Our local PBS station is about to embark on its annual pledge drive and the program guide reminds us to "Tune in for another year of live quilting thrills!" Oh yes. I will definitely be watching that. Needle in, needle out, red square to yellow diamond, pin the facing sides -- I'm all a-tingle.
My 6 year old wanted to know if she could stay up during the pledge drive (which around here is called Festival! 'cause there's nothing that says party like begging people for money) to watch Daniel O'Donnell performing Home in Ireland, a program I am almost certain has a demographic of 60-80 year olds. I have got to start cutting back on her t.v. watching. Either that or we've got to get cable so she can watch Hannah Montana like normal kids.
Still, it would make a nice change from the countless Dora the Explorer videos I've had to endure.
Surfing today while the munchkin naps. Visited Pioneer Woman Cooks! and gained weight just from reading the recipes. I am feeling mildly inspired to make something new which the kids will refuse to eat (as opposed to all the stuff I already make which they refuse to eat). Inspired enough to venture out in the snow to the grocery store? Not really. But I think I'll add a few things to my shopping list and give them a try next week sometime.
It's snowing again. Still trying to remember why I live here.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Random Blathering
No real direction today; just a collection of widely scattered thoughts that I felt like getting out there in a meaningful way. Since I can't actually do that, I'll just put them in my blog instead.
Grant is growing again. I know this because for lunch he ate 6 pieces of lunch meat, a whole pbj sandwich, a granola bar, a bagel, a cup of applesauce and all of his milk. I think when he hits junior high and really starts eating, we'll have to purchase him some kind of membership at Old Country Buffet so we can be sure he gets enough chow.
We arrived home from Arizona to -30 windchills and I am trying to remember why we live here. Jobs, family -- something like that, but pretty meaningless in light of the vile weather.
Which, I've noticed, the weather people on local tv are fond of giving perky names like "Canadian Clipper," I guess on the theory that the sheer jauntiness of the name will cause us to forget that our skin freezes when we walk out to get the mail.
Skin. I have ignored it for a very long time, but now that I am over (f-word), I find that it can no longer be neglected. I have to make time to slather it with lotion after showering -- no small chore, finding an extra 3 minutes in my already abbreviated, kid-attuned shower routine -- or I risk developing nasty, scaly patches, or worse, cracks and splits. These, let me tell you, hurt like the worst paper cut you can imagine, and they refuse to heal without even more attention, like antibiotic cream and bandaids on all the affected areas. I have gone to bed with nearly every finger swathed in a bandage of some sort, like some sort of refugee from a cartoon piano accident.
This morning, the kids let me have a pee in peace. This is remarkable because of its rarity. Normally, I have an actual audience in the bathroom, often an audience that asks uncomfortably frank questions about whatever they may have noticed about the Potty Experience a la Mom. If I don't have a peanut gallery (or is it peenut?) then I have people standing right outside either tattling (Abby Kate), asking for snacks (Grant), or flinging themselves bodily against the door with much wailing and gnashing of teeth (Maggie). Every mother in the world knows what I'm talking about.
I always swore as a parent I would never be a total sucker and buy all that tie-in merchandise that is put out by every children's program out there, be it Nickelodeon or PBS. I was so, so wrong. I have embraced my inner Elmo now and purchased not one, but two Dora the Explorer Valentine books -- not just tie-in merchandise; seasonal tie-in merchandise. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Grant is growing again. I know this because for lunch he ate 6 pieces of lunch meat, a whole pbj sandwich, a granola bar, a bagel, a cup of applesauce and all of his milk. I think when he hits junior high and really starts eating, we'll have to purchase him some kind of membership at Old Country Buffet so we can be sure he gets enough chow.
We arrived home from Arizona to -30 windchills and I am trying to remember why we live here. Jobs, family -- something like that, but pretty meaningless in light of the vile weather.
Which, I've noticed, the weather people on local tv are fond of giving perky names like "Canadian Clipper," I guess on the theory that the sheer jauntiness of the name will cause us to forget that our skin freezes when we walk out to get the mail.
Skin. I have ignored it for a very long time, but now that I am over (f-word), I find that it can no longer be neglected. I have to make time to slather it with lotion after showering -- no small chore, finding an extra 3 minutes in my already abbreviated, kid-attuned shower routine -- or I risk developing nasty, scaly patches, or worse, cracks and splits. These, let me tell you, hurt like the worst paper cut you can imagine, and they refuse to heal without even more attention, like antibiotic cream and bandaids on all the affected areas. I have gone to bed with nearly every finger swathed in a bandage of some sort, like some sort of refugee from a cartoon piano accident.
This morning, the kids let me have a pee in peace. This is remarkable because of its rarity. Normally, I have an actual audience in the bathroom, often an audience that asks uncomfortably frank questions about whatever they may have noticed about the Potty Experience a la Mom. If I don't have a peanut gallery (or is it peenut?) then I have people standing right outside either tattling (Abby Kate), asking for snacks (Grant), or flinging themselves bodily against the door with much wailing and gnashing of teeth (Maggie). Every mother in the world knows what I'm talking about.
I always swore as a parent I would never be a total sucker and buy all that tie-in merchandise that is put out by every children's program out there, be it Nickelodeon or PBS. I was so, so wrong. I have embraced my inner Elmo now and purchased not one, but two Dora the Explorer Valentine books -- not just tie-in merchandise; seasonal tie-in merchandise. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Friday, February 1, 2008
My 4 Year Old, The Lawyer
Scene: the van, on the way to school. It is early morning and I have only had half my coffee. I am understandably somewhat foggy.
Abby Kate: Mom, I don't even know why A-S-S is a bad word. Why is A-S-S a bad word?
Me: (startled) Where did you hear that word?
Abby Kate: Lydia at school. She said it and said it's a bad word. But why is ass a bad word?
Me: Um....if you're talking about a donkey -- 'cause it is an old fashioned word for donkey -- then it's okay, but it's also a very rude word for rear end. Then it's not okay.
Grant: Mom, you have to put a nickel in my piggy bank now.
Me: What? Why? I didn't say a bad word (and for the record here, let me state that the "bad word" I occasionally have to pony up for is "gosh")
Grant: Uh, Mom, you did. You said "butt."
Me: No, I didn't. I said "rear end."
Grant: Uh, Mom, "rear end" means the same thing. You have to pay me a nickel.
You know I can't win; I'm outnumbered.
Abby Kate: Mom, I don't even know why A-S-S is a bad word. Why is A-S-S a bad word?
Me: (startled) Where did you hear that word?
Abby Kate: Lydia at school. She said it and said it's a bad word. But why is ass a bad word?
Me: Um....if you're talking about a donkey -- 'cause it is an old fashioned word for donkey -- then it's okay, but it's also a very rude word for rear end. Then it's not okay.
Grant: Mom, you have to put a nickel in my piggy bank now.
Me: What? Why? I didn't say a bad word (and for the record here, let me state that the "bad word" I occasionally have to pony up for is "gosh")
Grant: Uh, Mom, you did. You said "butt."
Me: No, I didn't. I said "rear end."
Grant: Uh, Mom, "rear end" means the same thing. You have to pay me a nickel.
You know I can't win; I'm outnumbered.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Remains of the Day
So, the other night I was making dinner. This activity is sometimes an efficient affair, and sometimes a metaphoric dash through a minefield, depending on how prepared/organized/PMS-y I am. On this night, I was stirring and simmering and sauteeing like a pro, almost completely able to ignore the children popping in and out of the kitchen at various intervals. Maggie had her head in the pantry cabinet, calling out "Cake? Cake?" apparently in hopes that a large, frosted yummy would materialize in there. When that didn't happen, she consoled herself by taking out all the boxes of granola bars and standing on them. Twice.
The older children wandered in periodically to say things like "What are we having for dinner? Not that, right? I hate that." and "Can I have a snack?" (No.) "Well, when can I have a snack?" because evidently the act of making dinner does not, in fact, guarantee that food will be coming your way any time soon.
Lucky for them, Aunt Flo had arrived earlier in the day and I was feeling verrry calm, almost Zen-like. Don't like my sweet and sour chicken? Wisdom is not yours today, little grasshopper. Smashed granola bars? Tonight you will not learn the sound of one hand clapping, little monster pants, because I am inhabiting a higher plane.
It's nice, being above it all. And the nicest part about it was that it could so easily have gone the other way, and so often has.
It is no small thing to feel supremely sane.
The older children wandered in periodically to say things like "What are we having for dinner? Not that, right? I hate that." and "Can I have a snack?" (No.) "Well, when can I have a snack?" because evidently the act of making dinner does not, in fact, guarantee that food will be coming your way any time soon.
Lucky for them, Aunt Flo had arrived earlier in the day and I was feeling verrry calm, almost Zen-like. Don't like my sweet and sour chicken? Wisdom is not yours today, little grasshopper. Smashed granola bars? Tonight you will not learn the sound of one hand clapping, little monster pants, because I am inhabiting a higher plane.
It's nice, being above it all. And the nicest part about it was that it could so easily have gone the other way, and so often has.
It is no small thing to feel supremely sane.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Don't Stop Now...
or people will think I've jumped off a bridge as a result of all the moving angst. I didn't, and although the move itself was very hairy (ice storm) and the kids had a little (not unexpected) trouble settling in, we all survived and I am feeling calmer than I have in months.
Then again, almost as soon as we moved in, things began breaking: door handles, cabinet pulls, shower doors, etc. It's like the house was just holding its breath until we got in and then on the exhale started popping its metaphoric buttons. Ah well, such is the life of the home owner.
But I am done writing about the move, the house and all that rit rot, at least for today. Today I want to rant about something totally different.
Politics.
When you live in a "politically relevant" state, as I do, you find that the days prior to the politically significant events in question are filled with phone calls from volunteers trying to ascertain your position or solicit your support. Yesterday I had a record 8 phone calls with either live or recorded people urging me to support 1) Ron Paul 2)Mike Huckabee 3) Mitt Romney 4)Barack Obama 5) Ron Paul (again) 6) John McCain 7) Ron Paul (yet again) and 8)Hillary Clinton.
One nice man called for Mitt Romney and wanted to know my opinion of him. I told him I wouldn't vote for him, and of course, he wanted to know why. I explained that his position on illegal immigration was reactionary and draconian , but what I wanted to say was that I don't like him because he keeps calling my house.
In the most bizarre twist of all, I got a hand-addressed Christmas card from the Millers in Puyallup, WA -- a place I have never been. As I opened it, I was trying to remember if my friend from College had moved from Chicago to Puyallup in the past year. Then the full weirdness of the card burst upon me. Inside was a Christmas letter, just like the ones you get with all the family updates, only this one was a letter from a total stranger urging me to consider Ron Paul for President, so he could single-handedly restore America's greatness.
That's just about as wacky a ploy as I've ever seen.
Of course, anyone that knew anything about me at all would know that I would never endorse someone like Ron Paul, but it's rare that a candidate should have the ability to alienate me so early in the race. Normally I don't feel alienated and disaffected until October of the election year. On actual election day, I ususally feel like I'm performing a very distasteful duty, like excising warts or assisting in a hemmorroid surgery. By then I pretty much hate everybody and am certain that no matter who I vote for, we're all going straight to hell in a handbasket.
Just a few more days and the phone calls should stop.
Then again, almost as soon as we moved in, things began breaking: door handles, cabinet pulls, shower doors, etc. It's like the house was just holding its breath until we got in and then on the exhale started popping its metaphoric buttons. Ah well, such is the life of the home owner.
But I am done writing about the move, the house and all that rit rot, at least for today. Today I want to rant about something totally different.
Politics.
When you live in a "politically relevant" state, as I do, you find that the days prior to the politically significant events in question are filled with phone calls from volunteers trying to ascertain your position or solicit your support. Yesterday I had a record 8 phone calls with either live or recorded people urging me to support 1) Ron Paul 2)Mike Huckabee 3) Mitt Romney 4)Barack Obama 5) Ron Paul (again) 6) John McCain 7) Ron Paul (yet again) and 8)Hillary Clinton.
One nice man called for Mitt Romney and wanted to know my opinion of him. I told him I wouldn't vote for him, and of course, he wanted to know why. I explained that his position on illegal immigration was reactionary and draconian , but what I wanted to say was that I don't like him because he keeps calling my house.
In the most bizarre twist of all, I got a hand-addressed Christmas card from the Millers in Puyallup, WA -- a place I have never been. As I opened it, I was trying to remember if my friend from College had moved from Chicago to Puyallup in the past year. Then the full weirdness of the card burst upon me. Inside was a Christmas letter, just like the ones you get with all the family updates, only this one was a letter from a total stranger urging me to consider Ron Paul for President, so he could single-handedly restore America's greatness.
That's just about as wacky a ploy as I've ever seen.
Of course, anyone that knew anything about me at all would know that I would never endorse someone like Ron Paul, but it's rare that a candidate should have the ability to alienate me so early in the race. Normally I don't feel alienated and disaffected until October of the election year. On actual election day, I ususally feel like I'm performing a very distasteful duty, like excising warts or assisting in a hemmorroid surgery. By then I pretty much hate everybody and am certain that no matter who I vote for, we're all going straight to hell in a handbasket.
Just a few more days and the phone calls should stop.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Two Days into the Countdown
Tonight I am assailed with doubt again. Feeling like I don't want to leave, feeling like moving is a huge mistake. I am again just barely functioning. I can pack if there's someone there to help me or point me in the right direction, but in general I feel too overwhelmed to do much. Why can't I just move forward and be done with it? Why can't I turn my thoughts toward all the advantages and ignore everything else? Instead I feel on the verge of implosion.
Today my mom helped me pack and as I was trying to express why this move is so hard for me (after all, I have actually lived in this house longer than I have lived anywhere in my entire life -- thanks a lot mom and dad) she began talking about medication and chronic depression and things of that nature, which then made me think, okay, how far out of scale is the way I'm feeling? Isn't it only natural to feel sad and fearful? I tried to explain how important my surroundings are, how critical to my state of mind, and I don't think I made much of an impression. Everyone in my family knows I'm the picky one...I guess they don't understand how deeply that pickiness (read control issues, kids) goes.
Am I crazy? I mean in the treatable sense? Am I chronically depressed? I'm not really sure. It certainly doesn't feel at all like the depression I had after Grant was born. I felt so sad and so full of despair then, like nothing in the world really mattered at all. This is more like a low level panic attack, a kind of thin thread of anxiety running through my every waking moment and through a good chunk of my sleeping moments, too. I think I am anticipating loss (old house) and constant unrelenting work (new house) and that's all my tunnel vision can grasp.
Change is so hard for me. I have never adapted well to change, even as a kid. I think it was just less obvious then because I had so little say in what decisions were made for me. In particular, I never had the right of refusal. Now, as a grown up, I know I sometimes say no just to say it -- I sometimes say no to quite good ideas, just to enjoy the feeling of putting my foot down. Then later I think, what the heck? That would have been okay!
Then, too, grieving is not something I do easily. Emotionally speaking I am fairly private and grief, although I feel it keenly, is the most private of all. And what I am feeling a lot of lately is grief.
D-day in 2 days.
Today my mom helped me pack and as I was trying to express why this move is so hard for me (after all, I have actually lived in this house longer than I have lived anywhere in my entire life -- thanks a lot mom and dad) she began talking about medication and chronic depression and things of that nature, which then made me think, okay, how far out of scale is the way I'm feeling? Isn't it only natural to feel sad and fearful? I tried to explain how important my surroundings are, how critical to my state of mind, and I don't think I made much of an impression. Everyone in my family knows I'm the picky one...I guess they don't understand how deeply that pickiness (read control issues, kids) goes.
Am I crazy? I mean in the treatable sense? Am I chronically depressed? I'm not really sure. It certainly doesn't feel at all like the depression I had after Grant was born. I felt so sad and so full of despair then, like nothing in the world really mattered at all. This is more like a low level panic attack, a kind of thin thread of anxiety running through my every waking moment and through a good chunk of my sleeping moments, too. I think I am anticipating loss (old house) and constant unrelenting work (new house) and that's all my tunnel vision can grasp.
Change is so hard for me. I have never adapted well to change, even as a kid. I think it was just less obvious then because I had so little say in what decisions were made for me. In particular, I never had the right of refusal. Now, as a grown up, I know I sometimes say no just to say it -- I sometimes say no to quite good ideas, just to enjoy the feeling of putting my foot down. Then later I think, what the heck? That would have been okay!
Then, too, grieving is not something I do easily. Emotionally speaking I am fairly private and grief, although I feel it keenly, is the most private of all. And what I am feeling a lot of lately is grief.
D-day in 2 days.
Monday, November 26, 2007
R & R
Went to Kansas City this past weekend because we'd planned a trip there nearly 6 months ago and had non-refundable tickets to the Raiders-Chiefs game. The idea was that the men would go to the game and the women would shop.
As it turned out, some of us shopped, though not as much as we'd liked to have done. The kids swam in the hotel pool Saturday night and we had a splendid dinner at Jack Stack Barbeque (and I am still having indecent thoughts about the crown prime ribs I had...sooo good). Maggie and I survived being separated from each other for 40 hours (she stayed at home with Grandma) and in general, a good time was had by all.
On the face of it, it seems irresponsible to run away for the weekend when we're moving this Friday and I am not even slightly organized or ready, but it felt really good to just not be here; all the stuff that torments me at night and makes me hyperventilate during the day melted into the background and I felt more relaxed than I have for a long, long time.
My sister and I did some painting in the new house on Friday and that felt good, too. Sort of like claiming the space as my own. We have a long way to go, but I feel more like we're going to get there without me needing to be committed.
My task now is to survive the actual move and all the attendant craziness and upheaval. I may never find anything again once we're actually moved -- I've had to chuck stuff in boxes and cram things in willy-nilly just to get the house show-ready, so now I have only a very hazy idea of where a lot of things are. The process will be complete this weekend when it all gets shifted to the new house.
First road trip of the new year will be to the closest IKEA for some storage shelves to corral the toys.
As it turned out, some of us shopped, though not as much as we'd liked to have done. The kids swam in the hotel pool Saturday night and we had a splendid dinner at Jack Stack Barbeque (and I am still having indecent thoughts about the crown prime ribs I had...sooo good). Maggie and I survived being separated from each other for 40 hours (she stayed at home with Grandma) and in general, a good time was had by all.
On the face of it, it seems irresponsible to run away for the weekend when we're moving this Friday and I am not even slightly organized or ready, but it felt really good to just not be here; all the stuff that torments me at night and makes me hyperventilate during the day melted into the background and I felt more relaxed than I have for a long, long time.
My sister and I did some painting in the new house on Friday and that felt good, too. Sort of like claiming the space as my own. We have a long way to go, but I feel more like we're going to get there without me needing to be committed.
My task now is to survive the actual move and all the attendant craziness and upheaval. I may never find anything again once we're actually moved -- I've had to chuck stuff in boxes and cram things in willy-nilly just to get the house show-ready, so now I have only a very hazy idea of where a lot of things are. The process will be complete this weekend when it all gets shifted to the new house.
First road trip of the new year will be to the closest IKEA for some storage shelves to corral the toys.
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