The other day I took a large empty box (courtesy of IKEA) and made it into a boat for Morgan. It was easy. I put it on the floor and drew waves around it. Then I drew a compass inside and a steering wheel. She was thrilled. (That's right, Mastercard, there ARE some things in life money can't buy... creativity!) I asked her to name her new vehicle: "What do you want to name your boat, Morgan?" She replied: " Boatie!" So the "S.S. Boatie" made her maiden voyage on our living room rug. It was thrilling.
This is not the first thing Morgan has named. In fact, her naming conventions are rather predictable. She adds an "ie" suffix to the name of the item and WHALLA! It has been named. If Morgan were present in the garden of Eden, you would hear words like: Earthie, Adamie, Snakie, Lionie... You get my driftt.
It should have come as no surprise then last night when we she named her play restaurant... you guessed it... "Restaurantie". Sometimes for special treats, Dan and I will have dinner in her room on her little table, like a restaurant. Since Dan is out of town and I was desperate for filling that Daddy shaped void in her little heart, I thought restaurant night should take place. It was a lot of fun. She thought it was GREAT and even ate her veggies a little better than normal. All thanks to "Restaurantie".
I don't know what other creatures or toys may make their way into our home one day, but I know they'll be well loved by my little "Sweetie".
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
Lady in Red
I should consider myself fortunate that today was the first day in Morgan's little life that she colored on a wall. Statistically it should have been earlier.
I didn't even notice it. She had to point it out to me. "Look, Mommy! I did this," pointing to a little red circle on the wall. And then she added, "I did THIS, too." She colored with her red crayon on the carpet as well as the stairwell wall.
I asked her why she did it and she said, "Because I wanted to make Mommy sad." I told her how disappointed I was. She said she was sorry. I should rephrase. With her MOUTH she said "I'm sorry" but with her face she said, "I'd do it again in a heartbeat."
After a time out, she and I had a little talk. It was peppered with random animal stories from her but I steered her back on track and got her to realize it was wrong to color on anything but paper. Our crayon mantra is "ONLY ON PAPER! ONLY ON PAPER!"
*sigh* It's going to be a real hoot putting this house on the market with Little Monet here.
I didn't even notice it. She had to point it out to me. "Look, Mommy! I did this," pointing to a little red circle on the wall. And then she added, "I did THIS, too." She colored with her red crayon on the carpet as well as the stairwell wall.
I asked her why she did it and she said, "Because I wanted to make Mommy sad." I told her how disappointed I was. She said she was sorry. I should rephrase. With her MOUTH she said "I'm sorry" but with her face she said, "I'd do it again in a heartbeat."
After a time out, she and I had a little talk. It was peppered with random animal stories from her but I steered her back on track and got her to realize it was wrong to color on anything but paper. Our crayon mantra is "ONLY ON PAPER! ONLY ON PAPER!"
*sigh* It's going to be a real hoot putting this house on the market with Little Monet here.
Monday
I've been teaching Morgan the days of the week lately. She seems interested. (Tuesdays are "gym day", for example, and Sundays are "church day".)
This morning I said, "Good morning, Morgan. Today is Monday!"
Morgan responded: "Monday?" She paused. "Again?"
This morning I said, "Good morning, Morgan. Today is Monday!"
Morgan responded: "Monday?" She paused. "Again?"
Friday, February 23, 2007
Car Cents
I grew up knowing very little about cars. Guys learned about cars, girls learned about sewing.
My sisters and I learned just enough to get by. Case in point: not too many years ago, when I saw an SUV with "4WD" in letters on the back of it, I thought it meant "forward", which I thought was standard feature in all cars. My sister was just as bad: When her boyfriend asked her about the power of her engine, she knew she had a 4-cylinder, but asked him how she could get "more Vs so I can have a V6 or V8 engine."
My first car was a lemon. It was a Mercury Sable. I bought it for $2,000 cash and was very proud of myself for not getting in debt over a car. Yeah, no car payments! Boy was I wrong. That puppy went through a head gasket, radiator, TWO transmissions (I only had to pay for one thankfully) and a host of other maladies. I had it for only a year or two and dumped at least $3,000 into it to get it humming. The thing I disliked most about it was how it would randomly decide to not work. One time in the rain the wipers just froze. Another time, when Dan and I were newly dating, it wouldn't start in a grocery store parking lot. Dan came to rescue me and that stupid car started RIGHT UP for him. Grrr.
My next car was a rebound car. My only two qualifications were:
1. It was foreign made.
2. It worked.
Enter 1997 Toyota Corolla. This thing keeps on ticking. I love this little car. It's not very powerful, but it gets great gas mileage: something like 36 miles to the gallon. It's beige brown and NOBODY wants to steal it. And the best thing is that I only take it for tune ups and oil changes. This is my 8th year of owning it.
When I first met Dan's family, Dan's father gave me a little guff about owning a non-domestic vehicle. "How's your little foreign car, Em?" he would frequently ask. It was meant in a friendly, teasing sort of way. He explained to me that in small towns in Iowa I couldn't even get it fixed because they only have domestic vehicles there. I may have changed his mind. Plus, his niece just bought a Lexus; between the two of us, we're starting to pollute the pure-bred domestic culture of this midwest family. (Hey, they changed my mind about being vegetarian-- the winds of change blow both ways.)
By the way, I would like to say that I would LOVE to buy domestic but I just can't afford to. My family has had only heaps of trouble with domestic cars and with our foreign-made cars, we're able to run them into the ground, they last so long. My Toyota is about to hit 100,000 miles!
I am starting to think about our next car purchase. I don't know if it will be this year or not, but I really want...a sun roof. I insist on a foreign made vehicle, will probably have to have a mini-van and prefer a neutral colored car. But I really, really, really want a sun roof. I love to feel the sun on my head and by jove, this freezing winter has made me more resolute in my ambitions to warm my noggin with a little natural heat.
So there's my car history. I'll be sad whenever I have to let this little car go, but I'm pretty sure it will run for a long, long time.
My sisters and I learned just enough to get by. Case in point: not too many years ago, when I saw an SUV with "4WD" in letters on the back of it, I thought it meant "forward", which I thought was standard feature in all cars. My sister was just as bad: When her boyfriend asked her about the power of her engine, she knew she had a 4-cylinder, but asked him how she could get "more Vs so I can have a V6 or V8 engine."
My first car was a lemon. It was a Mercury Sable. I bought it for $2,000 cash and was very proud of myself for not getting in debt over a car. Yeah, no car payments! Boy was I wrong. That puppy went through a head gasket, radiator, TWO transmissions (I only had to pay for one thankfully) and a host of other maladies. I had it for only a year or two and dumped at least $3,000 into it to get it humming. The thing I disliked most about it was how it would randomly decide to not work. One time in the rain the wipers just froze. Another time, when Dan and I were newly dating, it wouldn't start in a grocery store parking lot. Dan came to rescue me and that stupid car started RIGHT UP for him. Grrr.
My next car was a rebound car. My only two qualifications were:
1. It was foreign made.
2. It worked.
Enter 1997 Toyota Corolla. This thing keeps on ticking. I love this little car. It's not very powerful, but it gets great gas mileage: something like 36 miles to the gallon. It's beige brown and NOBODY wants to steal it. And the best thing is that I only take it for tune ups and oil changes. This is my 8th year of owning it.
When I first met Dan's family, Dan's father gave me a little guff about owning a non-domestic vehicle. "How's your little foreign car, Em?" he would frequently ask. It was meant in a friendly, teasing sort of way. He explained to me that in small towns in Iowa I couldn't even get it fixed because they only have domestic vehicles there. I may have changed his mind. Plus, his niece just bought a Lexus; between the two of us, we're starting to pollute the pure-bred domestic culture of this midwest family. (Hey, they changed my mind about being vegetarian-- the winds of change blow both ways.)
By the way, I would like to say that I would LOVE to buy domestic but I just can't afford to. My family has had only heaps of trouble with domestic cars and with our foreign-made cars, we're able to run them into the ground, they last so long. My Toyota is about to hit 100,000 miles!
I am starting to think about our next car purchase. I don't know if it will be this year or not, but I really want...a sun roof. I insist on a foreign made vehicle, will probably have to have a mini-van and prefer a neutral colored car. But I really, really, really want a sun roof. I love to feel the sun on my head and by jove, this freezing winter has made me more resolute in my ambitions to warm my noggin with a little natural heat.
So there's my car history. I'll be sad whenever I have to let this little car go, but I'm pretty sure it will run for a long, long time.
Eden All Over Again
Isn't is funny how when you tell a child to NOT do something, that's precisely what they intend to do... all day? That's what I've been reminded of this week.
Our house is in the midst of primping for the marketplace. Dan did a great job putting in a tile floor in the back room. It looks really great. It's been challenging, however, keeping Morgan or her little friends out of the room she has dubbed the "echo" room. With no furniture, the room's noise factor goes up considerably. Morgan loves the sound of her own voice, so she can hardly stand it when I tell her to NOT enter the room until the mortar/grout/sealant dries. Suddenly, that is virtually the only room she wants to be in.
Our buffet in the dining room is now a "construction tools" table. It seemed like a good central area to put all the tools while we use them from day to day. To Morgan, it's a smorgasbord of ouchies. "Can I touch this? How about this? Can I just play with this screwdriver for one minute?"
I'm also reminded recently of why I'm not too keen on the idea of having a house built or doing heavy construction again. It takes a toll on family life. I want to be a wise mother and know when to invest in our house (put in a tile floor) and when to invest in my family. Laughing... they seem mutually exclusive. If anyone thinks otherwise, I'd love to be proved wrong.
Wish us good fortune as we try to sell our house and buy a new one. The artist in me wants charming; the mother in me wants move-in condition. Methinks I won't be able to buy both a charming and move-in condition home. Maybe I'll trash both ideas and buy a trailer home. :)
Our house is in the midst of primping for the marketplace. Dan did a great job putting in a tile floor in the back room. It looks really great. It's been challenging, however, keeping Morgan or her little friends out of the room she has dubbed the "echo" room. With no furniture, the room's noise factor goes up considerably. Morgan loves the sound of her own voice, so she can hardly stand it when I tell her to NOT enter the room until the mortar/grout/sealant dries. Suddenly, that is virtually the only room she wants to be in.
Our buffet in the dining room is now a "construction tools" table. It seemed like a good central area to put all the tools while we use them from day to day. To Morgan, it's a smorgasbord of ouchies. "Can I touch this? How about this? Can I just play with this screwdriver for one minute?"
I'm also reminded recently of why I'm not too keen on the idea of having a house built or doing heavy construction again. It takes a toll on family life. I want to be a wise mother and know when to invest in our house (put in a tile floor) and when to invest in my family. Laughing... they seem mutually exclusive. If anyone thinks otherwise, I'd love to be proved wrong.
Wish us good fortune as we try to sell our house and buy a new one. The artist in me wants charming; the mother in me wants move-in condition. Methinks I won't be able to buy both a charming and move-in condition home. Maybe I'll trash both ideas and buy a trailer home. :)
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Rude Dude
I had a most tiring day yesterday. So when Dan got home, I bolted. I went to the Wheaton track, one of my new favorite places to throw off a few stressors. It was great.
I ran a couple miles and then decided to speed walk the remaining laps. I was about to pass an older gentleman in the "walking" lane when I found need to pick up the pace of my already fast speed. The man in front of me was particularly flatulent. I think he ate an entire batch of chili before deciding to bless us with his presence. What's more, this man's fumes were so potent that when I passed by the SAME place on the track the next time around, the "aroma" was still there. That was it for me. I called it a night. So long, Mr. Stinky Pants.
Weather-bound Chicagoans should make it against the law to pollute the air indoors in such a fashion. Offenders should be corked and booted.
Other than that, I had a rootin'- tootin' good time.
I ran a couple miles and then decided to speed walk the remaining laps. I was about to pass an older gentleman in the "walking" lane when I found need to pick up the pace of my already fast speed. The man in front of me was particularly flatulent. I think he ate an entire batch of chili before deciding to bless us with his presence. What's more, this man's fumes were so potent that when I passed by the SAME place on the track the next time around, the "aroma" was still there. That was it for me. I called it a night. So long, Mr. Stinky Pants.
Weather-bound Chicagoans should make it against the law to pollute the air indoors in such a fashion. Offenders should be corked and booted.
Other than that, I had a rootin'- tootin' good time.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Education
I'm pretty brain dead today. Why I am brain dead, you ask? Well, for starters I went to IKEA. The adrenaline surge alone from seeing that marigold and royal blue building requires me to take an afternoon nap. Which I didn't get.
Morgan has just entered the room. "I want more some of these," she says in her funny sentence structure way. She wants more Jelly Belly fruit snacks- a random snack I found in my cupboard. Probably a free sample I got somewhere. She's shifting her weight quickly from foot to foot because that's the only way stand still on a sugar high. (Laughing... it's funny... when she asks for these things, she calls them "fruit-flavored snacks". She's right... there is no fruit in them.)
Considering that being a parent is enough "flexibility" for one day, it doesn't give me joy to call AT&T and ask why my DSL is not working. Some thingamajig wasn't properly working. But now I know, for the future, how to fix it. I can check that off my education list.
Speaking of, I'm finding myself to be in educational classes I never asked for: How to deal with Insurance Company 101, How to Make Dinner While Child is Entering 4pm Witching Hour 101 and How to Get the Most from Naptime without Use of Drugs (a 400 level class). I've also learned how to effectively and nicely remove solicitors from my front steps and how to get exercise and simultaneously get Morgan to library time. There's nothing formal about this education. It's all reactionary.
Each day I wake up, put on my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants pants and grip the day like a rocket ship. I multi-task like a maniac. Sometimes, I'm so tired that I can't remember my gender. Vague references to breast feeding or labor and delivery remind me of my role and I'm jolted into the day again. Ah, the caffeine of life.
There's no point to this post. It's a mind barf of a tired mother.
To all my friends still in college, enjoy your bubble world. And prepare for the unexpected. Nutrition class has no relevance to a fruit-flavored snack crazed child.
Morgan has just entered the room. "I want more some of these," she says in her funny sentence structure way. She wants more Jelly Belly fruit snacks- a random snack I found in my cupboard. Probably a free sample I got somewhere. She's shifting her weight quickly from foot to foot because that's the only way stand still on a sugar high. (Laughing... it's funny... when she asks for these things, she calls them "fruit-flavored snacks". She's right... there is no fruit in them.)
Considering that being a parent is enough "flexibility" for one day, it doesn't give me joy to call AT&T and ask why my DSL is not working. Some thingamajig wasn't properly working. But now I know, for the future, how to fix it. I can check that off my education list.
Speaking of, I'm finding myself to be in educational classes I never asked for: How to deal with Insurance Company 101, How to Make Dinner While Child is Entering 4pm Witching Hour 101 and How to Get the Most from Naptime without Use of Drugs (a 400 level class). I've also learned how to effectively and nicely remove solicitors from my front steps and how to get exercise and simultaneously get Morgan to library time. There's nothing formal about this education. It's all reactionary.
Each day I wake up, put on my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants pants and grip the day like a rocket ship. I multi-task like a maniac. Sometimes, I'm so tired that I can't remember my gender. Vague references to breast feeding or labor and delivery remind me of my role and I'm jolted into the day again. Ah, the caffeine of life.
There's no point to this post. It's a mind barf of a tired mother.
To all my friends still in college, enjoy your bubble world. And prepare for the unexpected. Nutrition class has no relevance to a fruit-flavored snack crazed child.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Huh?
Dan complains that I never listen to him. He's right. I don't. Sometimes, when I'm very tired, I tell him to tone down on the details of his story because he's meticulous with information. But on the whole, I don't listen to him unless he tells me two or three times.
This morning was no different. Dan and I switched cars and I totally forgot that he said he was going to do that. It was even MY suggestion, so that I could take his car to the wash.
I was running around pulling apart the living room looking for MY keys when Morgan asked what I was doing. "I'm looking for my keys, honey," I told her. Morgan answered, "Daddy has your keys, Mommy. He'll give them back to you after work." The child was right. First of all, not too comfortable with the eavesdropping. Secondly, kudos, kiddo!
This has huge ramifications. This means that Morgan mostly ignores me when I tell her to do things like put on her shoes in the morning... for the FOURTH time. This also means that she is very smart.
It also means...that I am toast.
This morning was no different. Dan and I switched cars and I totally forgot that he said he was going to do that. It was even MY suggestion, so that I could take his car to the wash.
I was running around pulling apart the living room looking for MY keys when Morgan asked what I was doing. "I'm looking for my keys, honey," I told her. Morgan answered, "Daddy has your keys, Mommy. He'll give them back to you after work." The child was right. First of all, not too comfortable with the eavesdropping. Secondly, kudos, kiddo!
This has huge ramifications. This means that Morgan mostly ignores me when I tell her to do things like put on her shoes in the morning... for the FOURTH time. This also means that she is very smart.
It also means...that I am toast.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
I See
This winter I have had an onslaught of eye problems. I think I had 3 pink eye incidents and recently a non-contagious eye infection. And though I have nifty designer glasses, I really prefer to wear contacts.
At my last visit to the doc, he said that my eyes may be lashing out at the type of saline solution I'm using and suggested that I use a non-preservative version. Sounds great. He gave me a free sample of "Clear Care" and sent me on my merry way.
Upon speaking with the assistant on my way out, however, I was told to be VERY careful when using Clear Care. Apparently, the solution in the bottle is hydrogen peroxide which turns into saline solution in 6 hours. So, if one was to forget and groggily put the solution in their eye BEFORE the six hours, a sizzling hot burning sensation would cause the user to never, ever do that again. Or see.
Am I the only one who feels uncomfortable with this Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde concoction? As if I don't have enough to think about than worry if I've put my lenses in for the FULL six hours or else suffer temporary blindness. I'm lucky if I remember to take my vitamins every morning and my stupid calcium pills three times a day. What if ALL medications had this funny Gremlinesque time bomb on them for toxicity? "You can take it BEFORE eating a cupcake, but do NOT under ANY circumstances take it after chewing gum."
My land...what will those geniuses think of next? Bike helmets that melt in the rain? Hearing aids that disfunction upon hearing dogs barking?
I'm going to write the pharmaceutical companies. As soon as I can see again.
At my last visit to the doc, he said that my eyes may be lashing out at the type of saline solution I'm using and suggested that I use a non-preservative version. Sounds great. He gave me a free sample of "Clear Care" and sent me on my merry way.
Upon speaking with the assistant on my way out, however, I was told to be VERY careful when using Clear Care. Apparently, the solution in the bottle is hydrogen peroxide which turns into saline solution in 6 hours. So, if one was to forget and groggily put the solution in their eye BEFORE the six hours, a sizzling hot burning sensation would cause the user to never, ever do that again. Or see.
Am I the only one who feels uncomfortable with this Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde concoction? As if I don't have enough to think about than worry if I've put my lenses in for the FULL six hours or else suffer temporary blindness. I'm lucky if I remember to take my vitamins every morning and my stupid calcium pills three times a day. What if ALL medications had this funny Gremlinesque time bomb on them for toxicity? "You can take it BEFORE eating a cupcake, but do NOT under ANY circumstances take it after chewing gum."
My land...what will those geniuses think of next? Bike helmets that melt in the rain? Hearing aids that disfunction upon hearing dogs barking?
I'm going to write the pharmaceutical companies. As soon as I can see again.
Miss Mispronounce
This is such a hilarious age with Morgan. It's fun to see her use words, especially ones that she mispronounces or uses in the wrong context.
Earlier this week, Morgan crawled into bed with me and Dan and told us a story about a man whose "head nobbled". You really need to say the word "nobbled" out loud to get the full effect of the words; it's a funny combination of letters and, to my knowledge, not a real word. Anyway, Dan and I smirked at our daughter and asked her what she meant by "nobbled". Morgan said, "His head nobbled. Like this." And she nodded her head. Dan laughed, "Oh, you mean NODDED. His head NODDED." She still maintains that his head nobbled, but it was a funny start to the day.
Additionally, she has a terrible time trying to say the word "ask". She says it in a ghetto-like fashion: "ax". Her stories are a funny combination of made-up words and mispronounced ones: "...And then the man said 'yes' and nobbled his head. Then he axed another question."
I marvel really at the way that children are able to speak correctly at all. Considering that most kiddos start the morning off with a good dose of Elmo, it's amazing that they don't refer to themself in the third person all the time. "Elmo wants to play ball. Elmo wants to read email. Elmo wants to be your friend." Grrrr. Does Elmo want to take it outside?
This pronounciation quandry is not limited to children. Just yesterday I reached for my favorite Costco bag of Nestle Chocolate Chips and found an interesting spelling of a product. The "Ziploc-ish" zipper that used to appear on the end of the bag for easy access now appears on the inside of the bag. It's hard to explain, but basically they changed the position of the zipper to the inside so they can now rename it "Inno-Lok". Apparently Elmer Fudd is on the board for "Inno-Lok" because It sounds an awful lot like a person with a lisp trying to say "Inner Lock". I hope I'm never in a meeting where I'm needed for designing something for "Inno-Lok". I might ask the CEO where the "wascally wabbit" is.
For now, I jest. But in a few years when my little girl goes to school and starts misspelling and mispronouncing words, you can bet your Tickle-Me-Elmo I'm going to retaliate.
Earlier this week, Morgan crawled into bed with me and Dan and told us a story about a man whose "head nobbled". You really need to say the word "nobbled" out loud to get the full effect of the words; it's a funny combination of letters and, to my knowledge, not a real word. Anyway, Dan and I smirked at our daughter and asked her what she meant by "nobbled". Morgan said, "His head nobbled. Like this." And she nodded her head. Dan laughed, "Oh, you mean NODDED. His head NODDED." She still maintains that his head nobbled, but it was a funny start to the day.
Additionally, she has a terrible time trying to say the word "ask". She says it in a ghetto-like fashion: "ax". Her stories are a funny combination of made-up words and mispronounced ones: "...And then the man said 'yes' and nobbled his head. Then he axed another question."
I marvel really at the way that children are able to speak correctly at all. Considering that most kiddos start the morning off with a good dose of Elmo, it's amazing that they don't refer to themself in the third person all the time. "Elmo wants to play ball. Elmo wants to read email. Elmo wants to be your friend." Grrrr. Does Elmo want to take it outside?
This pronounciation quandry is not limited to children. Just yesterday I reached for my favorite Costco bag of Nestle Chocolate Chips and found an interesting spelling of a product. The "Ziploc-ish" zipper that used to appear on the end of the bag for easy access now appears on the inside of the bag. It's hard to explain, but basically they changed the position of the zipper to the inside so they can now rename it "Inno-Lok". Apparently Elmer Fudd is on the board for "Inno-Lok" because It sounds an awful lot like a person with a lisp trying to say "Inner Lock". I hope I'm never in a meeting where I'm needed for designing something for "Inno-Lok". I might ask the CEO where the "wascally wabbit" is.
For now, I jest. But in a few years when my little girl goes to school and starts misspelling and mispronouncing words, you can bet your Tickle-Me-Elmo I'm going to retaliate.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Understatements
Are understatements really a lie? If so, I think I lied to myself yesterday.
Dan and I are preparing our house for the market. The buzz words in our house are: declutter, staging and "for the last time, wipe your feet!" Last night I decided to "slap some paint on the wall" of our back room. I think I used those exact words: slap some paint. The term conjures Pollock-like flinging of color. And speed, too. The phrase makes you think it's fast and easy: slap some paint.
In truth, it was neither fast nor easy. There were a few trouble spots on the wall and I just wanted to touch them up. I intended on painting a dot here and there of "Belvedere Cream" Behr paint to make the mudroom look less like mud and more like room. Why didn't anyone stop me? Apparently, while the color of my walls matched what I had in my paint bucket, the SHEEN has somewhat changed. So instead of invisible bandages of color, there were shiny dots all over the room. It was like playing an adult version of "Where's Waldo?" Replace Waldo with subtle glossy dots and PRESTO-- you have an eye-crossing good time.
But I wasn't in the mood for fun. It was already around 8pm and my little venture was slowly snowballing into that sinking realization... "Oh no. I have to paint the WHOLE room." Fortunately, my husband had just tucked the Morganator in bed and helped. We finished at 11pm.
I find it amazing that after thirty some years of understating things, I never learn. If I may, I'd like to lay blame on Home Depot and my father.
I blame Home Depot because they have that terrible ad campaign. You know the jingle: "You can do it. We can help." First of all, I can't do everything they say I can. Secondly, they really can't help. I'll spare you all the stories, but I can tell you that one yahoo convinced us to put asphalt tar on our basement walls for sealing it. The stuff would barely stick to the walls and had a stench that would knock out a grown man. There's a REASON it's used outside. I came to find out that our Home Depot "informer" was in construction and I think that was the ONLY material he knew how to work with. Heaven help him if I had a lighting problem. In any case, I want to change the slogan to: "You can do it, sort of." That would at least be more truthful.
I'd also like to blame my father. He's an excellent salesman and trained in the art of spin. I remember one particular time, when I was in college in Michigan, that he had convinced me to pick up my sister on the way home to Maryland. She attended a school in Ohio. I had no trouble picking up my sister; she's one of my favorite people on earth. But the way my father proposed this drive was rather odd: "Hey Emily, Can you swing by Ohio and pick up your sister on the way home?" Swing by? I laughed. "Dad, I'd be happy to, but Noel is 4 hours out of my way. There's no 'swinging' going on there."
It's about time for me to wrap up this post. Dan and I have got to whip a tile floor down tomorrow.
Dan and I are preparing our house for the market. The buzz words in our house are: declutter, staging and "for the last time, wipe your feet!" Last night I decided to "slap some paint on the wall" of our back room. I think I used those exact words: slap some paint. The term conjures Pollock-like flinging of color. And speed, too. The phrase makes you think it's fast and easy: slap some paint.
In truth, it was neither fast nor easy. There were a few trouble spots on the wall and I just wanted to touch them up. I intended on painting a dot here and there of "Belvedere Cream" Behr paint to make the mudroom look less like mud and more like room. Why didn't anyone stop me? Apparently, while the color of my walls matched what I had in my paint bucket, the SHEEN has somewhat changed. So instead of invisible bandages of color, there were shiny dots all over the room. It was like playing an adult version of "Where's Waldo?" Replace Waldo with subtle glossy dots and PRESTO-- you have an eye-crossing good time.
But I wasn't in the mood for fun. It was already around 8pm and my little venture was slowly snowballing into that sinking realization... "Oh no. I have to paint the WHOLE room." Fortunately, my husband had just tucked the Morganator in bed and helped. We finished at 11pm.
I find it amazing that after thirty some years of understating things, I never learn. If I may, I'd like to lay blame on Home Depot and my father.
I blame Home Depot because they have that terrible ad campaign. You know the jingle: "You can do it. We can help." First of all, I can't do everything they say I can. Secondly, they really can't help. I'll spare you all the stories, but I can tell you that one yahoo convinced us to put asphalt tar on our basement walls for sealing it. The stuff would barely stick to the walls and had a stench that would knock out a grown man. There's a REASON it's used outside. I came to find out that our Home Depot "informer" was in construction and I think that was the ONLY material he knew how to work with. Heaven help him if I had a lighting problem. In any case, I want to change the slogan to: "You can do it, sort of." That would at least be more truthful.
I'd also like to blame my father. He's an excellent salesman and trained in the art of spin. I remember one particular time, when I was in college in Michigan, that he had convinced me to pick up my sister on the way home to Maryland. She attended a school in Ohio. I had no trouble picking up my sister; she's one of my favorite people on earth. But the way my father proposed this drive was rather odd: "Hey Emily, Can you swing by Ohio and pick up your sister on the way home?" Swing by? I laughed. "Dad, I'd be happy to, but Noel is 4 hours out of my way. There's no 'swinging' going on there."
It's about time for me to wrap up this post. Dan and I have got to whip a tile floor down tomorrow.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Of Goddess Mothers
My friend Ann is a goddess. I worship the domestic ground she walks on.
Yesterday I watched Ann's twin 3-year old boys for a few hours while she did some stuff at home. (She helped me watch Morgan last week when I did some freelancing work.)
The day was great. I had a little Valentine party for the kiddos and they seemed to enjoy the games and snacks. (Hellooooo, sugar.) The children were all quite good. They did things that three-year olds like to do, but nothing too life-threatening.
I'd like to tell you about lunchtime, however, because this meal made me utterly respect Ann in raising so many children. (She also has a daughter in kindergarten.) The menu consisted of chicken nuggets, strawberries and red heart-shaped jello. Upon finding out that cookies trump jello, I whipped out some graham crackers and put some pink frosting on it for them to decorate. When you read the next dialogues, try to read all three at once so you can get the full effect of the trio:
Kid 1: Yeah lunch!
Kid 2: Yippee lunch!
Kid 3: I'm not hungry.
Kid 1: I love chicken nuggets!
Kid 2: I love chicken nuggets and strawberries!
Kid 3: I like strawberries. Can I just have strawberries?
Kid 1: I'm thirsty. Can I have milk?
Kid 2: Do you have juice?
Kid 3: Can I have water?
Kid 1: I need a spoon!
Kid 2: Me too!
Kid 3: Me too!
Kid 1: I want a fork now.
Kid 2: I want a fork.
Kid 3: Give me a fork.
Kid 1: I love jello
Kid 2: I love jello, too!
Kid 3: I don't want jello. I want cookies.
Kid 1: Thank you for the cookies!
Kid 2: I love cookies
Kid 3: This isn't a cookie. This is a cracker.
Kid 1: I'm finished.
Kid 2: Can I have more?
Kid 3: I like strawberries.
It was a riot. Ann does this EVERY day. What an amazing woman. Hats off to all friends out there with more than one kiddo!
Yesterday I watched Ann's twin 3-year old boys for a few hours while she did some stuff at home. (She helped me watch Morgan last week when I did some freelancing work.)
The day was great. I had a little Valentine party for the kiddos and they seemed to enjoy the games and snacks. (Hellooooo, sugar.) The children were all quite good. They did things that three-year olds like to do, but nothing too life-threatening.
I'd like to tell you about lunchtime, however, because this meal made me utterly respect Ann in raising so many children. (She also has a daughter in kindergarten.) The menu consisted of chicken nuggets, strawberries and red heart-shaped jello. Upon finding out that cookies trump jello, I whipped out some graham crackers and put some pink frosting on it for them to decorate. When you read the next dialogues, try to read all three at once so you can get the full effect of the trio:
Kid 1: Yeah lunch!
Kid 2: Yippee lunch!
Kid 3: I'm not hungry.
Kid 1: I love chicken nuggets!
Kid 2: I love chicken nuggets and strawberries!
Kid 3: I like strawberries. Can I just have strawberries?
Kid 1: I'm thirsty. Can I have milk?
Kid 2: Do you have juice?
Kid 3: Can I have water?
Kid 1: I need a spoon!
Kid 2: Me too!
Kid 3: Me too!
Kid 1: I want a fork now.
Kid 2: I want a fork.
Kid 3: Give me a fork.
Kid 1: I love jello
Kid 2: I love jello, too!
Kid 3: I don't want jello. I want cookies.
Kid 1: Thank you for the cookies!
Kid 2: I love cookies
Kid 3: This isn't a cookie. This is a cracker.
Kid 1: I'm finished.
Kid 2: Can I have more?
Kid 3: I like strawberries.
It was a riot. Ann does this EVERY day. What an amazing woman. Hats off to all friends out there with more than one kiddo!
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Valentine's Greetings
Is my memory failing or is Valentine's Day really a day commemorating something involving death or dying of some sort?
If so, it's fitting, I suppose, that my daughter and I nearly had a bloodbath of our own making her Daddy's Valentine card today. I thought it would precious if she made her own card for him. I brought out the red and pink construction paper and, stupidly, the scissors. I threw out ALL her child-safety scissors a year ago when I found her giving herself frequent haircuts. So I only had our kitchen scissors which are about double the size of kiddy scissors.
It wasn't pretty.
Between each cut of paper, Morgan had to pull the scissors out of the paper, use BOTH hands to "open up" the mouth of scissors again and cut the paper once more. She was immensely proud of herself, wielding these "no-nos" equally well between both hands; she's still ambidextrous, apparently.
I'm just glad that we both have our limbs still attached. She stopped every once in a while to tell me a random tale, which isn't so bad in itself, but Morgan tells stories with her hands--she flung the blades around with the momentum of a ninja. I thought Edward Scissorshands and I would be taking a little "field trip" to the ER.
In the end, her card turned out beautifully. Dan will probably hold back manly tears as he sees her precious Valentine.
I hope he likes it. Next year, he's getting a Hallmark.
If so, it's fitting, I suppose, that my daughter and I nearly had a bloodbath of our own making her Daddy's Valentine card today. I thought it would precious if she made her own card for him. I brought out the red and pink construction paper and, stupidly, the scissors. I threw out ALL her child-safety scissors a year ago when I found her giving herself frequent haircuts. So I only had our kitchen scissors which are about double the size of kiddy scissors.
It wasn't pretty.
Between each cut of paper, Morgan had to pull the scissors out of the paper, use BOTH hands to "open up" the mouth of scissors again and cut the paper once more. She was immensely proud of herself, wielding these "no-nos" equally well between both hands; she's still ambidextrous, apparently.
I'm just glad that we both have our limbs still attached. She stopped every once in a while to tell me a random tale, which isn't so bad in itself, but Morgan tells stories with her hands--she flung the blades around with the momentum of a ninja. I thought Edward Scissorshands and I would be taking a little "field trip" to the ER.
In the end, her card turned out beautifully. Dan will probably hold back manly tears as he sees her precious Valentine.
I hope he likes it. Next year, he's getting a Hallmark.
Shortest Post Ever
I'd like to take this opportunity to boast that, while my daugther cannot say "Valentine" properly (it comes out "Balentime"), she CAN say "predestination" with clarity.
Presdestination. John Calvin is smiling.
Presdestination. John Calvin is smiling.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Almost
As Christians we are told that God has three basic answers for our questions in life: yes, no, and later.
But life is not black and white. Sometimes, much to our discomfort, God answers something gray. Sometimes he gives us answers like "almost".
A miscarriage is an "almost" kind of answer. To feel the effects of a growing little one inside, to see the heart beat and then...nothing...is an "almost" moment. There is such mystery in the "almosts" of life, leading us to wonder "what if life had taken a different direction?"
There is an excellent film which addresses this topic: "Sliding Doors". It features a woman (Gwyneth Paltrow) who is rushing home from work, but misses her train and as a result, does not find out that her boyfriend has been cheating on her. But then the film peels into another direction, rewinding to show what might have happened if she had caught the train and discovered her boyfriend's infidelity. It's a strong example of how one seemingly insignificant action could have such dramatic consequences. It's like watching two movies at once.
I bring this up because I'm nearing what would have been the due date of my June pregnancy, since the baby was due at the end of March. I imagine my parallel life; at this point in the pregnancy I probably would have reached that uncomfortable "can't tie my shoes" stage.
Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like had I kept that pregnancy. To be sure, I would not understand the depths of suffering that so very many women undergo in the world of infertility. Nor would I know the courage of those women. I would have taken my pregnancy for granted.
A friend recently helped me put the miscarriages in perspective: She told me that God was also grieving the loss of our little ones. That had not occurred to me. In a moment of meditation at church, I wondered how much God understood.
And then I wondered what might have happened if Mary had miscarried Jesus. It's a horrific thought, and nobody in their right mind would want to dwell on it. But bear with me. What if God had told Mary that she would "almost" carry the Messiah? You can easily imagine her agony. Would she feel punished instead of blessed? Would she even bother to tell her family? And if she did, would they tell her not to allow herself to fall in love with the child? As difficult as this thought may be, many women facing infertility trouble carry these "almosts" with them the rest of their life.
My sister, Noel, is one such person, having lost her first two pregnancies. The first she lost at 8 weeks, and I'm ashamed to say that I don't recall comforting her. Her second she lost at 11 weeks -- at the time I was sick and pregnant with Morgan and, again, I was of no help to her.
Noel named these two babies, which made a lot of people uncomfortable. Some would rather call these little ones "almosts" and go on with life. But my brave sister named them and acknowledged their lives, brief though they were. She gave them great names...thoughtful names...not bottom of the barrel ones: Ellise Noel, and Samuel Creighton.
It's been several weeks since we lost our last pregnancy and for the most part, Dan and I are doing really well. I try not to dwell on the fact that I ALMOST met Simon Michael or would have ALMOST been at 9 months with the June pregnancy. It's too much to bear. I'm learning to get rid of my "almosts" and move on with life.
Besides, I'll MOST CERTAINLY meet these little ones...one day.
But life is not black and white. Sometimes, much to our discomfort, God answers something gray. Sometimes he gives us answers like "almost".
A miscarriage is an "almost" kind of answer. To feel the effects of a growing little one inside, to see the heart beat and then...nothing...is an "almost" moment. There is such mystery in the "almosts" of life, leading us to wonder "what if life had taken a different direction?"
There is an excellent film which addresses this topic: "Sliding Doors". It features a woman (Gwyneth Paltrow) who is rushing home from work, but misses her train and as a result, does not find out that her boyfriend has been cheating on her. But then the film peels into another direction, rewinding to show what might have happened if she had caught the train and discovered her boyfriend's infidelity. It's a strong example of how one seemingly insignificant action could have such dramatic consequences. It's like watching two movies at once.
I bring this up because I'm nearing what would have been the due date of my June pregnancy, since the baby was due at the end of March. I imagine my parallel life; at this point in the pregnancy I probably would have reached that uncomfortable "can't tie my shoes" stage.
Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like had I kept that pregnancy. To be sure, I would not understand the depths of suffering that so very many women undergo in the world of infertility. Nor would I know the courage of those women. I would have taken my pregnancy for granted.
A friend recently helped me put the miscarriages in perspective: She told me that God was also grieving the loss of our little ones. That had not occurred to me. In a moment of meditation at church, I wondered how much God understood.
And then I wondered what might have happened if Mary had miscarried Jesus. It's a horrific thought, and nobody in their right mind would want to dwell on it. But bear with me. What if God had told Mary that she would "almost" carry the Messiah? You can easily imagine her agony. Would she feel punished instead of blessed? Would she even bother to tell her family? And if she did, would they tell her not to allow herself to fall in love with the child? As difficult as this thought may be, many women facing infertility trouble carry these "almosts" with them the rest of their life.
My sister, Noel, is one such person, having lost her first two pregnancies. The first she lost at 8 weeks, and I'm ashamed to say that I don't recall comforting her. Her second she lost at 11 weeks -- at the time I was sick and pregnant with Morgan and, again, I was of no help to her.
Noel named these two babies, which made a lot of people uncomfortable. Some would rather call these little ones "almosts" and go on with life. But my brave sister named them and acknowledged their lives, brief though they were. She gave them great names...thoughtful names...not bottom of the barrel ones: Ellise Noel, and Samuel Creighton.
It's been several weeks since we lost our last pregnancy and for the most part, Dan and I are doing really well. I try not to dwell on the fact that I ALMOST met Simon Michael or would have ALMOST been at 9 months with the June pregnancy. It's too much to bear. I'm learning to get rid of my "almosts" and move on with life.
Besides, I'll MOST CERTAINLY meet these little ones...one day.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Praying
In December 2003, our daughter Morgan was baptized. She was 2 months young and her only abilities at that point involved eating, sleeping and the effects of eating.
I remember a lot from that beautiful baptism. Mostly I remember that I vowed to teach her to pray. I found it an interesting vow. It was specific, for one thing. It was not vague, like vowing to teach her to "be nice". I also remember being disheartened by the vow I just made because at that particular time in life I struggled immensely with the reason for praying. I wasn't interested in bringing Morgan along for my bumpy prayer life. Mothers should have answers, I thought, not more questions.
It's been an interesting process teaching our daughter to pray.
Her first prayer I wrote in her baby book. She thanked God for her "syrup and pancakes and syrup and pancakes..." It was one of those precious "aww" moments following by a stifled laugh and "Good girl, Morgan. You did a very good job."
More recently she has discovered that she can bring anything to God. And she's not off base, strange as her prayers are.
When visiting some friends this week, during lunch she prayed for one of her three-year old friends, a boy. It was something to the effect of: "And please help my friend to be more quiet because he is very loud." I was pretty embarrassed about that one. The tattletale variety. Still, she sees God as being a Father, I suppose.
Also this week, a friend of mine and her daughter caught the flu. Morgan and I prayed regularly for them at mealtimes and bedtime. Morgan prayed that Jesus would "make them better". It was a beautiful prayer.
But lately Morgan has also been requesting prayer for herself. I confess having a feeling of sacrilege praying her heart-felt sentiment: Morgan wishes to turn into a star. We asked her what she meant and we're thankful that she did not mean the celebrity version. Morgan simply wants to be a twinkling light in the sky. Nearly every mealtime Morgan will interrupt Dan's prayer and harshly whisper "Dad, remember to ask that I'll be a star." She smiles hopefully as she asks for it, but she doesn't appear to be trying to get attention. For once. No, it's her heart-felt prayer.
And now for the twist: Three years ago I vowed to teach Morgan to pray and this child, who was a helpless FETUS 4 years ago, is teaching ME to pray. She doesn't have long prayers or use big theological words. Sometimes she gets distracted and tells God stories, but in the end, she has a conversation with our loving Creator.
I'm comforted by my daughter's simple prayer life. Lately life feels too burdensome to pray. The prayer is too large and complicated to bring before God. But I've taken a page out of Morgan's prayer life and offered it up. Just a sentence, maybe two. But completely heart-felt.
I remember a lot from that beautiful baptism. Mostly I remember that I vowed to teach her to pray. I found it an interesting vow. It was specific, for one thing. It was not vague, like vowing to teach her to "be nice". I also remember being disheartened by the vow I just made because at that particular time in life I struggled immensely with the reason for praying. I wasn't interested in bringing Morgan along for my bumpy prayer life. Mothers should have answers, I thought, not more questions.
It's been an interesting process teaching our daughter to pray.
Her first prayer I wrote in her baby book. She thanked God for her "syrup and pancakes and syrup and pancakes..." It was one of those precious "aww" moments following by a stifled laugh and "Good girl, Morgan. You did a very good job."
More recently she has discovered that she can bring anything to God. And she's not off base, strange as her prayers are.
When visiting some friends this week, during lunch she prayed for one of her three-year old friends, a boy. It was something to the effect of: "And please help my friend to be more quiet because he is very loud." I was pretty embarrassed about that one. The tattletale variety. Still, she sees God as being a Father, I suppose.
Also this week, a friend of mine and her daughter caught the flu. Morgan and I prayed regularly for them at mealtimes and bedtime. Morgan prayed that Jesus would "make them better". It was a beautiful prayer.
But lately Morgan has also been requesting prayer for herself. I confess having a feeling of sacrilege praying her heart-felt sentiment: Morgan wishes to turn into a star. We asked her what she meant and we're thankful that she did not mean the celebrity version. Morgan simply wants to be a twinkling light in the sky. Nearly every mealtime Morgan will interrupt Dan's prayer and harshly whisper "Dad, remember to ask that I'll be a star." She smiles hopefully as she asks for it, but she doesn't appear to be trying to get attention. For once. No, it's her heart-felt prayer.
And now for the twist: Three years ago I vowed to teach Morgan to pray and this child, who was a helpless FETUS 4 years ago, is teaching ME to pray. She doesn't have long prayers or use big theological words. Sometimes she gets distracted and tells God stories, but in the end, she has a conversation with our loving Creator.
I'm comforted by my daughter's simple prayer life. Lately life feels too burdensome to pray. The prayer is too large and complicated to bring before God. But I've taken a page out of Morgan's prayer life and offered it up. Just a sentence, maybe two. But completely heart-felt.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
White Bread
My sister told me an exceptionally funny story recently and I just HAVE to share.
On the surface, the story is about a man and his car. But the underbelly of the story reveals that we are aging, friends. We're not 21 anymore. (If you're 21 and reading this, get off my blog, you sicko.)
My sister, Noel, has been married to a wonderful man for nearly 10 years. His name is Shane. Now Shane is extremely intelligent (graduated from college in THREE years) and very savvy when it comes to financial investments. He has decided to drive an older car for these past years while he grows his business. It's a Honda Accord and, if memory serves, it is about 100 years old. Give or take a decade. Point is: It's old.
Shane lives in Charlotte and wanted to have his car windows tinted because, poor thing, it's SUNNY down there. Grrr. He found a place to do his windows for a great price. This venue is a place, as my sister described, "you would go to in the day but NOT the nighttime." Gotcha. So my brother-in-law leaves his car under the care of these individuals and comes home.
My sister, out of curiousity, inquires what kind of window tinting he decided on. Shane describes it: "Oh, it's gonna be great, honey. The guy said he's going to make it bad a**." A red flag alerts my wary sister: "Bad A**? You're not bad a**! You're a conservative white boy. Call him back and tell him to make it 'conservative white boy'. You're not bad a**." He declines her suggestion.
Several days later Shane goes to pick up his car with my sister. My sister didn't HAVE to come, but she insisted.
The black Honda Accord was now decked out with COPPER tinted windows. Copper. My financial-planning, white bread brother in law is now ghetto.
I have got to see this. I told my sister I want to come down under the guise of seeing her new son, Chet. But truth be told, I have to see this car. This chick needs a good long laugh.
On the surface, the story is about a man and his car. But the underbelly of the story reveals that we are aging, friends. We're not 21 anymore. (If you're 21 and reading this, get off my blog, you sicko.)
My sister, Noel, has been married to a wonderful man for nearly 10 years. His name is Shane. Now Shane is extremely intelligent (graduated from college in THREE years) and very savvy when it comes to financial investments. He has decided to drive an older car for these past years while he grows his business. It's a Honda Accord and, if memory serves, it is about 100 years old. Give or take a decade. Point is: It's old.
Shane lives in Charlotte and wanted to have his car windows tinted because, poor thing, it's SUNNY down there. Grrr. He found a place to do his windows for a great price. This venue is a place, as my sister described, "you would go to in the day but NOT the nighttime." Gotcha. So my brother-in-law leaves his car under the care of these individuals and comes home.
My sister, out of curiousity, inquires what kind of window tinting he decided on. Shane describes it: "Oh, it's gonna be great, honey. The guy said he's going to make it bad a**." A red flag alerts my wary sister: "Bad A**? You're not bad a**! You're a conservative white boy. Call him back and tell him to make it 'conservative white boy'. You're not bad a**." He declines her suggestion.
Several days later Shane goes to pick up his car with my sister. My sister didn't HAVE to come, but she insisted.
The black Honda Accord was now decked out with COPPER tinted windows. Copper. My financial-planning, white bread brother in law is now ghetto.
I have got to see this. I told my sister I want to come down under the guise of seeing her new son, Chet. But truth be told, I have to see this car. This chick needs a good long laugh.
Cuddle Time
To me, the most difficult obstacle to parenting is that I want to get things done (housework, cooking dinner) and my daughter wants to get OTHER things done (reading books, cuddling). Each day there is a pull to spend ALL day with her and ALL day doing the chores. Never the twain shall meet.
This morning at the beautiful hour of 6:30, Dan and I heard the pitter-patter of Morgan's feet. Make that the CLIP-CLOP of Morgan's feet- she had already donned her pink sparkle shoes for dress up and was rearing to go. She had with her a small play suitcase filled with books and toys. "Hi, Guys! I'm ready for the sleepover!" We got a chuckle from that. Sleepover-ha. The child never sleeps unless she is absolutely sure she is NOT missing anything.
Dan left shortly after for work and I was left alone with... the CHILD. I tell Dan that he is lucky that HIS boss doesn't come into his room each morning to wake him up. Morgan's first order of business is this: "Mommy! Time to cuddle!" So we spent the first 15 minutes talking and cuddling while she occasionally jabbed me with the heels of those dang sparkle shoes.
I'd like to take this moment to tangent off... Morgan is watching Sesame Street right now and in the background I hear this educational show pushing... BREAKFAST. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day" some furry puppet is squeaking at my daughter. I laugh. Most mothers don't get breakfast. They get something that LOOKS like breakfast... a quick bite of soggy cereal they forgot about because of some maternal emergency. And when we eat, it's rarely in those things called "chairs"... it's running from one room to the other, answering phone calls and responding to barks for sippy cups.
Okay, now the MOTS: Moral of the Story. After all this morning mayhem, I'm not complaining. My daughter still can't find the bathroom when its time to have her BM and still drinks out of annoying sippy cups, but I'm not pushing it. Those are the last two manifestations of "baby" in my daughter. I'll do those dishes later. Let's cuddle, kiddo.
This morning at the beautiful hour of 6:30, Dan and I heard the pitter-patter of Morgan's feet. Make that the CLIP-CLOP of Morgan's feet- she had already donned her pink sparkle shoes for dress up and was rearing to go. She had with her a small play suitcase filled with books and toys. "Hi, Guys! I'm ready for the sleepover!" We got a chuckle from that. Sleepover-ha. The child never sleeps unless she is absolutely sure she is NOT missing anything.
Dan left shortly after for work and I was left alone with... the CHILD. I tell Dan that he is lucky that HIS boss doesn't come into his room each morning to wake him up. Morgan's first order of business is this: "Mommy! Time to cuddle!" So we spent the first 15 minutes talking and cuddling while she occasionally jabbed me with the heels of those dang sparkle shoes.
I'd like to take this moment to tangent off... Morgan is watching Sesame Street right now and in the background I hear this educational show pushing... BREAKFAST. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day" some furry puppet is squeaking at my daughter. I laugh. Most mothers don't get breakfast. They get something that LOOKS like breakfast... a quick bite of soggy cereal they forgot about because of some maternal emergency. And when we eat, it's rarely in those things called "chairs"... it's running from one room to the other, answering phone calls and responding to barks for sippy cups.
Okay, now the MOTS: Moral of the Story. After all this morning mayhem, I'm not complaining. My daughter still can't find the bathroom when its time to have her BM and still drinks out of annoying sippy cups, but I'm not pushing it. Those are the last two manifestations of "baby" in my daughter. I'll do those dishes later. Let's cuddle, kiddo.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
The Back Story
I'd like to tell the story, the whole story, behind our most recent miscarriage.
At the beginning of 2006 you would find Dan and I struggling to make it through each day. Dan was still not allowed drive (due to his seizure) and some very generous friends agreed to drive him to AND from work each day. At the time I was still working, leaving home at 7am each day and returning around 6pm. I dropped off and picked up Morgan from daycare. If I needed to do grocery shopping during the week, it had to happen earlier than 7am. It was a difficult period of our life.
Before I continue I'd like to say for the record that I am NOT preaching about being a stay-at-home mother. Not at all. Each family needs to determine what their family's needs are.
Without going into detail, I was struggling with some pretty significant health problems. When I finally had the courage to address my health issues, the underlying issues were anger and fear. I was afraid we wouldn't be able to live on one salary; I was angry and felt I had to "save the day". After talking to Dan about the logistics of me coming home again and asking for God's green light, I gave my notice at work. It wasn't easy. I really LIKED working. My art director, Cari Owen, was a pleasure to work with as well as my other Sanford employee friends. Fortunately, Cari is also a mother of a preschooler and understood.
I came to be a stay-at-home mother in June. Dan and I had it in mind that Morgan should have a sibling one day, so we started trying. We immediately became pregnant, just as we had in our first pregnancy. We were elated. At that same time, I felt that our family had been called to more of "faith" living. By this I mean that we would take our fears to God instead of trying to fret and correct everything ourselves. (No amount of fretting will undo a seizure, for example.) When troubles came my way, I tended to absorb them, do EVERYTHING in my power to correct them and in the end I tended to be angry at SOMEONE... God, Dan, friends. But now, I believed that everything had to filter through God first.
If memory serves, the June pregnancy test was our first act of this new life of faith. I had a feeling I was pregnant. I decided to pray before I took the test: "God, if you want us to have another baby, it's your call. Help me to accept whatever your answer is." I was glad to see a positive pregnancy response on our kit.
A scant 6 weeks later, we lost the pregnancy. This was quite a curve ball for us. It was a very difficult grieving process for us. After all, I had ALREADY offered God the opportunity to let us have the pregnancy or not. Miscarriage was not an option I gave God. Half the grieving emotions of the miscarriage were for the baby; the other half were for all those funny, controlling issues I always had: But my children will be OVER three years apart! and other random, unimportant feelings that had nothing to do with the loss of this pregnancy.
Due to unforseen circumstances, Dan and I appeared to be pregnant again in August. We had a "chemical pregnancy" which is a very early pregnancy loss. Typically it is lost at the same time the woman's cycle comes, so most women don't even know they HAVE a miscarriage. I knew. That cramping, awful feeling was unmistakable. A pregnancy test confirmed a pregnancy. My doc said the hormone was left over from July and I believed him. He said we were not pregnant.
Dan and I took a break and were able to conceive again in October. Another chemical pregnancy. This time I was mad and insisted that my doctor put me on Clomid and progesterone. My sister had had two miscarriages and found this combination to help her keep her next two pregnancies. My doc was reluctant; in his mind I had only one miscarriage, but he conceded.
In Decemeber, we worked with the doc to conceive again. Immediately we conceived. It didn't surprise me that we conceived on our first try. My doctor may not recognize our last two pregnancies, but I believed that every time we tried to conceive, we did.
It was beautiful beginning a life in December. I allowed myself to become excited about the 6-7 week mark. We shared our good news with friends early, expecting the pregnancy sickness in a few weeks. The sickness came and then... the baby left.
When this last loss came, I grieved differently. I felt mad at my doc for not listening to me earlier. I felt tired of trying and losing babies. But most of all, I felt confused why God would allow me to be home with my daughter, give the green light for having more children and then take them away, again and again.
Except for in church, I haven't really read my Bible since the miscarriage. I'm not mad at God. At least I don't think so. But I am tired and confused and don't want theology pushed down my throat at this time. Seems every time I try to live in a more faith based fashion, very, very bad things happen. I knew God was in control, but I didn't want to talk to him yet.
Today I was reading John Ortberg's book, "If You Want To Walk on Water, You Have To Get Out of the Boat". It's a book about faith. I skipped to chapter 8, the part about failure. I have devoted my mind, body and will to having a baby since last June. And my body has failed a LOT. It's difficult telling people you're expecting, showing signs of such pregnancy and losing it. They won't admit it, but friends and family get emotionally tired of being told this up and down story. I actually had one person advise me to stop trying. I think she was tired of hearing our story. I understand.
But I don't think God is telling us to stop trying. I think my body is prone to problems because of sin in the world and I see a pattern of conceiving and losing pregnancies. But I feel very strongly that my body is able to carry a pregnancy again.
So what is the point of this blog, you ask? It's the story of faith, the back story of our miscarriages. On the surface, there is a series of stories about failure and lost life. But this whole time, God has been calling me to trusting him more and more. I still don't understand why I need to suffer more loss. It's a mystery. But I trust him anyway.
______________________________________________
Post Script: I have several friends right now who are having difficulty just conceiving. For some reason, God has not opened that door for them yet. Not conceiving is a different grieving process than conceiving and miscarrying and I recognize that. May God grant you the hope and persistance you need in your special circumstances.
At the beginning of 2006 you would find Dan and I struggling to make it through each day. Dan was still not allowed drive (due to his seizure) and some very generous friends agreed to drive him to AND from work each day. At the time I was still working, leaving home at 7am each day and returning around 6pm. I dropped off and picked up Morgan from daycare. If I needed to do grocery shopping during the week, it had to happen earlier than 7am. It was a difficult period of our life.
Before I continue I'd like to say for the record that I am NOT preaching about being a stay-at-home mother. Not at all. Each family needs to determine what their family's needs are.
Without going into detail, I was struggling with some pretty significant health problems. When I finally had the courage to address my health issues, the underlying issues were anger and fear. I was afraid we wouldn't be able to live on one salary; I was angry and felt I had to "save the day". After talking to Dan about the logistics of me coming home again and asking for God's green light, I gave my notice at work. It wasn't easy. I really LIKED working. My art director, Cari Owen, was a pleasure to work with as well as my other Sanford employee friends. Fortunately, Cari is also a mother of a preschooler and understood.
I came to be a stay-at-home mother in June. Dan and I had it in mind that Morgan should have a sibling one day, so we started trying. We immediately became pregnant, just as we had in our first pregnancy. We were elated. At that same time, I felt that our family had been called to more of "faith" living. By this I mean that we would take our fears to God instead of trying to fret and correct everything ourselves. (No amount of fretting will undo a seizure, for example.) When troubles came my way, I tended to absorb them, do EVERYTHING in my power to correct them and in the end I tended to be angry at SOMEONE... God, Dan, friends. But now, I believed that everything had to filter through God first.
If memory serves, the June pregnancy test was our first act of this new life of faith. I had a feeling I was pregnant. I decided to pray before I took the test: "God, if you want us to have another baby, it's your call. Help me to accept whatever your answer is." I was glad to see a positive pregnancy response on our kit.
A scant 6 weeks later, we lost the pregnancy. This was quite a curve ball for us. It was a very difficult grieving process for us. After all, I had ALREADY offered God the opportunity to let us have the pregnancy or not. Miscarriage was not an option I gave God. Half the grieving emotions of the miscarriage were for the baby; the other half were for all those funny, controlling issues I always had: But my children will be OVER three years apart! and other random, unimportant feelings that had nothing to do with the loss of this pregnancy.
Due to unforseen circumstances, Dan and I appeared to be pregnant again in August. We had a "chemical pregnancy" which is a very early pregnancy loss. Typically it is lost at the same time the woman's cycle comes, so most women don't even know they HAVE a miscarriage. I knew. That cramping, awful feeling was unmistakable. A pregnancy test confirmed a pregnancy. My doc said the hormone was left over from July and I believed him. He said we were not pregnant.
Dan and I took a break and were able to conceive again in October. Another chemical pregnancy. This time I was mad and insisted that my doctor put me on Clomid and progesterone. My sister had had two miscarriages and found this combination to help her keep her next two pregnancies. My doc was reluctant; in his mind I had only one miscarriage, but he conceded.
In Decemeber, we worked with the doc to conceive again. Immediately we conceived. It didn't surprise me that we conceived on our first try. My doctor may not recognize our last two pregnancies, but I believed that every time we tried to conceive, we did.
It was beautiful beginning a life in December. I allowed myself to become excited about the 6-7 week mark. We shared our good news with friends early, expecting the pregnancy sickness in a few weeks. The sickness came and then... the baby left.
When this last loss came, I grieved differently. I felt mad at my doc for not listening to me earlier. I felt tired of trying and losing babies. But most of all, I felt confused why God would allow me to be home with my daughter, give the green light for having more children and then take them away, again and again.
Except for in church, I haven't really read my Bible since the miscarriage. I'm not mad at God. At least I don't think so. But I am tired and confused and don't want theology pushed down my throat at this time. Seems every time I try to live in a more faith based fashion, very, very bad things happen. I knew God was in control, but I didn't want to talk to him yet.
Today I was reading John Ortberg's book, "If You Want To Walk on Water, You Have To Get Out of the Boat". It's a book about faith. I skipped to chapter 8, the part about failure. I have devoted my mind, body and will to having a baby since last June. And my body has failed a LOT. It's difficult telling people you're expecting, showing signs of such pregnancy and losing it. They won't admit it, but friends and family get emotionally tired of being told this up and down story. I actually had one person advise me to stop trying. I think she was tired of hearing our story. I understand.
But I don't think God is telling us to stop trying. I think my body is prone to problems because of sin in the world and I see a pattern of conceiving and losing pregnancies. But I feel very strongly that my body is able to carry a pregnancy again.
So what is the point of this blog, you ask? It's the story of faith, the back story of our miscarriages. On the surface, there is a series of stories about failure and lost life. But this whole time, God has been calling me to trusting him more and more. I still don't understand why I need to suffer more loss. It's a mystery. But I trust him anyway.
______________________________________________
Post Script: I have several friends right now who are having difficulty just conceiving. For some reason, God has not opened that door for them yet. Not conceiving is a different grieving process than conceiving and miscarrying and I recognize that. May God grant you the hope and persistance you need in your special circumstances.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Morgan Sayings
How to speak Morganese:
"You did it on perfect!"
Translation: You did it on purpose. Usually said in accusing tone.
"Are you two falling in love again?"
Translation: (Also said in accusing tone.) Morgan caught Dan and I hugging in the kitchen. Horror!
"Daddy put ouchies in my poopies."
Translation: I'm constipated.
"When we smile at each other, that means we're good friends."
Translation not necessary.
"How's your day going on?"
Translation: How are you?
"You did it on perfect!"
Translation: You did it on purpose. Usually said in accusing tone.
"Are you two falling in love again?"
Translation: (Also said in accusing tone.) Morgan caught Dan and I hugging in the kitchen. Horror!
"Daddy put ouchies in my poopies."
Translation: I'm constipated.
"When we smile at each other, that means we're good friends."
Translation not necessary.
"How's your day going on?"
Translation: How are you?
New Blogger
Ladies and Gentlemen:
Presenting Dan, my new blogging husband:
http://tinmandan.blogspot.com/
Marc Miller and Andrea Rip inspired me. And my poor grammer inspired Dan to improve the blogging world with his thoughts.
Enjoy.
Presenting Dan, my new blogging husband:
http://tinmandan.blogspot.com/
Marc Miller and Andrea Rip inspired me. And my poor grammer inspired Dan to improve the blogging world with his thoughts.
Enjoy.
Chicago Flag
Due to a design project, I have had need to research the Chicago flag. To be honest, I only wanted to make sure I knew what it looked like. Fairly simple: 4 stars and 2 stripes.
But did you know that this design of 4 stars and 2 stripes has approximately 30 pieces of information attached to it? Thirty. Each star has 6 points and represents 7 pieces of symbolism and history. The two stripes make up the other two pieces. That's absurdity.
Is Chicago a little too big for its britches? The national flag has some symbolism behind the stars and stripes. Thirteen stripes for the 13 original colonies. (At this time I'd like to point out that Maryland is an ORIGINAL colony.) And of course the 50 stars for the states.
To prove a point, I've done some rough calculating. If the good old Red, White and Blue took a page out of Chicago's book, our youth would have the good fortune of memorizing 263 pieces of information (at LEAST) in their history classes. This is MORE than the Periodic Table of Elements, arguably one of the most frustrating memorization charts of high school. The only way the school system would be able to enforce such memorization is to have Justin Timberlake plod his way through a song about the "Fifty Nifty States and 263 Pieces of Information" available for podcast downloads. That is the ONLY way.
I have always been challenged in history classes. I squeaked above the passing grade just barely through my entire education. My question for those ego-centric history buffs who pumped the Chicago flag so full of symbolism that it is officially constipated is this: Why? Chicago appears to be a great city no matter how much information you attach to each point and arc on its proud banner.
Let's keep it simple. Not stupid.
http://www.chipublib.org/004chicago/chiflag.html
But did you know that this design of 4 stars and 2 stripes has approximately 30 pieces of information attached to it? Thirty. Each star has 6 points and represents 7 pieces of symbolism and history. The two stripes make up the other two pieces. That's absurdity.
Is Chicago a little too big for its britches? The national flag has some symbolism behind the stars and stripes. Thirteen stripes for the 13 original colonies. (At this time I'd like to point out that Maryland is an ORIGINAL colony.) And of course the 50 stars for the states.
To prove a point, I've done some rough calculating. If the good old Red, White and Blue took a page out of Chicago's book, our youth would have the good fortune of memorizing 263 pieces of information (at LEAST) in their history classes. This is MORE than the Periodic Table of Elements, arguably one of the most frustrating memorization charts of high school. The only way the school system would be able to enforce such memorization is to have Justin Timberlake plod his way through a song about the "Fifty Nifty States and 263 Pieces of Information" available for podcast downloads. That is the ONLY way.
I have always been challenged in history classes. I squeaked above the passing grade just barely through my entire education. My question for those ego-centric history buffs who pumped the Chicago flag so full of symbolism that it is officially constipated is this: Why? Chicago appears to be a great city no matter how much information you attach to each point and arc on its proud banner.
Let's keep it simple. Not stupid.
http://www.chipublib.org/004chicago/chiflag.html
Monday, February 5, 2007
Morgan Photos, or, What I Do All Day
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| 1.Take a good hard look. If you think you see a butterfly-shaped sandwich, you would be correct. I cut the sandwich in a rough butterfly shape and she ATE it so it wouldn't lose its form. |
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| 2. A Fun Winter Scene. Took 10 minutes to dress her for her 5 minutes outside, but apparently she thought it was worth it. |
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| 3. I don't remember which yahoo gave her these "sticker" earrings but she claimed that her invisible friend, "Sweetie", needed them on the table. YOU try arguing with an invisible person. |
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| 4. Am I the only one who thinks this is a creepy way of displaying Ariel? |
Why the Bears Lost the Superbowl
There are many theories as to why the Chicago Bears lost the Superbowl last night.
Some purport that they played poorly.
Others think the Bears' quarterback was really playing for the Colts.
But I have another theory. We Dykstras may have made them lose. Last night, on the way to seeing the game at Rob and Ann Vandermeer's house, Dan tried to teach Morgan to say "Go Bears!" But Morgan, in true 3-year old fashion, finds disdain for any idea that isn't hers. She insisted on rooting this way: "Go Spiders!"
We knew we were toast. Sorry, Bears.
Some purport that they played poorly.
Others think the Bears' quarterback was really playing for the Colts.
But I have another theory. We Dykstras may have made them lose. Last night, on the way to seeing the game at Rob and Ann Vandermeer's house, Dan tried to teach Morgan to say "Go Bears!" But Morgan, in true 3-year old fashion, finds disdain for any idea that isn't hers. She insisted on rooting this way: "Go Spiders!"
We knew we were toast. Sorry, Bears.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
Valentine Greetings
We bought a bag of Sweethearts. You know, those darling, sugar packed, heart-shaped bundles of fun with short, lovey messages on them? Those.
We've found a lot of traditional messages: Love me, Kiss me, etc. And some more contemporary ones: Fax me. But tonight Dan confessed that he found a MEAN one: GO HOME. I'm BURSTING with ideas of when to use THAT one, but I'll save that tangent for later.
So there are nice candies and mean candies available, but there are no kiddo candies. There is a VOID in the marketplace, friends. But take heart: I found a way to fill this void: M&Ms allows us common folk to PERSONALIZE our candy. It's great. You're allowed 8 characters and 2 lines of text per each chocolate morsel. So if you have need to provide some alternative candy messages for a youngin', I have come up with some starter messages that I think would gain Morgan's approval:
NAG NAG NAG
I LOVE MYSELF
NO! NO! NO!
LOVE YOU, MOM
WHAT'S THAT SMELL?
I HAVE A SECRET
COOKIES! CAKE!
I WANT MONIES!
PINK PRINCESS
MINE
DAD IZ MY FAV
CHANGE MY PANTS
I LIKE WIPES
READ ME BOOKS
GIMME
SNACKS PLEASE
Now that I've got you sufficiently primed for creating your OWN Valentine messages, let me tell you how much this venture would cost: There is a minimum order of four 7 oz. bags to the tune of $47.96. That's right. For nearly $50 you can customize your own digestable message.
As a chaser to the M&Ms, may I suggest that you have a T-SHIRT made to go with it: 4 EVER POOR.
We've found a lot of traditional messages: Love me, Kiss me, etc. And some more contemporary ones: Fax me. But tonight Dan confessed that he found a MEAN one: GO HOME. I'm BURSTING with ideas of when to use THAT one, but I'll save that tangent for later.
So there are nice candies and mean candies available, but there are no kiddo candies. There is a VOID in the marketplace, friends. But take heart: I found a way to fill this void: M&Ms allows us common folk to PERSONALIZE our candy. It's great. You're allowed 8 characters and 2 lines of text per each chocolate morsel. So if you have need to provide some alternative candy messages for a youngin', I have come up with some starter messages that I think would gain Morgan's approval:
NAG NAG NAG
I LOVE MYSELF
NO! NO! NO!
LOVE YOU, MOM
WHAT'S THAT SMELL?
I HAVE A SECRET
COOKIES! CAKE!
I WANT MONIES!
PINK PRINCESS
MINE
DAD IZ MY FAV
CHANGE MY PANTS
I LIKE WIPES
READ ME BOOKS
GIMME
SNACKS PLEASE
Now that I've got you sufficiently primed for creating your OWN Valentine messages, let me tell you how much this venture would cost: There is a minimum order of four 7 oz. bags to the tune of $47.96. That's right. For nearly $50 you can customize your own digestable message.
As a chaser to the M&Ms, may I suggest that you have a T-SHIRT made to go with it: 4 EVER POOR.
Staging
Dan and I are hoping to put our house on the market in the next month or so. We have a few problem areas to fix in our house (MORE moulding?) but on the whole I thought it looked okay. Now my realtor wants us to stage.
If you're unfamilar with staging your house for resale, it's pretty much what you'd expect. You put items in your house that you may or may not normally put there to make your house more desirable, like setting a stage.
Now one can either hire an interior designer to the tune of approximately $3000 or one can raid TJMaxx of all their home goods and place them stragtegically around the home. I can safely say that my house looks like Pier 1 sneezed here.
I bought a boat load of random baskets, glassware, wooden bowls and faux plants to put around my house. To my realtor's credit, it looks better. I had to put some eyesores away. So long, insurance forms on the kitchen counter. Hello, fake greenery. It looks good. I even want to rebuy my house now.
But I feel like the house is a little too perfect. Perhaps I should replace our family photos with that of Ken and Barbie. Paint the inside pink and buy matching plastic pink furniture. Morgan's room is really only one shade away from that vision, so I'm not too far off.
And while we're at it, if Dan and I would stop shedding skin cells, I could stop dusting. And if Morgan would stop wanting to PLAY with toys then we wouldn't have so many to pick up all the time. (Man... hasn't she SEEN the Pottery Barn Kids catalog? Those children LOVE organization. Their toys even coordinate with their rooms, for Pete's sake.)
And while we're staging, I think I'll start scripting as well:
Dan: Hello, dear! It's so nice to be home. (Peck on cheek.)
Emily: Oh, darling! I'm so glad you're home. I made your favorite roast.
Morgan: Hello, Father. How glad I am that you have arrived safely. (Peck on cheek.) I'll be in my room reading books should you like to join me.
Dan: Get me my slippers, wife! I'm bone tired.
Emily: What? You lazy bum...
I'm not sure if our house will sell or not, but if a buyer puts "staging materials to convey" on the contract, I think I'd have to deny it. I LIKE being a poser.
If you're unfamilar with staging your house for resale, it's pretty much what you'd expect. You put items in your house that you may or may not normally put there to make your house more desirable, like setting a stage.
Now one can either hire an interior designer to the tune of approximately $3000 or one can raid TJMaxx of all their home goods and place them stragtegically around the home. I can safely say that my house looks like Pier 1 sneezed here.
I bought a boat load of random baskets, glassware, wooden bowls and faux plants to put around my house. To my realtor's credit, it looks better. I had to put some eyesores away. So long, insurance forms on the kitchen counter. Hello, fake greenery. It looks good. I even want to rebuy my house now.
But I feel like the house is a little too perfect. Perhaps I should replace our family photos with that of Ken and Barbie. Paint the inside pink and buy matching plastic pink furniture. Morgan's room is really only one shade away from that vision, so I'm not too far off.
And while we're at it, if Dan and I would stop shedding skin cells, I could stop dusting. And if Morgan would stop wanting to PLAY with toys then we wouldn't have so many to pick up all the time. (Man... hasn't she SEEN the Pottery Barn Kids catalog? Those children LOVE organization. Their toys even coordinate with their rooms, for Pete's sake.)
And while we're staging, I think I'll start scripting as well:
Dan: Hello, dear! It's so nice to be home. (Peck on cheek.)
Emily: Oh, darling! I'm so glad you're home. I made your favorite roast.
Morgan: Hello, Father. How glad I am that you have arrived safely. (Peck on cheek.) I'll be in my room reading books should you like to join me.
Dan: Get me my slippers, wife! I'm bone tired.
Emily: What? You lazy bum...
I'm not sure if our house will sell or not, but if a buyer puts "staging materials to convey" on the contract, I think I'd have to deny it. I LIKE being a poser.
Heart Stopping Good Fun
Many years ago (when I still lived in Maryland) I belonged to a small gym which I frequented several times a week. Almost every visit I ran on a treadmill and I got to run 3-4 miles pretty breezily. (I know this means NOTHING to my running friends, but for me, it's good. So don't laugh, Cathi Schuurmann.)
One fine day I was running on the treadmill and an older gentleman (mid 50s I'd say) ran on the treadmill next to me. I noticed that every time I added speed to my machine, he did the same. I would add a bit more speed and he would follow my example. Out of curiosity, I kept going up and that sadist did the same. It got to the point where I was becoming somewhat winded but my out-of-shape running partner was holding on to the handles for dear life as his legs flew underneath him. Egomaniac though he was, I thought it would be a shame if he had a heart attack on my account.
So my question is this: If I kept upping my speed to the demise of this poor man, would I be liable for his death?
This question came to mind today when I ran at the Wheaton track (it's indoor!) for the first time in months. I had a pretty good pace going but I noticed that men who had been walking or "jogging" decided to start using the "running" lane. Nothing against a healthy workout, but some gentle runners would only be able to keep their breakneck pace for one loop or so. I got the idea that maybe I was the reason for their sporadic workout. Can't let a woman be faster, after all.
So, friends, I'm either a sexist or I'm an accessory to murder. Gonna have to choose the former.
One fine day I was running on the treadmill and an older gentleman (mid 50s I'd say) ran on the treadmill next to me. I noticed that every time I added speed to my machine, he did the same. I would add a bit more speed and he would follow my example. Out of curiosity, I kept going up and that sadist did the same. It got to the point where I was becoming somewhat winded but my out-of-shape running partner was holding on to the handles for dear life as his legs flew underneath him. Egomaniac though he was, I thought it would be a shame if he had a heart attack on my account.
So my question is this: If I kept upping my speed to the demise of this poor man, would I be liable for his death?
This question came to mind today when I ran at the Wheaton track (it's indoor!) for the first time in months. I had a pretty good pace going but I noticed that men who had been walking or "jogging" decided to start using the "running" lane. Nothing against a healthy workout, but some gentle runners would only be able to keep their breakneck pace for one loop or so. I got the idea that maybe I was the reason for their sporadic workout. Can't let a woman be faster, after all.
So, friends, I'm either a sexist or I'm an accessory to murder. Gonna have to choose the former.
Friday, February 2, 2007
Why I'm Weird: The Series, Part I
Why I am Weird, Story One: Because I don't know when to hide my faults and when to flaunt them.
_____________________________________
My father is in town for the week and whenever my family comes in for a visit, inevitably dinnertime becomes story time. "Remember when..." "That was so funny..." kind of stories.
Last night we were remembering something funny my grandmother did. I was about to graduate from high school. I was visiting my grandmother in Pennsylvania and she wanted to do something special for my graduation: bake owl-shaped cookies. She thought owls looked smart and, I don't know, graduation-like. I was smart, I'll give her that. I was valedictorian of my class. Granted, I was homeschooled and the ONLY graduating member of my class, but that's not important.
In order to make these fowl cookies (I crack me up... fowl, foul) we had to purchase some cashews from the grocery store. Grandad was out golfing and we had a grocery "emergency" for nuts, so my Grammy decided to drive us there.
I don't think I had ever seen my grandmother drive before. (Enter first clue to story's plot.)
Good thing she didn't have a really nice Lincoln Towncar.
So we hopped in her Towncar and, if I'm remembering correctly, I'm not sure my grandmother looked back when she threw the car in reverse as we flew out of the garage. I'm pretty sure of it because there was a rather loud scraping sound on my side of the car ("Good Glory!"). But we contined to drive to the grocery store anyway.
When we arrived at the store, we took a look at the damage. No need to be near the car to see the damage. Approximately one third of the front shiny bumper had been twisted and pulled several feet out in FRONT of the car. No one who liked their car could park in front of our car; that's how far out it stood. My grandmother and I looked at it, whinced and bought those cashews.
Back at home, my grandmother went to the garage intending to fix the bumper. A fully grown man couldn't have pushed it in. So she didn't even try. (This is where it gets good.) So my dear grandmother SHINED the bumper with Windex. That's right, instead of trying to conceal her guilt, she made sure it screamed, "Look at me! Look at me!"
Fast forward to "later that night" when grandad arrived home.
Grammy: "Cal, I have something to tell you and you won't like it. Something happened to the car..."
(Granded DARTS to the garage and all sorts of unhappiness ensues.)
Don't worry, I know what you're thinking. I DID graduate that next week. With VERY expensive owl-shaped cookies. Hoo-hoo!
_____________________________________
My father is in town for the week and whenever my family comes in for a visit, inevitably dinnertime becomes story time. "Remember when..." "That was so funny..." kind of stories.
Last night we were remembering something funny my grandmother did. I was about to graduate from high school. I was visiting my grandmother in Pennsylvania and she wanted to do something special for my graduation: bake owl-shaped cookies. She thought owls looked smart and, I don't know, graduation-like. I was smart, I'll give her that. I was valedictorian of my class. Granted, I was homeschooled and the ONLY graduating member of my class, but that's not important.
In order to make these fowl cookies (I crack me up... fowl, foul) we had to purchase some cashews from the grocery store. Grandad was out golfing and we had a grocery "emergency" for nuts, so my Grammy decided to drive us there.
I don't think I had ever seen my grandmother drive before. (Enter first clue to story's plot.)
Good thing she didn't have a really nice Lincoln Towncar.
So we hopped in her Towncar and, if I'm remembering correctly, I'm not sure my grandmother looked back when she threw the car in reverse as we flew out of the garage. I'm pretty sure of it because there was a rather loud scraping sound on my side of the car ("Good Glory!"). But we contined to drive to the grocery store anyway.
When we arrived at the store, we took a look at the damage. No need to be near the car to see the damage. Approximately one third of the front shiny bumper had been twisted and pulled several feet out in FRONT of the car. No one who liked their car could park in front of our car; that's how far out it stood. My grandmother and I looked at it, whinced and bought those cashews.
Back at home, my grandmother went to the garage intending to fix the bumper. A fully grown man couldn't have pushed it in. So she didn't even try. (This is where it gets good.) So my dear grandmother SHINED the bumper with Windex. That's right, instead of trying to conceal her guilt, she made sure it screamed, "Look at me! Look at me!"
Fast forward to "later that night" when grandad arrived home.
Grammy: "Cal, I have something to tell you and you won't like it. Something happened to the car..."
(Granded DARTS to the garage and all sorts of unhappiness ensues.)
Don't worry, I know what you're thinking. I DID graduate that next week. With VERY expensive owl-shaped cookies. Hoo-hoo!
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Of Mothering Morgan
I was an art major in college. I saw plenty of pink haired, mohawked, body pierced people. But the squeaky type A in me has been cringing lately at my daughter's budding independence.
The latest manifestation was seen on her feet. We have a rule in our house that when it's cold outside (only November through April really) we have to wear at least socks on our feet in the house. No bare tootsies. Every day I must remind Morgan of this rule. Today she agreed to put socks on and she did so with an eager, "I can do it myself, Mommy!" as she ran to her room. It was too easy. I should have known. My child came out with one bright pink sock and one white one on her feet. Not only that, one sock looked to be two sizes too small. Serenity now!
There's more. Since Morgan's ear tube surgery, I neglected to purchase ear plugs. I was not allowed to shampoo her hair until doing so. It's been too long since she's had a good hair cleaning and yesterday it showed. Morgan awoke with what looked to be the beginning of dreads. Nappy, dread hair. Ewww. I am NOT raising a Rastafarian.
But there's more to mothering than grooming. There's the delicate art of arranging or preventing a nap. You've heard nap terms thrown around before: "She's a one-napper", "He's a double napper", etc. Well, unless Morgan is thoroughly overstimulated, hepped up and dropped down on sugar, she's what we call a "no-napper". This means that I have no privacy or down time save for Sesame Street hour. Today, I wore dear Morgan out with a double whammy: I had a little friend of hers over this morning. Then I took her to another friend's house this afternoon. The child was bone tired. But I wouldn't let her nap. Oh, no. This would be an early night in. (Hallelujah Chorus.)
Unfortunately, I didn't let my father in on this strategy. Her grandfather wanted to read her books before dinner. They BOTH fell asleep. ARRGGGHH followed by NOOOOOOOOOOO. I woke her up. I EVEN bribed her with candy to pump her up enough to get through dinner. It worked. Call it cruel. Maybe. But my Chinese-water-tortureesque mothering will result in a good night's sleep, my friend. And as all mothers know, sleep is god. I mean good.
And as a final story, let me wrap up with WHY I need my sleep. Because the child is wicked smart. I'm not saying she's genius-smart. She's wily-smart. And wily-smart kiddos do things like stick pennies in paper shredders because they look like giant, gray piggy banks. They also smother their bodies in 13 oz. of petroleum jelly because they love lotion and, by jove, petroleum jelly sticks longer. And unless I have my game on, I'm pretty certain this wily one could also start the car, drive over the border of Mexico and convince our southern friends that she is a senorita.
Go ahead. Call me a sadistic, type A, suffocating mother. But I'm not raising a nappy haired, shoeless greased pig. No, I'm raising something far more interesting. I'm raising a "Morgan".
The latest manifestation was seen on her feet. We have a rule in our house that when it's cold outside (only November through April really) we have to wear at least socks on our feet in the house. No bare tootsies. Every day I must remind Morgan of this rule. Today she agreed to put socks on and she did so with an eager, "I can do it myself, Mommy!" as she ran to her room. It was too easy. I should have known. My child came out with one bright pink sock and one white one on her feet. Not only that, one sock looked to be two sizes too small. Serenity now!
There's more. Since Morgan's ear tube surgery, I neglected to purchase ear plugs. I was not allowed to shampoo her hair until doing so. It's been too long since she's had a good hair cleaning and yesterday it showed. Morgan awoke with what looked to be the beginning of dreads. Nappy, dread hair. Ewww. I am NOT raising a Rastafarian.
But there's more to mothering than grooming. There's the delicate art of arranging or preventing a nap. You've heard nap terms thrown around before: "She's a one-napper", "He's a double napper", etc. Well, unless Morgan is thoroughly overstimulated, hepped up and dropped down on sugar, she's what we call a "no-napper". This means that I have no privacy or down time save for Sesame Street hour. Today, I wore dear Morgan out with a double whammy: I had a little friend of hers over this morning. Then I took her to another friend's house this afternoon. The child was bone tired. But I wouldn't let her nap. Oh, no. This would be an early night in. (Hallelujah Chorus.)
Unfortunately, I didn't let my father in on this strategy. Her grandfather wanted to read her books before dinner. They BOTH fell asleep. ARRGGGHH followed by NOOOOOOOOOOO. I woke her up. I EVEN bribed her with candy to pump her up enough to get through dinner. It worked. Call it cruel. Maybe. But my Chinese-water-tortureesque mothering will result in a good night's sleep, my friend. And as all mothers know, sleep is god. I mean good.
And as a final story, let me wrap up with WHY I need my sleep. Because the child is wicked smart. I'm not saying she's genius-smart. She's wily-smart. And wily-smart kiddos do things like stick pennies in paper shredders because they look like giant, gray piggy banks. They also smother their bodies in 13 oz. of petroleum jelly because they love lotion and, by jove, petroleum jelly sticks longer. And unless I have my game on, I'm pretty certain this wily one could also start the car, drive over the border of Mexico and convince our southern friends that she is a senorita.
Go ahead. Call me a sadistic, type A, suffocating mother. But I'm not raising a nappy haired, shoeless greased pig. No, I'm raising something far more interesting. I'm raising a "Morgan".
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