First of all, brace yourself, because this is indeed what passes for excitement in our house: Caedmon found a quarter lacking a mint mark. I KNOW, RIGHT? Our youngest is just a tad obsessive about looking for those marks as soon as a quarter finds its way into his hot little hands, always on the hunt for that elusive "P." Around here we have way more "D" quarters- that is, quarters from the Denver mint- than P, I assume because we are closer to Denver than Philadelphia, although perhaps Denver also makes more quarters than Philadelphia? I really don't know. Anyway, Caedmon was given a quarter that was stamped with the year 1965, but with no mint mark. A quick google search led Derek to educate us all on how from some year to another year (I don't remember) too many people were collecting coins and something about something else, the result being they stopped putting mint marks on coins for a short time to stop people being so crazy. *Waves wand* May this be the least intelligible paragraph you read today.
Adelaide has been losing teeth. A lot of teeth. As in, all her molars on the bottom left side have fallen out within days of each other. Naturally, this leads to me finding teeth in random places throughout the house.
I'm not that worried about the fact that she's lost seven teeth in six months- none of our kids got their first teeth until well after their first birthday, so they tend to be late losers- but I'm still glad she's due for a visit to the dentist in a month, just so he can assure me that she doesn't have some obscure mouth disease, then turn right around and devastate me with impending orthodontia news. Dentists are good at that, you know.
If you've been itching for a good memoir, pick this one up:
If you like to experience the entire gamut of human emotion in one sitting, this is the book for you. It is so funny, and so entertaining, even while being about cancer and fear and doctors who really need to work on their bedside manner. Maybe don't read it in a public place, unless crying in front of strangers is your thing, in which case I'll just say stick some extra Kleenex in your pocket. It's a good one.
I was recently reading a memoir in which the author references the troubles of bishop's weed. She spoke of how difficult it is to get rid of, its root structure, how very weed-like it is. Being unfamiliar with this chlorophyllic pest, I googled it. What stared back at me on the screen was my beloved snow-in-the-mountain.
How dare she? I was flabbergasted and flummoxed and furious in a way that you only get over something that matters not even a little bit. But then I saw a map. For someone with such a tenuous grasp on geography, I seem to love maps in an unreasonable amount.
[Side note: I am currently attempting to complete my bishop's week/ snow-in-the-mountain thoughts while one child butchers the lyrics to The Star Spangled Banner, the other asks me to play "the chainsaw video" for the umpteenth time, and the other hollers to me from the laundry room that I should maybe wash the sleeping bag today as she's pretty sure a close-knit family of insects took up residency while she had it at camp. If another person asks me why I've been such an absentee blogger as of late, I'm going to station all three children around said person and have them interrogate at will, because that is a fairly accurate picture of summer break.]
Maps. Bishop's weed. Right.
This map illustrates which states find bishop's weed to be an invasive plant. The author in question lives in upstate New York where, according to this map, snow-in-the-mountain is not invasive, but apparently in neighboring Vermont it is. Since we all know how respectful plants and other wild things are of state lines, I think I'll give this lady a break.
Also, it just dawned on me that perhaps I enjoy maps so much because I have such a poor grasp on world geography. They are truly useful to me and my reaction is often one of delighted wonder. I know my North, Central, and South American geography quite well; the rest of the world, I mean, it's really far away. (Why, yes, I have used this as an excuse in the past.) This means I more or less shackle Derek to me when we are going to play any sort of trivia game, as his knowledge of all things geographical and really anything involving spatial relationships is excellent. I excel in the Harry Potter categories, which come up more often than you think.
[And now Caedmon is upstairs yelling things out his bedroom window at his brother in the backyard. Something about listening to the Eragon audiobook without Atticus, a grave sin indeed in the context of their relationship. Adelaide is snuffling over the fact that her brothers already know who their teachers are but she doesn't and how could the United States Postal Service fail her and why is life so unfair? It would appear that I am expected to answer these questions to her satisfaction. Spoiler alert: Even those newspaper advice columnists could not generate a reply that satisfied Daughter when she is in this state.]
Speaking of newspaper advice columnists (why, yes, forced and clumsy segues are kind of my thing), the book that provoked this plant-based inner turmoil? It's fantastic.
Ms. Dickinson has been giving strangers advice for years through her column Ask Amy; I don't confess to being particularly acquainted with this column except on occasion. I read an excerpt of this book a while back some place or other and knew it had to be mine, or at least the library's. As soon as it had been processed, I snatched it off the library shelf before anyone else could (a disturbing practice of mine that I confess is becoming more and more habitual; the only problem with this is I have less time to read than ever, so half the time I return the books unread), and have plowed through it over the course of yesterday evening and in small snippets this morning. It's short, and relatable, and you'll find yourself wanting to underline passage after passage- although if you are a person who engages in this type of behavior with library books, may I instead recommend the following:
A charming children's book about how to treat library books that would benefit more adults I see at the library than kids. (Interaction with a very nice, responsible patron some months ago as she is checking out: "I'd like to check this book out, but there seems to be something on it. Is it just me, or is that blood?" Me, appalled: "Let me just clean that off for you." *Uses an excessive amount of Clorox wipes, makes weak joke about finding blood on the cover of a murder mystery.*)
Also, because our children have altered my brain in such a way that it hops back and forth more than ever, here is "the chainsaw video" that was incomprehensibly introduced to our daughter at church camp and that all three of our offspring are more or less now obsessed with.
Adelaide spends half the time this video is playing staring at my face, as it wears an expression of apparently hilarious bewilderment. Really, though, this is supposed to be farcical, right? These people aren't doing this with any degree of seriousness... right? (See also: "Signs you are getting old.") And now, to round out this meandering and increasingly digressive post, a multiple choice question: How many of our children can currently be found doing "The Chainsaw," a dance move seemingly engineered to make Christian kids look as profoundly not-cool as possible?
Is it
a) 1
b) 2
c) 3
d) I don't know because they are in the backyard and under no circumstances am I upsetting a climate in which I get to think my own thoughts for five straight seconds.
Last weekend our little library hosted an Easter egg hunt. The weather was beautiful, the Easter bunny creepy.
I was a little surprised when Atticus told me that yes, he did want his picture taken with the Easter bunny- but he waited until Caedmon was there to get in the picture, too. No sense in getting that close to something so obviously inbred without the support of your brother, right?
When I want to impart a message to our children, I might say something like, "Come here, guys!" or "Children, I have some important information I wish to impart!" or "STOP TRYING TO KILL EACH OTHER AND GET IN HERE!" When Derek has something to say, he will sometimes say, "Kids, take a knee."
Sports-inspired parenting
I've been looking for solutions to my current problem: I don't have a whole lot of time to read right now. Of course I can eek out a few minutes here and there, but when I'm trying to plow through a tome of a novel, I really prefer bigger chunks of time, for mental continuity and so I don't have to keep flipping back, repeatedly asking, "Now who is Sophie, again?"
One solution: Read young adult and juvenile fiction. It's quick, yet you can still find just as many high-quality books as in the adult genres.
This book is a few years old now, but my gosh, is it good. I recommend this one if: Someone in your life has dyslexia, if you've ever felt different or left out or not good enough, if you have children, or if you yourself were once a child. Click on the link for a proper synopsis.
I know I just recommended a slew of picture books in a recent post, but this one, this one you have to find. It is clever. It is hilarious. The writing is so good, and the illustrations so perfect for the text, you'll read it over and over again, to a kid or maybe just to yourself.
because again, hilarious illustrations, plus it's about sharing. Maybe your kids are perfect, but ours could perhaps use a reinforcing message here and there on the benefits of sharing.
This is one is so conceptually brilliant you'll want to buy it to own yourself. Even if you're an adult. Adults are allowed to buy children's books, you know. A cat moves along, walking around, and each set of pages contains an illustration depicting how he is viewed by different creatures, giving you a depiction of the way a cat might be viewed from the perspective of a dog, a mouse, a bird, and so on. Good, good stuff.
Parenthetical book thought over.
Caedmon also came to work with me for a couple hours on Friday, where he was so good one of my co-workers plied him with candy. At one point, after returning home, I told our youngest I was going to do some yoga. He asked if he could join me, and I responded that of course he could! Yoga for everyone!
As it turns out, Caedmon's not real big on personal space during yoga, so I got to go through all my sequences with a small boy rightnexttome. It's definitely a different experience to push back into downward dog and have a little face appear under you, asking, "Are we almost done? Is this one hard for you? Can I tell you about Charmander's abilities, now? Do you know what my powerfullest Pokemon is?"
Just about the time I want to say something like, "NO MORE POKEMON TALK. EVER," he hands me this.
And then I'm stuck. Three more hours of "I have four EX's, but Atticus has more; he has seven, but my charizard is jfo;awenvoaiwrb." Nonsense letters at the end there because that is what all it sounds like to me: a bunch of nonsense syllables. Then we got to thumb through his Pokemon cards and look for something- I don't know what and I didn't care.
That must be how Derek has felt all weekend when I've given him Barkley Marathon updates (#gogarygo): "Yikes, the race started at 1:42 A.M.," "Loop 1 took them 9 1/2 hours!" "They're on Loop 2, and have had trouble finding the books in the dense fog." Lucky, lucky Derek.
I feel like I've had pretty mediocre luck with books lately. I was thoroughly fooled by all the amazing blurbs on the cover of theThe Rising ("I couldn't be more excited about this book," and "A classic in the making," etc, said by several well-known, decent authors) and picked it up. Well. Talk about bleh. Thankfully I then found The Universe Versus Alex Woods by Gavin Extence.
The problem is I'm having trouble putting to words why I liked it so much. I didn't agree with much of anything the author had to say (via his characters) on a philosophical or existential level, and given the nature of the plot, there's a lot of both in there. I really did enjoy the characters, though, from the protagonist who is hit by a meteorite as a child (and no, this novel does not fall within the fantasy genre) to the crusty, cranky widower with a penchant for Vonnegut. I guess it's the same with some friends: You have completely different viewpoints, to the extent that you sometimes look at each other and say, "It is so surprising to me that we are friends," but hey, you like the person. Just as I like this book. (Man alive, just when I think my book reviews couldn't get any more meandering and circuitous, I find a new way to do anything but get to the point.) And here, a barely related image that I nevertheless find amusing.
Speaking of books, we can't get enough of these:
Pardon the shoddy photography; I am, as ever, a poor photographer. This is one of the Usborne Shine-a-Light books, a series that includes such titles as Secrets of the Rainforest, On the Space Station, and the above, The Human Body. They take children through the subject matter by showing them pretty if rather standard illustrations,
but then have the reader shine a flashlight- or hold the page up to a light- and discover what's beneath the surface.
The reverse side of the page includes an explanation. It is awesome.
The internet is constantly providing me with things that remind me of Derek. I helpfully send these on to him immediately after viewing. I am sure he appreciates this 100% of the time.
Well. It would appear that our laptop has a virus. This has made it impossible to access the internet from that device, which I need to get onto Blogger, where I do all my bloggy things. Which as resulted in the lack of recent posts. Derek suggested I type my posts out on the word processor on the (EVIL INFECTED) laptop, save it to a thumb drive, then publish it at the library. The man is clearly a technical genius. (Why did this not occur to me, you ask? Because I am excellent at wailing in anguish when things like this go wrong, but problem solving, well... it's not exactly my forte. If you need me to point something out in the fridge that NO ONE ELSE CAN SEE WITH THEIR FUNCTIONING EYEBALLS, HOWEVER, I'm your girl.) Oh, except there is nary a thumb drive to be found in our house, so I typed this out on laptop, took a picture of it with my phone, and am now transcribing it into Blogger at the library. Now that is dedication to blogging (happy, Mark?).
Because I can't use my beloved gifs on these pecked-out-on-the-word-processor posts, I guess I'll have to fall back on my old stand-by: The List.
We drove down for a whirlwind visit to Kansas last weekend. Included in this visit were: The holding of babies, the baptism of babies, golfing, and visiting the church I grew up in. Highlights included all those babies and being so lovingly embraced by the church that helped raise me, to the extent that I had old ladies talking to me through bathroom stalls even after I had closed and locked the door and was taking care of my business. I think it's safe to say that Evelyn and I are now very close. (But don't tell her I called her Evelyn. She is the type that will tell you her life story as you pee but be offended if you address her by her first name. I know this because, again, very close.)
Our children are all still alive. (Pumping my fist victoriously in the air, as these days they often seem to live their lives as if they're engaged in some sort of familial version of the Hunger Games.) Why do boys seem to so enjoy throwing each other to the ground when they see one another? This morning my normal "Separate!" edict wasn't enough; I had to instruct them not to so much as make eye contact with the other, lest it be construed as an act of aggression. Then Caedmon stumbled down a couple stairs and Atticus rushed to his side to help him up. SOMEONE HELP ME UNDERSTAND THIS. Not to worry, though, we have Adelaide who is always happy to lend advice to those in need, which means I find myself frequently replying, "Daughter. I appreciate your concern, but I do not need your help parenting. So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good-bye." Then she points out that she has read more parenting books than I have. Which is true.
This book?
It is good. The kind of good where I lost time to it. The author is a reporter who began having mild but rather random symptoms one week, which rapidly progressed to the point that she had descended into full-blown madness (her words). They- and by "they" I mean a whole team of doctors and specialists- couldn't figure out what was wrong with her. Nervous breakdown? Schizophrenia? Alcoholism? (Yeah, you're not going to like the doctor who gave that last diagnosis.) If you're a self-aware hypochondriac, maybe give this one a pass, but if you like medical mysteries that move quickly, induce empathy, and have (spoiler alert) a happy ending, check this one out. I included the link below, something I would usually embed up there in the paragraph, but library computers don't allow the copying and pasting of hyperlinks. *groans-wails-gnashes teeth-admits how spoiled I am*
I'm still recovering from this bronchitis, but am certainly no longer the wretch of a human being I was a mere week ago. One thing I was able to do a lot of while I was sick, though? Read! Here's what preoccupied me from my own miserable self last week. The Crops Look Good by Sara DeLuca
In the introduction, author/editor Sara DeLuca writes that this is a project that's been in the back of her mind to do for years and years, but didn't believe she could do it justice until now. I think the prospect of going through stacks and stacks of your family's letters spanning decades of time and editing them for clarity, story flow, and to prevent repetition and boredom seems absolutely daunting. She did it handily, however, as I compulsively read this book full of letters from a mother and siblings to and from the daughter who moved away from the Wisconsin family dairy farm in 1923. DeLuca makes you care about the family whose voices form these letters, hoping that this next letter includes a note from Helen, that Margaret will be able to come home for a visit soon, and that mother Olava will get a break today before she works herself to death.
When I read the synopsis of this book, I really didn't know if I was going to be able to get through it. A mother (hey, I'm a mother!) goes on a walk with the woods with her eight-year-old son (wait, I have an eight-year-old son), he asks if he can walk ahead to an oft-visited spot (our kids do this all the time), and she goes through the mental struggle every parent is familiar with: Do I let them go? It's not far, but I won't see them for close to a minute. I need to keep them safe. But not coddle them. They need their independence. But still be safe!
So she lets him go. (I've let ours go!)
When she arrives at the destination, when he's been out of sight for mere moments, her son is not there. She can't find him. He is missing.
What follows is the investigation into the disappearance of this boy and into the lives of everyone around him. I was haunted by this book until I finished it. I couldn't stop thinking about it, wondering who the heck took this boy? Complete stranger? Someone he knew- this character or that one? When recommending it at the library I've compared it to The Girl on the Train and Gone Girl, but when I say that I mean in terms of tension and story grip, for I find every last character in both of those books completely loathsome, and if I have no one to root for, I can't like a book. While terribly flawed and imperfect, you still understand and feel compassion for the characters in this, Ms. Macmillan's debut novel.
This book came across my goodreads feed (the only social media that's felt safe to be on since the election), recommended by Cassi. Alice Hoffman is one of those authors whose work I've always felt slightly ashamed about never having read; Practical Magic has been on my To Read list for a long, long time. The next day I was processing new books at the library, and this came across the desk. I swiped it with zero remorse before any patrons could get their paws on it, then zoomed through it, both because I did feel a little guilty at my book hoarding ways but also because it was a terrific story. I'm not going to try to describe the protagonist because I don't think I can in just a few words without making her sound thoroughly unlikable, but she gets her hooks in you early on in the book, and won't relinquish her hold on you until the very (satisfying) end- but fair warning, you'll do your fair share of frustrated yelling at her in the pages in between.
This book was recommended to me by two separate women at the library, so when I finally picked it up, I knew to expect a can't-put-it-down read/ perplexing mystery, as that's how they described it. What I wasn't expecting was the deep, heavy nostalgia that suffused me every time I read Ms. Pickard's descriptions of the setting and my home state of Kansas. She gets everything spot on: the smells, the sound, the wind, the storms. It was beautiful in such an unexpected way. Outside of all that, it was an excellent mystery, as all my guesses as to the outcome of the plot and the eventual villain were dead wrong, and I was delighted by it.
This is another book I had recommended to me at the library, but when I brought it home, Adelaide was rather disgruntled to find me reading it; she had told me how good it was several months prior and I had not acted on her recommendation. But look: Adelaide reads so much, and she tells me about more books that I Should Read than I could ever hope to actually get through.
She was right about this one, though. It's a really beautiful book, about a bright, funny girl with a facile mind and the body that imprisons it due to cerebral palsy. You will want her teacher to see her for who she really is, to hug her neighbor, to physically harm that mean girl, and to cheer for how brave she has to be every day. If Adelaide hadn't already insisted I read it, I would be doing the same to her, as any book that changes how you look at disabilities is one worth forcing on your loved ones.
Last weekend in Kansas, Adelaide, my mom, and my sister Kelli made pies for the crowd mom had invited over.
Mom always invites a crowd. It's, like, a thing.
I was so glad Adelaide was having a chance to freshen up her pie skills, as we haven't made any in a while, and you know I'm not eating any subpar pie at Thanksgiving. I just won't have it.
Adelaide was doubly pleased because when she asked to put a lattice crust on the top they said, "Sure." Adelaide's mother never says, "Sure," when Daughter asks to do a lattice crust because Adelaide's mother is cruel but also because generally when we're making pies we're trying to complete four in a shortened space of time and who the heck has time to make a lattice crust?
Aside from my mom and sister, of course.
Also we don't have one of those zippy-wheely zig-zaggy pie crust lattice cutter thingies (if you have no idea what I'm talking about, well, I'd say that's fair), so that's always been another handy excuse not to make a lattice crust. Now that Adelaide's made one, however, I might just have to let her try at Thanksgiving. And speaking of Thanksgiving!
I love this book, because how could you not love a cookbook that, if you were to make a pie chart depicting its contents, would look like this:
Yes, I made a pie chart about a pie cookbook. There was no way it was not happening. I don't have that kind of superhuman self control.
In addition to being a professional pie maker (pie artist? pie-ologist? baker?), Ms. Howard is a writer, so the essays in between sections are well-written and interesting. I sat down last night and read the thing like a novel, front to back. Now I get to go back and decide which ones will make it onto our table; Adelaide's voting for Chess Pie, which I have neither baked nor eaten before, but which the author makes a strong case for. My front-runners are her Toffee Pecan, Chai-Spiced Pumpkin, Shaker Lemon, Strawberry Margarita, or Banana Cream. I have no idea how we will ever choose just two of three.
Also in the running is her Apple Pie. It is classic. It is simple. It is delicious.
I haven't done a list post in a long time, have I? And it's perfect for the discombobulated state of my brain today!
Despite the whole toe situation (broken? dislocated? Whatever, it still hurts, although not as badly, and continues to appear a bit misshapen), I managed to run in last weekend's 10k, and did it fast enough to get second in my age group, which netted me a medal and guilt-free eating of our kids' candy they got from the parade we watched later that morning. One of the best parts of the morning was my friends not only showing up at the beginning of the race to cheer me on, but also veering over to Mindy's driveway- which is on the race route- to holler encouraging things, complete with inspiring and hilarious poster- when I had one last grueling mile left, then they darted to the end to be there as I crossed the finish line/mat/thing. It was a day that turned out pretty great, which I did not expect given the fact that I couldn't fit my injured foot into two different pairs of shoes when getting ready for the race, and instead had to opt for my least favorite pair that makes me feel like my feet are slapping the ground but boasts a pretty wide toe box. The day was capped off by Caedmon demonstrating he still likes to hold my hand when we're on the couch together.
Yikes- anyone else bothered by poor posture? I just wanna crank his neck and shoulders into proper form. Gently, of course; he is still the one kid who will run into my arms after school. Atticus still wants a hug but he saunters toward me, no doubt ever aware of watching kids still on the bus (seriously, the stories Adelaide tells of the attention that kid gets... I'm always like, "I don't know what to do with this information,") or daughter, who lets me know she wants post-school affection by staggering and then falling onto me. They're subtle, these children of ours.
Our elder two children have begun mowing. It is awesome.
Now I can do just enough mowing to get my fix- because I really do enjoy it- then when I get tired tell our kids it's time to build character and contribute to the household and stuff.
Fannie Flagg has this strange and wonderful ability to take a story that's full of pretty serious stuff but make it entertaining and lovely. It's tough trying to recommend it to other people, because you inevitably end up saying something like, "Oh, it's so good, about this daughter and her elderly mother who's actually pretty awful and their not-so-great relationship and how all these women were pilots in World War II but got, like, no credit for it, and this filling station that, well, actually had to close... but no, I'm not saying it right! Somehow it's not depressing or dark or anything, you won't want to put it down, and you'll love the characters, and- DON'T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME!"
So, yeah. You should read it.
Adelaide bought some face paint a couple weeks ago, and has painted her own and her brothers' faces multiple times since.
I like that this is something creative that they can all do together, and that they somehow don't fight during their fairly long painting sessions. What I don't like is when Adelaide paints her face for the fifth or sixth time, washes it off a couple hours after application, before bedtime, and wakes up the next morning with a swollen, itchy, rash-covered face.
Her eyes were the worst. I checked with her before posting this photo, too, and she okayed it.
She insisted on going to school, as they were socializing guinea pigs in one of her classes, and no paltry allergic reaction (on her face) was going to come between her and holding small, furry animals. She made it two and a half hours before the school nurse called, asking that I come get our daughter. First full week of school and we already had a kid taking a sick day. I have a feeling it's going to be a banner year.
What's that? You're looking to send June on its way in a lovely, nostalgic fashion- perhaps in song? Might I recommend two ways to spend the remaining days of one of my favorite months:
And yes, it was in technicolor.
A few weeks ago my mother gave me strict instructions to watch this classic musical ("strict instructions" being "You should really watch Meet Me in St. Louis, it was so good!"), and because I am a good and dutiful daughter [cue laugh track], I picked it up at the library.
The music! The costumes! The gorgeous house! I loved it, Caedmon loved it, Adelaide loved it so much that as soon as it ended she watched the "Making Of" special feature also available on the DVD. Atticus declared that not only did he not like it, Daddy wouldn't, either, so there. Whatever, three out of four isn't too bad, and even that cranky fourth absent-mindedly sang the title song for the rest of the day. So there.
If it's book-learnin' you're after, look no further than this gem:
Why, yes, this is that Call the Midwife, the book upon which the popular television series is based. I've only seen the pilot episode of the show, and decided it was, you know, fine. I say I'm pretty picky about which shows I watch, Derek would most likely say I'm difficult to please; either way, I get bored with tv series easily, and it's rare for me to find one that I can watch beyond a few episodes. I've had approximately one million people tell me how AMAZING this show is, and how I just HAVE to watch it. Now it's my turn: Just whatever on the show, okay, but the book? The book is AMAZING, and you HAVE to read it. They're the real, honest-to-God recollections of a young nurse working with midwifing nuns (I really don't know if "midwifing" is a verb or not, but it certainly should be, don't you think?) in 1950's, post-war, poverty-stricken east London. My mom worked in OB at a hospital toward the beginning of her nursing career, and I remember her saying that it is both the happiest and saddest place to work (along with some really depressing anecdotes that I can share if you ever find yourself in need of a good cry). This memoir agrees with her sentiment: Oh, gosh, the joy and wonder to be found in some of her stories, but likewise the sadness and futility to be found in others. Throughout Ms. Worth shares her emotions at the situations she finds herself in, running the gamut from admiration to disgust. It helps, I think, that she is not a native of Poplar, and as an outsider, describes many things that a local would take for granted. It all makes for a fascinating story, but a word of (rather obvious, I would hope) warning: If you are at all squeamish or uncomfortable with the goings-on involved in childbirth, you are going to find yourself, well, squeamish and uncomfortable while reading many pieces of this account. It's a book about giving birth. Buck up, soldier.
There you go: Something to watch this week, and something to read. And farewell to any male readers I might ever have had.
Sometimes, when you feel too strongly about something- say, a book- you lose all power to speak coherently about it. If I like something just okay, I'll be able to tell you all about its story arc and author and what I believe is its inherent message with a certain degree of fluency. But if I love it and really believe in it? Oh. That poor book. Instead I'll show up at book club and announce, "HERE IS THE NEXT BOOK YOU'RE GOING TO READ," or I'll text you random quotes from it, or, if you have the misfortune to be married to me, I'll bring it up over and over and over again, telling you about what's wrong with nursing homes and how choice and a degree of autonomy should often still be allowed to trump safety as we age, and how little doctors are trained to deal with a tiny thing like death, and why conversations about our choices concerning the end of our lives are hard but so important, and the virtues of palliative care, and on, and on, and on. (And on. Just ask Derek.)
But you see, when you first hear about a book, and you dutifully enter the library queue(ueueue) for it, but the virtual line appears to be unmoving, as if it will never be your turn, and you begin having flashbacks of elementary school and standing in line for the water fountain after enjoying another boiling 90-degree Fahrenheit recess, and that one kid that always took his sweet time gulping down mouthful after mouthful of cold water, and only being able to curb impatience for so long before finally hollering, "SAVE SOME FOR THE FISH, MICHAEL!" which, naturally, only made him remain bent over that dang fountain for an additional desperate ten seconds, during which you almost die of thirst...
Well, it was taking me a really long time to get my hands on this book, is what I'm trying to say.
But then, as if sensing my desperation (or perhaps gleaning it from a Facebook comment), a certain hospice nurse not just sent me a copy, she sent me her own copy, pausing in her own reading to lend it to me across state lines, like some kind of Florence Nightingale/Andrew Carnegie hybrid.
So what we have here is: A nonfiction book about death and dying and medicine's relationship with the same by a surgeon who is no longer satisfied by what he sees both in his field of work and in our culture, written with compassion and wisdom and urgency and a desire to fix things that are broken, endorsed by a hospice nurse, and recommended by little, book-reading old me, who has been kept up a number of nights now, unable to put this book down, reading and re-reading sections and trying to figure out how I'm going to use some of this knowledge to change my dialogue going forward.
Read it so we can tug at our hair and clench our teeth and raise our eyebrows and babble things at each other like, "Being Mortal, it's just- it's so- and that part about the elderly- and hospice- and paternalistic vs informative vs interpretive- and everything- and GAH, I KNOW!" Being Mortal. Atul Gawande. Write it down.
This is a recommendation from me and from daughter Adelaide. This is a YA graphic novel, but don't let that deter you: There's something here for most everyone. I loved it because it celebrates being a bit different and lonely and makes you want to pick up your worn copy of Jane Eyre and wear it out a bit more; Adelaide loved it because it speaks to where she's at right now: Feeling like an outcast more often than not and finding real difficulty fitting in with other kids her age. We each zipped through it in ten minutes or less, wanting to find out how the story ends, but it's also the kind of book that you'll want to pick up again to page through, discovering nuances you missed the first race-through and appreciating anew the perfectly fitted illustrations.
As soon as I finished this book I was like, "I NEED TO TALK TO SOMEONE WHO HAS READ THIS BOOK." Which is a whole lot of people, as this one isn't exactly new, but still. I've just now read it, so it's time to start talking about it again.
I remember when it first started hitting the shelves, and seeing on the cover that it was being compared to Mary Karr's The Liar's Club, a book that I decidedly did not care for, so I put this one right back down and carried on for a good nine years without reading it.
Well, now I have read it. And I am angry.
I don't think it was the author's intention to make her parents seem like monsters, because despite their MYRIAD faults, her love for them shines through very brightly, but CRIMINY. I can only imagine how difficult this was to write; was it more of an exorcism for Ms. Walls, or did she find herself back in therapy, feeling re-victimized? I think her folks did love her and her siblings, as much as they were capable, but it feels like a bona fide miracle that they all survived to the extent that they did.
Now: Why didn't I hate this book? I should have hated it. I usually can't stand this type of memoir, because so much of it feels overwhelmingly hopeless. Was it because I knew the author survived her own childhood and thrived despite (because of?) it? Or is it a huge testament to her ability to tell her own story in a way that never felt whiney or self-suffering? Was it that a better life seemed constantly possible and just around the next corner for these kids, or what? I need someone to explain my own feelings for this book to me, STAT.
That title up there is a blatant bid for some self-fulfilling prophecy-type action. I'm sure there's a book out there somewhere- no doubt shelved in "Self Improvement"- that says that very thing, along the lines of "If you write it, it will become your truth. Believe in your spirit's ability to guide you through the shoals of life, and embrace all the colors of you."
Holy crap, you guys. Slap an unearned honorific somewhere in my name and I could have my very own cult. 'Cause girls just wanna be cult leaders- I'm pretty sure there was an 80's pop song to that effect. Kool-aid, anyone?
I think the only way to keep this post from devolving into complete madness is to compose a list. Because lists solve everything!
This morning before school, Atticus put on a pair of pants. (Whew! What a narrative hook, RIGHT?) Actually, he put on four pairs of pants, because it's that time of year again:
He's been wearing shorts for months and I've been able to pretend he has a dresser-full of clothes that fit him. Because surely he hasn't spent the last three months outgrowing all his clothing. That would be preposterous and entirely without precedent!
Okay, so maybe he grew the tiniest bit over the summer, but not enough to outgrow clothes that fit him perfectly well in the spring! There's no way he grew, let's see....
Two and a quarter inches in a year. Although really, for Atticus, that's some pretty restrained growing.
Last week we were a bit early for Adelaide's piano lesson, so I did what any good mother does:
Yes. I pulled into the little cemetery we drive past every week. I think it's a testament to my incredible self-restraint that I haven't taken the kids on a tour of this one before, because I love me a good graveyard, and this one is in a tiny, tiny town- not even a town, actually; it has no post office, no local government, just a smattering of houses, a sod farm, and a winery in the middle of rural Iowa. Obviously a cemetery there is going to be fun.
And look! Our curiosity was rewarded!
Adelaide and I spotted this structure in a back corner of the cemetery, and while she thought maybe it was an old tiny house (or Tiny House, I suppose- have you seen that show, or the documentary about those things? Because she is obsessed with them, claiming that when she grows up she is going to have a midnight blue truck in order to haul her Tiny House around behind it.), I thought it was a supply shed for whomever maintains the lot.
But nay! We were both wonderfully, beautifully wrong!
That is a smile that can only be wrested from Daughter upon the discovery of an old outhouse. Is it sad that she and I were equally delighted to open the door and find the bench with its necessary hole? I say, "No." Derek, just... don't answer.
I was a little hesitant to pick it up, as it was labeled a thriller and I am a self-avowed pansy. But a story about a woman who wakes up every day, no knowledge of any of the days leading up to it, having to re-learn that she's married, that she was in a terrible accident, that her short term memory erases itself each time she enters deep sleep- well, that sounds like a good one.
The book ended up reminding me a bit of Gone Girl, except I didn't hate every single person in it, which is a major plus for me. It had the twisting plot and chilling aspects of GG, along with the driving need to figure out what the heck is going on here? I enjoyed it very much, and for my fellow 'fraidy cats, it wasn't too terribly scary.
