You are probably not as interested in irises as I am. In fact, I'm not all that interested in them. Outside of the fact that they are pretty. And some varieties smell rather nice. And they remind me of my grandmother.
Actually, that's a lot of stuff that makes it sound like I am totally interested in irises.
There are other things far, far more important. My little family, for one. My work. Friends. Neighbors. Reading Harry Potter with my 7-year-old (who wants me to call him Jay now). Taking the kids to their sports and concerts and play dates. Heading out for a play date or two of my own.
But I like to garden. I like it so much that I manage to play in the garden about once every six months. Which means that in the 8 years I've lived in this one spot, I have played in my garden perhaps 16 times. Total.
And not once have I played with my irises.
Though I did accidentally spray a few with weed killer last year. That was not pretty.
I should play with them, though. They need moving, badly, out of the shade and into the sun. Which I may have mentioned last year, in the penultimate blog post before my rather long break.
I haven't moved them. And yet, somehow, they are defying the odds. They have budded. And in another week, maybe 2, they will bloom.
In the past year, while I have been not moving my irises, Peabo turned 14. He grew 4 inches, and given that he's suddenly gotten just a little bit rounder, I'm betting we're in for a killer growth spurt this summer. He started high school, and then started again in a place that makes him so happy he comes home smiling, even on a bad day. He is also learning the best lesson I can teach him: to identify what he needs to feel safe, accepted and competent, and to advocate for it appropriately. He reads voraciously, when he's not playing video games or listening to podcasts about them. He wants to be a journalist - a video game journalist, of course - and he's starting to figure out what he needs to do to get there. I find this to be pretty darn cool.
My diva turned 11. She no longer feels the term "veggie girl" applies, and given that she's abandoned broccoli florets and will eat only the stems, she is probably right. She's also leaving elementary school for middle school in another month. And the middle school she's going to is phenomenal. An arts school that will let her explore her inner writer, actor, musician and artist. My girl can sing. Have I mentioned that? She can sing. Beautifully. She can write, too. She writes songs, her own form of poetry. And she writes stories. She is creative and athletic and still impresses me daily with her willingness to jump in head first and try something new.
And Jay, my redhead, is now 7. He is tall and wiry and still redheaded, though the color has faded just another shade closer to brown. He's figured out that his eyes look green when he wears a green shirt. He now likes to wear green shirts. He tried 2 new sports and realized that neither one is soccer. So we're signing him up for more soccer. He does all his homework without prompting, can spell like a maniac, and absolutely loves math. Loves it. To the point where he asked me recently if he could please go to a middle school that specializes in math, and did I think he was going to get into a good college? He's in 2nd grade. Clearly he is a planner.
In the past year we have also acquired a puppy, a smallish fellow named Figglebob Lloyd, or Flloyd for short. He can chew through even the super-tough black Kong toys and is generally smarter than everyone else in the house. We're trying to make him stupid so we can train him properly.
So there you have it. Peabo is smiling. My diva is exploring. Jay is planning. And Flloyd is creating just enough chaos to keep things interesting.
And my irises are blooming again.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
May 12, 2013
May 18, 2012
Irises
My irises aren't blooming.
I have dozens upon dozens of irises in a great big patch in my front yard. I love irises, usually, though I'm not overly fond of these. They're brown, not purple.
Brown flowers. Really. I mean, who plants brown flowers?
But still. They're meant to bloom.
Not this year, though.
My little family has had a bit of a challenging year so far. My kids especially. It's a private kind of challenging, and one that demands a lot of my time. So I'm not blogging. I'm not doing much, honestly, outside of getting through each day as best I can, making the occasional grocery run, and doing everything I can to let my kids know I am absolutely, completely, 100% here for them.
Love 'em to bits.
My irises aren't blooming. I'm going to try a little TLC, and maybe move them from their shady spot into the sun. My friend Margaret tells me that irises love the sun.
I have dozens upon dozens of irises in a great big patch in my front yard. I love irises, usually, though I'm not overly fond of these. They're brown, not purple.
Brown flowers. Really. I mean, who plants brown flowers?
But still. They're meant to bloom.
Not this year, though.
My little family has had a bit of a challenging year so far. My kids especially. It's a private kind of challenging, and one that demands a lot of my time. So I'm not blogging. I'm not doing much, honestly, outside of getting through each day as best I can, making the occasional grocery run, and doing everything I can to let my kids know I am absolutely, completely, 100% here for them.
Love 'em to bits.
My irises aren't blooming. I'm going to try a little TLC, and maybe move them from their shady spot into the sun. My friend Margaret tells me that irises love the sun.
June 8, 2011
When Poison Ivy Is an Act of Love
A week ago Tuesday, the kids and I were at my redhead's second-to-last T-ball game. It was screaming hot out. And I mean screaming. Heat index over 100, even after 5:00 p.m. The kind of hot where you sweat just stepping outside.
My redhead is a pro. He ran up to join his team, played all of his three innings, and barely broke a sweat.
My diva doesn't notice heat much either. She found a friend with a soccer ball and spent the better part of an hour running the ball across the field. That girl lives for soccer.
Peabo started well. He headed off to look for a friend of his, and, not finding him, spent some time digging for frogs in the woodsy brush behind the backstop. Found one, too. Little baby frog, and if I'd had my camera I'd have gotten a picture for you.
And then the heat hit him like a Mack truck. He spent the next 30 minutes in a ball on my lap, grabbing my arms and holding on for dear life while he fought waves of heat exhaustion and nausea. We're used to this: it happens every year during the first few summer heatwaves. I fed him water in slow sips, and toward the end convinced him to lie down on the blanket beside me while I poured cold water over his head and neck.
We all went home. He got better as soon as he hit the air conditioning and ate a big old dinner, despite his telling me as often as I'd listen that he was too sick and would not eat a thing. Homemade macaroni and cheese, that's the secret. It's like appetite magic.
Then, two days later, he started to itch.
Three days later he was covered in a rash. A red, blotchy, itchy, uncomfortable kind of rash. So I rushed him to urgent care. Poison ivy. A very bad case. Bad enough that when they said, "Hey, kid, we can make the itching stop if we give you a horribly painful shot of prednisone in your thigh," he said "YESDOITDOITRIGHTNOW!"
So. He had poison ivy.
And that night, I realized, I did too. First in a handprint shape on my upper left arm. Then another handprint on the right. Followed by another. And another.
By this morning, both upper arms were covered in an oozy, reddened rash that was turning stomachs everywhere. The redhead told me quite plainly that I'd have to wear long sleeves or he wouldn't let me hug him. And with good reason: I'm pretty freaky looking at the moment, and all the drying, peeling calamine lotion just makes it worse.
That I disgust a 5-year-old boy is bad enough - who even knew that was possible? But the worst part is that I itch so badly I can't sleep. And my poor body, which just figured out for the first time in years that sleep is not only good but possible, screamed "WTF!" and made me go to the doctor, where I begged and I cried - they even gave me a tissue - and now I have my own steroids that I hope will soon make the itching stop.
Please. Oh, pretty pretty please make the itching stop. I mean, I'm a silver-lining girl. I can see the wonderful in pretty much anything. But there is no silver lining in poison ivy. That stuff is noxious. It is evil in plant form. I can't think, I can't sleep, I can't focus on anything but the extreme and horrific need to scratch.
So I complained on Facebook. My cousin replied, telling me about how our Oma, the Queen of Gardening, once made the great poison ivy sacrifice and put herself between my cousin and the evil weed (I know, I know, that means something else ... but it should mean poison ivy). My cousin got away scott free, not a rash in sight. Not Oma. She was covered in itchy ick, and I'm sure at least as uncomfortable as I am right now.
But that's what you do, right? I hate this poison ivy. But if comforting my son while he's sick and sobbing means poison ivy ... well, then, it means poison ivy. Because there's no way I'm not holding him when he needs me. Poison ivy and all.
I'm really happy for the steroids, though.
My redhead is a pro. He ran up to join his team, played all of his three innings, and barely broke a sweat.
My diva doesn't notice heat much either. She found a friend with a soccer ball and spent the better part of an hour running the ball across the field. That girl lives for soccer.
Peabo started well. He headed off to look for a friend of his, and, not finding him, spent some time digging for frogs in the woodsy brush behind the backstop. Found one, too. Little baby frog, and if I'd had my camera I'd have gotten a picture for you.
And then the heat hit him like a Mack truck. He spent the next 30 minutes in a ball on my lap, grabbing my arms and holding on for dear life while he fought waves of heat exhaustion and nausea. We're used to this: it happens every year during the first few summer heatwaves. I fed him water in slow sips, and toward the end convinced him to lie down on the blanket beside me while I poured cold water over his head and neck.
We all went home. He got better as soon as he hit the air conditioning and ate a big old dinner, despite his telling me as often as I'd listen that he was too sick and would not eat a thing. Homemade macaroni and cheese, that's the secret. It's like appetite magic.
Then, two days later, he started to itch.
Three days later he was covered in a rash. A red, blotchy, itchy, uncomfortable kind of rash. So I rushed him to urgent care. Poison ivy. A very bad case. Bad enough that when they said, "Hey, kid, we can make the itching stop if we give you a horribly painful shot of prednisone in your thigh," he said "YESDOITDOITRIGHTNOW!"
So. He had poison ivy.
And that night, I realized, I did too. First in a handprint shape on my upper left arm. Then another handprint on the right. Followed by another. And another.
By this morning, both upper arms were covered in an oozy, reddened rash that was turning stomachs everywhere. The redhead told me quite plainly that I'd have to wear long sleeves or he wouldn't let me hug him. And with good reason: I'm pretty freaky looking at the moment, and all the drying, peeling calamine lotion just makes it worse.
That I disgust a 5-year-old boy is bad enough - who even knew that was possible? But the worst part is that I itch so badly I can't sleep. And my poor body, which just figured out for the first time in years that sleep is not only good but possible, screamed "WTF!" and made me go to the doctor, where I begged and I cried - they even gave me a tissue - and now I have my own steroids that I hope will soon make the itching stop.
Please. Oh, pretty pretty please make the itching stop. I mean, I'm a silver-lining girl. I can see the wonderful in pretty much anything. But there is no silver lining in poison ivy. That stuff is noxious. It is evil in plant form. I can't think, I can't sleep, I can't focus on anything but the extreme and horrific need to scratch.
So I complained on Facebook. My cousin replied, telling me about how our Oma, the Queen of Gardening, once made the great poison ivy sacrifice and put herself between my cousin and the evil weed (I know, I know, that means something else ... but it should mean poison ivy). My cousin got away scott free, not a rash in sight. Not Oma. She was covered in itchy ick, and I'm sure at least as uncomfortable as I am right now.
But that's what you do, right? I hate this poison ivy. But if comforting my son while he's sick and sobbing means poison ivy ... well, then, it means poison ivy. Because there's no way I'm not holding him when he needs me. Poison ivy and all.
I'm really happy for the steroids, though.
May 8, 2011
Sister's Day
If I had my druthers, I'd spend my Mother's Day digging in the dirt while my beautifully behaved kids played in the grass around me. I'd have a marvelous meal cooked by someone who isn't me and who wants to wash all the dishes. And the whole world would chew with their mouths closed.
Oh, so not my life. I've got a little too much chaos for that.
I settled for bribing my kids to let me sleep in. I promised them as much TV, video game and computer time as they could manage. Which meant I had a great sleep, with only six interruptions between 6:30 and 10:30 a.m.: two Aspie tantrums, one set of fighting siblings, two beautiful handmade gifts, and one breakfast in bed comprising American cheese, a Nutella sandwich and a very, very tall cup of strawberry chocolate milk.
Yum!
I got up and made a big brunch. Then I broke my own cardinal rule of Mother's Day and washed the dishes.
I brokered 37 arguments, including some with other kids in the neighborhood. I put everyone in time out at least once. I shushed the very loud and annoying barking dog. I bandaged a scraped knee and kissed away some tears. I brokered 15 more arguments and shushed the barking dog again and finally gave up and hauled everyone outside just in time to join a neighborhood walk. Which was great fun, with two dogs and three grown-ups and a passel of kids racing around on various wheeled things, until they hit a particularly steep and curvy hill, where two of mine wiped out, the redhead dangerously so, scraping his left leg from his ankle to his backside, complete with ground-in dirt. I wound up piggybacking my screaming redhead all the way home, holding my dog by the leash, consoling Peabo (my other wipee) with words. Which really doesn't work so well.
My sister arrived as we rounded the corner home.
I have two sisters. This is the one nearest me in age, hair color and height. She hasn't got kids, and my kind of chaos stresses me out, so I can only imagine what it does to her.
And yet, she consoled and played with my diva while I put my redhead into a tub and cleaned off his scraped leg - and if you've ever inflicted that kind of pain on your child, knowing it was what you had to do and knowing you were hurting him badly, you know what that felt like. He wasn't crying alone.
We left the bathroom shaking and sobbing. While I dried him off and bandaged his leg, my sister blew up balloons and sent them whizzing through the air. She made my redhead laugh - actually laugh, after all that - by pointing out that it sounded like a fart. And doing it again. And again.
Then she went downstairs and found a leak in my pipes and a half inch of water in the back of my basement that I wouldn't have discovered until 2012.
She also cleaned it all up.
When I said, "I give up, let's go get pizza," she said, "Yes, let's!" even though she had pizza yesterday.
She let Peabo poke her all the way through dinner. She answered the eternal question, "Do you like waffles?" about 93 times. She listened to my diva's fabulous Mother's Day story that lasted through three car rides and an entire meal. She laughed at the redhead's jokes, and made him laugh right back.
And at the end of the day, she told me she had fun. Despite the screaming and the crying and the barking, and the stressed out, exhausted kids, and the stressed-out and moderately well-rested mom. She had fun.
I know it's Mother's Day. But I'd never have made it through this one without her. So I'm renaming it Sister's Day in her honor.
Because I'm glad she's my sister. And I don't tell her that nearly enough.
Oh, so not my life. I've got a little too much chaos for that.
I settled for bribing my kids to let me sleep in. I promised them as much TV, video game and computer time as they could manage. Which meant I had a great sleep, with only six interruptions between 6:30 and 10:30 a.m.: two Aspie tantrums, one set of fighting siblings, two beautiful handmade gifts, and one breakfast in bed comprising American cheese, a Nutella sandwich and a very, very tall cup of strawberry chocolate milk.
Yum!
I got up and made a big brunch. Then I broke my own cardinal rule of Mother's Day and washed the dishes.
I brokered 37 arguments, including some with other kids in the neighborhood. I put everyone in time out at least once. I shushed the very loud and annoying barking dog. I bandaged a scraped knee and kissed away some tears. I brokered 15 more arguments and shushed the barking dog again and finally gave up and hauled everyone outside just in time to join a neighborhood walk. Which was great fun, with two dogs and three grown-ups and a passel of kids racing around on various wheeled things, until they hit a particularly steep and curvy hill, where two of mine wiped out, the redhead dangerously so, scraping his left leg from his ankle to his backside, complete with ground-in dirt. I wound up piggybacking my screaming redhead all the way home, holding my dog by the leash, consoling Peabo (my other wipee) with words. Which really doesn't work so well.
My sister arrived as we rounded the corner home.
I have two sisters. This is the one nearest me in age, hair color and height. She hasn't got kids, and my kind of chaos stresses me out, so I can only imagine what it does to her.
And yet, she consoled and played with my diva while I put my redhead into a tub and cleaned off his scraped leg - and if you've ever inflicted that kind of pain on your child, knowing it was what you had to do and knowing you were hurting him badly, you know what that felt like. He wasn't crying alone.
We left the bathroom shaking and sobbing. While I dried him off and bandaged his leg, my sister blew up balloons and sent them whizzing through the air. She made my redhead laugh - actually laugh, after all that - by pointing out that it sounded like a fart. And doing it again. And again.
Then she went downstairs and found a leak in my pipes and a half inch of water in the back of my basement that I wouldn't have discovered until 2012.
She also cleaned it all up.
When I said, "I give up, let's go get pizza," she said, "Yes, let's!" even though she had pizza yesterday.
She let Peabo poke her all the way through dinner. She answered the eternal question, "Do you like waffles?" about 93 times. She listened to my diva's fabulous Mother's Day story that lasted through three car rides and an entire meal. She laughed at the redhead's jokes, and made him laugh right back.
And at the end of the day, she told me she had fun. Despite the screaming and the crying and the barking, and the stressed out, exhausted kids, and the stressed-out and moderately well-rested mom. She had fun.
I know it's Mother's Day. But I'd never have made it through this one without her. So I'm renaming it Sister's Day in her honor.
Because I'm glad she's my sister. And I don't tell her that nearly enough.
March 30, 2011
The "A" Word
Cussing. Cursing. Swearing. Whatever you call it, my kids are totally obsessed with it. Only I won't let them use the actual words. The first time Peabo dropped an F-bomb on me, he got a 30-minute time-out and a stern talking to. What I hear now is three kids hollering about "the bad 'F' word," "the bad 'B' word," and even "the bad 'O' word."
The bad "O" word. That's a new one.
And that's why I'm talking to my kids about Asperger's Syndrome. I don't want it to be another word we never say.
I read a few autism mom blogs by better informed moms with better therapies and better strategies for working with their kids. And I know many of them have been open and honest with their kids from the get-go, giving Asperger's a name.
I don't think I've been dishonest with my kids, though. I mean, Peabo's in seventh grade, and he's a bright, bright kid. He knows he's different. He's been through endless testing and retesting, through OT and PT, through tantrums and suspensions. When he was mainstreamed, he had a full-time aide and different testing and time in the Resource Room. But it took us forever to get the label. Peabo was identified at the age of three by his very astute preschool director, but despite ongoing, persistent effort, we didn't get a formal diagnosis until he was in 5th grade. So our conversations were not about labels but about differences. About how some people need more help than others. About how everyone has things they do brilliantly, and things they do poorly. About how what works for him doesn't always work for his siblings.
We just never used the word.
For years, I've watched my two younger kids struggle with their big brother's more challenging behaviors. There's the talking and the talking, and the repeating and repeating. There's the tantrums and the threats and the hating to lose. And his siblings have responded ... mostly with fingernail scratches and the occasional kick to the shin.
Not okay.
Veggie Girl's been talking to someone from time to time about her feelings. When this someone heard about the fingernails, she suggested a book: Autism Through a Sister's Eyes: A Young Girl's View of Her Brother's Autism.
So we started talking about autism. And Asperger's Syndrome. We used the words.
There's already one bad "A" word. We don't need to have two. Or three.
I told Peabo about his Asperger's over dinner one night (because the dinner table is where all the best conversations happen). He said, "Asperger's? Huh. May I have more bread, please?"
Since then he's learned from many of his friends that they have Asperger's too. He - and his siblings - have learned more about what that means. We've started the conversation.
I kinda hope it means the kids will stop beating up on their brother. Though, being that they're siblings and all, that's seriously unlikely.
Oh and hey, if you happen to know what the bad "O" word is, do tell. They've totally stumped me with that one.
The bad "O" word. That's a new one.
And that's why I'm talking to my kids about Asperger's Syndrome. I don't want it to be another word we never say.
I read a few autism mom blogs by better informed moms with better therapies and better strategies for working with their kids. And I know many of them have been open and honest with their kids from the get-go, giving Asperger's a name.
I don't think I've been dishonest with my kids, though. I mean, Peabo's in seventh grade, and he's a bright, bright kid. He knows he's different. He's been through endless testing and retesting, through OT and PT, through tantrums and suspensions. When he was mainstreamed, he had a full-time aide and different testing and time in the Resource Room. But it took us forever to get the label. Peabo was identified at the age of three by his very astute preschool director, but despite ongoing, persistent effort, we didn't get a formal diagnosis until he was in 5th grade. So our conversations were not about labels but about differences. About how some people need more help than others. About how everyone has things they do brilliantly, and things they do poorly. About how what works for him doesn't always work for his siblings.
We just never used the word.
For years, I've watched my two younger kids struggle with their big brother's more challenging behaviors. There's the talking and the talking, and the repeating and repeating. There's the tantrums and the threats and the hating to lose. And his siblings have responded ... mostly with fingernail scratches and the occasional kick to the shin.
Not okay.
Veggie Girl's been talking to someone from time to time about her feelings. When this someone heard about the fingernails, she suggested a book: Autism Through a Sister's Eyes: A Young Girl's View of Her Brother's Autism.
So we started talking about autism. And Asperger's Syndrome. We used the words.
There's already one bad "A" word. We don't need to have two. Or three.
I told Peabo about his Asperger's over dinner one night (because the dinner table is where all the best conversations happen). He said, "Asperger's? Huh. May I have more bread, please?"
Since then he's learned from many of his friends that they have Asperger's too. He - and his siblings - have learned more about what that means. We've started the conversation.
I kinda hope it means the kids will stop beating up on their brother. Though, being that they're siblings and all, that's seriously unlikely.
Oh and hey, if you happen to know what the bad "O" word is, do tell. They've totally stumped me with that one.
February 28, 2011
Gelukkige Verjaardag
Today is my amazing au pair's birthday.** Or, it was, when it was still today. Given my night owl habits, I think it's tomorrow already.
Birthdays in our house start just one way. With breakfast. Big, gooey, fabulous breakfast. When the diva and the redhead go birthday happy, their preference is always - always - chocolate chip pancakes. And for Peabo it's all meat, all the time. What can I say, the kid likes his protein. Usually he wants sausage and bacon and more sausage with a bit of cheese on an English muffin and a hefty dose of cinnamon rolls on the side to satisfy the little tiny sweet tooth he's been burdened with.
This morning, we made a birthday breakfast for our au pair. And that meant I was up early. Earlier, in fact, than I wanted to be, because my kids take this tradition so very deeply to heart.
The first hit was at 6:00 a.m. On the nose. A full hour before I'd set my alarm to ring.
"Mom! Mom!" That was Peabo. "You wanted to make breakfast for our awesome au pair!"
"Yes, and I will," I mumbled. "But I'm going to go make it after my alarm goes off. Okay?"
He went to go watch the news. It's his latest thing. He tapes the news at night, then watches it in the morning, and we talk about it at dinner. That's pretty cool. (Albeit totally beside the point. But you wanted to know, right?)
Then came the Diva. Who got the same response.
"Okay. Then I'll go make her a card." So she left, and my redhead climbed out of my bed and followed her. (Wait, how did he get there? I missed something. I musta been sleeping.)
Then the dog - remember the dog? - went berserk. Can't sleep when there's barking, so I woke up and got to cooking.
For my au pair: Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs. Raspberries. All on a tray with a pretty napkin and lovingly handmade cards from the two who like to make them. We tried to feed her breakfast in bed, but it's hard to get everyone ready for school when they're watching someone else eat, so we wound up with a big, family breakfast at the table, with manners and everything.
I so totally love that.
This is her second birthday with us. When she came to the U.S., she was 18, and more mature and responsible than most fully grown grown-ups I know. Now she's 20. Still mature, and nearly a fully grown grown-up herself.
Of the many, many wonderful au pairs we've had, she's the first who stayed with us for more than a year. She fits into our family as though she were born to it. I don't know if it's the hint of Dutchness in her Belgian self that clicks with the hint of Dutchness in our American family. Or maybe it's her experience with Asperger's, which she has in spades.
The best of our au pairs have been far more than just daycare providers. They were - and are - family. And this au pair, she is just that. Family. A big sister to my kids, a friend to me, and in many ways the daughter I'd have had if I'd started my family twenty years ago instead of twelve.
In just over a month, she goes home to the family who raised her, who made her this special and entrusted to her us. My kids and I owe them a great, big, giant thank you for that.
We call her Chuck, because Peabo likes it that way.
Gelukkige verjaardag to you, Chuck. You're the best birthday gift ever. And we are gonna miss you like crazy.
**Published nearly a week late because, well, you know. Timeliness is not exactly my strong suit.
Birthdays in our house start just one way. With breakfast. Big, gooey, fabulous breakfast. When the diva and the redhead go birthday happy, their preference is always - always - chocolate chip pancakes. And for Peabo it's all meat, all the time. What can I say, the kid likes his protein. Usually he wants sausage and bacon and more sausage with a bit of cheese on an English muffin and a hefty dose of cinnamon rolls on the side to satisfy the little tiny sweet tooth he's been burdened with.
This morning, we made a birthday breakfast for our au pair. And that meant I was up early. Earlier, in fact, than I wanted to be, because my kids take this tradition so very deeply to heart.
The first hit was at 6:00 a.m. On the nose. A full hour before I'd set my alarm to ring.
"Mom! Mom!" That was Peabo. "You wanted to make breakfast for our awesome au pair!"
"Yes, and I will," I mumbled. "But I'm going to go make it after my alarm goes off. Okay?"
He went to go watch the news. It's his latest thing. He tapes the news at night, then watches it in the morning, and we talk about it at dinner. That's pretty cool. (Albeit totally beside the point. But you wanted to know, right?)
Then came the Diva. Who got the same response.
"Okay. Then I'll go make her a card." So she left, and my redhead climbed out of my bed and followed her. (Wait, how did he get there? I missed something. I musta been sleeping.)
Then the dog - remember the dog? - went berserk. Can't sleep when there's barking, so I woke up and got to cooking.
For my au pair: Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs. Raspberries. All on a tray with a pretty napkin and lovingly handmade cards from the two who like to make them. We tried to feed her breakfast in bed, but it's hard to get everyone ready for school when they're watching someone else eat, so we wound up with a big, family breakfast at the table, with manners and everything.
I so totally love that.
This is her second birthday with us. When she came to the U.S., she was 18, and more mature and responsible than most fully grown grown-ups I know. Now she's 20. Still mature, and nearly a fully grown grown-up herself.
Of the many, many wonderful au pairs we've had, she's the first who stayed with us for more than a year. She fits into our family as though she were born to it. I don't know if it's the hint of Dutchness in her Belgian self that clicks with the hint of Dutchness in our American family. Or maybe it's her experience with Asperger's, which she has in spades.
The best of our au pairs have been far more than just daycare providers. They were - and are - family. And this au pair, she is just that. Family. A big sister to my kids, a friend to me, and in many ways the daughter I'd have had if I'd started my family twenty years ago instead of twelve.
In just over a month, she goes home to the family who raised her, who made her this special and entrusted to her us. My kids and I owe them a great, big, giant thank you for that.
We call her Chuck, because Peabo likes it that way.
Gelukkige verjaardag to you, Chuck. You're the best birthday gift ever. And we are gonna miss you like crazy.
**Published nearly a week late because, well, you know. Timeliness is not exactly my strong suit.
January 2, 2011
Sleeping into the Sunset
It's been 16 days since my last blog post.
You know what I've been doing? Aside from working, raising three kids, managing Christmas and New Year's, and - oh yeah - dealing with a resurgence of head lice (which, fortunately, struck over the holidays when the risk of contagion was low and the time available to nitpick was high).
I just distracted myself. Wait, what was I doing? Oh, right!
I've been sleeping. S-L-E-E-P-I-N-G. Which deserves every capital letter I can find.
I meant to be on vacation, so the sleeping thing would have maybe made sense. Except for, you know, the raging insomnia. But that vacation didn't work out quite as I planned, and I wound up working. I did my work the easy way, though. Started late. Kept it to the daytime. Didn't bring out the computer at night. And you know what happened? I got tired. I got tired, so I got up off my sofa and I went to bed. I made myself horizontal by midnight every single night. Well, except Christmas Eve. But that's only because I was tracking Santa with NORAD and couldn't go to sleep until he was finished.
I'm well rested. Which means I'm not blogging. And I hope it doesn't offend you if I hope for more of the same in 2011. I'd call it a New Year's resolution, but I'm not so good with those.
Since I'm awake now, though, I proudly present my 2010 Done List.
In the past year, I have ...
You know what I've been doing? Aside from working, raising three kids, managing Christmas and New Year's, and - oh yeah - dealing with a resurgence of head lice (which, fortunately, struck over the holidays when the risk of contagion was low and the time available to nitpick was high).
I just distracted myself. Wait, what was I doing? Oh, right!
I've been sleeping. S-L-E-E-P-I-N-G. Which deserves every capital letter I can find.
I meant to be on vacation, so the sleeping thing would have maybe made sense. Except for, you know, the raging insomnia. But that vacation didn't work out quite as I planned, and I wound up working. I did my work the easy way, though. Started late. Kept it to the daytime. Didn't bring out the computer at night. And you know what happened? I got tired. I got tired, so I got up off my sofa and I went to bed. I made myself horizontal by midnight every single night. Well, except Christmas Eve. But that's only because I was tracking Santa with NORAD and couldn't go to sleep until he was finished.
I'm well rested. Which means I'm not blogging. And I hope it doesn't offend you if I hope for more of the same in 2011. I'd call it a New Year's resolution, but I'm not so good with those.
Since I'm awake now, though, I proudly present my 2010 Done List.
In the past year, I have ...
- Said good-bye to a beloved friend - our dog, Moose, who passed away in January. We still miss her.
- Survived the 80+ inches of snow dumped on our area last winter. With help.
- Got my kids eating real food, at a real table, with real manners. They put their napkins in their laps and only talk with their mouths full when they have something really important to say.
- Saw my diva into - and then back out of - vegetarianism. Along the way, she learned there's not a veggie grown that she does not love. Even better - she dragged her brothers kicking and screaming into the veggie madness with her. Now I can serve broccoli, cauliflower, green beans, brussels sprouts, peas, corn, cucumbers or carrots ... and everyone eats them. Last week, I introduced sauteed spinach and lima beans - on different nights, of course - and got nothing but yums from the peanut gallery. Hats off to Veggie Girl, because I'm pretty sure none of that would have happened without her.
- Fixed my plumbing. And my car. And my lights. And my computer. And my microwave. I got jiggy with the home repairs.
- Made new friends - a few who actually live near me (yay!), and one who lives with me. I've had lots of great au pairs, but only a few have become true friends - and the one who's living with me now is among the best of them.
- Hired a boy. That's right - our next au pair is a fella! And he's got the URL to my blog, so if he's reading this - we're pleased as punch that you're coming, and the kids can't wait to make you play soccer with them. Every. Single. Day.
- Got my oldest into the Right School, with the Right People. Which means he's now attending a school where every single person on staff understands Asperger's Syndrome and not only accepts my son but loves him for exactly who he is. So far he's brought home straight A's and a girlfriend and a few best friends who call him just to chat and sometimes to invite him to the movies. His joy at getting on the school bus every day is palpable. (And, a nod here to the local middle school, because they did everything they could to support him and make sure he got where he needed to go.)
- Left my heart in San Francisco. And brought some yummy chocolate home.
- Saw my redhead off to Kindergarten. And only cried a little. And now he's reading. Kindergarten is magic.
- Knit stuff. This year I finished - yes, I said finished - my knitting Olympics project and a handbag, plus the three hats and a scarf I just gave as Christmas gifts. And I finished those last four on time. Barely. But it counts.
- Picked hundreds of nits from the heads of various of my children. And thanked my au pair for doing the same, for them and for me. (Ew.)
- Wrote another 57 blog posts. Which seems to be about all I'm good for in any given year, seeing as that's the exact number I wrote in 2009, too.
July 13, 2010
Peanuts Happen
When I talk to my kids, I often use nicknames. There’s “sweetie” and "kiddo" and all the typical mom stuff, which I use mostly because I can’t remember their names. But they also have one nickname each that’s just for them. Almost like a name, except easier to remember.
My Aspie, he gets to be my pumpkin because he was born in October.
My diva used to be my sweet pea, until she realized she was really a princess and started behaving like one, and that’s what she’s been ever since.
And my little guy, who is much bigger than your typical nearly-five-year-old, he’s my peanut. Not because he’s little. He’s never been little, not even at birth. Nine pounds, nine ounces of baby, that one. I call him my peanut because he’s the only one of my three who got an ultrasound in utero during that phase when your soon-to-be baby still looks like a peanut.
It stuck.
Last night I was on the phone with my sister having a very deep conversation, because there’s a whole lot of deep going on. And I was eating a big bowl of ice cream, because my fella is moving to San Francisco and that means I get to eat ice cream. Suddenly I was interrupted by the pitter patter of little feet on the stairs. I jumped up to put my ice cream in the freezer before the little feet found me, because it was on the verge of melting anyway, and came back to find my little guy on the sofa.
At which point I interrupted my sister to say, “Hey, peanut. Why are you awake?” (Clearly, that was not directed toward her.)
I got a raspy croak in response, which generally means, “I have to pee, mom, but there’s zombies in the bathroom, and really I’d rather be sleeping.”
So I made my excuses to my sister, and when I apologized for the interruption she said, “That’s okay. Peanuts happen.”
Which I thought was funny.
Now you get to think so, too.
My Aspie, he gets to be my pumpkin because he was born in October.
My diva used to be my sweet pea, until she realized she was really a princess and started behaving like one, and that’s what she’s been ever since.
And my little guy, who is much bigger than your typical nearly-five-year-old, he’s my peanut. Not because he’s little. He’s never been little, not even at birth. Nine pounds, nine ounces of baby, that one. I call him my peanut because he’s the only one of my three who got an ultrasound in utero during that phase when your soon-to-be baby still looks like a peanut.
It stuck.
Last night I was on the phone with my sister having a very deep conversation, because there’s a whole lot of deep going on. And I was eating a big bowl of ice cream, because my fella is moving to San Francisco and that means I get to eat ice cream. Suddenly I was interrupted by the pitter patter of little feet on the stairs. I jumped up to put my ice cream in the freezer before the little feet found me, because it was on the verge of melting anyway, and came back to find my little guy on the sofa.
At which point I interrupted my sister to say, “Hey, peanut. Why are you awake?” (Clearly, that was not directed toward her.)
I got a raspy croak in response, which generally means, “I have to pee, mom, but there’s zombies in the bathroom, and really I’d rather be sleeping.”
So I made my excuses to my sister, and when I apologized for the interruption she said, “That’s okay. Peanuts happen.”
Which I thought was funny.
Now you get to think so, too.
June 24, 2010
Squish
You may recall my redhead being completely incapacitated by his fear of zombies and poison frogs.
(This is where I'd insert a reference to the Litany Against Fear from Dune, 'cause yes, I'm that geeky. I just can't figure out a way to do it gracefully.)
Anyway ... I convinced the little guy that neither zombies nor poison dart frogs could drive, and since they live too far away to walk, that took care of the worst of it. But he was still afraid. He slept with his magic, force-field wielding baby blanket every night, and he covered his ears and hollered whenever a sibling said the "z" word or the "f" word (the other "f" word -you know, four letters, ends in "g"). It was bad enough that I banned any discussion of zombies. Period.
This week, that all changed.
That's because this week, the kids and I are on vacation. Amongst our other adventures, we spent a day at the National Aquarium in Baltimore. Way cool place, chock full of dolphins and jellyfish and a bunch of other fascinating sea creatures.
Oddly enough, they've also got a whole mess of poison dart frogs. Not so much with the aquatic, really. But, as it happens, very handy to have around. Because - guess what? Those frogs are tiny. Little bitty teeny tiny things. About the size of my little guy's thumb.
And eminently squishable.
I took a risk and introduced my fearful redhead to every single variety of poison dart frog in the place. I showed him their teeny tiny selves. He took one look at those terrifying beasts ... and he giggled. He actually giggled. Then he told me he would punch them all in the face and squish them.
Good-bye poison dart frogs.
Yes, I know they're endangered. I don't care. My kid believes he can squish them at will, and that is a good, good thing. And no, I did not bother to tell him that one of these puppies has enough venom to kill 10 adult humans. There are some things he does not need to know.
On the way home, we had this conversation.
"You know how I said I was afraid of poison frogs?"
"Yep."
"That was a joke. I was joking about the zombies, too," he added. "Because, you know, they're not even real."
Take that, fear. You've been squished.
(This is where I'd insert a reference to the Litany Against Fear from Dune, 'cause yes, I'm that geeky. I just can't figure out a way to do it gracefully.)
Anyway ... I convinced the little guy that neither zombies nor poison dart frogs could drive, and since they live too far away to walk, that took care of the worst of it. But he was still afraid. He slept with his magic, force-field wielding baby blanket every night, and he covered his ears and hollered whenever a sibling said the "z" word or the "f" word (the other "f" word -you know, four letters, ends in "g"). It was bad enough that I banned any discussion of zombies. Period.
This week, that all changed.
That's because this week, the kids and I are on vacation. Amongst our other adventures, we spent a day at the National Aquarium in Baltimore. Way cool place, chock full of dolphins and jellyfish and a bunch of other fascinating sea creatures.
Oddly enough, they've also got a whole mess of poison dart frogs. Not so much with the aquatic, really. But, as it happens, very handy to have around. Because - guess what? Those frogs are tiny. Little bitty teeny tiny things. About the size of my little guy's thumb.
And eminently squishable.
I took a risk and introduced my fearful redhead to every single variety of poison dart frog in the place. I showed him their teeny tiny selves. He took one look at those terrifying beasts ... and he giggled. He actually giggled. Then he told me he would punch them all in the face and squish them.
Good-bye poison dart frogs.
Yes, I know they're endangered. I don't care. My kid believes he can squish them at will, and that is a good, good thing. And no, I did not bother to tell him that one of these puppies has enough venom to kill 10 adult humans. There are some things he does not need to know.
On the way home, we had this conversation.
"You know how I said I was afraid of poison frogs?"
"Yep."
"That was a joke. I was joking about the zombies, too," he added. "Because, you know, they're not even real."
Take that, fear. You've been squished.
June 6, 2010
Lemon Jell-O Cake, or Why I Love My Sister
I like cake.
You're shocked, I'm sure. Because I've only blogged about cakes and cupcakes like 83,000 times. (And yes, I'm exaggerating. But not by much.)
My aunt makes a cake she calls Better Than Sex Cake. And there was a time when I might have agreed with her. You should make this cake. It may not be better than sex, but it is better than a great many other truly wonderful things. Including chocolate. I kid you not.
Good as this cake is, however - and it is extremely good - it is not the best cake ever.
The best cake ever is the stuff of memories. It's the cake my mom made for my birthday every single year growing up. It's baked in a Bundt pan, coated in a simple powdered sugar glaze, moist, with a blaze of lemony flavor that just zings through your mouth. We call it the Lemon Jell-O Cake.
I have not had that cake in nearly 30 years.
My mom's been ill for a very, very long time. When all that first happened, her brother kindly stored her things in his basement. There was a flood, though, and much was destroyed. Baby clothes she'd made by hand for me and my sister. Her original artwork. Mirrored pillows and other items from her travels to India.
And books. Many books. Including her cookbooks, and the recipe for the best cake ever along with them.
I spent years searching the interwebz for that Lemon Jello-O Cake. I never found it. I found cakes that stole the name, easy cakes, light and lemony. But not one was right.
And then, my sister's birthday came. I was pondering how best to help her celebrate and decided to get her thoughts on her cake. I gave her a couple of options. First up, the tiramisu cupcakes I wound up making (awesome!). The other was Martha Stewart's lemon curd cupcakes, for the lemony memories.
Which is when she told me about her wonderful gift. She'd rescued my mom's old, water-logged Fannie Farmer Cookbook from the flood. And inside it, hand-written and just a little smeared, was my mom's Lemon Jell-O Cake recipe. (Which is apparently Paulette's recipe, only we don't know who Paulette is.)
My sister read it to me over the phone, because she is just that awesome.
I made it last weekend. It is every single bit as good as I remembered. And given how much flavor hindsight and nostalgia add, that's saying something. Still not better than sex, but definitely getting closer.
Enjoy. And remember to send a great big thank you to my sister.
Paulette's Lemon Jell-O Cake
1 package Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix
1 3 oz package lemon Jell-O
4 eggs, slightly beaten
3/4 cup oil
3/4 cup apricot nectar (my store didn't have it, so I used pear nectar instead - still yummy!)
2 tbs lemon extract
Mix all ingredients together and pour into a buttered and floured Bundt pan. Bake at 350 for 45 minutes minimum, usually longer. (45 minutes did it for me, but my oven is dead-on accurate.)
Glaze
2 cups powdered sugar
1/4 cup lemon juice (fresh-squeezed, please!)
Mix and let stand. Pour over cake when it comes out of the oven. (I poured it along the inner and outer edges of the pan ... oh stars, but what that does to this cake ... you'll just have to find out for yourself.) Leave in the pan until it cools. Eat it.
Giving credit where credit is due: my mom once told me that this recipe came off a box of Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix. I've been all over their site, though, and couldn't find the recipe. I did find a similar recipe here.
You're shocked, I'm sure. Because I've only blogged about cakes and cupcakes like 83,000 times. (And yes, I'm exaggerating. But not by much.)
My aunt makes a cake she calls Better Than Sex Cake. And there was a time when I might have agreed with her. You should make this cake. It may not be better than sex, but it is better than a great many other truly wonderful things. Including chocolate. I kid you not.
Good as this cake is, however - and it is extremely good - it is not the best cake ever.
The best cake ever is the stuff of memories. It's the cake my mom made for my birthday every single year growing up. It's baked in a Bundt pan, coated in a simple powdered sugar glaze, moist, with a blaze of lemony flavor that just zings through your mouth. We call it the Lemon Jell-O Cake.
I have not had that cake in nearly 30 years.
My mom's been ill for a very, very long time. When all that first happened, her brother kindly stored her things in his basement. There was a flood, though, and much was destroyed. Baby clothes she'd made by hand for me and my sister. Her original artwork. Mirrored pillows and other items from her travels to India.
And books. Many books. Including her cookbooks, and the recipe for the best cake ever along with them.
I spent years searching the interwebz for that Lemon Jello-O Cake. I never found it. I found cakes that stole the name, easy cakes, light and lemony. But not one was right.
And then, my sister's birthday came. I was pondering how best to help her celebrate and decided to get her thoughts on her cake. I gave her a couple of options. First up, the tiramisu cupcakes I wound up making (awesome!). The other was Martha Stewart's lemon curd cupcakes, for the lemony memories.
Which is when she told me about her wonderful gift. She'd rescued my mom's old, water-logged Fannie Farmer Cookbook from the flood. And inside it, hand-written and just a little smeared, was my mom's Lemon Jell-O Cake recipe. (Which is apparently Paulette's recipe, only we don't know who Paulette is.)
My sister read it to me over the phone, because she is just that awesome.
I made it last weekend. It is every single bit as good as I remembered. And given how much flavor hindsight and nostalgia add, that's saying something. Still not better than sex, but definitely getting closer.
Enjoy. And remember to send a great big thank you to my sister.
Paulette's Lemon Jell-O Cake
1 package Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix
1 3 oz package lemon Jell-O
4 eggs, slightly beaten
3/4 cup oil
3/4 cup apricot nectar (my store didn't have it, so I used pear nectar instead - still yummy!)
2 tbs lemon extract
Mix all ingredients together and pour into a buttered and floured Bundt pan. Bake at 350 for 45 minutes minimum, usually longer. (45 minutes did it for me, but my oven is dead-on accurate.)
Glaze
2 cups powdered sugar
1/4 cup lemon juice (fresh-squeezed, please!)
Mix and let stand. Pour over cake when it comes out of the oven. (I poured it along the inner and outer edges of the pan ... oh stars, but what that does to this cake ... you'll just have to find out for yourself.) Leave in the pan until it cools. Eat it.
Giving credit where credit is due: my mom once told me that this recipe came off a box of Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix. I've been all over their site, though, and couldn't find the recipe. I did find a similar recipe here.
May 23, 2010
Small Miracles
Apparently, the Earth's orbit has shifted. The planets aligned. Hell froze over.
My redhead slept through the night. Again.
This is huge. HUGE. Because it's never ever happened before.
And even better, he wants it to happen again. Seriously. He said so himself. I was putting him to bed, and he said, "Mom, you can sleep with me one more time, and then I'm going to do it by myself so you can get me a Build-A-Bear."
That "sleeping with me" stuff means two things. It means at night, when he's falling asleep, because he likes to have me nearby. Not always right next to him, but always nearby. And given the turmoil of the divorce, I haven't pushed it. I've stayed. Because divorced kids need to know they are loved, they are safe, and their grown-ups will be there. No matter what.
And the other thing it means is his 4 a.m. wanderings into my room, when I'm so totally zonked out nothing short of a screaming smoke detector could wake me. He climbs into my bed, glues himself to my side, and sleeps the rest of his night.
Now he's going to do it by himself. Falling asleep. Staying asleep. All on his own.
And all it's going to cost me is a Build-A-Bear.
I'm in. I am so in. Because, after nearly five years of non-stop sleep deprivation, I'd give anything. Anything. A year's supply of M&Ms, every Lego kit ever made, a ride on the space shuttle.
Thirty days of solid sleep, and that kid is going shopping.
I'm lucky all he wants is a bear.
My redhead slept through the night. Again.
This is huge. HUGE. Because it's never ever happened before.
And even better, he wants it to happen again. Seriously. He said so himself. I was putting him to bed, and he said, "Mom, you can sleep with me one more time, and then I'm going to do it by myself so you can get me a Build-A-Bear."
That "sleeping with me" stuff means two things. It means at night, when he's falling asleep, because he likes to have me nearby. Not always right next to him, but always nearby. And given the turmoil of the divorce, I haven't pushed it. I've stayed. Because divorced kids need to know they are loved, they are safe, and their grown-ups will be there. No matter what.
And the other thing it means is his 4 a.m. wanderings into my room, when I'm so totally zonked out nothing short of a screaming smoke detector could wake me. He climbs into my bed, glues himself to my side, and sleeps the rest of his night.
Now he's going to do it by himself. Falling asleep. Staying asleep. All on his own.
And all it's going to cost me is a Build-A-Bear.
I'm in. I am so in. Because, after nearly five years of non-stop sleep deprivation, I'd give anything. Anything. A year's supply of M&Ms, every Lego kit ever made, a ride on the space shuttle.
Thirty days of solid sleep, and that kid is going shopping.
I'm lucky all he wants is a bear.
May 9, 2010
The Great Potty Caper
Ever since our One Step Back, the redhead has had a bit of trouble with ... uh, shall we say preschool incontinence? That first day, my poor little guy went through five - yes, five - pairs of pants. He just doesn't make it on time anymore, and I'm not sure why. He could be regressing. Or maybe he just really hates washing his hands.
We've tried all kinds of incentives and bribes, the latest being an M&M for every successful, dry trip to the loo. None has really worked. Though, thankfully, our failures have generally been at home. Quiet. Discreet. Stash of clean clothes in a dresser upstairs.
Until yesterday.
Last night my folks were here (YAY!). They live on the other coast, so we see them maybe once a year. I had the kids out for a very late dinner at Wendy's. And no, I don't do fast food that often, but when in the excitement of seeing the grandparents and possibly swimming in the hotel pool you totally forget what time it is, then realize it's nearly 8:00 p.m. and your kids haven't eaten yet, fast food is the result.
We'd made it through the chicken nuggets and on to the ice cream when suddenly the redhead starts saying, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
"Why are you sorry, peanut?"
"'Cause I pee on everything."
Oops.
I rushed him to the bathroom. Too late. He was soaked. And because he's been potty trained for nearly three years now, I was there without a stitch of extra clothing, trapped in an eco-friendly restroom with not a paper towel in sight.
Seriously. No towels. And you can't dry pants with toilet paper.
So I did the only thing a mom could do. I held him up, pants and all, under the air dryer. Baked him till he was done on one side, then flipped him over.
Worked, too. He marched out of that restroom, dry and warm, and finished his ice cream. He even washed his hands.
Fingers crossed that delivered a lesson, though. Because I'm running out of M&Ms.
We've tried all kinds of incentives and bribes, the latest being an M&M for every successful, dry trip to the loo. None has really worked. Though, thankfully, our failures have generally been at home. Quiet. Discreet. Stash of clean clothes in a dresser upstairs.
Until yesterday.
Last night my folks were here (YAY!). They live on the other coast, so we see them maybe once a year. I had the kids out for a very late dinner at Wendy's. And no, I don't do fast food that often, but when in the excitement of seeing the grandparents and possibly swimming in the hotel pool you totally forget what time it is, then realize it's nearly 8:00 p.m. and your kids haven't eaten yet, fast food is the result.
We'd made it through the chicken nuggets and on to the ice cream when suddenly the redhead starts saying, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
"Why are you sorry, peanut?"
"'Cause I pee on everything."
Oops.
I rushed him to the bathroom. Too late. He was soaked. And because he's been potty trained for nearly three years now, I was there without a stitch of extra clothing, trapped in an eco-friendly restroom with not a paper towel in sight.
Seriously. No towels. And you can't dry pants with toilet paper.
So I did the only thing a mom could do. I held him up, pants and all, under the air dryer. Baked him till he was done on one side, then flipped him over.
Worked, too. He marched out of that restroom, dry and warm, and finished his ice cream. He even washed his hands.
Fingers crossed that delivered a lesson, though. Because I'm running out of M&Ms.
May 2, 2010
Eight Years
You ever think of your life in eight-year chunks?
It's an odd thing to do. Most of the time you're thinking two years ahead. Or five years. Or 10.
But eight years. Enough time to be interesting, right? But not so dramatic as a whole decade.
And really it's not that long.
You know how I know?
Eight years ago, I had a three-year-old son starting preschool. I had a 12-week-old daughter who had just started sleeping through the night. The redhead was not even a twinkle in my eye. And the ex and I had just quit our marriage counselor, against her advice (gee, wonder how that went).
I blinked. That's all I did. I blinked, and eight years went flying by.
In eight more years, that three year old will be 19, finishing his second year of college and waiting, patiently and with all due respect for the law, through the 17 months between him and legal beer. That 12-week-old will be driving and dating, and I'm honestly not sure which of those is more startling. And my twinkle will be 12, almost 13, and driving the girls to distraction in middle school.
They're growing up on me, you know. And eight years, it's just a blink away.
Guess there's a lesson in there somewhere: Don't blink.
It's an odd thing to do. Most of the time you're thinking two years ahead. Or five years. Or 10.
But eight years. Enough time to be interesting, right? But not so dramatic as a whole decade.
And really it's not that long.
You know how I know?
Eight years ago, I had a three-year-old son starting preschool. I had a 12-week-old daughter who had just started sleeping through the night. The redhead was not even a twinkle in my eye. And the ex and I had just quit our marriage counselor, against her advice (gee, wonder how that went).
I blinked. That's all I did. I blinked, and eight years went flying by.
In eight more years, that three year old will be 19, finishing his second year of college and waiting, patiently and with all due respect for the law, through the 17 months between him and legal beer. That 12-week-old will be driving and
They're growing up on me, you know. And eight years, it's just a blink away.
Guess there's a lesson in there somewhere: Don't blink.
April 29, 2010
One Step Back
You know that saying, "two steps forward, one step back"? Well, I shoulda known this was coming. I mean we've taken a lot of great steps forward in managing this whole single-parent family life thing. Which means we were overdue for a step back.
So we took one.
Yesterday, I woke up with all three kids in my bed. My Aspie was restless. My diva had nightmares. My little guy - well, he climbs in every night, 'cause he knows I'm too tired to move him back to his own bed. But yesterday morning he just wouldn't leave.
And the three of them, they were a mess. Lots of needling and bickering and that really annoying, two-syllable "Mo-om!" Kids grabbing at me and crying a blue streak at the slightest hint of separation. My little guy, a potty user for half his life now - well, he missed. And I caught my diva with her thumb firmly in her mouth. She hasn't sucked her thumb in months.
Big step back.
And here's why.
If you've been around the past few weeks, you know my Aspie just started a new school. Great new school. Actual friends - seriously, he's got friends, and they are just like him, and they are awesome. But it's a transition. Transitions are rough. The school is still learning him, he is still learning them, we're all still learning each other.
This week, we learned a lot.
Late in what was a very good day at school, the staff sat down with the kids and shared the news that a student at my son's old school had died. The boys talked. They seemed okay. And everyone went home.
My Aspie was not okay.
He's also not so good at identifying and articulating his emotions. He was confused and coping. So he tantrummed. He screamed and he cried. He got disrespectful and disobedient and a whole slew of other nasty dis-es. I wasn't there for most of them, because it was Not My Night. The kids were, mostly, with their dad. Not that I helped while I was there - kid management has always been a source of - well, let's just call it debate - between me and the ex. But I do know there was a fair amount of angry all around, and a lot of dad-style discipline, which tends to be rather, uh, louder than the mom stuff.
It was not a good night. So we took a step back.
But you know what's cool? And maybe it's the rose-colored glasses talking. But all this, it's an aberration. It's not normal. And it used to be. It used to be normal. It used to be every day with the nightmares and the thumbsucking and the clinging to mommy. A year ago, this was our life.
It's not anymore.
Today our world went right back to the new normal. I woke up with only one kid in my bed, and he dashed off as soon as he heard his favorite brother playing on his DS downstairs. The kids spent the morning laughing and hugging and left the house smiling. No missed potties. Not a single sucked thumb.
And so, we step forward again. Because these days, forward is where we live.
So we took one.
Yesterday, I woke up with all three kids in my bed. My Aspie was restless. My diva had nightmares. My little guy - well, he climbs in every night, 'cause he knows I'm too tired to move him back to his own bed. But yesterday morning he just wouldn't leave.
And the three of them, they were a mess. Lots of needling and bickering and that really annoying, two-syllable "Mo-om!" Kids grabbing at me and crying a blue streak at the slightest hint of separation. My little guy, a potty user for half his life now - well, he missed. And I caught my diva with her thumb firmly in her mouth. She hasn't sucked her thumb in months.
Big step back.
And here's why.
If you've been around the past few weeks, you know my Aspie just started a new school. Great new school. Actual friends - seriously, he's got friends, and they are just like him, and they are awesome. But it's a transition. Transitions are rough. The school is still learning him, he is still learning them, we're all still learning each other.
This week, we learned a lot.
Late in what was a very good day at school, the staff sat down with the kids and shared the news that a student at my son's old school had died. The boys talked. They seemed okay. And everyone went home.
My Aspie was not okay.
He's also not so good at identifying and articulating his emotions. He was confused and coping. So he tantrummed. He screamed and he cried. He got disrespectful and disobedient and a whole slew of other nasty dis-es. I wasn't there for most of them, because it was Not My Night. The kids were, mostly, with their dad. Not that I helped while I was there - kid management has always been a source of - well, let's just call it debate - between me and the ex. But I do know there was a fair amount of angry all around, and a lot of dad-style discipline, which tends to be rather, uh, louder than the mom stuff.
It was not a good night. So we took a step back.
But you know what's cool? And maybe it's the rose-colored glasses talking. But all this, it's an aberration. It's not normal. And it used to be. It used to be normal. It used to be every day with the nightmares and the thumbsucking and the clinging to mommy. A year ago, this was our life.
It's not anymore.
Today our world went right back to the new normal. I woke up with only one kid in my bed, and he dashed off as soon as he heard his favorite brother playing on his DS downstairs. The kids spent the morning laughing and hugging and left the house smiling. No missed potties. Not a single sucked thumb.
And so, we step forward again. Because these days, forward is where we live.
March 1, 2010
Knit, Purl, Toe Loop
My Oma was a neat lady. Teacher, skater, gardener, knitter. She taught me to knit and to cross-stitch and needlepoint. She tried to teach me to skate. And about that, let's just say that I really liked the knitting.
I was a little thing when we started. My Oma showed me how to cast on, to knit, to purl. I knit up a swatch big enough to be a potholder. Except I didn't learn to bind off, so I wound up with a set of fat, plastic, circular needles wrapped in white yarn. I still have that thing somewhere.
But it was a memory. And it stuck.
When I took up knitting for real, the first project I made was for her. A simple feather-and-fan lapghan in pink acrylic with a long yellow fringe, meant to keep her warm while she watched figure skating on TV. It came out sideways. She used it anyway, because that's what Omas do. And when she died, my cousin thoughtfully packed it up and sent it back to me. Now it's draped across the foot of my daughter's bed.
I never took to skating. Too clumsy. Although, somehow, knitting and skating remained inextricably linked in my crowded little brain.
Which is why I signed on for the Olympics. The Knitting Olympics, that is, sponsored by my girl, the Yarn Harlot. The goal: cast a project on during the opening ceremonies of the 2010 Winter Olympics, knit like a madwoman for 17 days, watch a little skating, and finish the whole thing before the closing ceremonies are done.
Knitting? Skating? At the same time? Cool!
Of course, we were about an hour into the opening ceremonies when I decided I should do this. Like any obsessed but time-pressed knitter, I do have a few projects waiting ... so I dashed upstairs and found this gorgeous cotton I'd bought last year along with the pattern I'd picked to go with it. I managed to dig up a pair of size 6 needles: if you've ever seen my closet (which you won't), you'll know just how hard a task that was.
And then I cast on. For 17 days, I knit like a fiend. I watched some kick-ass skating, and I knit. Kim Yu-Na beat the tutus off of everyone else on the ice. And I knit. I have a callous where the yarn wraps around my finger, and a deep bruise where I push against the needle. My shoulders ache.
And yet, I didn't finish. I didn't finish because I'm a crazy lady who thought a hardworking single mother of three would have time to knit a whole sweater in just over two weeks. I mean, it's sleeveless, right? Piece of cake!
Yeah, not so much. I got about half of it done.
I'm awfully darn proud of myself, though. I'm proud that I tried. I'm proud that I made it as far as I did. I even learned a few new skills along the way.
I'm still knitting my sweater. I may not have finished on time. But I will finish. And I will have a beautiful, summery sweater to show for it. My version of a skating sweater.
Thanks, Oma.
* PS Yes, it's rather ridiculous to blog about knitting and not include any pictures. But my camera is full so, well, there you go.
I was a little thing when we started. My Oma showed me how to cast on, to knit, to purl. I knit up a swatch big enough to be a potholder. Except I didn't learn to bind off, so I wound up with a set of fat, plastic, circular needles wrapped in white yarn. I still have that thing somewhere.
But it was a memory. And it stuck.
When I took up knitting for real, the first project I made was for her. A simple feather-and-fan lapghan in pink acrylic with a long yellow fringe, meant to keep her warm while she watched figure skating on TV. It came out sideways. She used it anyway, because that's what Omas do. And when she died, my cousin thoughtfully packed it up and sent it back to me. Now it's draped across the foot of my daughter's bed.
I never took to skating. Too clumsy. Although, somehow, knitting and skating remained inextricably linked in my crowded little brain.
Which is why I signed on for the Olympics. The Knitting Olympics, that is, sponsored by my girl, the Yarn Harlot. The goal: cast a project on during the opening ceremonies of the 2010 Winter Olympics, knit like a madwoman for 17 days, watch a little skating, and finish the whole thing before the closing ceremonies are done.
Knitting? Skating? At the same time? Cool!
Of course, we were about an hour into the opening ceremonies when I decided I should do this. Like any obsessed but time-pressed knitter, I do have a few projects waiting ... so I dashed upstairs and found this gorgeous cotton I'd bought last year along with the pattern I'd picked to go with it. I managed to dig up a pair of size 6 needles: if you've ever seen my closet (which you won't), you'll know just how hard a task that was.
And then I cast on. For 17 days, I knit like a fiend. I watched some kick-ass skating, and I knit. Kim Yu-Na beat the tutus off of everyone else on the ice. And I knit. I have a callous where the yarn wraps around my finger, and a deep bruise where I push against the needle. My shoulders ache.
And yet, I didn't finish. I didn't finish because I'm a crazy lady who thought a hardworking single mother of three would have time to knit a whole sweater in just over two weeks. I mean, it's sleeveless, right? Piece of cake!
Yeah, not so much. I got about half of it done.
I'm awfully darn proud of myself, though. I'm proud that I tried. I'm proud that I made it as far as I did. I even learned a few new skills along the way.
I'm still knitting my sweater. I may not have finished on time. But I will finish. And I will have a beautiful, summery sweater to show for it. My version of a skating sweater.
Thanks, Oma.
* PS Yes, it's rather ridiculous to blog about knitting and not include any pictures. But my camera is full so, well, there you go.
February 17, 2010
The Return of Veggie Girl
Last Friday, my youngest sister's boyfriend popped in for a surprise visit.
I was making spaghetti. Usually, I dump a whole mess of meat into the sauce so as to satisfy my protein-starved Aspie. My sister, however, is vegetarian and keeps a vegetarian home. So I asked her boyfriend if he was okay with the meat. (That wasn't just the hospitality talking, either. He was shoveling out the back end of my driveway, so I was super motivated to be nice.)
Now, my diva is my Veggie Girl. She gets googly-eyed over brussels sprouts, does the happy dance when it's cauliflower for dinner, and has begged me to buy spinach. She even likes lima beans. Canned lima beans. Seriously.
She wanted to know why her aunt is a vegetarian.
My family is chock full of vegetarians, and each one of them has his or her own reason for eschewing meat. In my immediate family, they don't believe killing animals is a necessary or desirable thing. They don't wear leather, they use animal-friendly products. They live what they believe.
My daughter doesn't like hurting animals either.
My daughter is now a vegetarian.
I'm incredibly proud of her. Because she figured out for herself what she believes in. Because she's trying to live it. And because she's 8. This is pretty big for 8.
And she's embraced it. This formerly picky eater has already tried mushroom burgers, raw almonds, soy nuts, sunflower seeds, dried cranberries and organic yogurt (after she learned her favorite brand is made with gelatin). She's reached out to family and friends for tips on how to make this work. She's learning about nutrition and diet and why conviction and commitment matter.
She's going veggie until March 8, and then she'll see if she wants to keep it up. I think she will. But either way? My Veggie Girl has more than earned her cape.
I was making spaghetti. Usually, I dump a whole mess of meat into the sauce so as to satisfy my protein-starved Aspie. My sister, however, is vegetarian and keeps a vegetarian home. So I asked her boyfriend if he was okay with the meat. (That wasn't just the hospitality talking, either. He was shoveling out the back end of my driveway, so I was super motivated to be nice.)
Now, my diva is my Veggie Girl. She gets googly-eyed over brussels sprouts, does the happy dance when it's cauliflower for dinner, and has begged me to buy spinach. She even likes lima beans. Canned lima beans. Seriously.
She wanted to know why her aunt is a vegetarian.
My family is chock full of vegetarians, and each one of them has his or her own reason for eschewing meat. In my immediate family, they don't believe killing animals is a necessary or desirable thing. They don't wear leather, they use animal-friendly products. They live what they believe.
My daughter doesn't like hurting animals either.
My daughter is now a vegetarian.
I'm incredibly proud of her. Because she figured out for herself what she believes in. Because she's trying to live it. And because she's 8. This is pretty big for 8.
And she's embraced it. This formerly picky eater has already tried mushroom burgers, raw almonds, soy nuts, sunflower seeds, dried cranberries and organic yogurt (after she learned her favorite brand is made with gelatin). She's reached out to family and friends for tips on how to make this work. She's learning about nutrition and diet and why conviction and commitment matter.
She's going veggie until March 8, and then she'll see if she wants to keep it up. I think she will. But either way? My Veggie Girl has more than earned her cape.
January 11, 2010
Fluffy Pink Hearts
Saturday morning, I took my dog to the vet.
It was quite a big deal, actually. She was a very large black Lab - in the 90-lb weight class. She had bad arthritis, and for some time she hadn't been able to get herself into the back of the minivan. My au pair and I had lately been hoisting her back hips in a dishtowel sling just so she could eat and do her business.
But she wasn't always like that.
The ex and I got her as a four-month-old puppy shortly after we married. Thing is, I'm a lifelong cat owner. Categorically not a dog person. But newlyweds have fluffy pink hearts where their brains should be, so when the ex said, "Not only do we need a dog, but we need a dog the size of Texas!" I got all pink and fluffy and said, "Yee-haw!" Which I think meant yes.
We named her Artemis. You know - black Lab, goddess of the hunt, all about the nighttime. The idea being that someday she'd have a bright and shiny yellow Lab as a companion, and we'd name him Apollo.
Fortunately, the pink fluffies wore off before that could happen.
The name did not stick, though. Artemis was not a dignified, goddessy dog. She was a Mack truck. In a head-on collision with your Camry, she'd have won. She knocked down every kid in the neighborhood at least once. Not because she tried, either. She'd bound past and they'd just topple like duckpins.
So we called her Moose.
Moose was true to her breed. She loved food. She stole hot dogs off the kids' high chairs and cookies right out of their hands. And heaven help them once she figured out there was milk in their sippy cups. We have a lot of chewed up sippy cups.
She's swiped at least one sandwich out from under the nose of every one of the seven au pairs who's lived with us, except the last one. She once upended a colander full of grapes. Really full. Ten dollars worth of full. She ate every grape and left the stems behind.
She figured out that there was food in cans - most notably in cat food cans. If anyone left the pantry door even slightly ajar, we'd find bits of aluminum and mashed up food all over the house.
I still remember one Christmas, we left for just a couple of days and had the neighbors come in to watch her. They checked on her that last morning and all was fine. We got home around dinner time to find Moose wobbling atop our dining room table, surrounded by ripped paper, cardboard and chocolate. She'd figured out there was food in that stack of fully wrapped gifts, and she'd helped herself.
When I was pregnant with my first, and we still let her up on the furniture, Moose would curl up with me on the sofa. Too big for lap-sitting, she'd rest her muzzle on my leg while I napped. She made a good blanket.
And she really took to the kids. When she wasn't knocking them down or stealing their food, she was playing horsey and letting them climb all over her. She never nipped or snapped. She never even made a sound.
She loved the snow, too. That first winter we had her, Mother Nature dumped three feet of snow on our little corner of the world. And this puppy, just learning the real purpose of the great outdoors, went bounding through snow up to her nose, reveling in the stuff. She totally forgot to pee.
This winter, 13 years later, I had to dig a path for her through the last blizzard and out to the yard. She was cold and miserable and stayed in most of the time, curled up under my feet in front of the sofa, sleeping. She was deaf and battling arthritis and an enlarged heart. She wasn't eating so much any more.
Then, last Thursday, out of nowhere, she attacked the Christmas tree. She pulled the lights off and chewed right through three full strings (which she'd thoughtfully unplugged first). I dragged her away from the tree. She couldn't stand, so she crawled on her front paws to get back to it. Over and over this happened until, finally, I gave up. I took the tree down at midnight that night and went to bed worried.
So I took her to the vet. I took her to the vet, who thought the incident with the lights was evidence of neurological damage, probably from a slipped disk. In just those two days, she'd stopped walking on her own. She'd stopped eating.
Moose died on Saturday. She had massive big hugs from the kids, and a great big bowl of chocolate gelato to see her out. She was surrounded by every one of those fluffy pink hearts.
We'll miss her.
It was quite a big deal, actually. She was a very large black Lab - in the 90-lb weight class. She had bad arthritis, and for some time she hadn't been able to get herself into the back of the minivan. My au pair and I had lately been hoisting her back hips in a dishtowel sling just so she could eat and do her business.
But she wasn't always like that.
The ex and I got her as a four-month-old puppy shortly after we married. Thing is, I'm a lifelong cat owner. Categorically not a dog person. But newlyweds have fluffy pink hearts where their brains should be, so when the ex said, "Not only do we need a dog, but we need a dog the size of Texas!" I got all pink and fluffy and said, "Yee-haw!" Which I think meant yes.
Fortunately, the pink fluffies wore off before that could happen.
The name did not stick, though. Artemis was not a dignified, goddessy dog. She was a Mack truck. In a head-on collision with your Camry, she'd have won. She knocked down every kid in the neighborhood at least once. Not because she tried, either. She'd bound past and they'd just topple like duckpins.
So we called her Moose.
Moose was true to her breed. She loved food. She stole hot dogs off the kids' high chairs and cookies right out of their hands. And heaven help them once she figured out there was milk in their sippy cups. We have a lot of chewed up sippy cups.
She's swiped at least one sandwich out from under the nose of every one of the seven au pairs who's lived with us, except the last one. She once upended a colander full of grapes. Really full. Ten dollars worth of full. She ate every grape and left the stems behind.
She figured out that there was food in cans - most notably in cat food cans. If anyone left the pantry door even slightly ajar, we'd find bits of aluminum and mashed up food all over the house.
I still remember one Christmas, we left for just a couple of days and had the neighbors come in to watch her. They checked on her that last morning and all was fine. We got home around dinner time to find Moose wobbling atop our dining room table, surrounded by ripped paper, cardboard and chocolate. She'd figured out there was food in that stack of fully wrapped gifts, and she'd helped herself.
When I was pregnant with my first, and we still let her up on the furniture, Moose would curl up with me on the sofa. Too big for lap-sitting, she'd rest her muzzle on my leg while I napped. She made a good blanket.
And she really took to the kids. When she wasn't knocking them down or stealing their food, she was playing horsey and letting them climb all over her. She never nipped or snapped. She never even made a sound.
She loved the snow, too. That first winter we had her, Mother Nature dumped three feet of snow on our little corner of the world. And this puppy, just learning the real purpose of the great outdoors, went bounding through snow up to her nose, reveling in the stuff. She totally forgot to pee.
This winter, 13 years later, I had to dig a path for her through the last blizzard and out to the yard. She was cold and miserable and stayed in most of the time, curled up under my feet in front of the sofa, sleeping. She was deaf and battling arthritis and an enlarged heart. She wasn't eating so much any more.
Then, last Thursday, out of nowhere, she attacked the Christmas tree. She pulled the lights off and chewed right through three full strings (which she'd thoughtfully unplugged first). I dragged her away from the tree. She couldn't stand, so she crawled on her front paws to get back to it. Over and over this happened until, finally, I gave up. I took the tree down at midnight that night and went to bed worried.
So I took her to the vet. I took her to the vet, who thought the incident with the lights was evidence of neurological damage, probably from a slipped disk. In just those two days, she'd stopped walking on her own. She'd stopped eating.
Moose died on Saturday. She had massive big hugs from the kids, and a great big bowl of chocolate gelato to see her out. She was surrounded by every one of those fluffy pink hearts.
We'll miss her.
January 4, 2010
Kissing 2009 Good-Bye
It's a new year. A new me. A whole new name. Well, an old name, but since I haven't used it in 13+ years, it feels new. New "About Me," over there on the right, too. Kinda had to change it now that I've officially left the limboverse between separation and divorce and entered single motherhood.
Felt all that merited a new template, too. Old one was nice and green. This one is not green, but it's far easier to read, and that's considerably more important. I wish I had the time and the talent to make my own beautiful green blog layout. I don't.
And so, a new year. I'm tickled pink to have kissed 2009 good-bye. Much crap in 2009. Much. Crap.
Lots of joy too, though. And since I'm a rose-colored glasses kind of gal, I thought it best to wrap up the year with a Done List of the good stuff.
In the past year, I have ...
Felt all that merited a new template, too. Old one was nice and green. This one is not green, but it's far easier to read, and that's considerably more important. I wish I had the time and the talent to make my own beautiful green blog layout. I don't.
And so, a new year. I'm tickled pink to have kissed 2009 good-bye. Much crap in 2009. Much. Crap.
Lots of joy too, though. And since I'm a rose-colored glasses kind of gal, I thought it best to wrap up the year with a Done List of the good stuff.
In the past year, I have ...
- Introduced my kids to 35 members of my immediate and extended family, all of whom love them to pieces just because they were born.
- Hugged my dad. In person even.
- Successfully baked cakes from scratch. Martha Stewart's Cupcakes is my new kitchen bible, and trust me, the yellow buttermilk cupcakes with fluffy vanilla frosting will put you in a cupcake coma. Pure joy.
- Rediscovered old friends and made some new ones. These friends? They're the kind who, once you've met them, you wonder how you ever thought your life was whole without them.
- Found The Best Side Dish ever - Cauliflower Goat Cheese Gratin, at Bobby Flay's Bar Americain in New York. If you go there, order five servings of cauliflower and a Cosmo. It's all you need.
- Saw Wicked. Lately, my diva's been singing "Defying Gravity" ... and she's doing it well.
Saw the most beautiful place on earth: Paradise on Mount Rainier in August.- Learned several important lessons, one of which I'm currently ignoring (that would be Lesson 3: Get Some Sleep, Stupid)
- Rescued one sorely damaged and dearly treasured cast iron fry pan from kitchen fire. Elbow grease and bacon brought it back. So nice to have an excuse to cook lots and lots of bacon.
- Made 57 blog posts. People actually read them. Awesome.
- Got my kids through an insane number of transitions. Separation. Divorce. Middle school. Preschool. New au pairs. Old au pairs. And realized that, after a full year of change, they are happy. Really, truly, genuinely happy.
- And, of course, made it through Limbo. That's the big one, really.
November 18, 2009
Love the World
I am a geek.
In fact, I'm a geek on so many levels it's hard to know where to start. I've got a fair amount of sci fi geekness, a strong streak of grammar geekness, and a mountain of English lit geekness (actually, make that medieval lit geekness, which is worse because it means that somewhere along the line I actually learned Old English). The list is kinda endless.
I'm also a geography geek. And this week, that's a very cool thing to be. 'Cause it's Geography Awareness Week, and you can get free maps.
I love maps.
I come by this particular geekness quite honestly. For one thing, I grew up following my dad around the world. His work took him to India, Bangladesh, the Philippines. When I was 11, my sister and I flew to Manila all by ourselves. Unaccompanied minors jetting off around the world to visit our dad.
But it's not just about the traveling. My dad and stepmom, they have always loved this world of ours, and they made sure to share that love with us kids. And their house, it was a haven for a map geek. Maps out the wazoo. I still remember, in Bangladesh, there was only one spot in the whole house with the right kind of outlet for my hair dryer. It was right in front of a great big map of the world. No mirror; just a map. I was a teenage girl with - well, with hair - so I spent a lot of time in front of that map, exploring the world and trying to get my hair to feather back just so.
When I was a kid, I decided it would be fun to learn all 50 states in alphabetical order. I'd sit and list them out whenever I was bored. I even memorized the capitals to go along - in the order of their states -and let me tell you, that's a serious accomplishment. Montgomery ... Juneau ... Phoenix ... you can look up the rest.
By the time I got to college I could list 120 countries from memory, continent by continent. I'd keep myself awake in class by writing down every country I could remember. Though I'll admit, the Soviet Union did make that an easier task than it would be today.
The world's pretty darn important. And those maps, they open your eyes in a pretty special way.
My kids get the world, and I love that. In part, that's because we've been using au pairs for childcare since my littlest one was born. Seven au pairs from six different countries. My kids have an extended family that spans the globe. They can say "Sweet dreams" in German and "Stop tickling me!" in Japanese. They've danced around a maypole at midsummer. They eat Nutella and celebrate birthdays with Brazilian brigadeiro. Our lovely new au pair is Belgian, and I can't wait for the kids (and me!) to learn a little Dutch.
Even better? They can pick out every one of those countries - and several more - on a map.
So print out a great big map. Put it up, and teach your kids to love the world.
And, for the record? It's Alabama Alaska Arizona Arkansas California Colorado Connecticut Delaware Florida Georgia Hawaii Idaho Illinois Indiana Iowa Kansas Kentucky Louisiana Maine Maryland Massachusetts Michigan Minnesota Mississippi Missouri Montana Nebraska Nevada New Hampshire New Jersey New Mexico New York North Carolina North Dakota Ohio Oklahoma Oregon Pennsylvania Rhode Island South Carolina South Dakota Tennessee Texas Utah Vermont Virginia Washington West Virginia Wisconsin and Wyoming. And no, the District of Columbia is not on the list.
In fact, I'm a geek on so many levels it's hard to know where to start. I've got a fair amount of sci fi geekness, a strong streak of grammar geekness, and a mountain of English lit geekness (actually, make that medieval lit geekness, which is worse because it means that somewhere along the line I actually learned Old English). The list is kinda endless.
I'm also a geography geek. And this week, that's a very cool thing to be. 'Cause it's Geography Awareness Week, and you can get free maps.
I love maps.
I come by this particular geekness quite honestly. For one thing, I grew up following my dad around the world. His work took him to India, Bangladesh, the Philippines. When I was 11, my sister and I flew to Manila all by ourselves. Unaccompanied minors jetting off around the world to visit our dad.
But it's not just about the traveling. My dad and stepmom, they have always loved this world of ours, and they made sure to share that love with us kids. And their house, it was a haven for a map geek. Maps out the wazoo. I still remember, in Bangladesh, there was only one spot in the whole house with the right kind of outlet for my hair dryer. It was right in front of a great big map of the world. No mirror; just a map. I was a teenage girl with - well, with hair - so I spent a lot of time in front of that map, exploring the world and trying to get my hair to feather back just so.
When I was a kid, I decided it would be fun to learn all 50 states in alphabetical order. I'd sit and list them out whenever I was bored. I even memorized the capitals to go along - in the order of their states -and let me tell you, that's a serious accomplishment. Montgomery ... Juneau ... Phoenix ... you can look up the rest.
By the time I got to college I could list 120 countries from memory, continent by continent. I'd keep myself awake in class by writing down every country I could remember. Though I'll admit, the Soviet Union did make that an easier task than it would be today.
The world's pretty darn important. And those maps, they open your eyes in a pretty special way.
My kids get the world, and I love that. In part, that's because we've been using au pairs for childcare since my littlest one was born. Seven au pairs from six different countries. My kids have an extended family that spans the globe. They can say "Sweet dreams" in German and "Stop tickling me!" in Japanese. They've danced around a maypole at midsummer. They eat Nutella and celebrate birthdays with Brazilian brigadeiro. Our lovely new au pair is Belgian, and I can't wait for the kids (and me!) to learn a little Dutch.
Even better? They can pick out every one of those countries - and several more - on a map.
So print out a great big map. Put it up, and teach your kids to love the world.
And, for the record? It's Alabama Alaska Arizona Arkansas California Colorado Connecticut Delaware Florida Georgia Hawaii Idaho Illinois Indiana Iowa Kansas Kentucky Louisiana Maine Maryland Massachusetts Michigan Minnesota Mississippi Missouri Montana Nebraska Nevada New Hampshire New Jersey New Mexico New York North Carolina North Dakota Ohio Oklahoma Oregon Pennsylvania Rhode Island South Carolina South Dakota Tennessee Texas Utah Vermont Virginia Washington West Virginia Wisconsin and Wyoming. And no, the District of Columbia is not on the list.
November 1, 2009
The Great Pumpkin
I love Halloween.When I was a kid, it was all about homemade costumes, made-from-scratch popcorn balls and hometown Halloween fests where you bobbed for apples and watched your sister win the prize for most creative costume. She was a turtleneck-headed monster with a mask made from styrofoam bits, construction paper and tinfoil, and she was awesome.
I was a princess. I was always a princess. Of course, I was a princess in a dress brought back from India with my face "hennaed" in waterproof eyeliner by my artist mom. But still, a princess.
I'm not so much into the commercial bits of Halloween - the big puffy air-blown pumpkins and cemeteries in the front yard, the giant Halloween stores with countless cheaply-made costumes and scary rubber masks, the oceans and oceans of candy. But I don't mind them. The way we celebrate as a society, it's very American. And it's kinda cool.
For me, though, Halloween is something more than ghosts and chocolate and dry ice. It's also about my Oma, who passed away in 2000 after a long and interesting life. I think of her nearly every day, but more, of course, on her birthday. Yesterday, on Halloween, she would have been 101 years old.So now, with the kids, Halloween is a chance to share the values I learned from my Oma, passed along through my own parents. We knock out some of the commercialism and take some time together. Each year, my kids & I pick costumes we can create by hand (though sometimes the drive to be a character means we pick up a superhero suit at Target). We bake cookies shaped like little black cats and send them off to school parties. We pick pumpkins from a pumpkin patch, draw faces on them with Sharpies and then carve them out meticulously and light them up.
It's still about the costumes, the candy haul and the sugar high. But it's also about spending time together, creating and planning, doing things for each other. Now granted, it's often me doing most of the work on this stuff - my kids are fabulous and talented, but they're still a bit young to handle a sewing machine. The idea that we're thinking and creating and being together, though - that's still important, and it's what they get out of this. At least, I hope they do.
I do love Halloween.
Oh, and bonus for the food fans: you, too, can make black cat cookies! I got this recipe from Taste of Home's Halloween Party Favorites in 2005 and have made it every year since. The cookies are not terribly sweet - but, the dough is stiff and these shape beautifully.
1 cup butter, softened
2 cups sugar
2 eggs
3 tsp vanilla extract
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup baking cocoa
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
24 wooden craft or popsicle sticks (I usually leave these out)
24 red hot candies
48 pieces candy corn (be careful - I'm a candy corn fiend, so if you buy these too early, I might just come to your house and eat all your candy corn before you're ready to bake ... that's what happens at my house, anyway)
In a mixing bowl, cream butter and sugar. Beat in eggs and vanilla. Combine the flour, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda and salt; gradually add to the creamed mixture. Roll dough into 1-1/2 inch balls. Place 3 in. apart on lightly greased baking sheets (I just use parchment paper & skip the greasing). Insert a wooden stick into each cookie. Flatten with a glass dipped in sugar. Pinch top of cookie to form ears. For whiskers, press a fork twice into each cookie. Bake at 350 F for 10-12 minutes or until cookies are set. Remove from the oven; immediately press on candy corn for eyes and red-hot candies for noses. Remove to wire racks to cool. Yield: 2 dozen.
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