all get into disciplined, structured, industrious mode: Heb. 12:4-29 was the text, though we made it only to verse 14. "My son, do not regard lightly the discipline of the Lord, nor be weary when reproved by him. For the Lord disciplines the one He loves, and chastises every son whom he receives.....For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it."
To all you mommies out there taking a deep breath and getting ready to take on a new school year full of challenges, we are more than conquerors! :-) May you always sleep deeply, may your irritating children make you laugh often, and may you never run out of butter when company comes to visit.
~Jenny
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Our New Life in Austin
Where are you? What's your house like? What's been going on? When are you going to call? We need an update. Yes, well, to all these questions, I offer the following.
The trip to Austin was mostly uneventful; we left on Saturday morning and arrived in Austin on Sunday evening. Except for the time the pop-up camper began swaying so horribly that the semi-truck and me in Jon's pick-up truck slowed down considerably as we offered up desperate prayers that Jon would get control of the pop-up and thankful prayers that the suburban is a heavy vehicle, or the time I had to sleep on the bathroom floor at the hotel with Daisy so she wouldn't bark, growl or whine every time a hotel guest walked noisily down the hall, or the time we nearly left Charles somewhere....come to think of it, is Charles around here? Other than that, it went about as smoothly as a trip involving 6 kids, an 80lb red boned hound, 2 parents, grandpa, two vehicles, and a camper can go.
We arrived at our new address under the worst of circumstances. Namely because I'd been averaging 3 hours of sleep a night for quite a few nights running, the kids were very hyper having been cooped up in cars for a couple days, and Daisy was exuberantly sniffing and barking at everything. Furthermore, Jon was tense about my opinion of the house I'd never seen, and the home owners still had two cars parked in the driveway and 3 tiny yippee ankle biter dogs hollering their wee heads off in the sunroom. And so we burst upon the house and yard, party of 10.
Amongst wriggling excited humans dashing about, opening and closing doors, I surveyed the new landing pad. The house is odd and dark, with additions, hallways and extra doors here and there disrupting any sort of modern open flow that characterizes today's architecture. The kitchen is so dark that even I have to turn on lights in the middle of the day, and in a comparison of my past kitchen in terms of brightness and size....it's better not to compare. The master bedroom is a very odd sort, where the windows to the outside no longer look outside as an addition was put on--so the windows look into the small addition (now housing my sewing room) and two windows look out of the sewing room into the backyard. The master bath--hilarity will have to suffice as description since my camera battery died and I cannot download pictures until I unpack the box with the battery. I've no doubt the light fixtures and bathroom counters were the most hip in the mid-70's.
I was rather deflated and distressed. And poor Jon was worried sick muttering, " I should have never chosen the house."
Once I had a moment to catch my breath and rally my spirits, I began in earnest to mentally arrange our stuff in the current landscape since the movers and the semi-truck would arrive first thing in the morning and unpack in a whirl wind of activity that might take me weeks to sort out. Jon went to book a hotel for the night which took some doing since I was adamant that Daisy stay with us and not be left at the strange house alone--but he found a great spot after 45 minutes of phone calls--very clean, perfectly arranged, and dog friendly. Best part, it was the least expensive of all the hotels he contacted.
Daisy was a gem that night at the hotel which was good because I needed to sleep in a bed for a good many hours which I did, and we showed up back at the house to find the moving staff ready and waiting on Monday morning.
We were really blessed with the best moving staff ever. Five guys along with Patty and Dennis, unloaded the truck, and I directed everyone to the right rooms. 28,000 lbs of furnishings, books, and stuff were absorbed by the house in a mere 6 hours. It was remarkable. Then Patty and Dennis bid adieu to the local moving staff, and set to work unpacking; Grandpa, Jon and I assisting that effort.
By Tuesday morning, I had to admire Jon's ability to pick a house that was really very well suited to our "odd" life. The backyard is huge, fenced, with trees, a big shed, and a perfect spot for the trampoline which is up and running. The place is teeming with wild life, and the boys have been catching dozens of snakes, lizards, toads, huge caterpillars, and other assortments which they have to release from captivity nightly. I think all the lizards are tail-less in our yard now.
The three car garage was converted into a one car garage with a big finished off room perfectly suited to homeschooling with built in book shelves and counters, and plenty of room for instruments, books, computer, printer, school supplies, 6 desks, and all else. A little hallway goes from finished garage school room to the small hallway in the house, containing a broom closet, the washer and dryer, and an extra bathroom that everyone forgets we have until the other two are occupied. From there you enter the dinette area which of course has my huge desk, and then the "cozy" kitchen to the right. The kitchen is down right tiny with a set of double ovens from the 70's (which I like very much) that have never been used. They were shocked to be put into play on day 2 of our arrival, and have been turned on at least once a day since.
My kitchen is a tiny contained unit so it is more like a work room which no one can see anyway. Sprouts are in various stages of advance, tupperware rectangles full of sugar, cornmeal and beans are stacked up in one corner with the Berkey water filter, all my electrical appliances line the counters since there's no room in a cabinet, and so on and so forth. Unfortunately, the 4 corners of the small room are essentially unusable because of the way the cabinets were installed. But the very good news is that it has forced me to do what I needed to do a long time ago--purge the kitchen of all things not frequently used and not essential to the daily culinary life of the Hodges family.
The sunroom is housing unpacked boxes, the sewing room doubles as my radio studio and Jon's office when he's working from home, the children's rooms are big enough, and the family room is very large with a high open beamed ceiling and a big brick fireplace. Lots of loaded bookshelves complete the picture. The dining room is the loveliest room in the house with a wide shelf the length of the room under the front windows that holds oil lamps, cake stand, fruit bowl, etc. Bookshelves line two other walls, and the piano is nicely ensconced along the 4th wall. Doors close it off from the kitchen and from the entry way.
Overall I am very pleased with the final product and have congratulated Jon on a job well done. Though we are still unpacking boxes, we are getting ever closer to a routine of music practice, school and play time though we aren't quite there yet.
I've not yet seen a single child in the vast neighborhood except my own. Charles while walking Daisy the other day overheard a neighbor remark to another, "It sure is weird seeing kids around here." We seem to be the odd man out wherever we go, but everyone is fine with that.
One night I went for a jog around midnight and was startled to come upon 4 deer posed in a yard. It really isn't the sort of neighborhood you would find fake deer in the yard but I couldn't believe they were real. They were real all right and having the best time running and playing all over the place. I "ran" into them 3 more times over the next 30 minutes. Very pleasant.
The days are HOT, in the 100's. The nights are very pleasant, mid-70's, and the stars are absolutely divine. We live in south Austin, the farthest you can go and still be within the city limits, which is nice because it puts us farther from the light pollution at night. Most days the suburban sets in the driveway unused, and I'm kept very occupied feeding these people, unpacking, maintaining clean laundry and doing my daily radio show.
Jon is on the road most days, sometimes making an appearance at lunch and home most nights. He loves his job and is ecstatic that he can come "home" rather than stay in hotels as he did for June and July. I like the more leisurely pace of mornings since Jon doesn't have to be out the door as quickly and everyone can have breakfast together after the sun is up.
And that in a nutshell--I guess a rather big nutshell--sums up the Reader's Digest version of the Hodges new life.
The trip to Austin was mostly uneventful; we left on Saturday morning and arrived in Austin on Sunday evening. Except for the time the pop-up camper began swaying so horribly that the semi-truck and me in Jon's pick-up truck slowed down considerably as we offered up desperate prayers that Jon would get control of the pop-up and thankful prayers that the suburban is a heavy vehicle, or the time I had to sleep on the bathroom floor at the hotel with Daisy so she wouldn't bark, growl or whine every time a hotel guest walked noisily down the hall, or the time we nearly left Charles somewhere....come to think of it, is Charles around here? Other than that, it went about as smoothly as a trip involving 6 kids, an 80lb red boned hound, 2 parents, grandpa, two vehicles, and a camper can go.
We arrived at our new address under the worst of circumstances. Namely because I'd been averaging 3 hours of sleep a night for quite a few nights running, the kids were very hyper having been cooped up in cars for a couple days, and Daisy was exuberantly sniffing and barking at everything. Furthermore, Jon was tense about my opinion of the house I'd never seen, and the home owners still had two cars parked in the driveway and 3 tiny yippee ankle biter dogs hollering their wee heads off in the sunroom. And so we burst upon the house and yard, party of 10.
Amongst wriggling excited humans dashing about, opening and closing doors, I surveyed the new landing pad. The house is odd and dark, with additions, hallways and extra doors here and there disrupting any sort of modern open flow that characterizes today's architecture. The kitchen is so dark that even I have to turn on lights in the middle of the day, and in a comparison of my past kitchen in terms of brightness and size....it's better not to compare. The master bedroom is a very odd sort, where the windows to the outside no longer look outside as an addition was put on--so the windows look into the small addition (now housing my sewing room) and two windows look out of the sewing room into the backyard. The master bath--hilarity will have to suffice as description since my camera battery died and I cannot download pictures until I unpack the box with the battery. I've no doubt the light fixtures and bathroom counters were the most hip in the mid-70's.
I was rather deflated and distressed. And poor Jon was worried sick muttering, " I should have never chosen the house."
Once I had a moment to catch my breath and rally my spirits, I began in earnest to mentally arrange our stuff in the current landscape since the movers and the semi-truck would arrive first thing in the morning and unpack in a whirl wind of activity that might take me weeks to sort out. Jon went to book a hotel for the night which took some doing since I was adamant that Daisy stay with us and not be left at the strange house alone--but he found a great spot after 45 minutes of phone calls--very clean, perfectly arranged, and dog friendly. Best part, it was the least expensive of all the hotels he contacted.
Daisy was a gem that night at the hotel which was good because I needed to sleep in a bed for a good many hours which I did, and we showed up back at the house to find the moving staff ready and waiting on Monday morning.
We were really blessed with the best moving staff ever. Five guys along with Patty and Dennis, unloaded the truck, and I directed everyone to the right rooms. 28,000 lbs of furnishings, books, and stuff were absorbed by the house in a mere 6 hours. It was remarkable. Then Patty and Dennis bid adieu to the local moving staff, and set to work unpacking; Grandpa, Jon and I assisting that effort.
By Tuesday morning, I had to admire Jon's ability to pick a house that was really very well suited to our "odd" life. The backyard is huge, fenced, with trees, a big shed, and a perfect spot for the trampoline which is up and running. The place is teeming with wild life, and the boys have been catching dozens of snakes, lizards, toads, huge caterpillars, and other assortments which they have to release from captivity nightly. I think all the lizards are tail-less in our yard now.
The three car garage was converted into a one car garage with a big finished off room perfectly suited to homeschooling with built in book shelves and counters, and plenty of room for instruments, books, computer, printer, school supplies, 6 desks, and all else. A little hallway goes from finished garage school room to the small hallway in the house, containing a broom closet, the washer and dryer, and an extra bathroom that everyone forgets we have until the other two are occupied. From there you enter the dinette area which of course has my huge desk, and then the "cozy" kitchen to the right. The kitchen is down right tiny with a set of double ovens from the 70's (which I like very much) that have never been used. They were shocked to be put into play on day 2 of our arrival, and have been turned on at least once a day since.
My kitchen is a tiny contained unit so it is more like a work room which no one can see anyway. Sprouts are in various stages of advance, tupperware rectangles full of sugar, cornmeal and beans are stacked up in one corner with the Berkey water filter, all my electrical appliances line the counters since there's no room in a cabinet, and so on and so forth. Unfortunately, the 4 corners of the small room are essentially unusable because of the way the cabinets were installed. But the very good news is that it has forced me to do what I needed to do a long time ago--purge the kitchen of all things not frequently used and not essential to the daily culinary life of the Hodges family.
The sunroom is housing unpacked boxes, the sewing room doubles as my radio studio and Jon's office when he's working from home, the children's rooms are big enough, and the family room is very large with a high open beamed ceiling and a big brick fireplace. Lots of loaded bookshelves complete the picture. The dining room is the loveliest room in the house with a wide shelf the length of the room under the front windows that holds oil lamps, cake stand, fruit bowl, etc. Bookshelves line two other walls, and the piano is nicely ensconced along the 4th wall. Doors close it off from the kitchen and from the entry way.
Overall I am very pleased with the final product and have congratulated Jon on a job well done. Though we are still unpacking boxes, we are getting ever closer to a routine of music practice, school and play time though we aren't quite there yet.
I've not yet seen a single child in the vast neighborhood except my own. Charles while walking Daisy the other day overheard a neighbor remark to another, "It sure is weird seeing kids around here." We seem to be the odd man out wherever we go, but everyone is fine with that.
One night I went for a jog around midnight and was startled to come upon 4 deer posed in a yard. It really isn't the sort of neighborhood you would find fake deer in the yard but I couldn't believe they were real. They were real all right and having the best time running and playing all over the place. I "ran" into them 3 more times over the next 30 minutes. Very pleasant.
The days are HOT, in the 100's. The nights are very pleasant, mid-70's, and the stars are absolutely divine. We live in south Austin, the farthest you can go and still be within the city limits, which is nice because it puts us farther from the light pollution at night. Most days the suburban sets in the driveway unused, and I'm kept very occupied feeding these people, unpacking, maintaining clean laundry and doing my daily radio show.
Jon is on the road most days, sometimes making an appearance at lunch and home most nights. He loves his job and is ecstatic that he can come "home" rather than stay in hotels as he did for June and July. I like the more leisurely pace of mornings since Jon doesn't have to be out the door as quickly and everyone can have breakfast together after the sun is up.
And that in a nutshell--I guess a rather big nutshell--sums up the Reader's Digest version of the Hodges new life.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Now That I've Seen The Job, I Know I'm Not Qualified
"Mom, when are we going to get there? Mama, may I have a vitamin? Mom, I thought you said I could shave my legs? Mommy, I don't think you fed us lunch. Did you feed us lunch?"
All questions must be submitted in writing. That's my number one rule, followed by, if you decide to acquiesce to this request, make sure it's in German. I can't really read German, but I wouldn't read it if it were in English, so that isn't really the point.
Who are these people and why do they sit at the dining room table three times a day waiting for yet another meal. More importantly, am I ruining their lives? I try to limit asking myself this question to once an hour.
I distinctly remember the first time Jonathan told me his stomach hurt as if I knew what to do about it. I momentarily panicked. Gee, I'm the mom. My mom seemed so knowledgeable when I told her my stomach hurt. But come to think of it, none of her remedies ever worked. So maybe she was pretending... All of this flashed through my mind as I gazed steadily into Jonathan little upturned concerned face. He clearly thought I knew the answer. I remembered....
I remembered being 4 years old and climbing out of mom's blue mustang at the mall. I needed tennis shoes, and I got some that day at Macy's. The shoes had an appliqued Miss Piggy on each shoe. I really thought this was terrific because I could do the most amazing rendition of Miss Piggy karate chopping Kermit the Frog. I was good. At least my entire Kinder Care class thought I was good.
As I pushed the front seat forward in the Mustang and stepped past the seatbelt out the door, my elbow banged on the latch and it hurt. I yelped a bit. Mom said," I'll fix it for you," and then she kissed my elbow.
I thoroughly expected that the pain would be completely gone upon impact between elbow and lips, but to my complete astonishment, nothing happened. I was shocked and speechless. And then I felt very protective of my mother. She could never know that her kisses were broken. So I pretended that it was perfect and instantaneous healing powers she had, stuck my chin in the air, announced "all better" and took her offered hand though my elbow still throbbed. My mom was so convinced of my act that just two days ago when my daughter Vivian hurt her leg, Nana announced that her kisses had the power to heal instantly. It had always worked for Vivian's mama (me). I decided not to tell mom the real version. It was 30 years ago. Why break the magic now?
So back to Jonathan and his stomach. I realized that I needed Bentanite and I was totally unprepared for this moment. In his 3 year old world, he needed to know that his mother knew exactly what remedy a hurting tummy needed, and I gave it my best shot, and wondered if he pretended it worked so that he could protect me from my failures.
Worn down by years of being a self-admitted failure at this journey called motherhood, a 9 year old Charles announced his stomach hurt, and he bent over in half by the sheer pain of it, and looked at me with the look. The look that says, "you know what to do, now share your knowledge."
I shrugged in defeat. "Charles, I have no idea what your problem is. But I can offer suggestions. Sit on the toilet. Have some Bentonite, lay on the sofa doubled over in half until the pain goes away. I have bad news. When you become a mother, no one hands you blue prints. You just sort of muddle through the thing as best you can, and pray to God that He gives your children the strength to endure you."
Charles accepted this answer with amazing maturity. In fact, I think he appreciated my bluntness. And then it occurred to me. He's probably been protecting me from my ineptitude for years as well, and now it's a relief to know he doesn't have to.
All questions must be submitted in writing. That's my number one rule, followed by, if you decide to acquiesce to this request, make sure it's in German. I can't really read German, but I wouldn't read it if it were in English, so that isn't really the point.
Who are these people and why do they sit at the dining room table three times a day waiting for yet another meal. More importantly, am I ruining their lives? I try to limit asking myself this question to once an hour.
I distinctly remember the first time Jonathan told me his stomach hurt as if I knew what to do about it. I momentarily panicked. Gee, I'm the mom. My mom seemed so knowledgeable when I told her my stomach hurt. But come to think of it, none of her remedies ever worked. So maybe she was pretending... All of this flashed through my mind as I gazed steadily into Jonathan little upturned concerned face. He clearly thought I knew the answer. I remembered....
I remembered being 4 years old and climbing out of mom's blue mustang at the mall. I needed tennis shoes, and I got some that day at Macy's. The shoes had an appliqued Miss Piggy on each shoe. I really thought this was terrific because I could do the most amazing rendition of Miss Piggy karate chopping Kermit the Frog. I was good. At least my entire Kinder Care class thought I was good.
As I pushed the front seat forward in the Mustang and stepped past the seatbelt out the door, my elbow banged on the latch and it hurt. I yelped a bit. Mom said," I'll fix it for you," and then she kissed my elbow.
I thoroughly expected that the pain would be completely gone upon impact between elbow and lips, but to my complete astonishment, nothing happened. I was shocked and speechless. And then I felt very protective of my mother. She could never know that her kisses were broken. So I pretended that it was perfect and instantaneous healing powers she had, stuck my chin in the air, announced "all better" and took her offered hand though my elbow still throbbed. My mom was so convinced of my act that just two days ago when my daughter Vivian hurt her leg, Nana announced that her kisses had the power to heal instantly. It had always worked for Vivian's mama (me). I decided not to tell mom the real version. It was 30 years ago. Why break the magic now?
So back to Jonathan and his stomach. I realized that I needed Bentanite and I was totally unprepared for this moment. In his 3 year old world, he needed to know that his mother knew exactly what remedy a hurting tummy needed, and I gave it my best shot, and wondered if he pretended it worked so that he could protect me from my failures.
Worn down by years of being a self-admitted failure at this journey called motherhood, a 9 year old Charles announced his stomach hurt, and he bent over in half by the sheer pain of it, and looked at me with the look. The look that says, "you know what to do, now share your knowledge."
I shrugged in defeat. "Charles, I have no idea what your problem is. But I can offer suggestions. Sit on the toilet. Have some Bentonite, lay on the sofa doubled over in half until the pain goes away. I have bad news. When you become a mother, no one hands you blue prints. You just sort of muddle through the thing as best you can, and pray to God that He gives your children the strength to endure you."
Charles accepted this answer with amazing maturity. In fact, I think he appreciated my bluntness. And then it occurred to me. He's probably been protecting me from my ineptitude for years as well, and now it's a relief to know he doesn't have to.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
You guess the kid....
"Breakfast is ready," his mother called and the troop came into the dining room with the usual accompaniment of knocked chairs, half hearted arguments, clattered noises thrown together softly enough that mom stayed out of it.
It wasn't much, buttered cinnamon toast on a square of waxed paper and a glass of orange juice. He strolled into the kitchen in underwear. "Good grief, where are your clothes? Go put on your clothes," mom rolled her eyes. He ignored her and sat at the table munching his toast and looking around actively for any opportunity to stir up trouble. She didn't really notice being busy with her coffee and book.
Then she remembered, when breakfast was done and the dining room empty, littered with meal debris. "Go get dressed and then get the math flash cards out of my car door and bring them to me." He trotted upstairs enthusiastically, tripping on the third step, swinging round the half landing on the banister, and hopping up the remaining steps two at a time. A few squeals accompanied his progressive trot across the hall from siblings passed along the way and antagonized in the expected hasty, habitual manner. They practically squealed in anticipation of what would come with his approach.
A short time later he was out the door to retrieve the flash cards. He burst back into the house, tripped and fell scattering flash cards all over. His mother rolled her eyes and went back to her book. He collected himself and his cards. She accepted the cards silently and looked him over. His collar was tucked under the shirt, the buttons crookedly joined, his eyes were bright and his grin was broad.
"How do you manage to put your shirt on like this everyday?" She asked while fixing it, and then started on the flash cards. He enthusiastically fired out the answers only occasionally pausing to search for the right answer. At the end he spontaneously threw his arms around his mother nearly upsetting the coffee cup. " I love you!" he said exuberantly and planted a damp kiss on her cheek.
And you wonder why he's her favorite.
It wasn't much, buttered cinnamon toast on a square of waxed paper and a glass of orange juice. He strolled into the kitchen in underwear. "Good grief, where are your clothes? Go put on your clothes," mom rolled her eyes. He ignored her and sat at the table munching his toast and looking around actively for any opportunity to stir up trouble. She didn't really notice being busy with her coffee and book.
Then she remembered, when breakfast was done and the dining room empty, littered with meal debris. "Go get dressed and then get the math flash cards out of my car door and bring them to me." He trotted upstairs enthusiastically, tripping on the third step, swinging round the half landing on the banister, and hopping up the remaining steps two at a time. A few squeals accompanied his progressive trot across the hall from siblings passed along the way and antagonized in the expected hasty, habitual manner. They practically squealed in anticipation of what would come with his approach.
A short time later he was out the door to retrieve the flash cards. He burst back into the house, tripped and fell scattering flash cards all over. His mother rolled her eyes and went back to her book. He collected himself and his cards. She accepted the cards silently and looked him over. His collar was tucked under the shirt, the buttons crookedly joined, his eyes were bright and his grin was broad.
"How do you manage to put your shirt on like this everyday?" She asked while fixing it, and then started on the flash cards. He enthusiastically fired out the answers only occasionally pausing to search for the right answer. At the end he spontaneously threw his arms around his mother nearly upsetting the coffee cup. " I love you!" he said exuberantly and planted a damp kiss on her cheek.
And you wonder why he's her favorite.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Mom, have you lost your mind?
This afternoon right after my radio show I was devouring a luscious huge piece of cake loaded with chunks of fresh fruit, iced with whipped cream with lots of sliced almonds happily patted into the side. Caroline stood in the middle of the kitchen and watched me in total disbelief.
"Mom, have you lost your mind? Your going to get fat!" She said, continuing with the dropped jaw look of amazement.
"I know. But ya' know, every now and then, it is totally worth it," and I continued shoveling the cake into my mouth with total caloric abandon, happily and loudly ogling over the yumminess.
"Huh," Caroline shrugged," I guess this means you're totally stressed out...or....I dunno what else it could be."
At this, I had to laugh, hard. Us girls really get it, don't we? ;-)
"Mom, have you lost your mind? Your going to get fat!" She said, continuing with the dropped jaw look of amazement.
"I know. But ya' know, every now and then, it is totally worth it," and I continued shoveling the cake into my mouth with total caloric abandon, happily and loudly ogling over the yumminess.
"Huh," Caroline shrugged," I guess this means you're totally stressed out...or....I dunno what else it could be."
At this, I had to laugh, hard. Us girls really get it, don't we? ;-)
Friday, May 14, 2010
Oliver, need I say more?
Oliver is a pain, to put it frankly. When I'm really old, senile, wearing depends and have well outlived my welcome amongst the land of the living much less amongst my half dozen offspring, I'm going to move in with Oliver and then hang on for dear life like a Duracell battery. I'll drool on my clothes, spill chocolate milk, leave my teeth soaking in his water glass in the bathroom, and just be about as annoying as can possibly be stood to make up for every waking minute of every day of his existence since he learned to walk. Yup. There's no curse along the lines of," When you grow up, I hope you have 6 children just like you," oh, no, not me. My curse goes like this," I hope that when I'm old and annoying, I get to live with you for at least a decade to make up for the eternity with you that right now seems to be."
As you can well imagine, Oliver is the odd man out. In a family of nerds, he is the athletic, bursting with energy, no, I do not want to go to Fernbank for my birthday, yes, I do think Chuck E. Cheese is the greatest place ever, sort of kid. And his calling, or at least what he feels his calling to be, is to annoy the heck out of everyone around him in every possible way all day every day.
Occasionally, when I have had enough of this 7 year old blessing, I send him to his room and inform him that he is not to come out until specifically called. This is how the scene plays out.
Gabriel and Vivian will be playing nicely. Oliver joins in and irritates them to the extent that a fight breaks out immediately. After the umphteenth time I say,"Oliver, go to your room." Oliver trots happily to his room and stands at the door patiently waiting. (The patience he has waiting to antagonize someone or catch a lizard is impressive). Eventually, Gabriel and Vivian will walk down the hall in route to the girls' room which is toy laden. As they walk by, Oliver will say," I get to stay in my room all by myself and play with all my toys all by myself, and you guys don't even get to come in."
Immediately, Vivian demands to be allowed the joy of being in Oliver's room (which he shares with Charles). Oliver continues," Gabriel is a baby so he can't come in. Babies stay in Jonathan's room." Gabriel immediately demands entry and insists with a very whiney, baby voice that he is not a baby, he is a big boy. Within minutes Vivian and Gabriel are crying and angry with jealousy that Oliver gets to be in his room alone. The massive grin across Oliver's face says it all.
It is at this point that the brain dead mother mentioned at the beginning of this sad epistle remembers to add the final part of the command," Oliver, go to your room, SHUT THE DOOR, and stay there until I call you." Of course, he then stands patiently at the window in the hopes that a sibling will walk past outside, at which time he immediately opens the window and brags that he gets to be in his room, all alone, hogging all the toys.
Oliver is my one child whom I know will make it in life. The question is, will the rest of the world make it.
As you can well imagine, Oliver is the odd man out. In a family of nerds, he is the athletic, bursting with energy, no, I do not want to go to Fernbank for my birthday, yes, I do think Chuck E. Cheese is the greatest place ever, sort of kid. And his calling, or at least what he feels his calling to be, is to annoy the heck out of everyone around him in every possible way all day every day.
Occasionally, when I have had enough of this 7 year old blessing, I send him to his room and inform him that he is not to come out until specifically called. This is how the scene plays out.
Gabriel and Vivian will be playing nicely. Oliver joins in and irritates them to the extent that a fight breaks out immediately. After the umphteenth time I say,"Oliver, go to your room." Oliver trots happily to his room and stands at the door patiently waiting. (The patience he has waiting to antagonize someone or catch a lizard is impressive). Eventually, Gabriel and Vivian will walk down the hall in route to the girls' room which is toy laden. As they walk by, Oliver will say," I get to stay in my room all by myself and play with all my toys all by myself, and you guys don't even get to come in."
Immediately, Vivian demands to be allowed the joy of being in Oliver's room (which he shares with Charles). Oliver continues," Gabriel is a baby so he can't come in. Babies stay in Jonathan's room." Gabriel immediately demands entry and insists with a very whiney, baby voice that he is not a baby, he is a big boy. Within minutes Vivian and Gabriel are crying and angry with jealousy that Oliver gets to be in his room alone. The massive grin across Oliver's face says it all.
It is at this point that the brain dead mother mentioned at the beginning of this sad epistle remembers to add the final part of the command," Oliver, go to your room, SHUT THE DOOR, and stay there until I call you." Of course, he then stands patiently at the window in the hopes that a sibling will walk past outside, at which time he immediately opens the window and brags that he gets to be in his room, all alone, hogging all the toys.
Oliver is my one child whom I know will make it in life. The question is, will the rest of the world make it.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Bitterness of Disappointment
Last night after the offspring were in the mode that I appreciate them best and all their really great aspects come out in the fullest glory- namely, when they are sleeping- I was making the rounds inspecting rooms, were towels properly hung, chores properly executed, etc. As I progressed through the house, my frustration mounted. In fact, my frustration mounted to the extent that I was almost ready to rip the sleeping perpetuators from their beds and have them re-do the assignments. But upon further reflection, after a highly frustrating day, I decided that this was not in the best interests of any of us. So I left them to their sweet slumber.
This morning I was moving around the kitchen rapidly bringing breakfast together, grinding coffee beans, filling the water filter, pouring orange juice, and reflecting. Pancakes was on the menu. The children were in joyful anticipation of pancakes. I had a small saucepan full of simmering water on a burner awaiting the right moment for a few eggs to be lowered in for exactly 4 minutes 35 seconds (they are at their perfect peak of soft boiled-ness)--these for Jon when I thought of something. I could save myself a heap of trouble and offer a valuable lesson if I just filled the saucepan and made everyone soft boiled eggs for breakfast.
I filled the pot, set the timer, hastily gathered egg cups and set them around the dining room table, and loaded the toaster oven with english muffins. Gabriel and Oliver emerged first and I turned to find them right behind me breathing in the air a bit worried and wondering why the cast iron griddles were not perched atop the stove.
"Mom, I thought we were having pancakes?" Oliver said his concern mounting.
"Yes, we were going to have pancakes. But I changed the menu and now you are having soft boiled eggs and toast."
Crestfallen does not do justice to the sorrowful feelings that welled up in Oliver. He reflected on this somberly and Gabriel immediately went into the thumb sucking fetal position, which I routed him out of and forcefully pushed him in the emotional direction of something a bit more manly for a nearly 6 year old boy.
Oliver looked at me feeling betrayed. "Mom, why no pancakes?" Ah, yes, this was the little instructional moment I was waiting for.
"That feels pretty bad doesn't it, when someone tells you they are going to do something and they don't, or they claim to have done something and they haven't? Makes you kinda mad, doesn't it?" I asked.
Oliver nodded waiting for the explanation. "Yesterday all of you children told me and lead me to believe that you had done your chores, properly gathered your music books for lessons, properly checked off your practice charts, hung towels, cleaned rooms, and all else, and what did I continue to discover all day long and into the night?" There was a long pregnant pause, but Oliver finally mumbled out the words with the look on his face that said - BUSTED- "We didn't do any of it."
I looked at him gravely and said," Then feel the disappointment of this moment and today when mom asks if you've completed your chores and properly practiced remember that when you claim something that isn't true, I'm very disappointed and frustrated just as you are in this moment."
Oliver sorrowfully left the kitchen considering that.
Within 15 minutes everyone was gathered around the table. The news had spread, and the crestfallen half dozen surveyed brown soft boiled eggs perched on white porcelain egg cups and a small plate stacked high with toast. I rather enjoyed the moment but not for long, because within a short period of time everyone was happily finishing off their eggs, asking for seconds and saying," This is really great, mom."
Jon got up from the table to head to work and paused to whisper, "Might I suggest, my love, that you make cornmeal mush for breakfast next time you wish to disappoint the children."
Yeah, so much for my little lesson. :-)
This morning I was moving around the kitchen rapidly bringing breakfast together, grinding coffee beans, filling the water filter, pouring orange juice, and reflecting. Pancakes was on the menu. The children were in joyful anticipation of pancakes. I had a small saucepan full of simmering water on a burner awaiting the right moment for a few eggs to be lowered in for exactly 4 minutes 35 seconds (they are at their perfect peak of soft boiled-ness)--these for Jon when I thought of something. I could save myself a heap of trouble and offer a valuable lesson if I just filled the saucepan and made everyone soft boiled eggs for breakfast.
I filled the pot, set the timer, hastily gathered egg cups and set them around the dining room table, and loaded the toaster oven with english muffins. Gabriel and Oliver emerged first and I turned to find them right behind me breathing in the air a bit worried and wondering why the cast iron griddles were not perched atop the stove.
"Mom, I thought we were having pancakes?" Oliver said his concern mounting.
"Yes, we were going to have pancakes. But I changed the menu and now you are having soft boiled eggs and toast."
Crestfallen does not do justice to the sorrowful feelings that welled up in Oliver. He reflected on this somberly and Gabriel immediately went into the thumb sucking fetal position, which I routed him out of and forcefully pushed him in the emotional direction of something a bit more manly for a nearly 6 year old boy.
Oliver looked at me feeling betrayed. "Mom, why no pancakes?" Ah, yes, this was the little instructional moment I was waiting for.
"That feels pretty bad doesn't it, when someone tells you they are going to do something and they don't, or they claim to have done something and they haven't? Makes you kinda mad, doesn't it?" I asked.
Oliver nodded waiting for the explanation. "Yesterday all of you children told me and lead me to believe that you had done your chores, properly gathered your music books for lessons, properly checked off your practice charts, hung towels, cleaned rooms, and all else, and what did I continue to discover all day long and into the night?" There was a long pregnant pause, but Oliver finally mumbled out the words with the look on his face that said - BUSTED- "We didn't do any of it."
I looked at him gravely and said," Then feel the disappointment of this moment and today when mom asks if you've completed your chores and properly practiced remember that when you claim something that isn't true, I'm very disappointed and frustrated just as you are in this moment."
Oliver sorrowfully left the kitchen considering that.
Within 15 minutes everyone was gathered around the table. The news had spread, and the crestfallen half dozen surveyed brown soft boiled eggs perched on white porcelain egg cups and a small plate stacked high with toast. I rather enjoyed the moment but not for long, because within a short period of time everyone was happily finishing off their eggs, asking for seconds and saying," This is really great, mom."
Jon got up from the table to head to work and paused to whisper, "Might I suggest, my love, that you make cornmeal mush for breakfast next time you wish to disappoint the children."
Yeah, so much for my little lesson. :-)
Sunday, May 2, 2010
5 more corks....
We finally had a dinner party Saturday night, as in May 1st. I say finally because back before we became freedom crazed activists, we had dinner parties with great regularity. Jon helped set the table and I put the camera on a side table in the dining room to get some photos (where unfortunately it stayed; not a single picture garnered...rats), and then a menu was contrived with some home made items and some Trader Joes' ready to go items. It is unusual for me not to bite off a good deal more than I can chew, but every now and then I decide to get crazy and be realistic.
The menu: Appetizer: scallops on the half shell with a pesto garlic sauce (absolutely divine- you get them in the freezer section at TJ's for $2.99 a dozen), 3 layer hummus, smoked salmon (with all the proper accoutrements: dill, cream cheese, lemon wedges, minced red onion, capers....mmm, I love capers) and an array of flatbreads. 1st course, lobster bisque. I do make a scallop bisque that is very labor intensive since the stock is made from simmering fish heads and other things for hours prior to bringing together the final product, but I just accepted that this wasn't going to happen. This lobster bisque comes ready made from Costco's deli section. TJ's was out. I did get it and it may be worth using again. But I would recommend a splash of sherry, adding chunks of freshly steamed lobster, and garnishing with minced chives. Also, serving up Tobasco alongside the soup does have its merits. 2nd course, beef bourguignon with a demi-glace style reduction sauce, asparagus, pan roasted cherry tomatoes with parsley, and these adorable fingerling potatoes I roasted with olive oil, kosher salt and fresh minced rosemary, and then sourdough french bread with extra virgin olive oil and fresh cracked pepper. A word about the beef bourguigon- the recipe is from Julia Child's first cookbook and has a complicated browning method. It is TOTALLY worth it. The final sauce is really...words quite fail me here, but thinking about it, smelling the amazing aroma and the deep dark fragrant look of the sauce...trust me on this. Follow the directions.
There's still 2 more courses to go though perhaps you are beginning to wonder where anyone could possibly pack more food. I didn't consider the portions to be Golden Corral sized, and I had no problem eating everything and then snacking until 2 am on the leftovers there after. :-) Three people decided to forgo the salad course which came next.
I made a salad with smoked trout, bibb lettuce, finely grated pecorino cheese, red onion that had marinated in a balsamic vinaigrette, and just toasted broken pecans...yummy, yummy, yummy. I'm so glad there are leftovers for today--though you never bring the salad together until right before serving, and chilled salad plates are a nice touch.
Final course, I was thinking I would make the chocolate mousse recipe in the Silver Palate Cookbook. It is an excellent mousse, and an old standby in my kitchen repertoire. However, desiring to read the aforementioned Plato (in the preceding blog post) on Friday night instead of producing chocolate mousse, I resigned myself to purchasing a ready made chocolate ganache cake from TJ's- meaning Trader Joe's, but I'd imagine that to be obvious. You can get the cake in the freezer section. It is FABULOUS! I'm a big TJ's fan, by the way, because they are committed to no-GMO's in their products, and it's the only store from which I buy processed or prepared foods without worry, besides the fact that as long as you stay away from the cheese, meat and wine section, everything is very reasonably priced. Unfortunately, I never stay away from the cheese, meat or wine section (2 buck chuck is quite good, and we just discovered Green Fin, a $3.99 white table wine which was excellent with the bisque so there are inexpensive wines).
So what's with the 5 corks title? I'm saving all my wine corks so I can put together a cork wreath--a slightly cheesy do it yourself kitchen decor item which I have some bizarre need to produce. So I added 5 more corks to my collection last night.
Yes, I have a headache. Why do you ask?
The menu: Appetizer: scallops on the half shell with a pesto garlic sauce (absolutely divine- you get them in the freezer section at TJ's for $2.99 a dozen), 3 layer hummus, smoked salmon (with all the proper accoutrements: dill, cream cheese, lemon wedges, minced red onion, capers....mmm, I love capers) and an array of flatbreads. 1st course, lobster bisque. I do make a scallop bisque that is very labor intensive since the stock is made from simmering fish heads and other things for hours prior to bringing together the final product, but I just accepted that this wasn't going to happen. This lobster bisque comes ready made from Costco's deli section. TJ's was out. I did get it and it may be worth using again. But I would recommend a splash of sherry, adding chunks of freshly steamed lobster, and garnishing with minced chives. Also, serving up Tobasco alongside the soup does have its merits. 2nd course, beef bourguignon with a demi-glace style reduction sauce, asparagus, pan roasted cherry tomatoes with parsley, and these adorable fingerling potatoes I roasted with olive oil, kosher salt and fresh minced rosemary, and then sourdough french bread with extra virgin olive oil and fresh cracked pepper. A word about the beef bourguigon- the recipe is from Julia Child's first cookbook and has a complicated browning method. It is TOTALLY worth it. The final sauce is really...words quite fail me here, but thinking about it, smelling the amazing aroma and the deep dark fragrant look of the sauce...trust me on this. Follow the directions.
There's still 2 more courses to go though perhaps you are beginning to wonder where anyone could possibly pack more food. I didn't consider the portions to be Golden Corral sized, and I had no problem eating everything and then snacking until 2 am on the leftovers there after. :-) Three people decided to forgo the salad course which came next.
I made a salad with smoked trout, bibb lettuce, finely grated pecorino cheese, red onion that had marinated in a balsamic vinaigrette, and just toasted broken pecans...yummy, yummy, yummy. I'm so glad there are leftovers for today--though you never bring the salad together until right before serving, and chilled salad plates are a nice touch.
Final course, I was thinking I would make the chocolate mousse recipe in the Silver Palate Cookbook. It is an excellent mousse, and an old standby in my kitchen repertoire. However, desiring to read the aforementioned Plato (in the preceding blog post) on Friday night instead of producing chocolate mousse, I resigned myself to purchasing a ready made chocolate ganache cake from TJ's- meaning Trader Joe's, but I'd imagine that to be obvious. You can get the cake in the freezer section. It is FABULOUS! I'm a big TJ's fan, by the way, because they are committed to no-GMO's in their products, and it's the only store from which I buy processed or prepared foods without worry, besides the fact that as long as you stay away from the cheese, meat and wine section, everything is very reasonably priced. Unfortunately, I never stay away from the cheese, meat or wine section (2 buck chuck is quite good, and we just discovered Green Fin, a $3.99 white table wine which was excellent with the bisque so there are inexpensive wines).
So what's with the 5 corks title? I'm saving all my wine corks so I can put together a cork wreath--a slightly cheesy do it yourself kitchen decor item which I have some bizarre need to produce. So I added 5 more corks to my collection last night.
Yes, I have a headache. Why do you ask?
Video Crazed Sons........
We have a firm rule in our house--well, it's "mom's" rule actually, though Jon thinks it's a good idea. Namely, absolutely no movies, television or video games except on Saturday. The exception to the rule is when someone is genuinely ill. Then that person may watch videos and if that person is Vivian, Gabriel can watch, too, since Vivian is his daily playmate. But on with the story.
Last weekend I was up very early Saturday morning with Vivian and walked past the music room in route to the kitchen. I was astonished to see 4 kids sitting indian style around the glowing box in rapt attention--it was 5am! Later in the day, we discovered that everyone had gotten up at 4 in order to hit the video games. Good grief.
This past Friday evening we had a chat with the offspring and decided that the time you get up Saturday morning to play video games is the same time you go to bed Saturday night. This was of some concern to Oliver and Charles. I offered them a modicum of moderation, that it was more a general guideline than a hard fast rule.
Later that night long after the kidlets were in bed, Jon and I were going upstairs to our room when Oliver came down the hall frantically. "I can't see my clock," he said panicked," I don't know what time it is, I need a clock." I was startled by this bizarre request probably because my brain was absorbed by another topic, namely Socrates' trial and Plato's account of the event, but Jon realized immediately what his problem was. "Oliver, it is not even midnight. Go to bed and get up when the sun comes up. You don't need to play video games until the sun is up." Oliver, who wasn't even entirely awake, was able to produce a look of defeat, and Jon escorted him back to his bed- the bottom bunk in his and Charles' bedroom.
Last weekend I was up very early Saturday morning with Vivian and walked past the music room in route to the kitchen. I was astonished to see 4 kids sitting indian style around the glowing box in rapt attention--it was 5am! Later in the day, we discovered that everyone had gotten up at 4 in order to hit the video games. Good grief.
This past Friday evening we had a chat with the offspring and decided that the time you get up Saturday morning to play video games is the same time you go to bed Saturday night. This was of some concern to Oliver and Charles. I offered them a modicum of moderation, that it was more a general guideline than a hard fast rule.
Later that night long after the kidlets were in bed, Jon and I were going upstairs to our room when Oliver came down the hall frantically. "I can't see my clock," he said panicked," I don't know what time it is, I need a clock." I was startled by this bizarre request probably because my brain was absorbed by another topic, namely Socrates' trial and Plato's account of the event, but Jon realized immediately what his problem was. "Oliver, it is not even midnight. Go to bed and get up when the sun comes up. You don't need to play video games until the sun is up." Oliver, who wasn't even entirely awake, was able to produce a look of defeat, and Jon escorted him back to his bed- the bottom bunk in his and Charles' bedroom.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
You know you're worried when.....
This morning I took my caboose to the doctor. The circumstances surrounding this visit are a few levels below desirable. To be perfectly honest the only way I can explain the general fog in which my mind is consumed or diluted is to admit that I'm consumed with worry but am still in the denial stages of simply telling myself and others that God is in control and everything is going to be fine separating from the anxiety without really dealing with it.
Some hours later today I picked up the two middle boys, Charles and Oliver, from school and then went to Costco to pick up a prescription for the aforementioned caboose and to get some passport photos.
I walked into Costco and made a beeline for the pharmacy only to discover that if there is only a single attendant in the pharmacy, that person takes a lunch break for a period of 30 minutes sometime between the hours of 11:30 and 2:30 shutting down the entire department. This was irritating since I wanted to hurry. But I decided that surely getting the passport photos would kill some time and we could wander a bit in the book section.
I went to the photo counter, stated my need, and then was directed as to where to position myself, to look ahead without smiling and the helpful attendant snapped the photo and declared it good enough. She then questioned me as to whether I desired more than 2 photos. I responded that I wanted as many as are necessary in procuring one's passport and she confirmed that 2 was the correct number. She then walked back around the counter so as to be situated behind the counter near the register, and she anticipated that I, too, would walk around the counter on the outside by the register. I turned, took the hands of both boys and simply walked away having forgotten entirely that I did anything having to do with photography or passports. The only thing in my mind was needing to get to the pharmacy department, hoping the attendant had returned, and wondering if the caboose was still asleep in "her" chair with the sitter, or was she awake, crying and wanting me. In fact, it never entered my mind again until another store and 30 minutes later when Jon called on my cell and asked if I had gotten my photos. It took a minute for the brain webs to clear from my cob but as the haze came into focus I realized that I had come very close to accomplishing this feat and would now have to go back to the counter and try again. But I needed to get back home so it would have to wait until tomorrow.
I believe that when I go back to the photography counter and attempt to explain my act of lunacy the word that will best describe me will be.....sheepish.
Some hours later today I picked up the two middle boys, Charles and Oliver, from school and then went to Costco to pick up a prescription for the aforementioned caboose and to get some passport photos.
I walked into Costco and made a beeline for the pharmacy only to discover that if there is only a single attendant in the pharmacy, that person takes a lunch break for a period of 30 minutes sometime between the hours of 11:30 and 2:30 shutting down the entire department. This was irritating since I wanted to hurry. But I decided that surely getting the passport photos would kill some time and we could wander a bit in the book section.
I went to the photo counter, stated my need, and then was directed as to where to position myself, to look ahead without smiling and the helpful attendant snapped the photo and declared it good enough. She then questioned me as to whether I desired more than 2 photos. I responded that I wanted as many as are necessary in procuring one's passport and she confirmed that 2 was the correct number. She then walked back around the counter so as to be situated behind the counter near the register, and she anticipated that I, too, would walk around the counter on the outside by the register. I turned, took the hands of both boys and simply walked away having forgotten entirely that I did anything having to do with photography or passports. The only thing in my mind was needing to get to the pharmacy department, hoping the attendant had returned, and wondering if the caboose was still asleep in "her" chair with the sitter, or was she awake, crying and wanting me. In fact, it never entered my mind again until another store and 30 minutes later when Jon called on my cell and asked if I had gotten my photos. It took a minute for the brain webs to clear from my cob but as the haze came into focus I realized that I had come very close to accomplishing this feat and would now have to go back to the counter and try again. But I needed to get back home so it would have to wait until tomorrow.
I believe that when I go back to the photography counter and attempt to explain my act of lunacy the word that will best describe me will be.....sheepish.
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