Things Remembered

It's been interesting to discuss selling our house with the public at large.  Reactions run the gamut, from "Oh, that's exciting!" to people who have actually sold a home within the past few years; those poor souls have a haunted look that steals over their faces- unless you're one of sick few who actually enjoy this kind of thing.  The one friend of mine who doesn't bear permanent damage from selling her house should be a realtor, though, I swear; she has the right skill set, from relentless encouragement in the face of my dour attitude of late to weirdly specific knowledge of things like earnest money and appraisals.  If you're looking to move into central Iowa, let me know and I'll pressure Marsha some more into making a career change.

We're now at the point where we're actively looking at houses in CT.  We began doing this online months ago, but found ourselves getting emotionally attached to homes that quickly sold, as the housing market out there seems to move as quickly as our market here.  

The problem I'm grappling with now, or at least a part of it?  

I am not a good house hunter.  

Not in the same way as the people on that show, which I have seen all of three, maybe four times; I like people in general, but a handful of episodes was enough to make me believe that perhaps I should be praying for a humanity-cleansing asteroid rather than world peace.  No, those people all seem to live in a fantasy world where you can ask for five bedrooms and a fireplace and a pool and a three car garage and a boat dock and at least ten acres for your specialty-bred tortoise.  

I'm a gigantic pain to house hunt with because I seem to have house amnesia.  Derek can recall minute details about nearly all the houses we toured ten years ago, when moving to Iowa, and will sometimes point out a house in Ames, saying, "Remember when we went through that house?" and I'm swiveling my head in all directions in bewilderment because as far as my brain is concerned, this is all new territory.

And now it's all happening again.  We've been viewing a lot of houses online, and Derek will frequently ask about the house in Wethersfield or the house in Burlington, you know, the one with three bedrooms and a garage?  While I will have indeed viewed these houses, looked at all their pictures, and read their descriptions in full, after all of two houses they start to run together in my head, and I feel like I'm operating with the mentality of a preschooler:  "What about that one house?  You know, the one I liked?  Well, I don't know where it was, I just know I liked it!"

Thankfully Derek is used to translating my gibberish into English, as evidenced by my texts to him from the mechanic's place today, where he didn't bat an eye when I couldn't remember what the guy had said to me thirty seconds prior:

Next week's house hunting trip should be interesting, to say the least.

Tuesday's Gratitudinals:  

1.  Lemons and lemon-flavored anything.  Lemon bars, lemon basil pasta, my favorite cookie from my young childhood, Lemon Coolers, that were discontinued long ago.  Not to worry, I have a new favorite:  Ginger Lemon Cremes.

2.  Hydrogen bonds.

3.  The Wailin' Jennys.

4.  Weird books at the library book sale.

5.  My middle sister Kelli, who is celebrating her birthday today!  When she was born I wanted to name her Amy.  My grandma instead gave me a Cabbage Patch Kid preemie doll and I was instructed to name her Amy.  Although I wouldn't have had the language for it at the time, at the age of three I remember feeling disgruntled and a little patronized that I was supposed to believe naming a doll was the same as naming a sister, but did as I was told.  I still have both Amy and Kelli.  

Going Wrong, Going Right

It's been a rough couple weeks around our house, as Derek and I have been sick.  While I won't subject you to the pitiful details of our recent collective existence, I will say it was a never-have-I-identified-with-roadkill-so-strongly-type illness.  We were flattened, and it was ugly.

Naturally, this all coincided with any number of activities in which our family was expected to be present, and while we did all we could to stay in our hole and keep from breathing on innocent bystanders, sometimes it just couldn't be helped.  This led to fun interactions such as the one where my pregnant friend approached me for a hug and I was like, "DON'T!  Don't touch me!  Don't even come close- you do not want this!"

Still, life goes on, even when one is staring at the ceiling and asking oneself, "Which do I feel more like:  A human carcass or a flesh sock?"  I found evidence of this ongoing life when I stumbled outside only to find my tulips were blooming!

Adelaide also had a couple music things, including her piano recital.  She performed beautifully.

Atticus had his first soccer practice of the spring.  Other, better, healthier parents stood outside and watched their progeny; I grabbed mine before he could jump out of the vehicle and said, "Listen, I am not leaving this van.  If you need me for some reason- like if you get hurt or anything- you will just have to crawl over here and get in, because I am not getting out.  I will push the button to open the door if I happen to see you approaching, but that's as good as it's going to get tonight."

In my defense, it was in the forties and very windy, and hello, I was sick.  Side note:  I don't want to sound judgmental or anything, but if you're not using a photo of your grandma as a bookmark, you may or may not be doing life wrong.  And if the previous anecdote makes you think that I probably shouldn't be judging anyone, well, you're right, but I stand by the bookmark thing.

I also felt well enough one day to pay my yearly blood debt to the rabbit fence surrounding my vegetable patch.

Two pertinent pieces of information related to this photo:  My tiny, feeble strawberry plants have now been weeded, and I will never be a hurdler.

To sum up the past sickly, illness-ridden few months we've had:

At least something's going right for us; I mean, you did see those tulips up there, right?  Oh, and the daughter.  Yes, the daughter is what's going right.  She's suddenly not allowed to read this post.

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.

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.  

SO FANCY

Over the past year, our dryer has gone from sending us polite messages that perhaps it might be time to start training an eager up-and-coming dryer, to passive-aggressively demanding its honorary retirement timepiece, to hurling blatant death threats at us each time we enter the laundry room because how dare we keep it from its well-deserved move down to Florida where it can play golf and bocce ball and whatever other fun stuff retired dryers do.  I think I saw it in a Cialis commercial the other day, which is not weird at all because a dryer sitting in a tub full of water holding hands with another appliance in a separate bathtub while on the beach makes about as much sense as humans doing so.

Our stackable, hand-me-down washer and dryer

It started with screeching.  Polite, pardon me, oil can! through pursed lips kind of screeching.

The screeching got louder.  It became grating.  It vibrated our tympanic membranes in a most painful fashion.

Derek and I read blogs and watched youtube videos and surfed the waves of the internet searching for a DIY solution to our problem.  And by "DIY" I do not mean "Do It Yourself," of course; I mean "Do It Derek'sself," so I suppose Derek was looking for DIY, and I was looking for DID.  But I digress.

Maybe if he had been able to wrestle the stubborn metal outer shell off of it, Derek would have been able to fix whatever problem was ailing our aging dryer, but that sucker was not coming off for anything.  He wrestled and banged and made impressive loud sounds, all for naught.  The dryer continued to screech, and we continued to live with it, until the clanging began.

A few weeks ago the dryer decided that screeching was not getting through to us.  It read a Joel Osteen book, put on its big girl panties, and decided it needed to Live Its Best Life Now and Make Every Day a Friday or some equally incomprehensible piece of bafflement and started throwing rocks around its insides anytime we had the audacity to try and dry clothing in it.

I swear it knew when it was me specifically entering the laundry room, because if the dryer was already running (as it so often is around here), it would hurl some particularly sharp piece of metal against its side, right toward my face.  It wore its bitterness at its indentured servitude on its sleeve.  Door.  Whatever.

And that is why, one day last week, when so many stores were running sales in honor of our veterans (I could tell it wasn't to make money because they put an American flag on the sales flyer.  Got me again, Nebraska Furniture Mart!), Derek and Caedmon and I trotted our little selves all around Des Moines to find a washer and dryer that was 1) within our budget, 2) energy efficient, and 3) preferably not homicidal.


[Cue angelic music]

I know, right?

You'll have to forgive me a moment here while I gush; there is absolutely no way I can be cool about this.  I knew that ship had sailed when Caedmon stared open-mouthed at the washer when the installation guys were testing it before leaving (never mind that I may or may not have randomly exclaimed "FANCY!" half a dozen times while they were here- I hope they realized I was in awe at our new appliances, and do not in fact have Tourette's, nor am I obsessed with Reba McEntire).  It's not just me, though; last night I walked into the laundry room to find Derek, Adelaide, Atticus, and Caedmon all sitting there, just staring at the washer as it did its revolutionary (ooh, puns) work of washing our dirty clothing.  

You guys.  That washer?  It uses thirty fewer gallons of water PER LOAD than our last washer did.  Our family does an average of ten loads a week; for those of you who get hostile when math is mentioned I will go ahead and tell you that that's a savings of around 300 GALLONS OF WATER EACH WEEK.  I have washed and dried five loads of laundry so far today and have already decided I can live with whatever dark magic that dryer employs because I can dry more clothing in less time than our last dryer with zero rancorous overtures.

Caedmon watching Fancy this morning.

Big thanks to Derek for taking off work early and Derek's dad for driving down to help finish installing the dryer when the actual installation guys were unable to do so.  Something about the wrong kind of outlet in the wall or something, I basically nodded and said "Okay," "Right," and "FANCY!" when the guy was trying to tell me what was wrong and blah blah blah.  This was not frustrating at all for Derek when he tried to find out from me what the problem was.  I am such a catch.

I got Fancy all to myself this morning for the first time, loaded down with a small mountain range of nasty sheets and clothing and towels and yogurt-soaked place mats.

She didn't let me down.

Of Books and Beaches *Updated*

I find it ironic that it was our 10-year anniversary trip that really reinforced to me how different Derek and I are.  I guess that paragon of wisdom Paula Abdul was right:  Opposites really do attract.  (Aaaand now I'm cackling and refuse to feel guilty about it because she was dancing and being borderline inappropriate with an animated cat, for Pete's sake, and no, "It was the '80's" is not an acceptable excuse; Thriller came out a full five years before Opposites Attract.  And yes, I was raised on a steady diet of MTV as a young child.  Some of my earliest memories are learning the finer techniques of head banging from my Dad while watching Head Banger's Ball together.  WE WERE BONDING, OKAY?  Speaking of wisdom, who hears about a new musical/dance fad called HEAD BANGING and thinks "Man, I gotta try that!  Waaay too many properly functioning neurons up in here!")

Anyway.

At one point while in Charleston, Derek and I decided to visit a nearby beach. When we arrived, Derek carefully spread out his towel, wrapped his phone and glasses in his discarded t-shirt, and laid them ever so precisely next to his towel, then lowered himself onto his towel to wait 'til I got tired of the beach because he was only there because I wanted to go in the first place.  By the time he had finished his little Beach Arrival Ritual, I swear to you I did not see a single grain of sand on his towel or his person.

I promise you, I did all the same things he did.  I carefully wrapped my lip balm (I cannot be without lip balm, okay?  It's my standard deserted island answer) and my phone already in a sandwich bag (because I know myself) in my own t-shirt, and laid them veryvery carefully on the sand after only dropping all of it in that same sand twice.  I spread my towel out very exactly, laid down on it, and got my out my book.

Ten minutes later I got up from my towel to find a fine layer of sand over almost every inch of me.  My [library] book wouldn't close properly because of all the sand in between its pages and caked in its spine.  I spent the next two days scouring a layer of skin off my lips because there was so much sand in my lip balm.  Derek looked at me when we were wading in the surf and said, "Your face is covered in sand.  How do you have sand on your face?"  To which I could only say, "I DON'T KNOW."

Covered in sand

Entirely clean

I also found a crab burrowed in the sand, pulled Derek over to see it, then yelped and jumped back when it ATTACKED.  (And by "attacked" I mean suddenly sideways-skittered away.)  I did not know that crabs are like giant spiders with an exoskeleton and eye stalks.  Why are there not more crab-phobics out there?

Derek did not yelp or so much as flinch when the crab ATTACKED.  Actually what I think he said was, "What did you expect?"  I can only assume this is in reference to the fact that I kept getting closer and closer to the crab, leaning over it until I finally scared it away.  I am from KANSAS, husband.  What do I know about shellfish?


Our final day in South Carolina, we drove past a used bookstore while killing time before our flight.  I walked in and saw this:

Take this photo times about SEVEN because that's how big this bookstore was.  I immediately found a Garrison Keillor for one singular dollar, and was about to start frolicking and burrowing when Derek said, "I don't want to spend too much time here," to which I started doing this weird jogging in place thing in conjunction with a distressed, whimpering "HUH-H-H-H-H" sound until my somatic nervous system caught up with the autonomic and was like ohmygosh you are so embarrassing and I stopped.  I found a couple more books and may or may not have darted around corners anytime I saw Derek coming.  Then we left and went somewhere else I don't even remember because it wasn't this bookstore, but my husband took pity on me and suggested he drop me back off at the book palace while he gassed up the rental car.  

And that is how I left Charleston with six more books than I had upon arrival.

UPDATE:
This one's for you, Common Household Mom:

See the comments if you're experiencing (abnormal amounts of) confusion.

A List

• Isn't it strange how little things can evoke sudden and unexpected pangs of nostalgia?  There's a pastor at our church that occasionally preaches in the regular service, and more than once I've heard him pronounce the word "wolf" the same way my dad does: "woof," with no detectable 'L' sound.  I remember for a while Dad worked with a man named "Wolfgang" who went by the nickname "Wolf," or "Woof" in the case of my dad.  This was endlessly amusing to me, no doubt because word pronunciation was something I could understand, as opposed to talk of thermodynamics and the ever-present injection molding machines, which might just be the most boring topic of conversation in the entire world, unless of course you're a plastics engineer, in which case they're apparently fascinating.

• Derek and I got to go on a date the other day.  We went out for lunch, then did some last minute Christmas shopping, along with the rest of the population of central Iowa.  I was distracted half the time by the blaring music (why do so many places insist on blasting your eardrums with their poor choice of music?    I thought music played in restaurants and stores was supposed to be subtle, something to set a certain tone to your eating or shopping experience.  Am I just getting old and cranky?) of horrible- horrible- popular renditions of traditional Christmas music.  After listening to some talent-less pop star breathe her way through Let It Snow and some other current music flunky growl an almost incomprehensible, electric guitar studded version of Oh, Christmas Tree, I decided that unless your first name is Nat, Bing, Judy, Dean, Ella, Frank, or Harry, you should not be allowed to record Christmas music of any kind.  I can think of a few rare exceptions, and perhaps you can, too, but in the future any playing of those is going to need to be approved by me in advance, because my opinion is always the right one.  Obviously.

• It snowed last night.  And this morning.  In fact, it's still lightly snowing now.  Not a lot, we've accumulated somewhere in the four- to five-inch range, but enough to give us a white Christmas.  Oh!  And here's the forecast for tomorrow:

This is just fine with me, as I don't have to leave the house.  Derek does.  Poor Derek.  He also had to get up at 5:30 this morning before church to clear all that snow on our sidewalk and driveway.  He also took care of our neighbor's sidewalk.  Poor Derek.  Nice Derek.  

Another reason I don't mind that forecast is that I've finally learned how to layer!  In the past I thought "layering" meant wearing a long-sleeved shirt with maybe a short-sleeved shirt underneath.  Then I moved north.  Right now I'm wearing lined pants with long johns underneath, a sweater, a heavy cable-knit cardigan, thick socks with slippers, a scarf, and a knit hat.  I may look homeless, but I'm warm.  

• And finally, something that made me laugh and laugh and laugh.  It's very name is pure adorableness.  And yes, that's a word now, if only because of this video.  Be sure to turn your audio up before pressing play so you can force everyone around you to share in your joy.

          Adorable Talking Porcupine Loves Pumpkin

 

The Good and The Bad From Adelaide's Winter Concert

• Good:  I got Adelaide's Christmas dress at a garage sale last summer.  She was pleased with it.  I was pleased with it.  It cost $5.  Everybody wins.

• Bad:  It turned out to be way too big.  The length was manageable, but the midsection was really loose.  I decided to try and baste the back of the dress real quick to try and create an inconspicuous gather, and lo and behold, it worked!  You have no idea how thrilled I was.  These little let's-make-this-work-ten-minutes-before-we-have-to-leave things rarely work out for me, so this felt like a triumph.  So this one turned out Good (I know, I know, it should be "turned out well," but I have a theme going here).

• Good and Bad:  Listening to little children singing.  I know they're only two years younger than Adelaide, but those little kindergarteners are so darn cute singing their sweet Christmas songs, fidgeting, waving at their parents.  Their little voices are the most adorable thing you've ever heard in your entire life for exactly three songs.  At song #4, you feel the smile slipping from your face.  The end of #5, you give the most perfunctory clap possible, enough to satisfy the parents of the kindergarteners, but hopefully not enthusiastic enough to encourage the little beasts.  Halfway through song seven you wonder why you're being forced to listen to hell's soundtrack and your husband looks like he's contemplating mutiny.  Then, thank the sweet baby Jesus, they're done, the ticking under your left eye abates, and all is well with the world again.  Until you realize you haven't even heard your own kid sing.  It's not over.  Some part of your brain goes walkabout and you wonder if it's possible to get PTSD from a children's concert.

• Good:  Adelaide's music teacher expects much from her students; as a result, they learn a lot more than one might expect from a standard elementary music program:  by the end of kindergarten our daughter could read music (just basic treble clef), and this year she had the second graders singing in a round, and although she allowed them to sing I Want a Hippopotamus For Christmas, she stressed that the voice of the girl on the original recording was of a poor tonal quality; too nasal.  All this meant it was far less painful to listen to the second graders than it was to listen to their younger classmates (it also may have helped that they sang half as many songs).  Adelaide was one of the students chosen to play the metallophone:

Ours is the farthest to the right of those standing behind the metallophone.  If you click to embiggen you'll see she's also the weird one.  This is surprising to exactly no one.  I think she liked the feel of the fur collar on her chin; she kept unconsciously doing it when not singing.  Better than picking her nose, something a couple of her classmates felt no compunction about doing in front of an audience.

• Good:  Atticus and Caedmon sat so still and quiet throughout the whole thing.  It was absolutely wonderful.  Last year Caedmon kept climbing in and out of his folding chair, which was only a problem because the chair kept folding him up into it, causing panic on Cade's part.  This did not stop him from doing it again and again and again.  Atticus was pretty good last year, but had not yet mastered the art of whispering things his parents really didn't want everyone around them to hear.  The year before that I hardly remember watching Adelaide at all because Derek and I were so busy trying to keep a one- and three-year-old quiet and seated for 45 minutes past their bedtime.  With these memories fresh in my mind, I did not take our sons' delightful social compliance for granted.  (It didn't hurt that the family in front of us had three small children they were trying to wrangle while watching an older sibling perform.  I felt such strong feelings of empathy I engaged in a tacit staring contest with the second-to-littlest, which only kept her busy for about 90 seconds, but still- 90 seconds can be a lifetime to mothers of littles.)

So: except for the nightmares I still have about those kindergarteners, it was overall very, very good.

Why, yes, that is a potty chair in the corner of the photo.  I'm not real sure what it was doing by the front door.  Nor do I know what's up with our children's faces.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

(Sung to the tune of the Christmas song by the same name)


Said the dark house to the tired mom,
"Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing through night, tired mom
Do you hear what I hear?
The sound, the sound,
Splashing on the floor
Vomit containing reconstituted pizza, berries, and God knows what else
Vomit containing reconstituted pizza, berries, and God knows what else


Said the dark house to the tired mom,
"Do you see what I see?
Spread all through your home, tired mom
Do you see what I see?
Your son, your son,
A mere foot away from the toilet
Choosing instead to barf all over the carpet, the wall, and himself
Choosing instead to barf all over the carpet, the wall, and himself


Said the mom to her sick little boy,
"Do you know what I know?
Covered in your own bodily fluids, little boy
Do you know what I know?
This carpet cleaner, this carpet cleaner,
Doesn't work for crap
Oh for crying out loud please stop finding new surfaces to coat in your puke
Oh for crying out loud please stop finding new surfaces to coat in your puke


Said the the sick boy to his weary mom,
"Listen to what I say!
On your hands and knees, scrubbing, weary mom
Listen to what I say!
I'm choosing, I'm choosing,
(Just to make tonight more interesting!)
To view that perfectly innocuous thermometer as a medieval torture device and that liquid Tylenol as the devil's own elixir
To view that perfectly innocuous thermometer as a medieval torture device and that liquid Tylenol as the devil's own elixir









Note:  I'd like to thank my 3:30 am self for scribbling this little ditty down for me to find in the morning.  Thanks also to Derek for taking the long 4- 6 am Puke Shift, allowing me some sleep before I took a deep breath and dove back in.  My apologies for the overall delirious tone and blatant disregard for little things like meter, proper phrasing, and basic rhyming.

Good Intentions

You know what's funny?

About three weeks ago I said to myself, "I'm going to try and start blogging every day."

Then I got super busy, and I've been lucky to post once a week.  Whoops.  Blogging tends to come in dead last on my priority list when I've got a lot to do.

So I'm going to try this again, but this time I'm telling all six of you that blogging once a day is my new goal.

Not forever.  Unless I really really love it, I just don't have enough material to blog about every day for the next who-knows-how-long.  Well, unless you want to hear about the strange conversations I have with our children (trust me, you don't), or about the quick-draw contests Derek and I have in the evenings when we've both had too much Halloween candy.

Oh, calm down.  We don't use actual guns, people.  He draws the multi-tool he keeps on his belt and I draw the inhaler that's always in my pocket.  Duh.

Anyway, starting... today, I guess (this whole thing is suddenly terrifying), I'm going to try blogging every day for... let's say two weeks.  That seems like a reasonable goal (or internet suicide, depending how you look at it).


In other news, today is November 1st!  You know what that means?

I get to start playing Christmas music non-stop until, oh, around mid-January.

I know, I know, poor Derek, blah blah blah.


To kick off the season, I started with the musician whose Christmas album is, I'm convinced, the best ever produced, and whose voice never fails to make me think of winter.

That's right:  we spent the morning listening to Neil Diamond.


TOTALLY KIDDING.  It was Nat King Cole.

Please don't ever try to argue with me on the whole Nat-King-Cole-has-the-greatest-Christmas-album-of-all-time.  Unless you want to see a gross overreaction on my part and the possible destruction of our relationship.  Then, sure, go ahead.



See?  The next two weeks are going to be fun!

The Hand Jive

Lately, the boys and I have been listening to a satellite radio station called "Malt Shop Oldies" when we're home throughout the day.  It plays music from the 50's, Atticus particularly seems to enjoy it, and I don't have to worry about the lyrical content. (A lot of the songs they play are about food- seafood and spaghetti and meatballs and such.  Why can't they make songs like that now?  I like food.  I like music.  Seems like a winning combination to me.)

One of the songs regularly played is "Willie and the Hand Jive."  It's a fun little song, and the boys like trying to do the hand motions in time with the music.  Good times all around.


This morning, we went to a bigger, fancier grocery store than the one we usually frequent.  I've had a hankering for soup in bread bowls recently, so we were on a quest to find big enough bread...roll... ball... thingies that I could hollow out for supper tonight.  Atticus and Caedmon were just excited that they got to ride in a special cart shaped like a car.

So there we are, right around the bakery section in Hy-Vee, I'm looking for bread, and Atticus is quietly singing, "Hand Jive" while doing a vague approximation to the movements.

For some reason, there were what seemed like a lot of bakery employees,  five or six of them, all working efficiently.  A couple of them noticed my lost look as I muttered, "I don't think we're in Aldi anymore, Toto."

They had both started toward me, when Atticus decided it was time for a dramatic crescendo and belted out, "HAND JOB!  HAND JOB!  DOIN' THAT HAND JOB!"

Oh, and he was still doing wild, spastic hand motions that looked very little like the actual hand jive.

The young man rounding the edge of the counter stopped in his tracks, and behind the counter, one young lady's hands flew to her mouth, while the other four of them lapsed into silence and stared at us.

"Hand JIVE," I clarified.  "He's singing, 'Hand Jive.'"

I waited for the floor to graciously open up and swallow me whole or my face to burst into flames, but instead at that moment I spotted what I was looking for, blindly threw some bread into the cart, gave the giggling employees a sheepish grin, and wheeled our cart around to the check-out as fast as I could.


I like to think of it as our family doing it's part to spread a little joy in our section of the country, rather than my children doing their level best to mortify me in public.  Either way, I'm going to declare this a "win."

When Strange Is a Good Thing

Oh, Atticus.

Atticus, Atticus, Atticus.

You, sir, are such a puzzle to me.



More often than not, I really feel like I just don't understand our three-year-old son.  To be fair, I'm pretty sure he feels the same way about me.  Confused.  Bewildered.  Puzzled.

It's hard for me to tell how much of it is his boy-ness and how much is him as an individual.  I have no brothers, and was more or less surrounded by girls throughout my childhood.  So small boys don't really fall within my normal milieu.

It's different with Adelaide.  She's remarkably similar to me in many ways, so I find her to be easier to predict and understand (except for the whole dissolving-into-tears-all-the-time thing- I really don't get that).  And Caedmon is still young enough that we're still discovering his little personality (although he does request to be put to bed with one or two books at naptime and bedtime).

Atticus does lots of normal little boy things that I was pretty much expecting.  He loves sports, particularly golf.  He likes trains and trucks and getting dirty.

But then there's other stuff.  Take his clothing, for example.  He generally won't come down to breakfast until he's completely dressed in the outfit of his choosing.  When I do pick out his clothes, he'll often inform me that that shirt doesn't go with those shorts, or that he only wears this shirt with these pants.  His favorite shoes are his brown leather loafers, which he typically pairs with Derek's 20-year-old Vikings hat.  He disappears upstairs multiple times a day to change his outfit.  He recently asked me, "Can you look for a green belt at a garage sale?  And a green watch, please?"  Because he's obsessed with the color green.

How about music?  I check out a couple CD's every week from the library, trying to expose our kiddos to an array of music.  Atticus likes a lot of what we listen to, but his favorite is easily The Beatles.  Second favorite?  The Beach Boys.  You should hear him belt out "Barbara Ann."

And girls.  Oh, my.  I knew that with two sons, we would be addressing the issue of our son's eventual interest in the opposite sex.  But what I didn't know was that "eventual" would be three years old.

We watched quite a bit of the Olympics.  What was Atticus's favorite sport to watch?

If you guessed Rhythmic Gymnastics, then congratulations!  You guessed what I never would have.

The first time it came on, he was immediately entranced.  The commercials would interrupt his viewing pleasure, and he would ask (over and over and OVER), "When are those girls gonna be back on?"  Adelaide or Caedmon would try to say something, and he would say, "SSHHH!   I can't hear the girls!"  When he wasn't shushing the rest of us, he was saying things like, "I like the pink girl.  The pink girl's pretty," and "When I can see the pink-and-green girl again?"  He referred to them by the colors of their costumes, because he seemed most besotted by the Russian girls, and it was easier to call them according to color than actually try and pronounce their names.

While none of the other ladies in his life seem to measure up to Russian Rhythmic Gymnast standards, he will occasionally tell me, "I like So-And-So.  She's REALLY pretty."  (Pronounced, "I yike (insert name).  She's REEWEE pretty.")

I'm really hoping the whole girl thing is just a phase.  Because who wants their son to be known as the lecher on the playground?


I realize that lots of kids don't fit into a predictable mold.  Atticus often calls to mind a report card of my sister's that came home one day:  In the comments section, it simply said, "Kelli is a unique child."  'Unique' is Lutheran for "Your kid is so weird."  I take comfort in the fact that Kelli's turned out better than most of the people I know.



Conclusion:  I just love our Beatles-singing, loafer-wearing, Russian rhythmic gymnastic girls-loving boy.

He's just so unique.

Time Is On My Side

I love punctuality.  I would rather be thirty minutes early than five minutes late.  If it ever starts to look like I'm going to be late for something, I start to panic.  My voice becomes shrill, my breathing pattern shortens and becomes somewhat erratic, and I overall just kind of freak out.

Blame it on the fact that the thought of making others wait horrifies me, blame it on the fact that my father used to call the US Naval Observatory in Colorado to get the exact time down to the second when it was time to change the clocks.  Blame it on God for making me a big old freak.  I don't know.

What I do know is that since having kids, I've had to relax my whole "If I'm going to be late, I just won't go at all" stance.  Small children love to make you late for things.  They work against you at every level to ensure that you are going to be that obnoxious person strolling in fifteen minutes after you were supposed to.

Adelaide had a winter vocal concert at her school last night.  The instructions sent home from her teacher were that she was to be in her classroom between 6:15 and 6:20.  We were not to arrive any earlier (foiled at every turn!), because there was another concert at 5:30, and the school was doing their best to synchronize the movements of families leaving one concert and arriving for the later one.

Guess what?  We were on time.  I had Adelaide deposited in her class and ready to go at 6:15.  Oh, and Derek had to work yesterday evening.  Go me.

The secret is having a plan, and lots of time.  I knew Derek had to work, so I started mentally reviewing our schedule days beforehand, then made a physical list that morning.  When you have a five-year-old, three-year-old, and one-year-old, you have to be super-anal.  It's that, or slowly lose your mind.

We started getting ready at 4:30.  Three baths, four wardrobe changes, one hair styling, several diaper and bathroom breaks, four meals, and pounds and pounds of coats, mittens, and hats later, we were ready to go.  I firmly believe it's all because I made them start getting ready an hour and 45 minutes early.

Of course, in between clothing and eating I made them all sit in front of the Christmas tree for an impromptu photo shoot.  It's a rare occasion indeed when all three of them look presentable at the same time, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to take pictures during the concert itself because I'd be too busy chasing Caedmon around (and I was right).

And to think that it only took an hour and a half to get them to look like this!



Oh, and the concert itself?  Lovely, and all of fifteen minutes long.  Nearly two hours of preparation for fifteen minutes of an actual event.

Welcome to parenthood.









(And Happy Birthday to me!)



(I just couldn't resist.)

My Favorite Things

You know what I'm not crazy about?  Those "Favorite Things" lists that celebrities make that consist of a bunch of ridiculously expensive goods like "simple" white t-shirts that cost $50 apiece, or when they list things like "making sugar cookies with my daughter," because you know what?  You probably weigh about 90 pounds, and the closest you'll get to baked goods is a food-scented Yankee candle.  Oh, and don't try to pretend you spend time with your daughter.  If you did, we wouldn't see her all coked-out on the cover of some rag here in about ten years.

I'm not much of a celebrity person.  I feel no need to know what some actor eats for breakfast on Saturday mornings or their parenting "advice."

And this is so not what I meant to write about today.  Let's see if I can get back on track.

Where was I?  Right.  Favorite things.

Well, in addition to not being able to identify with some no-talent hack's favorite things (there I go again), I have a little trouble with the items listed in the song.  You know, from The Sound of Music?  One verse talks about "Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens."  While I certainly don't see anything wrong with those things, I couldn't call them my "favorites."  Raindrops on roses are pretty, but I'm allergic to cats, don't believe I've ever actually seen a copper kettle, and wool gives me hives.

I'm just a little ray of sunshine today, aren't I?

Still, I've been hearing that song a lot lately on the Christmas music stations, and it's gotten me to thinking about my favorite things at this time of year.  Here are five of my personal favorites.

5.  Decorating for Christmas.  I love, love, love decorating our house for Christmas.  My mom always went all-out decorating our house right after Thanksgiving, and it always felt so warm and inviting.  I now do the same thing, and being surrounded by the garlands and bells makes our home feel cozy.

4.  Christmas Music.  Fortunately, Derek's pretty tolerant of my need for 24/7 Christmas music, but he does look pretty pained when I put on Amy Grant, and absolutely puts his foot down at the mere mention of The Carpenters.
   
      4a.  Christmas caroling.  Is there anything better than standing in front of people's homes, singing Christmas carols?  Unless it's looking out your front window and seeing people standing on your front lawn, serenading your family.

     4b.  All the live Christmas music.    There are always a plethora of choir, band, and orchestra concerts to choose from, and when we lived in Pittsburg, there was a man who stood outside the entrance to Wal-Mart every morning and played his trumpet while manning the red Salvation Army bucket.

3.  Going to the Nutcracker.  This was a tradition my family had growing up; we would drive the hour north to Wichita to see the ballet performed, and while this is not something we do every year, Derek did take me to see it in New York City one year, and this weekend Adelaide and I will be driving down to Kansas City to see it there (Yaaaaaay!).

2.  Candlelight services.  I don't really think there's anything better than standing in a darkened church lit only by candles, singing Christmas hymns.  I really wish our church did this.

1. This one isn't really Christmas-related, but right now it's my very favorite:  The lurching, halting, unsteady gait of a baby learning to walk.  Caedmon has been walking for several weeks now, but it's only in the past week or two that he's really started using it as his primary means of locomotion.  When I catch sight of that high-stepping stride unique to toddlers that he uses, I find myself stopping whatever I'm doing just to watch him waddle around.  It is so ridiculously cute.  I love to watch him stop at the threshold to a room, where the flooring changes, and ready himself to pass the imaginary precipice.  I love to watch the sheer joy on his face  from something as simple as walking.  He loves it, I love it.  My favorite thing.

This also means he no longer stands still long enough for me to get a good picture.

Books vs Movies

Derek and I watched the final Harry Potter movie last night.  I appreciated how close certain scenes were to those in the book, and I loved the emotional energy the music added.  Overall, I was less disappointed than I expected to be.

You do not want to watch a movie based on a book with me.  I am annoying in the extreme.

To me, watching the film-version of a novel is like listening to a young piano student stumble their way through Beethoven.  You may be able to recognize the familiar strains and hear the potential for beautiful music, but it's nothing compared to listening to a piano virtuoso finesse and lead you through the wonder of a sonata.  There is a richness and depth to a book that is conspicuously absent from their film adaptations.  I watch a movie after reading the book and wonder, Where is the subtlety?  Where is the nuance?  Must everything be so patently obvious?

I realize that not all movies are like this.  The well-known problem is, when adapting a book into it's movie-version, you have to cut a ton of details, large and small, from the story, lest you create a 72-hour film (which I would prefer, but might not make a lot of money- not that movie studios are in it for the money or anything; I'm well aware those Hollywood types would prefer to be non-profit).  And every once in a while, you'll find that rare gem:  a movie as good as it's book.  Like To Kill A Mockingbird, for example.  Maybe The Princess Bride.  And... um... I can't think of any others.

Part of (fine, maybe most) of the fault is my own.  I nearly always read the book before the movie comes out.  It is way easier to listen to the seven-year-old stumble their way through Moonlight Sonata (Charming, you think, this really has the potential to be beautiful.  'A' for effort.) and then listen to the virtuoso play the same piece (Wow!  So that's how it's done), than the other way around.  You can't listen to the professional musician first and then the novice hacking away at the keyboard; it's likewise very difficult to read the book, then watch the movie.  It will never measure up.

One of my favorite authors is Dean Koontz.  I absolutely love his Odd Thomas series of books.  I recently found out they are being made into a movie.

I am terrified.

My Husband Has An Awesome Wife

(And if that title seems disgustingly self-congratulatory, it's only because it is.)



I am a practical gift-giver.  I like to give gifts that are practical.

I don't know whether I can blame it on Nature or Nurture, but I'm pretty sure it somehow all stems from my mom.  I can't remember how many times I watched my mother wrap a first-aid kit or a fire extinguisher as a wedding gift.  And really, who wouldn't want to receive those things as gifts?  I'm sure many a happy couple thought fondly of my mom when they were bleeding or their kitchen caught on fire (both events that probably happen quite a bit in those first turbulent years of marriage).

I've never really thought of this as a negative attribute, until I started reflecting upon the gifts I've received from Derek over the life of our relationship.  They make my practical gifts seem kind of... lame.

Like the time, one wedding anniversary, Derek got me an early edition hardcover of To Kill A Mockingbird, one of my very favorite books.

Or one year on my birthday when he arranged for his sister and her husband to drive down from Maine to watch Adelaide so that we could drive from our then-home in Connecticut into Manhattan to eat supper and attend a performance of George Balanchine's The Nutcracker by the New York City Ballet.

Or a few years before that when he flew in from Connecticut on my birthday, surprising me on my doorstep in Kansas... and proposing.

Do you know what one of the first gifts was that I gave to him in college?  A water pitcher with an attached filter.  See, the water in our college town is universally known as being kind of disgusting, so in my mind, I was giving him the gift of clean, delicious, refreshing water, right in his dorm.

I realize that even with that justification, a water pitcher doesn't hold a candle to a beloved book, the New York City Ballet, or a marriage proposal.

This year, I set out to break my streak of sub-par gifts.

See, Derek turned 30 last year, and I really didn't do anything special.  In my defense, I was still pretty overwhelmed from having Caedmon and the whole I-have-three-children-under-the-age-of-five thing.

I knew that I had to make up for it this year.  Although Derek's birthday isn't until next month, I surprised Derek this past weekend.

One of Derek's favorite bands is Jars of Clay.  He's been listening to them since they formed 17 years ago, and has seen them in concert a couple times before- but he's never actually met them.

That's Derek, me, and the four members of Jars of Clay.  And if you don't think this picture isn't going on our Christmas card, you don't know the Crislers.

Yup, we were fortunate enough to be part of a small audience (think around 30 people) that got to stand about two feet away from the band, requesting and listening to them play several of their songs, asking questions, talking to them, getting autographed CD's, and taking pictures with them.  They were very funny, very approachable, and very talented.  It was so great.

I still can't promise I won't be giving towels and measuring spoons as gifts.










Note:  I alone am not responsible for this weekend- that would be impossible.  I would like to thank Derek's parents (over and over and over again), who drove several hours to Kansas City to stay in a hotel with our children while we attended the concert.  Ben, the Visual Arts Leader at our church, also helped by switching things around to ensure that Derek did not have video ministry responsibilities Sunday morning.

Jars of Clay also played a smallish part, for which we are thankful.

What I've Learned From Our Satellite Provider's Traditional Christmas Music Channel

1.  There's a reason Perry Como, Bing Crosby, Lena Horne, and Ella Fitzgerald are classic favorites:  They're the best.

2.  Listening to Julie Andrews is like having both Mary Poppins and Fräulein Maria singing Christmas music to me.  It's awesome.

3.  Hearing Handel's Messiah sung by Neil Diamond makes me want to take an ice pick to my ears.  (Where does Neil Diamond fit into "Traditional Christmas" music anyway?)

4.  Jo Stafford's "By The Fireside" is my new favorite song and new favorite singer.  I am obsessed.

7.  Margaret Whiting is another new-found favorite.

8.  While listening to "Baby It's Cold Outside" as sung by Dean Martin and Doris Day is enjoyable (as long as you don't pay too much attention to the lyrics), hearing it sung by Tom Jones and Cerys Matthews makes me feel indecent and want to pick the bloody ice pick back up to have another go at my eardrums.

9.  Nat King Cole always has been and will forever be my favorite.






Note:   I know, I know, it's not even Thanksgiving and I'm already listening to Christmas music.  I made it all the way to November 10th before turning it on this year, and even that is a minor miracle.

Bandshell Thursdays

Throughout the summer on Thursday evenings, the Ames Municipal Band performs live concerts at Bandshell Park.  Channel 12 records and airs these concerts, which means Derek is always there at the park for the duration of the show.  For various reasons, the kids and I have not made it in to any of the concerts this summer.  Last night was the last concert of the season, so I rounded the kiddos up and we made the trip into town to play at the park and listen to some live music. 

The older two had a grand time playing on the playground equipment.


They played on the alligator-crocodile-dragon-thing.

They traveled through wormholes.  At least, that's what this cylinder always makes me think of.  Because all wormholes are made of energy and green metal mesh.

 

They rode on the green reptile again.

They helped Daddy set up his equipment and tell his interns what to do.

As is so often the case, I'm left wondering:  Why didn't we do this more often?





We Love Michael Buble

And I don't care who knows it.

I also don't care that this probably puts us firmly in the category labeled "squares." 

I further don't care that the very fact that I use the term "squares" means I'm a double-square. (Ooohhh, man, I'm a square squared.  Get it?  Square to the power of two?  Anyone?  Anyone?)

Just about seven years ago, shortly after moving to Connecticut, I discovered the music of Michael Buble.  I shared this discovery with Derek, and he liked it, too.  This was a good thing because we don't always have the same musical taste.  Aside from his talent, I like the music of Buble because it exposes a new audience to a variety of artists.  In the space of a few albums he has covered everyone from Van Morrison to the Carpenters to Elvis Presley to Ray Charles.  This, to my mind, is a good thing.  Plus it makes me want to go and listen to the originals, which is also a good thing.  Lots of goodness here, people. 

Our first MB concert was in Connecticut, and while I had enjoyed his albums, I wasn't really looking forward to the live experience.  I just assumed it was going to be a kind of lounge act where some Canadian dude crooned a bunch of standards.  I was wrong.  He is a marvelous entertainer, one both Derek and I enjoyed, and seriously funny.  No polite smiles or awkward fake laughter needed.

Since then, we've wanted to see him live again, and we got the chance last night.  Along with some dear friends (and thanks to Derek's mom who watched the little darlin's for us), we went to see Buble perform in Des Moines, and he was just as good as we remembered.  His set, lights, etc, were all a bit bigger than they had been the first time we saw him, but then, he's moved up in the world.  We had floor seats toward the back (which means short little me watched him on the giant screens for much of the time), until he made his way back to a smaller stage right by us and performed a few songs there.  It was fun to watch him sing up close.  He was impressive.  And sweaty.  I guess that's what you get for wearing a full suit under blazing-hot lights with lots and lots of hopeful women pressing in to get as close to you as possible.  Like they had a chance- his wife was in a little crow's nest right there next to us.  She was blonde and pretty, and did a pretty good job of acting not-bored despite the fact that I'm guessing that's the bazillionth time she's seen that particular show. 

Our friends who went with us- Buble neophytes- also enjoyed the show.  I think I speak for everyone when I say we can't wait to go see him again.

Even if it does mean we're squares.




Note:  Yet again I can't figure out how to add an accent over letters, and it is driving me CRAZY.  Buble is supposed to have an accent over the 'e'.  (Say: Boob- Lay)  If you are more tech-savvy than I am (and it doesn't take much), please help me.  Today.