I got the rare joy of picking my son up from school today.
While we were walking to the car, he was chattering away (as he is usually doing. I've never known him to be at a loss for words...) and I happened to piece together the fact that the kids in his class were teasing him by calling him "Elvis."
When queried why, he replied: "Because I put gel in my hair. And I just put it all over. I have no consistent way of doing it."
My slightly-insane life and times
9/30/11
D will kill me for telling this story...
E was outside playing with his friend Squeaks (not his real name, but I like to preserve some semblance of anonymity on this blog, and the kid has a high squeaky/raspy voice, so that's how he shall be dubbed from now on) earlier today when suddenly he came storming inside, slammed the front door, and stomped up the stairs to his bedroom muttering under his breath. Being a mother, and therefore easily quailed by such tactics, I tentatively called "E?" but received no answer.
When he had cooled down enough to grace the downstairs mortals with his presence again, I asked him if he'd had a disagreement with Squeaks. "Well, yes," he replied, grumpy again, "I got mad at him because I told him that I'd gotten a new haircut today and he didn't even say 'nice haircut'!"
Suffice it to say that I had to try very hard not to laugh.
And D didn't think it was that funny. Since he's been on the other end of that particular conversation once or twice.
9/16/11
Bookworm
9/14/11
The Husband and the Wife
An...acquaintance...of mine sent me this the other day, and I laughed so hard reading it that it just had to be shared. It has been edited very slightly for the sake of certain involved parties, but the spirit of the thing has been preserved. Enjoy!
...I set off for Different Town. We decided to eat Chinese... At first I told the Husband to pick up the order, and I would meet him at the B & B [place where we stay when we're in Different Town]. Then I realized that if it were the Husband, HE would have picked up the food on the way in and brought it 'home'. I was merely accustomed to being spoiled as a "lady" and not out and around after dark if I could help it (my thoughtful husband's behest). So I called him back, said I would pick up the food, chatted with Mrs. Chinese Restaurant Owner and exclaimed over her children (now quite good-looking, both of them), then set off home with a bag of aromatic lo mein, honey chicken and rice and a large [supposedly] Diet Pepsi. (It turned out to be a Dr. Pepper, fuel on the fire, fuel on the fire.) I arrived to a darkened B & B with sounds of banjo music mixing in with announcer calls most consistent with Fight Night. I entered the kitchen side, food in hand, and was greeted by my loving husband who had leapt up from his sofa, put down his banjo, and come to relieve me of the food the moment he heard my [dulcet] tones inquiring as to his whereabouts. This is the point at which disaster struck.
I made Wife Mistakes Numbers 1 and 2: 1)Making assumptions (in this case, making the assumption that he would realize I was hauling in stuff from my car) and 2)Expecting understanding without clarification (in this case, expecting he would realize that just like the other 52 times or so that I've arrived at the B & B I would, indeed, have various gear, food and sundries to haul into the edifice).
I returned to the car to pile even more (and heavier) articles into my arms. I turned around, no husband was in sight. Well, he's just putting the food up a bit slowly, perhaps. I entered the kitchen to be greeted with an almost identical situation: darkness with echoes of banjo music and announcer quips. I proceeded to shuffle my feet somewhat noisily. Ah. Almost instant results. The Man comes out before I've completely traversed the floor to relieve me of my burdens. "Is there more?" he asks, innocently. Of course there's more. I've taken on his tendency to travel with not just clothing, but books, electrical gear, musical instruments and food, as well as anything that strikes my fancy as I glance through the house one last time before setting the alarm (this is when the kitchen sink makes it into the car....). I am now quite perturbed. It's past 8, I'm hungry, thirsty and tired and have more gear to unpack. I turned to make yet another trip to the car. 10 feet became 20, 30 pounds became 60, in my irritation.
Unfortunately, Mrs. B&B Owner's very carefully timed lights are not timed for darkness. As I stepped out into darkness, I forgot the 1" drop from stoop to driveway, lost my balance, fell onto my right knee and left palm, scraping both. As I writhed in temporary pain, the Husband called out, "Are you all right?" I writhed a little longer, granted mostly for effect and [righteous] consolation. It was not to be. As I picked myself up, having ascertained I'd received only the most minimal of injuries and even less consolation from my fight-night-distracted husband, I replied in what I thought was a voice laced and dripping with irony, "Oh, I can handle the rest of it by myself." Remember the Wife Mistakes above? He took me at my word and I ended up hauling in my heavy suitcase by myself. (Never mind that I had earlier hauled it to the car and loaded it myself, a more difficult task. My status as a trophy wife was, at this moment, precarious and endangered!!) This time when I entered, there was no activity whatsoever in the kitchen. Why should there be? The Husband had served himself and speedily returned to watching his fight. And then he wondered why I was mad the rest of the evening.
To add insult to injury, I went to church the next evening and the readings were too appropriate:
"Wrath and anger are hateful things,
Yet the sinner hugs them tight."
The only saving grace was that the Husband had gotten called in and wasn't there to nudge me in the ribs....
...I set off for Different Town. We decided to eat Chinese... At first I told the Husband to pick up the order, and I would meet him at the B & B [place where we stay when we're in Different Town]. Then I realized that if it were the Husband, HE would have picked up the food on the way in and brought it 'home'. I was merely accustomed to being spoiled as a "lady" and not out and around after dark if I could help it (my thoughtful husband's behest). So I called him back, said I would pick up the food, chatted with Mrs. Chinese Restaurant Owner and exclaimed over her children (now quite good-looking, both of them), then set off home with a bag of aromatic lo mein, honey chicken and rice and a large [supposedly] Diet Pepsi. (It turned out to be a Dr. Pepper, fuel on the fire, fuel on the fire.) I arrived to a darkened B & B with sounds of banjo music mixing in with announcer calls most consistent with Fight Night. I entered the kitchen side, food in hand, and was greeted by my loving husband who had leapt up from his sofa, put down his banjo, and come to relieve me of the food the moment he heard my [dulcet] tones inquiring as to his whereabouts. This is the point at which disaster struck.
I made Wife Mistakes Numbers 1 and 2: 1)Making assumptions (in this case, making the assumption that he would realize I was hauling in stuff from my car) and 2)Expecting understanding without clarification (in this case, expecting he would realize that just like the other 52 times or so that I've arrived at the B & B I would, indeed, have various gear, food and sundries to haul into the edifice).
I returned to the car to pile even more (and heavier) articles into my arms. I turned around, no husband was in sight. Well, he's just putting the food up a bit slowly, perhaps. I entered the kitchen to be greeted with an almost identical situation: darkness with echoes of banjo music and announcer quips. I proceeded to shuffle my feet somewhat noisily. Ah. Almost instant results. The Man comes out before I've completely traversed the floor to relieve me of my burdens. "Is there more?" he asks, innocently. Of course there's more. I've taken on his tendency to travel with not just clothing, but books, electrical gear, musical instruments and food, as well as anything that strikes my fancy as I glance through the house one last time before setting the alarm (this is when the kitchen sink makes it into the car....). I am now quite perturbed. It's past 8, I'm hungry, thirsty and tired and have more gear to unpack. I turned to make yet another trip to the car. 10 feet became 20, 30 pounds became 60, in my irritation.
Unfortunately, Mrs. B&B Owner's very carefully timed lights are not timed for darkness. As I stepped out into darkness, I forgot the 1" drop from stoop to driveway, lost my balance, fell onto my right knee and left palm, scraping both. As I writhed in temporary pain, the Husband called out, "Are you all right?" I writhed a little longer, granted mostly for effect and [righteous] consolation. It was not to be. As I picked myself up, having ascertained I'd received only the most minimal of injuries and even less consolation from my fight-night-distracted husband, I replied in what I thought was a voice laced and dripping with irony, "Oh, I can handle the rest of it by myself." Remember the Wife Mistakes above? He took me at my word and I ended up hauling in my heavy suitcase by myself. (Never mind that I had earlier hauled it to the car and loaded it myself, a more difficult task. My status as a trophy wife was, at this moment, precarious and endangered!!) This time when I entered, there was no activity whatsoever in the kitchen. Why should there be? The Husband had served himself and speedily returned to watching his fight. And then he wondered why I was mad the rest of the evening.
To add insult to injury, I went to church the next evening and the readings were too appropriate:
"Wrath and anger are hateful things,
Yet the sinner hugs them tight."
The only saving grace was that the Husband had gotten called in and wasn't there to nudge me in the ribs....
8/30/11
Neurotic Love
First, for some background. I spend a large portion of my day writing. With a pen. Electronic medical records be darned, this hospital is still largely paper-run. Hence the writing. Throughout the course of last year, I spent a large part of my time trying out new pens. It took me a long time, but I finally discovered the perfect pen. It was difficult, because I'm left-handed, so most pens leave gross-looking smudges on the side of my hand, and very unprofessional-looking smears on my notes. And I hate pens that "skip". I don't know what the real term for it is, but it's what happens when all of a sudden you're in the middle of a note, going 100 miles an hour because as soon as you get this note done, you can finally put your feet up for a few seconds and maybe even eat something for the first time in 12 hours and by GOSH your bladder is screaming for mercy, and your pen decides that it will only spit ink out for half of that word you just wrote, and for maybe 1/4 of the next one, and when you finally admit that your writing is no longer legible, pick the pen up off the paper to carefully scrutinize the amount of ink in the barrel, shake it vigorously, and possibly even lick the tip (because, you know, that always work, right?), it decides to work just fine until maybe 2 lines later, when the whole cycle repeats. I can't take that. I have a short fuse. So anyway, I finally found the right pen. It's the Pentel Energel Liquid Gel Ink Metal Tip 0.7mm ball pen, and unfortunately it's only sold at Staples. I promise. I've looked. So don't tell me where you think I can find them unless you KNOW.
I'm done. On to the point...
I always call my husband as I'm leaving work. For one thing, it's pleasant to hear his voice after a long day without it, and for another, it gives him warning so he can have dinner ready (and yes, if our roles were reversed, everyone would be up in arms about how chauvinistic that sounds, but honestly, we both just like to eat dinner as early as we can, and we don't like dinner to be cold, so don't get your boxers in a twist). Today, I called my husband to tell him that I'd be home in 20, and as usual, started rambling about my day, and his day, and what was on the horizon that we needed to keep in mind, and what the lady in the car next to me was doing, etc. etc. Yes, I talk a lot. Right as I was turning into our neighborhood, I said, "oh, and we need to run to Staples at some point, because I'm almost out of pens." He, being well aware of the trials and tribulations I had suffered before finding true love in pen-form, replied in an appropriate and suitably interested-sounding way and I hung up the phone right before I pulled into our garage. I walked into the house, and happened to see, on the dining table:
He knows what I need before I even know I need it. And when what I need are pen refills, he knows that too.
I'm done. On to the point...
I always call my husband as I'm leaving work. For one thing, it's pleasant to hear his voice after a long day without it, and for another, it gives him warning so he can have dinner ready (and yes, if our roles were reversed, everyone would be up in arms about how chauvinistic that sounds, but honestly, we both just like to eat dinner as early as we can, and we don't like dinner to be cold, so don't get your boxers in a twist). Today, I called my husband to tell him that I'd be home in 20, and as usual, started rambling about my day, and his day, and what was on the horizon that we needed to keep in mind, and what the lady in the car next to me was doing, etc. etc. Yes, I talk a lot. Right as I was turning into our neighborhood, I said, "oh, and we need to run to Staples at some point, because I'm almost out of pens." He, being well aware of the trials and tribulations I had suffered before finding true love in pen-form, replied in an appropriate and suitably interested-sounding way and I hung up the phone right before I pulled into our garage. I walked into the house, and happened to see, on the dining table:
He knows what I need before I even know I need it. And when what I need are pen refills, he knows that too.
8/9/11
Genetics
I asked E yesterday what sort of children he'd like to have (yes, he's going to have all sorts of strange ideas about the choices he'll have when he's all growed up...) and he said "well, they'll look like a mix between you and Lulu [my sister]." And that would be a lucky little girl.
I'm kidding.
Kind of.
Then I asked "What about the boys? Won't you have any boys? I did, after all." And he said "They'll look like D and Baba [my brother]."
He's so sweet, I think I'll keep him.
I'm kidding.
Kind of.
Then I asked "What about the boys? Won't you have any boys? I did, after all." And he said "They'll look like D and Baba [my brother]."
He's so sweet, I think I'll keep him.
8/2/11
Detective
 |
| My father took this picture of E with his iPhone 4 (I'm so jealous I could eat this laptop!!) and sent it to me. I used a little Adobe app magic and it turned out like this. Nice, no? |
7/12/11
Little Old Man
My son went to a birthday party last night and afterwards was supposed to spend the night at his friend's house (which happens to be right down the street from us). I am working nights this week, so I was not present for these arrangements, but a couple of hours after I was informed of them, I sent my husband a text message saying he needed to tell our neighbors that he'd be picking E up in the morning for vacation bible school.
My husband's reply: "He came home. Said he was worried they were going to stay up too late."
E is more responsible as an 8 year old than most of the adults I know. Present company included.
My husband's reply: "He came home. Said he was worried they were going to stay up too late."
E is more responsible as an 8 year old than most of the adults I know. Present company included.
7/5/11
Love
The Huz and I celebrated our wedding anniversary yesterday. We've made annual mix cds (yes, make fun of us, we're geeky) for each other ever since we started dating, which we realized the other day was when we were both still teenagers...and that made me feel very old. We usually try to make them at least partly tailored to the other person's musical taste. Which means D cuts back on the metal and I cut back on the female singer/songwriters. And we always try to put new or unfamiliar songs on them. You know, to stimulate the other person's musical growth or something. We also write our own "liner notes" of the songs and artists on the CDs and why we've picked them. D's tend to be much...briefer, while mine will lean toward paragraphs per song if I'm not careful.
This year, I was reading the liner notes he wrote for me and found this description of one song...
"Beautiful and strange. Just like you."
Which made me laugh out loud and say "aw" at the same time. Just like he always does.
I'm so lucky.
6/26/11
New Kid on the Block
After we moved into our new house, my only regret was that E had a really good friend who lived right down the street in our previous location. They would play together every day after school and wreak havoc on the neighborhood until dusk. It was pretty much perfect. My conscience was assuaged by the fact that E had already met a couple of neighborhood kids in the new locale while D was renovating. The boys were 7 and 9, respectively, so I was fairly certain that he would get along with them well.
Unfortunately, I didn't account for the vagaries of boy games. After playing with said boys a couple of times, E refused to go down the street to look for them any more. When I asked why, he replied that they played games with names that he didn't recognize, and worse, of which he did not know the rules. Now, granted, his 2nd grade class was ridiculously tightly knit. They picked up phrases, dances, and apparently game preferences. And to E, if kids don't talk about Pokemon and Go-gos, they're speaking a foreign language.
So he was spending his summer days complaining that he was bored (which he scaled back dramatically when he realized bored = Mom will find something unpleasant for you to do) and asking us to play with him. Which we did. But if you've ever tried to be a stay-at-home parent for an energetic 8-year-old on his summer vacation, you'll know that D (however awesome I happen to think he is) is only human and eventually needs a break. And if you've never come home from a full day of work to have said 8-year-old demand your attention in a game of Bakugans, you'll never understand why I set timers beforehand. Although my parents have a pool, there are a finite number of minutes a child may spend in it when it's 100 degrees in the shade.
This is how desperate all 3 of us were getting: E was trying to write out some rules for a game that he had dreamed up, and upon getting frustrated by his (what he thought of as) poor handwriting, he yelled "I wanna go back to school." After the inevitable responses by his parents (which I shall not repeat), I printed off some math problems and multiplication tables. He was overjoyed and sat down to diligently compute until dinner time. I'm not kidding.
Salvation came in the form of a friend from out of town. He happened to be walking up to our front door when aforementioned neighborhood boys were loitering in the street. They apparently felt brave enough to accompany him to our front door, where they inquired as to E's presence. I hastily bundled them inside and up to E's room (after they asked permission of their respective families...I wasn't as creepy about it as it sounds, I promise).
He didn't eat dinner that night. They spent the rest of the evening running in and out of the house, up and down to the backyard pirate ship/treehouse, destroying E's room, and leaving toys strewn all over the place. The next day, I came home from work and they were exploring the park on the other side of our backyard fence, utilizing the walkie-talkies I had bought D for his bday/Father's day, barricading themselves inside E's room, and generally making a big, noisy mess.
And I couldn't be happier for my poor lonely little only child.
Unfortunately, I didn't account for the vagaries of boy games. After playing with said boys a couple of times, E refused to go down the street to look for them any more. When I asked why, he replied that they played games with names that he didn't recognize, and worse, of which he did not know the rules. Now, granted, his 2nd grade class was ridiculously tightly knit. They picked up phrases, dances, and apparently game preferences. And to E, if kids don't talk about Pokemon and Go-gos, they're speaking a foreign language.
So he was spending his summer days complaining that he was bored (which he scaled back dramatically when he realized bored = Mom will find something unpleasant for you to do) and asking us to play with him. Which we did. But if you've ever tried to be a stay-at-home parent for an energetic 8-year-old on his summer vacation, you'll know that D (however awesome I happen to think he is) is only human and eventually needs a break. And if you've never come home from a full day of work to have said 8-year-old demand your attention in a game of Bakugans, you'll never understand why I set timers beforehand. Although my parents have a pool, there are a finite number of minutes a child may spend in it when it's 100 degrees in the shade.
This is how desperate all 3 of us were getting: E was trying to write out some rules for a game that he had dreamed up, and upon getting frustrated by his (what he thought of as) poor handwriting, he yelled "I wanna go back to school." After the inevitable responses by his parents (which I shall not repeat), I printed off some math problems and multiplication tables. He was overjoyed and sat down to diligently compute until dinner time. I'm not kidding.
Salvation came in the form of a friend from out of town. He happened to be walking up to our front door when aforementioned neighborhood boys were loitering in the street. They apparently felt brave enough to accompany him to our front door, where they inquired as to E's presence. I hastily bundled them inside and up to E's room (after they asked permission of their respective families...I wasn't as creepy about it as it sounds, I promise).
He didn't eat dinner that night. They spent the rest of the evening running in and out of the house, up and down to the backyard pirate ship/treehouse, destroying E's room, and leaving toys strewn all over the place. The next day, I came home from work and they were exploring the park on the other side of our backyard fence, utilizing the walkie-talkies I had bought D for his bday/Father's day, barricading themselves inside E's room, and generally making a big, noisy mess.
And I couldn't be happier for my poor lonely little only child.
6/11/11
6/10/11
Dreamcatcher
Case in point:
I had no eagle feathers to hand (which, by the way, are illegal to own unless you're Native American, apparently...) or other handy-dandy spiritual items to dangle from the rim, so I suppose it'll just have to remain charm-less for a little while.
And yes, that is a Klingon teddy bear. I make no excuses for the nerdiness of my family.
And yes, that is a Klingon teddy bear. I make no excuses for the nerdiness of my family.
6/9/11
My Hero
Disclaimer: I found through a thorough research of my own more-numerous-than-I-had-previously-thought posts, that I have not yet posted about this. It was a difficult search. Which I suppose is a lesson in vaguely funny titles and completely-unrelated post labels. But I found it. Or rather, didn't find it. Hence: my post.
I was on the phone with E this evening (seeing as how he is on summer vacation and I am on call...) and we were chatting about our weeks. I think it's funny to tease him when he's gone, and last week when we spoke I said that my recycling was piling up (one of his daily chores). This week, I told him that there was dog poo piling up. In the backyard. Also one of his chores (see how this parent thing works to my advantage, people?). Just like last week, he exclaimed that he's not here and I'm going to have to start picking it up on my own. So I told him I didn't know how. And he said "Well, do it just like you taught me how to pick up that dead bird." HENCE: this post.
I have a thing about birds. A bad thing. A thing where the very thought of bird legs and bird beaks makes me nauseous. And where if birds flutter near me, I get nervous. And where if there are dead birds in my vicinity, I pretty much lose it.
I tell myself in self-defense that it's familial. My paternal grandmother and my father's sister both have similar ornithophobias. But it really wasn't bad until medical school, when I would routinely come across dead birds who had flown into the windows of a walkway that happened to run right over the entrance to the school. And by "come across", I mean "almost step on". The first time that happened, I thought my heart would stop. It kept happening (birds, it turns out, are not the smartest of creatures about flying into darkened glass windows with people regularly walking on the other side of them). And the more little feathered things I would see lying about with crumpled wings and crippled limbs, the more the horror grew.
Last year, not long after we'd moved for residency, I walked out our back door and came across a dead bird lying in the middle of the patio. (Note: at this point, I advocated sending our dog back to the pound from whence he had come, because he was the culprit who had dragged this tasty morsel up to the door for us to worship...) If you know me, you know my reaction was pretty typical. Having almost stepped on the thing, and having been completely and utterly unprepared for the sight, I wanted to do several things simultaneously: gag, pass out, scream, and cry.
After stumbling back into the house and running into my bedroom to curl up on the bed in the fetal position (you think I joke...), I frantically called my husband, who was out of town for a job. Who, of course, thought someone was either dead or fatally ill, from the sound of my voice. And who laughed, of course, when he found out what the problem really was. I flatly told him that our backyard was just going to have to be unusable until he came back into town. He replied "just have E get rid of it."
I suppose, if I were less...self-centered, I would have been horrified at the thought of exposing my baby boy to such a terrible thing as a dead bird. However, instead I was just glad that I'd be able to look out my back windows without fainting. I called him into the room and at first, he was just like, "ew, Mom, no." But because my powers of persuasion are greater than his powers of resistance, he relented. I coached him through the process, and he took a plastic bag and some gloves and went outside to dispose of the carcass.
The event lives on in infamy in our family. The story comes up with shocking regularity, especially if E has anything to do with it. After all, he got to take care of me for once. He got to be the one with the power. His part in the fiasco was much braver and wiser and calmer and stronger than his poor weakly, ornithophobic mother's.
That's ok with me, though. I'm just glad I have a designated bird-corpse handler.
I was on the phone with E this evening (seeing as how he is on summer vacation and I am on call...) and we were chatting about our weeks. I think it's funny to tease him when he's gone, and last week when we spoke I said that my recycling was piling up (one of his daily chores). This week, I told him that there was dog poo piling up. In the backyard. Also one of his chores (see how this parent thing works to my advantage, people?). Just like last week, he exclaimed that he's not here and I'm going to have to start picking it up on my own. So I told him I didn't know how. And he said "Well, do it just like you taught me how to pick up that dead bird." HENCE: this post.
I have a thing about birds. A bad thing. A thing where the very thought of bird legs and bird beaks makes me nauseous. And where if birds flutter near me, I get nervous. And where if there are dead birds in my vicinity, I pretty much lose it.
I tell myself in self-defense that it's familial. My paternal grandmother and my father's sister both have similar ornithophobias. But it really wasn't bad until medical school, when I would routinely come across dead birds who had flown into the windows of a walkway that happened to run right over the entrance to the school. And by "come across", I mean "almost step on". The first time that happened, I thought my heart would stop. It kept happening (birds, it turns out, are not the smartest of creatures about flying into darkened glass windows with people regularly walking on the other side of them). And the more little feathered things I would see lying about with crumpled wings and crippled limbs, the more the horror grew.
Last year, not long after we'd moved for residency, I walked out our back door and came across a dead bird lying in the middle of the patio. (Note: at this point, I advocated sending our dog back to the pound from whence he had come, because he was the culprit who had dragged this tasty morsel up to the door for us to worship...) If you know me, you know my reaction was pretty typical. Having almost stepped on the thing, and having been completely and utterly unprepared for the sight, I wanted to do several things simultaneously: gag, pass out, scream, and cry.
After stumbling back into the house and running into my bedroom to curl up on the bed in the fetal position (you think I joke...), I frantically called my husband, who was out of town for a job. Who, of course, thought someone was either dead or fatally ill, from the sound of my voice. And who laughed, of course, when he found out what the problem really was. I flatly told him that our backyard was just going to have to be unusable until he came back into town. He replied "just have E get rid of it."
I suppose, if I were less...self-centered, I would have been horrified at the thought of exposing my baby boy to such a terrible thing as a dead bird. However, instead I was just glad that I'd be able to look out my back windows without fainting. I called him into the room and at first, he was just like, "ew, Mom, no." But because my powers of persuasion are greater than his powers of resistance, he relented. I coached him through the process, and he took a plastic bag and some gloves and went outside to dispose of the carcass.
The event lives on in infamy in our family. The story comes up with shocking regularity, especially if E has anything to do with it. After all, he got to take care of me for once. He got to be the one with the power. His part in the fiasco was much braver and wiser and calmer and stronger than his poor weakly, ornithophobic mother's.
That's ok with me, though. I'm just glad I have a designated bird-corpse handler.
5/30/11
You Can Find My Etsy Store At...
Our monster difficulties peaked one night when my son demanded a dreamcatcher to calm his fears.
I suspect he got this idea from my mother, because although he is part Chippewa (no, don't look at me...), and we have had dreamcatchers in our house before, they've never played a substantial part in his bedroom decor. However, Mom firmly believes in the power of suggestion (or superstition, whichever you prefer) to hinder nightmares.
That would have been fine, had he not demanded one at approximately 9 P.M., in a house devoid of dreamcatchers, seeing as how I had LITERALLY LIKE TWO WEEKS BEFORE gotten rid of two dreamcatchers I had made when I was a kid. Had he been at the house where She Who Probably Suggested It resides, it wouldn't have been an issue, but my house can't double as an awesome museum of all things cultural, and the most Native American-related piece of art I have in my house is a clay pot. That E made me.
But motherhood spawns creativity (along with insanity), so I set to making a dreamcatcher for my son. With the plastic rim off of an oatmeal container. And dental floss. It was harder than I remembered it being when I was 10. I resisted the urge to google instructions, however, and pressed on. The results were slightly lopsided, but recognizable nevertheless.
And the monsters have stayed away from his room ever since.
I suspect he got this idea from my mother, because although he is part Chippewa (no, don't look at me...), and we have had dreamcatchers in our house before, they've never played a substantial part in his bedroom decor. However, Mom firmly believes in the power of suggestion (or superstition, whichever you prefer) to hinder nightmares.
That would have been fine, had he not demanded one at approximately 9 P.M., in a house devoid of dreamcatchers, seeing as how I had LITERALLY LIKE TWO WEEKS BEFORE gotten rid of two dreamcatchers I had made when I was a kid. Had he been at the house where She Who Probably Suggested It resides, it wouldn't have been an issue, but my house can't double as an awesome museum of all things cultural, and the most Native American-related piece of art I have in my house is a clay pot. That E made me.
But motherhood spawns creativity (along with insanity), so I set to making a dreamcatcher for my son. With the plastic rim off of an oatmeal container. And dental floss. It was harder than I remembered it being when I was 10. I resisted the urge to google instructions, however, and pressed on. The results were slightly lopsided, but recognizable nevertheless.
And the monsters have stayed away from his room ever since.
5/20/11
"My mama says there aren't any zombies..."
We have officially moved into our new house, and consequently I am in a state of interior (and somewhat exterior) design frenzy. Pictures quite likely to follow.
I was a bit worried before we moved in, because my son has never slept farther away from me than across a very small apartment, and our new house has a first-level master bedroom, with the other bedrooms upstairs. For various reasons, my son will STILL get out of bed multiple times per night if we don't "check on him" every 10 minutes or so. Now, granted, he usually falls asleep within 20 minutes of turning the lights off, but not always, which can be quite a battle. And he sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night and comes to find us because he has nightmares or gets scared.
He comes by his overactive imagination honestly, however. I'm the sort of person who still checks on my son before I leave in the morning just to make sure he's still there. And breathing (yes, I know SIDS doesn't apply to 8-year-olds. He's not your son.). I attempted to talk my husband into purchasing a baby monitor so I could hear it (and hopefully subsequently wake up...) if someone crawled through E's window and snatched him. And I get anxious when he's playing at friends' houses, because I worry that he's left without telling anyone and he'll get stolen on the way home. Luckily for me, I have a patient husband. So all of us were prepared for some new nighttime worries.
It started with the attic space. In our new house, one walks past E's room down a hallway that leads to another bedroom, and at the beginning of this hallway is the first attic space, which is just a little closet under the roof in which we store all my seasonal decorating regalia. The aforementioned bedroom has double doors in it that lead into the real attic space. The first day in the house, before bedtime had even come up, E told me he was afraid to sleep upstairs, because he was scared that monsters were going to come of the attic. Which is valid. We discussed options to decrease the fear of said monsters, and luckily I happened to suggest chaining up the door handles. He perked up like I'd just said Pikachu had come to town. Thus followed a search for suitably thick chains, which were strung around the door handles in proper monster-deterring fashion. And the first day passed, and the first night.
Well, then, the chains weren't enough. We needed locks on the actual doors. So my patient husband installed a lock on the attic door and no less than two locks on the crawlspace door (which, after all, is much closer to E's actual room, and therefore, monsters are more likely to emit from this entry rather than the one 20 feet down the hall). This turned out to be a very good idea, because I discovered that when the windows in that bedroom-down-the-hall are open, a monster-like wind rushes through the room and throws open the attic door with a mighty bang. I can just imagine how that would have gone over in the middle of the night.
A couple nights later, he refused to go upstairs by himself at night because he was positive that there was someone hiding behind the bathroom curtain. Now this, I could not blame him for, because I am also plagued by this particular fear (thank you, college English teacher, for making me watch Psycho, you've scarred me for life). My paranoia takes the form of tiptoeing into the bathroom and throwing back the shower curtain with some sort of weapon (hair dryer, slipper, etc) in my other hand. It's worked for me so far. I am touched by the fact that my son apparently feels that I would be sufficient protection against someone creepy enough to get into our house and hide behind our shower curtain, especially since he thinks my mother is "too small" to protect him from tornados. This fancy hasn't come up again, but I'm sure it won't be long...
The next time E's imagination was working overtime, he told D that GREMLINS, of all things, were going to crawl out of the air vent in his room and get him during the night. I'm not sure how D handled this one, since I was on call and not available to stand gremlin watch, but the next morning there wasn't anything taped over the air vent and my child was un-gremlinized, so I'm fairly certain everything turned out ok.
Last night, I had placed E's First Communion rosaries on his bedside shelf (he sleeps in a bunkbed, so a table would have to be incredibly tall to be of any use), and when he crawled into bed, he asked me to say the rosary with him. Thinking that it would help, after we said the rosary, I talked to him about Psalm 23 and the idea of being safe because God was with you, etc. After turning out the lights, I checked on him a previously-agreed-upon amount of time later, and his face was pale and somewhat drawn. To my query, he replied that he was scared. "What's wrong?" I asked. "What if I forget about God tonight and he sends gremlins out of my vent to get me?"
I'm going to have to board up my entire upstairs, people.
I was a bit worried before we moved in, because my son has never slept farther away from me than across a very small apartment, and our new house has a first-level master bedroom, with the other bedrooms upstairs. For various reasons, my son will STILL get out of bed multiple times per night if we don't "check on him" every 10 minutes or so. Now, granted, he usually falls asleep within 20 minutes of turning the lights off, but not always, which can be quite a battle. And he sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night and comes to find us because he has nightmares or gets scared.
He comes by his overactive imagination honestly, however. I'm the sort of person who still checks on my son before I leave in the morning just to make sure he's still there. And breathing (yes, I know SIDS doesn't apply to 8-year-olds. He's not your son.). I attempted to talk my husband into purchasing a baby monitor so I could hear it (and hopefully subsequently wake up...) if someone crawled through E's window and snatched him. And I get anxious when he's playing at friends' houses, because I worry that he's left without telling anyone and he'll get stolen on the way home. Luckily for me, I have a patient husband. So all of us were prepared for some new nighttime worries.
It started with the attic space. In our new house, one walks past E's room down a hallway that leads to another bedroom, and at the beginning of this hallway is the first attic space, which is just a little closet under the roof in which we store all my seasonal decorating regalia. The aforementioned bedroom has double doors in it that lead into the real attic space. The first day in the house, before bedtime had even come up, E told me he was afraid to sleep upstairs, because he was scared that monsters were going to come of the attic. Which is valid. We discussed options to decrease the fear of said monsters, and luckily I happened to suggest chaining up the door handles. He perked up like I'd just said Pikachu had come to town. Thus followed a search for suitably thick chains, which were strung around the door handles in proper monster-deterring fashion. And the first day passed, and the first night.
Well, then, the chains weren't enough. We needed locks on the actual doors. So my patient husband installed a lock on the attic door and no less than two locks on the crawlspace door (which, after all, is much closer to E's actual room, and therefore, monsters are more likely to emit from this entry rather than the one 20 feet down the hall). This turned out to be a very good idea, because I discovered that when the windows in that bedroom-down-the-hall are open, a monster-like wind rushes through the room and throws open the attic door with a mighty bang. I can just imagine how that would have gone over in the middle of the night.
A couple nights later, he refused to go upstairs by himself at night because he was positive that there was someone hiding behind the bathroom curtain. Now this, I could not blame him for, because I am also plagued by this particular fear (thank you, college English teacher, for making me watch Psycho, you've scarred me for life). My paranoia takes the form of tiptoeing into the bathroom and throwing back the shower curtain with some sort of weapon (hair dryer, slipper, etc) in my other hand. It's worked for me so far. I am touched by the fact that my son apparently feels that I would be sufficient protection against someone creepy enough to get into our house and hide behind our shower curtain, especially since he thinks my mother is "too small" to protect him from tornados. This fancy hasn't come up again, but I'm sure it won't be long...
The next time E's imagination was working overtime, he told D that GREMLINS, of all things, were going to crawl out of the air vent in his room and get him during the night. I'm not sure how D handled this one, since I was on call and not available to stand gremlin watch, but the next morning there wasn't anything taped over the air vent and my child was un-gremlinized, so I'm fairly certain everything turned out ok.
Last night, I had placed E's First Communion rosaries on his bedside shelf (he sleeps in a bunkbed, so a table would have to be incredibly tall to be of any use), and when he crawled into bed, he asked me to say the rosary with him. Thinking that it would help, after we said the rosary, I talked to him about Psalm 23 and the idea of being safe because God was with you, etc. After turning out the lights, I checked on him a previously-agreed-upon amount of time later, and his face was pale and somewhat drawn. To my query, he replied that he was scared. "What's wrong?" I asked. "What if I forget about God tonight and he sends gremlins out of my vent to get me?"
I'm going to have to board up my entire upstairs, people.
5/6/11
Bookworm Delight
So a while ago, a friend of mine posted this on her facebook page in a note. Apparently, the BBC believes most people will only have read 6 out of these 100 novels. So you're supposed to edit the list to reflect which books you've read (bold) or partially read (italics). You get the picture. I went through the list when she first posted it, feeling bad about not having read that many of the books. And recently, I've been in a book dead phase, after finishing several excellent books and now waiting for their sequels or whatever to come out (several months from now...sad face...). So I thought it'd be a good time to read some classics, especially since I've been on a library kick ever since I decided we should probably start saving some money up for this little house we're pouring money in to. I just finished Du Maurier's "Rebecca" (which I liked a lot) and I'm in "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" now (which I'm not a fan of so far). So here's the rest of the list!
1 Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings – JRR Tolkien
3 Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte
4 Harry Potter series – JK Rowling
5 To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee
6 The Bible (yes, Mother, I know...)
7 Tom Sawyer - Mark Twain
8 Nineteen Eighty Four – George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials – Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations – Charles Dickens
11 Little Women – Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles – Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 – Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca – Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit – JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong – Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye – JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller’s Wife – Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch – George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind – Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby – F Scott Fitzgerald
23 Bleak House – Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace – Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited – Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment – Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows – Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield – Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia – CS Lewis
34 Emma – Jane Austen
35 Persuasion – Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe – CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner – Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin – Louis De Berniere
39 Memoirs of a Geisha – Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh – AA Milne
41 Animal Farm – George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code – Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meany – John Irving
45 The Woman in White – Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables – LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd – Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies – William Golding
50 Atonement – Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi – Yann Martel
52 Dune – Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm – Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility – Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy – Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind – Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities – Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World – Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time – Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck
62 Lolita – Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History – Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones – Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo – Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road – Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure – Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary – Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children – Salman Rushdie (AK, I blame you for this one. If you had given me a different book, I'd have read this one.)
70 Moby Dick – Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist – Charles Dickens
72 Dracula – Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden – Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island – Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses – James Joyce
76 The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons – Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal – Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair – William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession – AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol – Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple – Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day
85 Madame Bovary – Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance – Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web – EB White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven – Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection – Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness – Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince – Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory – Iain Banks
94 Watership Down – Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces – John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice – Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers – Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet – William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables
I realize, looking through this list, that most of the ones I have read, I read as a teenager. And hence, don't remember them very well. There are some, however, that I know I have no intention of ever reading again (Lord of the Flies, 1984, Great Gatsby, Great Expectations...Thank you, high school English, for ruining reading for a bunch of impressionable minds with some pretty terrible books, however thought-provoking and "deep" they may be). And there are some that I have read over and over, and intend to keep reading (Dumas, C. S. Lewis, Anne of Green Gables, Roald Dahl, Sherlock Holmes, Tolkien, Tale of Two Cities, To Kill a Mockingbird).
Wish me luck. "Tess" may defeat me. Hardy is wordy. And vague
1 Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings – JRR Tolkien
3 Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte
4 Harry Potter series – JK Rowling
5 To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee
6 The Bible (yes, Mother, I know...)
7 Tom Sawyer - Mark Twain
8 Nineteen Eighty Four – George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials – Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations – Charles Dickens
11 Little Women – Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles – Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 – Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca – Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit – JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong – Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye – JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller’s Wife – Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch – George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind – Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby – F Scott Fitzgerald
23 Bleak House – Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace – Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited – Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment – Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows – Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield – Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia – CS Lewis
34 Emma – Jane Austen
35 Persuasion – Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe – CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner – Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin – Louis De Berniere
39 Memoirs of a Geisha – Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh – AA Milne
41 Animal Farm – George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code – Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meany – John Irving
45 The Woman in White – Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables – LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd – Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies – William Golding
50 Atonement – Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi – Yann Martel
52 Dune – Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm – Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility – Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy – Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind – Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities – Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World – Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time – Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck
62 Lolita – Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History – Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones – Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo – Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road – Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure – Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary – Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children – Salman Rushdie (AK, I blame you for this one. If you had given me a different book, I'd have read this one.)
70 Moby Dick – Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist – Charles Dickens
72 Dracula – Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden – Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island – Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses – James Joyce
76 The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons – Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal – Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair – William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession – AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol – Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple – Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day
85 Madame Bovary – Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance – Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web – EB White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven – Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection – Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness – Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince – Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory – Iain Banks
94 Watership Down – Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces – John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice – Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers – Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet – William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables
I realize, looking through this list, that most of the ones I have read, I read as a teenager. And hence, don't remember them very well. There are some, however, that I know I have no intention of ever reading again (Lord of the Flies, 1984, Great Gatsby, Great Expectations...Thank you, high school English, for ruining reading for a bunch of impressionable minds with some pretty terrible books, however thought-provoking and "deep" they may be). And there are some that I have read over and over, and intend to keep reading (Dumas, C. S. Lewis, Anne of Green Gables, Roald Dahl, Sherlock Holmes, Tolkien, Tale of Two Cities, To Kill a Mockingbird).
Wish me luck. "Tess" may defeat me. Hardy is wordy. And vague
5/5/11
I Guess It Makes Sense To Him
"Mom, when I grow up, I want to live between Hawaii and China."
"Oh? Why between Hawaii and China?"
"Because I like to hunt outside in the dark. Wearing my ninja clothes. Because it's fun to do that."
"What does that have to do with Hawaii? Or China?"
"Because there are trees there."
"There are?"
"And I want to be a ninja."
"Oh? Why between Hawaii and China?"
"Because I like to hunt outside in the dark. Wearing my ninja clothes. Because it's fun to do that."
"What does that have to do with Hawaii? Or China?"
"Because there are trees there."
"There are?"
"And I want to be a ninja."
5/2/11
Definition
On May 1, 2011, my son made his First Communion.
We've been preparing for this day all year. In addition to the regular religious education classes he takes, he also had several prep days, and D & I had what seemed like 20 (at least) parent meetings to discuss the various goings-on that would be happening on the big day. We helped 70 kids make clothespin crucifixes and rainbows (yes, rainbows). We carefully chose and trimmed a piece of the teddy bear quilt my mother had made, that E had inherited from me and my siblings, so that it could be incorporated into an altar cloth. D & I semi-patiently sat through two pedantic videos aimed at explaining the Eucharist to 7-year-olds. I hand-hemmed the suit pants that were about 4 inches too long for my tiny boy and packed around a First Communion tie for an entire year (purchased when I was shopping for my niece's First Communion last year). We sat through a 2-hour long live presentation of the Passover and Last Supper, complete with a pseudo-Seder meal, and braved the tastes of bitter herbs and saltwater. We watched E pose for pictures in his suit and tie, and rehearsed the actual big day over and over again: "You hold your hands like this, the priest will say this, you will bow like this, you say 'amen'..." I felt impossibly giddy yesterday morning, could barely look at my son without wanting to overflow with joy and pride and love.
This is why we are Catholic. This is a big deal. Spelling bees, recitals, championship games, senior proms, none of them are as important as this. My mother taught me that nothing comes before Mass, and at Mass, the pivotal point is the Eucharist. And this was the first time my son would be fully involved. How could that not be incredibly special?
We attend a very large church that had about 75% of the pews reserved for (and filled by) First Communicants' friends & family members on the big day. Our particular contingent was made up of my parents, D's parents, E's father, stepmother and grandmother.
And my best friend, the Queen Bee.
Last week, I asked her if she'd like to come, with minimum advance notice, even though my own family had known about this day for months. Because I was missing my brother and sister, who weren't going to make it, although nothing other than impossible distances would have kept them away. And she dropped everything and came. Without hesitation, without question. Without making excuses.
She hugged me as he walked down the aisle, exclaiming over how impossibly cute he was. She sang our hymns and read our words. She held our hands and greeted our neighbors with the sign of peace. She patted my back as tears rolled down my face when he said "Amen" in front of the priest and accepted the Eucharist in his tiny hands. She fetched pieces of cake and watched over belongings and was patient with the ridiculous chaos that accompanies any event in which I am involved.
She's not Catholic, what does she care about our rituals and beliefs? She has her own life and job and had so many other things to do rather than sit in a strange building for an hour and a half for about 2 minutes of show time (when E walked down the aisle and when he actually made his First Communion). She is not related to me or to my son.
But she came because the day was important to me and because she loves my son.
And that's what family is.
We've been preparing for this day all year. In addition to the regular religious education classes he takes, he also had several prep days, and D & I had what seemed like 20 (at least) parent meetings to discuss the various goings-on that would be happening on the big day. We helped 70 kids make clothespin crucifixes and rainbows (yes, rainbows). We carefully chose and trimmed a piece of the teddy bear quilt my mother had made, that E had inherited from me and my siblings, so that it could be incorporated into an altar cloth. D & I semi-patiently sat through two pedantic videos aimed at explaining the Eucharist to 7-year-olds. I hand-hemmed the suit pants that were about 4 inches too long for my tiny boy and packed around a First Communion tie for an entire year (purchased when I was shopping for my niece's First Communion last year). We sat through a 2-hour long live presentation of the Passover and Last Supper, complete with a pseudo-Seder meal, and braved the tastes of bitter herbs and saltwater. We watched E pose for pictures in his suit and tie, and rehearsed the actual big day over and over again: "You hold your hands like this, the priest will say this, you will bow like this, you say 'amen'..." I felt impossibly giddy yesterday morning, could barely look at my son without wanting to overflow with joy and pride and love.
This is why we are Catholic. This is a big deal. Spelling bees, recitals, championship games, senior proms, none of them are as important as this. My mother taught me that nothing comes before Mass, and at Mass, the pivotal point is the Eucharist. And this was the first time my son would be fully involved. How could that not be incredibly special?
We attend a very large church that had about 75% of the pews reserved for (and filled by) First Communicants' friends & family members on the big day. Our particular contingent was made up of my parents, D's parents, E's father, stepmother and grandmother.
And my best friend, the Queen Bee.
Last week, I asked her if she'd like to come, with minimum advance notice, even though my own family had known about this day for months. Because I was missing my brother and sister, who weren't going to make it, although nothing other than impossible distances would have kept them away. And she dropped everything and came. Without hesitation, without question. Without making excuses.
She hugged me as he walked down the aisle, exclaiming over how impossibly cute he was. She sang our hymns and read our words. She held our hands and greeted our neighbors with the sign of peace. She patted my back as tears rolled down my face when he said "Amen" in front of the priest and accepted the Eucharist in his tiny hands. She fetched pieces of cake and watched over belongings and was patient with the ridiculous chaos that accompanies any event in which I am involved.
She's not Catholic, what does she care about our rituals and beliefs? She has her own life and job and had so many other things to do rather than sit in a strange building for an hour and a half for about 2 minutes of show time (when E walked down the aisle and when he actually made his First Communion). She is not related to me or to my son.
But she came because the day was important to me and because she loves my son.
And that's what family is.
4/30/11
Ms Hoffman, you hit the nail on the head
Today, I finished reading "So Much Pretty" by Cara Hoffman. This is not a review, so don't expect one. (I will say that I generally enjoyed it, and the concept was very thought-provoking. But I skimmed through the last few chapters because I'd already figured out what the author was leading up to and I just wanted to know what happened afterwards. The writing was good, but she drew it out too much and gave too many hints, so the climax was not shocking or surprising in any way. Maybe she meant it that way. Whatever.)
Regardless, there was one particular paragraph of the book that stuck with me. During this particular scene, a man named Con is watching an impromptu performance by Alice, the daughter of his friends Gene and Claire:
~Gene began to laugh quietly again, and his eyes filled with tears. Con had seen this before. One time when he'd accompanied Gene and Claire to a play at Alice's school, Gene had to walk out twice because he couldn't stop laughing whenever she spoke, tears just rolling down his face. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he had told them, still laughing as they waited for Alice in the parking lot afterward and then heaving a shaky sigh to try and break the absurdity. "God! I love her so much."~
I don't know if you've ever had this happen to you, but I have. Once when my brother was in some Charlie Brown production, every time he came on the stage, I could feel myself get all tachycardic and almost pass out with the excitement of just listening to him speak. And there was the time I watched my sister dance in a summer production, when I could barely see her through the mist of tears.
And with E, I can feel that peculiar mix of emotions perpetually under the surface of my conscious, waiting for the moment when his impish smile, his adorable dimples, his oversized words, his infectious giggle, will make all of that affection overflow. When I will struggle to control my laughter and will hold back tears in my eyes because my son is so alive. And he brings me so much joy.
Regardless, there was one particular paragraph of the book that stuck with me. During this particular scene, a man named Con is watching an impromptu performance by Alice, the daughter of his friends Gene and Claire:
~Gene began to laugh quietly again, and his eyes filled with tears. Con had seen this before. One time when he'd accompanied Gene and Claire to a play at Alice's school, Gene had to walk out twice because he couldn't stop laughing whenever she spoke, tears just rolling down his face. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he had told them, still laughing as they waited for Alice in the parking lot afterward and then heaving a shaky sigh to try and break the absurdity. "God! I love her so much."~
I don't know if you've ever had this happen to you, but I have. Once when my brother was in some Charlie Brown production, every time he came on the stage, I could feel myself get all tachycardic and almost pass out with the excitement of just listening to him speak. And there was the time I watched my sister dance in a summer production, when I could barely see her through the mist of tears.
And with E, I can feel that peculiar mix of emotions perpetually under the surface of my conscious, waiting for the moment when his impish smile, his adorable dimples, his oversized words, his infectious giggle, will make all of that affection overflow. When I will struggle to control my laughter and will hold back tears in my eyes because my son is so alive. And he brings me so much joy.
4/27/11
Welcome to Earth
In honor of my son's birthday, since this has filled my heart and mind since I read it, and nothing else could come close to being such a beautiful tribute, I present my only sister and her gorgeous words:
I remember when I learned about love.
It’s hard to think back to that one moment in time when your mind draws an association between an abstract concept and a concrete word. To remember when you thought to yourself “I am sad” or “this is what happy is.” I may not recall exactly when I learned what love was supposed to be and how to recognize its trappings, but I do remember when I learned about what love really was when it came from me in its purest form.
And it all started 8 years ago….
It seems impossible to come to this date without at some point in the day recounting the event of Evan’s birth. It was a wild tale that started 2 months before it was supposed to and ended with me babbling on the phone “Jesi’s…given birth!” to might-as-well-be-family who had the good grace not to laugh at me and/or have me committed (had I not been 17 at the time, I think that would’ve been the point at which someone would have handed me a stiff drink). There was a helicopter ride (not involving me), a car ride that almost ended in catastrophe (involving me), a father getting trapped in an elevator, two girls in prom dresses (who did not end up going to their prom), and a hotel that caught on fire. It was, needless to say, an eventful two days.
I will not pretend that the months leading up to it were easy for they were anything but. Everyone in the family was readjusting his or her course in life and it frequently resulted in flaring tempers and too many tears. We were changing as a family, in a state of metamorphosis, and in the process I think we all got a little bit lost in ourselves. I was not exempt and I fell inside myself out of pure selfishness.
However my selfish teenage world vanished the day my sister went into labor. My world became a hospital room. A sea of anxious faces. A person on the cusp of being. And a family. I was so fearful for my family that I simply didn’t have the space inside me to think about myself. And in those endless days I found that my love for my family was distilled to its purest form in the presence of fear. Love for my brother who I thought was too young to endure this. Love for my parents and their bravery as they had to let other doctors, strangers, take care of their baby girl. Love for my sister, whose pain and struggle was reflected in the faces of all my family members. And love for the tiny womb-held baby for whom I feared the most.
The story, as you know, has a happy ending. Evan arrived to us in time and grew to be a healthy, compassionate child with a distinctly un-childlike mixture of gravity and levity in him and a social insight far beyond his years. But in those days, eight years ago, while we waited on tenterhooks for news, good or bad, we did not know him yet. And yet, we knew that we feared for him and in that fear we grasped the strands of unadulterated love.
I am surprised no one was blown away by the collective sigh that was released when Evan was finally born in the wee morning hours of April 27th. The long wait had passed and Evan was finally with us. Of course, since he was so premature, he had to remain at the hospital but we felt that we had weathered the storm and the rest would be just some tricky sailing. While he was still in hospital, as a little “blue light special,” monitored by doctors and nurses and a revolving shift of watchful friends and family, my cousin Zach gave him a handmade card with a picture of the world and the words “Welcome to Earth.”
Every birthday is a reminder of that welcoming. Of how our anxious family tentatively welcomed him into the world, and how Evan – in a sense – likewise welcomed us back to Earth, back to ourselves. To a family that was irrevocably altered but stronger, tempered with the love that sometimes only fear can bring out.
That tiny, premature baby, born into love, has given back that love a million times over. His presence is a joy and his utter selflessness is a constant reminder to me of what true love is. I know there will be times when he’s older when he may say or do hurtful things, when he may grow weary of the constant stream of affection and attention the family throws at him, but I know that it will only be temporary. I know that it will come from a place of rebellion not from pure nastiness because he has nothing nasty inside. And I wonder if all the people who do, who carry ugliness inside them, I wonder if they do so because they were never properly welcomed to Earth.
I remember when I learned about love.
It’s hard to think back to that one moment in time when your mind draws an association between an abstract concept and a concrete word. To remember when you thought to yourself “I am sad” or “this is what happy is.” I may not recall exactly when I learned what love was supposed to be and how to recognize its trappings, but I do remember when I learned about what love really was when it came from me in its purest form.
And it all started 8 years ago….
It seems impossible to come to this date without at some point in the day recounting the event of Evan’s birth. It was a wild tale that started 2 months before it was supposed to and ended with me babbling on the phone “Jesi’s…given birth!” to might-as-well-be-family who had the good grace not to laugh at me and/or have me committed (had I not been 17 at the time, I think that would’ve been the point at which someone would have handed me a stiff drink). There was a helicopter ride (not involving me), a car ride that almost ended in catastrophe (involving me), a father getting trapped in an elevator, two girls in prom dresses (who did not end up going to their prom), and a hotel that caught on fire. It was, needless to say, an eventful two days.
I will not pretend that the months leading up to it were easy for they were anything but. Everyone in the family was readjusting his or her course in life and it frequently resulted in flaring tempers and too many tears. We were changing as a family, in a state of metamorphosis, and in the process I think we all got a little bit lost in ourselves. I was not exempt and I fell inside myself out of pure selfishness.
However my selfish teenage world vanished the day my sister went into labor. My world became a hospital room. A sea of anxious faces. A person on the cusp of being. And a family. I was so fearful for my family that I simply didn’t have the space inside me to think about myself. And in those endless days I found that my love for my family was distilled to its purest form in the presence of fear. Love for my brother who I thought was too young to endure this. Love for my parents and their bravery as they had to let other doctors, strangers, take care of their baby girl. Love for my sister, whose pain and struggle was reflected in the faces of all my family members. And love for the tiny womb-held baby for whom I feared the most.
The story, as you know, has a happy ending. Evan arrived to us in time and grew to be a healthy, compassionate child with a distinctly un-childlike mixture of gravity and levity in him and a social insight far beyond his years. But in those days, eight years ago, while we waited on tenterhooks for news, good or bad, we did not know him yet. And yet, we knew that we feared for him and in that fear we grasped the strands of unadulterated love.
I am surprised no one was blown away by the collective sigh that was released when Evan was finally born in the wee morning hours of April 27th. The long wait had passed and Evan was finally with us. Of course, since he was so premature, he had to remain at the hospital but we felt that we had weathered the storm and the rest would be just some tricky sailing. While he was still in hospital, as a little “blue light special,” monitored by doctors and nurses and a revolving shift of watchful friends and family, my cousin Zach gave him a handmade card with a picture of the world and the words “Welcome to Earth.”
Every birthday is a reminder of that welcoming. Of how our anxious family tentatively welcomed him into the world, and how Evan – in a sense – likewise welcomed us back to Earth, back to ourselves. To a family that was irrevocably altered but stronger, tempered with the love that sometimes only fear can bring out.
That tiny, premature baby, born into love, has given back that love a million times over. His presence is a joy and his utter selflessness is a constant reminder to me of what true love is. I know there will be times when he’s older when he may say or do hurtful things, when he may grow weary of the constant stream of affection and attention the family throws at him, but I know that it will only be temporary. I know that it will come from a place of rebellion not from pure nastiness because he has nothing nasty inside. And I wonder if all the people who do, who carry ugliness inside them, I wonder if they do so because they were never properly welcomed to Earth.
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