Your Next Book

It's winter; we're all stuck inside, and you're tired of reading books that aren't terrible, but they're not exactly keeping you up too late to read just one more chapter, right?  

I'm here to help you, friends.  Meet my current favorite:

I picked this up on a whim at the Big Library as we were on our way out the door.  I liked the cover (different from the one pictured above) and the title, it was on one of the book club shelves, and I vaguely recognized the author's name.  

Once I got home I moaned and groaned and complained to Derek, because UGH, this book has a chimp in it.  I am one of those people who, when they see a television show or commercial featuring a chimp (especially a chimp wearing clothing), wants to violently throw something at the tv like a... well, like a chimp.  I will (reluctantly) watch a nature program with apes or monkeys in the wild, but have zero tolerance for any kind of program where apes are being presented as anything other than apes.  I don't like the monkey house at the zoo.  I won't watch the Friends episodes with Marcel the capuchin and think those Night at the Museum movies were utterly ruined by the presence of its monkey.  I make an exception only for gorillas because they seem like the cats of the ape world; they do what they want to do, and screw you all if you don't like it. They please no one but themselves and fellow gorillas. 

So this book had my negative chimp stigma working against it, then I saw the recommendation on the back cover from Alice Sebold that read, "Deliciously jaunty in tone and disturbing in material."  Do you guys remember her book The Lovely Bones?  Do you remember how messed up it was?  And she thinks this is a disturbing read?  NO THANK YOU.

Well.  Despite all that, I started the book.  I started reading.  And I couldn't stop.  

You know how sometimes you meet people who've had it made most of their lives, no serious adversity, but they're big fat whiners and people you just generally can't stand to be around?  Then there are those who've faced some real tragedy, have in fact a rather bleak past or even present, but they choose to face life with humor and hope?  This book is like that second person.  The protagonist's story is... unusual.  Close to unique.  It's strange and sad, a lot of the time, but the book doesn't really read as sad (okay, not only sad); it's funny and loving and persevering.  I've finished it and several other books within the past couple weeks, but I'm not thinking about the other books; I'm still ruminating over this one.

The only problem with a book like this one is that I'm inevitably let down by the following three or four books I read immediately following.  I close them, feel dissatisfied, and say, "Don't worry, it's not you; it's me."  I'm hoping one of my next-to-read books will shake me out of this book-funk:  I've got Sea Glass waiting downstairs- it's my book club's pick for next month, and I've decided to be optimistic about it despite the fact that I'm not a big Anita Shreve fan; I'm pretty sure I'm next up in the library's queue for The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry, recommended by Cassi Renee; I'm also waiting for Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant?, a memoir that is hopefully as hilarious as it looks.

What's your current favorite, or all-time favorite, or that one book you wish everyone would just hurry up and read already?

The Snow Day Box

One week ago, the older kids had a snow day.  Cold day.  Whatever.

What this meant was that as soon as breakfast was over our children started obsessing about the Snow Day Box.


The Snow Day Box was an item my mother brought on her last visit along with the admonition to her grandchildren that it was only to be opened on a snow day.  This gave an otherwise ordinary brown cardboard box instant mystique, a magical luster that was reflected in our children's eyes as they asked increasingly fevered questions like "When are we going to open the Snow Day Box?" and  "Where have you been hiding the Snow Day Box?" and "YOU DIDN'T LOSE IT, DID YOU?"

I hadn't lost it, but I also wasn't going to open this box until each child had completed their list of chores on that snow day, a proclamation which was met with astonished dismay, as though they didn't have chores every single other day of their lives.  I never worry about our progeny being mentally slow so much as when I hand them the full compost bowl or gesture to a dishwasher full of clean dishes and their reaction is one of hurt and surprise.  "Hang on, you want me to take out the trash?"  WHO COULD HAVE SEEN THIS COMING?

Thankfully, the Snow Day Box spurred them toward quick chore completion, with very little motherly harassment needed on my part.

Then the speculation began.

The boys guessed that the box contained train parts, because playing trains with Grandma is always such an education.

"Oh, no, the bridge collapsed!  KDOT says that'll be 3.2 million dollars."

"Unfortunately Sam Brownback will never pay to have that bridge fixed.  We'll have to find another way around."

"Now, Atticus, it's very nice that you want to send the hurt cow to the hospital, but what you should have done is send him to the butcher so we could all have a nice steak." *

*Actual statements I heard my mom say while playing with our sons.

Anyway, with a grandma who plays like that, nobody really knew what to expect from the Snow Day Box.

They still weren't sure once it was opened:  Empty band-aid and cocoa powder boxes, pens, play money?

I had to explain to them that they had the makings of their very own store.

Ten minutes later Atticus was charging fifty bucks for a box of cupcake mix and trying to up-sell pads of post-its.  Our middle child appears to have the heart of a capitalist.

All three played quietly, more or less by themselves, for 45 full minutes, before Adelaide tired of the boys asking for ten bucks for a box of oatmeal but giving 100 dollars in change.  The boys were less worried about pesky little things like dollar amounts and more interested in handing the green pieces of paper back and forth as often as possible.  

At the retailers' request, I took a few turns as The Customer.  I bought a box of latex-free band-aids for $20 and a box of BZK towelettes for $1.  (This sounds like a spin on one of those jokes: "If you send your grandchildren empty boxes of Benzalkonium Chloride Antiseptic towelettes and surgical masks- you might be a school nurse.")

I received excellent service on each of my visits, although I've never been to a store where the employees hid behind the counter stage-whispering, "Ring the bell!  RING IT!" then popping up like smiling jack-in-the-boxes at the sound of the merry ding!  I bet their secret shopper scores are awesome.

I packed the box and its contents away at the end of the day, to be pulled out the next time they have an unexpected day off from school.  I've never heard so many prayers for mass amounts of snow before.

A Love Story

If you know our family at all, you're aware that we spend vast quantities of time at our small town library, checking out giant stacks of books, begging for yet another interlibrary loan, and impressing the librarians with our crazy crime-fighting skills (Adelaide, me, and Caedmon, respectively).

In the nearby big town, however, they also have a library.  Our family is likewise recognized at this library, but not because of me or the children; we are known there because this Big Town Library houses the Derek Crisler Fan Club.

Let me first assure you that the feeling is mutual:  Derek loves the people of the Big Town Library just as much as they love him.  You see, because he runs the government access channel in this Big Town, Derek works with different departments and organizations all over the city, but as the library is inhabited by (wait for it...) librarians, who often exist on a plane just a step or five higher than the rest of humanity, when he does his hard-working video thing in their particular institution, they don't hold back with robust thanks and lavish appreciation.

Take last night:

They got him a delicious cake, a full meal, speeches in his honor, and applause all around with close to 100 of the library's closest friends at a special premiere they coordinated in honor of the documentary Derek wrote/directed/filmed/produced/edited/narrated/everything to commemorate the journey from the library's old facility to its new, current building.  

They also requested he tell a bit about his process, how he managed to take 3 years and 1 full terabyte and 84 hours; worth of footage and condense it into a 16-minute story about their beloved library.

Then we all watched it together on the big screen.  It turns out librarians and their loved ones make the best audience; they laughed at the right times, refrained from talking too loudly or obnoxiously throughout, and didn't hold back on their outward expressions of entertainment and joy.

Derek being Derek, he also made a point of acknowledging his four student interns, all the help and work they provided.  Look how short they all look!  Almost like regular-sized people.

Click to see the Big Town Library's gorgeous new building, how they moved themselves from one building to another and back again to the refurbished library, and see just what Derek does all day.

First List of 2015 *Updated*

• I just re-read this book for my book club:

Our children have got to hate it any time I read this, because although I love it from beginning to end, immediately upon finishing they see a decided uptick in the number and difficulty of their chores (I say at least they're not scrubbing the head of a decapitated pig in preparation of the making of head cheese- and by the by, I double-dog dare you to do a google image search for "head cheese"; I suggest you keep a puke bucket within arm's reach) and anything I decided on a whim might be character-building.  Yesterday that took the form of walking home from the bus stop rather than going to get them in the van.  You'd have thought we lived miles away rather than 1.5 blocks.  I don't know what they were complaining about; it was four whole degrees above zero!  (I'm exaggerating, of course.  It was at least 6.)  No, the real test of their mettle will be tomorrow, when the high here is supposed to be -6° F.  I need to give them something to lecture their children about someday, don't I?  And "When I was a kid my mom drove us the 2 blocks to and from the bus stop" doesn't say anything but "I'M A GIANT PANSY."  You're welcome, children mine.

• The boys recently got hair cuts.  Atticus is evidently now old enough to request something other than the standard buzz Derek usually gives them.  His specific request was for "a haircut that makes it so I can have spikey hair."

Haircuts are not Atticus's favorite thing, although he does his best to sit still.  I try to tell him that Pain is Beauty, but this is apparently meaningless to a six-year-old boy.

When it was done Derek declared that his elder son looked like a soccer player, Adelaide said he looks like "one of the cool kids," and Atticus was pleased as punch.  

Caedmon, naturally, wanted whatever his older brother had, and while Derek tried, it turns out our Cade has a head that is almost the exact shape of a billiard ball, and that kind of cut isn't so flattering on perfectly round heads.  He got the buzz, I thwarted the impending emotional crisis by telling him he looked like a football player, and all was well.

• A joke I found perhaps too funny:  

Why couldn't Mozart find his teacher?

Because he was Haydn.

Oh, Laffy Taffy.  You get me.








UPDATE:  School is cancelled tomorrow due to "extreme cold."  It would appear that our school's administrators have yet to read Little Heathens.  Never fear, fellow anti-sissyfication-ists (why, yes, I did just make up a word); I have a host of snow day chores in my arsenal.  FUNNEST MOM EVER.

Quoth the Atticus

Most of the family's tears/drama/insecurity flow from our daughter, but the other day we got home from running errands, and Atticus disappeared up the stairs for a while.  I called him down for lunch and was met with silence, which was unusual.  I went to the bottom of the stairs, prepared to holler up at him again, when he called down to me, in a voice broken with despair,

"Mommy, my muscles are really small."

Adelaide immediately started laughing, as notoriously unsympathetic older sisters are wont to do, so I shushed her before hastily covering my face in my scarf to smother my own giggling.  He sounded so pathetic.  When he finally made his way down the stairs, I could see how much his small muscles were bothering him by the way he buried his face in my stomach while simultaneously thrusting his left arm up for inspection.  

Now, there's no question, the kid is right:  Atticus is stringy.  I didn't want to lie to him, so I said things about muscles getting bigger as you grow and how Daddy exercises and does push ups and stuff to get bigger muscles, and how his muscles were going to end up just fine.  Thinking back on it now, I should have mentioned things like brains and kindness and trustworthiness being more important than muscles, but I don't always think so well on my feet.  I'll randomly bring it up out of nowhere soon and completely bewilder him instead.


He will have a chance to work some of his muscles here in a couple months, because he finally got wise and told his daddy that he wanted to play soccer, evidently figuring out that Mother will delay entry into organized sports for as long as possible- say, forever?  Derek promptly informed him that he could start in the spring when soccer started back up, I panicked just the tiniest bit having heard about how vicious those soccer moms can be (never mind that I'm already friends with several of them and know that they will, in fact, be holding my hand and patiently explaining all the sportsing rules to The Slow One), but just smiled to Atticus and started hunting for those garage sale soccer cleats I just knew would come in handy one day.

Atticus has been asking me all sorts of soccer-related questions ever since, and because I don't know the answers, I just kind of make things up.  His questions and something he said to his grandma the other day have alerted me to the fact that a mother with almost total apathy to all things sports-related and a sports-expert father make for a skewed image of what his own youth athletic career will look like:

"Grandma, you can come watch me at my games OR you can just watch me on tv."

"Mom, will there be cheerleaders at my soccer games?  A lot of cheerleaders?"  (Oh, gracious.)

"How will I run onto the field?  Will I run with all the other kids on my team, or by myself?  Will everyone cheer when they say my name?"

"What kind of seats will you sit in when you're watching me?  Will they be those tall seats?"

He seems to think his rec center soccer team is somehow affiliated with MLS or the NFL and will, of course, come with all the associated hoopla.  I'm hoping that reality won't be too much of a letdown, although I'm starting to think Derek's right and I won't be able to read a book the whole time he's playing (at the practices, friends, not the games.  I'm not that terrible a mother.  Probably.); I'll need to be watching him and making up for a decided lack of television cameras/cheerleaders/fans holding up homemade signs.  

Unless those things really are at small town kiddie soccer games?  I really have no way of knowing.

I DO know you don't wear ninja masks in soccer... right?

When You're Stuck Inside

Now that the holidays are more or less over (we have two celebrations to go; one on Saturday and one on Sunday.  While we're looking forward to both, I can't help but think, Just gotta get to Monday, then I'll be freeeee!), it's time for the requisite post on the winter doldrums and cabin fever and snow-cold-blaaaaaargh.

This is the third time I've written this post but it keeps sounding so insufferably whiney I end up delete-delete-deleting in irritation at myself.  I'm trying to turn it from a self indulgent, winter-is-basically-house-arrest monologue to a Hey-we-do-fun-inside-stuff-this-time-of-year reminder.

So.  Fun inside stuff.

We've been playing a lot of games.  Jenga is a family favorite.  Well... it's a favorite of everyone but me.  My nerves can't handle Jenga.  I have to constantly fight the compulsion to lash out wildly at the structure just to end it all and rid my stomach of the horrible tension that exists during Jenga.  Even watching other people play I have to bury my face in my hands and whisper to whomever's unfortunate enough to be sitting next to me to just tell me when it's over.  

That kid up there, though?  I wasn't sure if four years old was old enough to play Jenga, but holy cow.  That kid is a Jenga Master.  His moves don't make any sense.  The tower should topple after most of his moves, but it never does.  I'm expecting his letter from Hogwarts the minute he turns 11, because that is the only explanation to his inexplicable talent.

We've also been playing a lot of Tri-ominos.  Adelaide and I have played the most, simply because she hasn't been in school so we actually have the long stretch of time it takes to complete a game, plus when I play with her I force her to be the score keeper, citing math; you get lots of practice adding and subtracting both positive and negative numbers.  

Derek and I played last night, but I'm not sure when he'll be willing to play with me again.  Something about what I call a victory laugh but he referred to as a cackle.

Derek busted out his trap set for a couple days, and everyone got to take a spin on that.

Click to embiggen and see Cade's tongue sticking out the same way Derek's often does when he's drumming.

I was out for a run when he set it up, but could hear it when I was still almost a block away from the house.  It's... well, it's loud.  I don't know how Derek's parents don't have permanent hearing loss from years of his teenage drumming.  

There's the tongue again.

We did make everyone wear ear plugs.  No need to give them a legitimate reason not to listen to me.

Derek got some practice time in, too, which was tons more fun to listen to, because he doesn't suck.  Not that our children suck.  (Yes, they do.)  I'm sure if any of them choose the drums as their instrument (heaven help me), they'll improve.  

Baking is another great indoor activity, and will help you meet those winter weight gain goals.

Adelaide and I made that apple pie up there on Christmas Eve.  I have to say, if you have an eight-year-old sous chef, everything is so much easier.  She can assemble all your ingredients, mix up the filling while you make and roll out the crust, then falsely lead everyone to believe you're some kind of Martha Stewart by shaping extra dough into whimsical shapes for the top.  If you can get your six-year-old to misbehave on December 23rd, so much the better; he can spend the following day doing heaps of extra chores and your house will be unnaturally clean for your holiday.  

Throw in some books, Legos, and jigsaw puzzles, and you have our winter.  Crislers Gone Wild.  

"All I Want For Christmas Are Weapons of Mass Destruction"

The title of this post may not be precisely what our boys requested, but it is, in essence, what they wanted.

It is also what they received.  Come, Lord Jesus.  Soon.  Please.

Caedmon got a Batman sword.  

And Batman nunchuks.  And a Batman dagger, which you can just see tucked into his belt there, which was actually one of mine, and is made of soft tan velveteen.  Just like Batman would wear.

Atticus got ninja stuff.

Caedmon also got a little toy rifle, which he likes to use when wearing the paper cape his sister made him for Christmas.  She even curled the end to aid in its fluttering in his wake when he runs.

Our resident superhero also got some awesome screen-printed muscles in the form of Batman footie pajamas, with detachable cape, of course.  Just in time, too; his old, holey, too-small, loved-to-rags Batman pajamas were starting to make him look like homeless PTSD-riddled Batman.  He has now been restored to his former glory, which must mean he's currently in the third movie of whatever Batman trilogy he mentally stars in.

Click to embiggen, for the sake of your eyeballs.

Our children didn't just get materials to stock our household armory; Adelaide got a much longed-for giant artist's kit, Atticus got sports stuff, and Caedmon got tools and a tool belt, and we all got the baby Jesus, plus a few miscellaneous things like much-needed warm, layering clothing and games and a harmonica.  Between several sets of grandparents and great-parents and a few loving aunts and uncles (and Jesus), they're set for the year.  Derek and I only ever get each of them one gift from us, and one gift from Santa.  The gift from us is something they need (this year it was thick, waterproof mittens, which I know work splendidly because after wearing them indoors for several minutes Caedmon announced that "They're too hot; they make my hands slimy!").

Atticus intent upon attaching the net to his basketball hoop.

Caedmon intent upon doing something with this tools.  I don't know what.  

Now that we've got all this new kid stuff in our house, I get to go through and choose what we're getting rid of, which is one of the beauties of living in a house with limited storage space:  Something comes in, something else must go out.  I've got five grocery sacks full of toys so far.  The children have come close to tears; I am gleeful.  CHRISTMAS IS OVER, KIDDIES MUAHAHAHA.



On Christmas Day:

 During Mommy's Post-Christmas Purge: