The Easter Dress

When I was a kid, I loved getting a new Easter dress every spring.

Then I had a daughter of my own.  I discovered the joys of picking out and dressing up my own living, breathing doll. 

Please note that I only do this on Easter.  I am not one of those frightening pageant moms.  And even on Easter, I do not whiten my little girl's teeth, paint make-up on her face, or apply spray-on tanner.

Or parade her in front of scary adults and ask them to judge her.

But I do dress her up in frilly dresses.

At eleven months old, 

this was Adelaide's first Easter.

The next year, my Grandma sent me a Laura Ashley-style dress. 

What was I to do but get a white straw hat and white heeled shoes?

Had I been able to find white gloves, I would have made her wear those, too.

She was almost two.

The following year, she wasn't really interested in posing for picture after picture.

That Easter, she was all about the thrill of the hunt.

The Easter egg hunt.  Almost three here.

And last year, she just seemed so grown up.

Almost four.

Jumping for joy:

"Jesus is Alive!"

Okay, so it was probably more like,

"Candy!"

After going through lots of photographs, I've noticed a certain trend with Adelaide's ensembles.  I seem to really like polka-dotted Easter dresses.  "Well, not this year!"  I thought.  "This year, it's different."

Then I dashed upstairs to confirm her dress is made from floral-print fabric.

Sure enough, there is a floral border along the bottom hem of the dress.

The rest?

Polka-dots.

Cast Iron

I love my cast iron skillet.  It was a hand-me-down from Derek's mom.  I feel that used cast iron cookware is usually better than new because it's already been seasoned, so I don't have to mess with any of that business.  I love to use my skillet for upside-down cakes, cornbread, and elementary home defense.

Perhaps I should explain.

Derek was gone on a business trip last week.  This meant I had to hold down the fort for a few days by myself.  Fortunately, it was warm and beautiful outside, so I let the kids run themselves into exhaustion in the backyard every afternoon.  This gave us all space during the day, and they slept soundly at night.

My nights, however, were a different story.

After I finally get the older two kiddos into bed, I bounce Caedmon around for awhile before laying him down.  Peruse the bookshelves for something to re-read because I haven't been to the library in a while.  Settle into the rocking chair in the living room.  Immerse myself in a favorite story.

Hear strange sounds.  Outside the window.  In the basement.  Upstairs.  In the laundry room. 

I concentrate harder on the book and tell myself it's just the house settling.  It is, after all, an old house, and after 111 years on this earth I think she's earned the right to creak a bit.  Even if it does cause minor cardiac episodes in the chest of her owner.

After an hour or so of this, I put down my book, tidy up a bit downstairs.  Load the dishwasher, wipe down the high chair.  Grab the cast iron skillet out of the kitchen cabinet and carry it upstairs with me.

I wash up in the bathroom, change into my pajamas.  Nestle the skillet into Derek's side of the bed.

I really feel at this point that I should explain something.  I don't have a weird skillet fetish.  This piece of cookware just happens to be my weapon of choice- I need something in reaching distance when an intruder takes advantage of Derek's absence and breaks into the house.  We don't have any guns, and knives are out -our children often climb into the bed to wake me up in the morning.  Plus cast iron has a nice, reassuring heft to it.  I need two hands to lift it any higher than shoulder- height, (I had to practice, didn't I?) so it's pretty heavy. 

I may or may not have read Fried Green Tomatoes At The Whistle Stop Cafe one too many times. 

And seen the movie once or twice.

But I promise, if I ever do whack the boogie man over the head with my skillet, I will not chop him up and serve him to you barbeque-style. 

Although I do think Head Country barbeque sauce could make just about anything taste good.  Maybe the secret really is in the sauce. 

I did not end up having to use the skillet in a defensive capacity.  Derek returned home, and I returned the pan to the cabinet, where it will stay until I make an apple cake.

Or my husband leaves again.

Florence Nightingale

My mother is a nurse.

She is respected both in her field and in my hometown.

When I was young she worked as an infection control nurse.  This means as a young child I was not allowed to drink out of public drinking fountains and was discouraged from shaking people's hands. 

Sometime in the midst of my elementary school years, she changed fields and became a school nurse (to middle schoolers, no less, proving she harbors some mild masochistic tendencies).  This means that unless on the brink of death, I got very little sympathy for various injuries and maladies.  It also meant that her affectionate pet name for my sisters and me was "vector."

My high school had slightly less than a thousand students spread over four grades.  This, coupled with the fact that my mom worked in the school system, meant that many of my fellow students knew whose daughter I was.  That in and of itself is not unusual.  What was odd was that at various times during those four years, one classmate or another would approach me and begin describing a list of symptoms they were experiencing. 

"Hey, Kristy!"

"Hey, so-and-so, how's it going?"

"Okay.  Well, actually, I wanted to ask you something.  I have a really bad headache, and my face feels kind of swollen here and here, and when I tip my head like this I can't breathe and my cheeks really hurt... so what should I do?"

"Uhhhh..."

At this point, several things would float to the surface of my mind:  Sinus infection, Common cold, Why isn't this person asking a medical professional about this?  Decongestant or Ibuprofen...

Instead of contributing anything worthwhile, however, I would  find one of two pieces of advice springing to my lips- the same advice my mother invariably gave me.

Remedy #1:  Go take a shower.

Remedy #2:  Go for a walk.

It didn't seem to matter how sick I was or from what I was suffering, this was always, always, always her reply to my queries.  These phrases have become a long-running joke between my sisters and I, a parody of the conversations we've had with our mother:

"Mom, I don't feel well- my stomach hurts, and I'm really tired..."

"Go take a shower."

"Hey, Mom, my ear kind of hurts, and it feels really hot and painful..."

"Go take a shower."

"Mom, I think I have cancer."

"Go take a shower.  Or, I know- go for a walk!"

My poor mother has the misfortune of being a parent to three sarcastic, smart-aleck girls.  Here's the kicker, though-

She was right.

My allergies are killing me, I feel my throat closing and I'm wheezing up a storm.  Guess what helps better than anything else?  Taking a shower.

My stomach hurts and nothing I'm doing seems to help.  The best medicine?  Going for a walk.

This revelation has been coming on for awhile now, beginning when my daughter was just a few months old.  She was suffering from her first major cold, and had that awful, croupy cough infants get.  I didn't know what to do for her, and even though it was nearing midnight, called my mom. 

"Mom, Adelaide's really sick.  She's coughing and seems to be having trouble breathing, especially when I lay her down... what do I do?" 

"First, go run a shower-"

"MOM!  I'm not kidding here!"  I was panicking in the way that only a first-time mother is capable of, and didn't appreciate her feeble attempt at humor.

"Kristy, I'm not joking.  Go run a hot shower.  Sit in the bathroom with Adelaide, keep the door closed, and let the room fill up with steam.  This should make it easier for her to breathe and help loosen up some of that gunk in her chest."  (She uses the word "gunk" a lot.  It's a technical term that I think you learn in nursing school.)

The shower worked.  As it almost always does.  And now, when Adelaide starts whining, "Mommy, my tummy hurts,"  I know exactly what to say.

'Member That Time?

'Member that time I made the mistake of turning on the television during Adelaide's naptime?

Adelaide was about a year old.  We were living in Connecticut.  Derek was at work, Adelaide was down for her afternoon nap.  I don't watch a lot of tv, but for some reason I decided to turn it on.  The first thing I saw was a 30-second preview for a remake of "The Omen."  I turned the tv off.

When I was younger, I watched all kinds of horror movies.  I thought they were more funny than scary, and when I did get scared, I just thought it was a delicious kind of fun. 

Then I grew up and turned into a pansy.  I don't watch horror movies anymore.

Back to that afternoon in Connecticut. 

I knew that watching that preview was a mistake.  I guess the movie is about a little boy possessed by (or just is?) the devil.  It made me shudder and want to watch something completely benign like Pollyanna. 

Soon after this Adelaide wakes up from her nap.  I've still got devil-boy on the brain, and this, of course, leads me straight back to my old friend paranoia.  Only this time it involves my own cherub-faced girl.

 

I find myself watching her out of the corner of my eye, just waiting for her head to start revolving in 360-degree turns or for her eyes to take on a tell-tale red sheen.

I'm afraid of my own daughter.

I would really prefer to forget that time.  It was one of the creepiest afternoons of my life.




'Member That Time Monday.  Van Voorst's.  Go.

Oh Come, Let Us Adore Him

It seems vaguely blasphemous to use a line from a hymn written about Christ in the year 1743 as the title of a post about my husband on a blog in 2011.  (Holy run-on sentence, Batman!)

But I don't care.  (About the blasphemy or the run-on sentence.)

Christmas 2009.  Derek is looking at and interacting with everyone else in the room.

Atticus only has eyes for Daddy.

The hammock in our backyard, Fall of 2009.

One of our older son's favorite Let's-Maul-Daddy locations.

When Derek comes home from work each evening, the older two kids are all over him.  He does his best to bestow attention on all three children, but Atticus and Adelaide tend to monopolize his time.

Then A & A go to bed. 

 And it's Daddy- Caedmon time.



On a related note, we recently began to let Adelaide answer the phone when it rings- especially at 5:00 when I'm almost certain it's Derek calling.  But a problem has emerged. 

See, I've always been the one to answer the phone at this time, and it's a relief to hear Derek announce that he's on his way home.  We exchange some of the important points of our respective days, then hang up. 

But Adelaide won't let me answer the phone anymore.  So on weekdays at around five in our house, here's the scene you would most likely witness:

I'm in front of the stove, cooking up whatever's for supper with my right hand and holding Caedmon in my left.  Adelaide is often sitting at the desk in the kitchen, coloring.  Atticus is either playing, tormenting his sister, hanging onto my legs, or destroying something upstairs.

Then the phone rings.  Adelaide and I both race to pick it up.  Whichever one of us has reached it first hurries to push the "Talk" button and say, "Hello?" before the other can snatch the phone away. 

Then the winner gets to talk to Derek. 

The loser whines, "But I haven't gotten to talk to him all day!" and the winner hisses, "Neither have I!" 

The loser then crosses her arms and sulks. 

It could really go either way- it just depends on the day and how fast each of us is at that moment in time.

I'm sure Freud would have a field day with that one.

Hand-Me-Downs

I love 'em.

I love the thought of squeezing every last penny out of an item of clothing, of pushing my kids' clothes to the absolute limit of usefulness. 

Even I, however, have to admit that this may be pushing things too far. 

Normally, I would just sew this little hole up and slap it back on the boy.  But the reason he has holey toes in his clothing is that these are just too small.  I've been squeezing him in to try and make it last, and thought it was all going swimmingly.  Until I saw that little toe- and knew that it was time to admit defeat.  On to the next size.

On the bright side, I've always wanted a blue- and gray- striped dusting cloth.

State Loyalty

Derek was raised in Iowa.  He is an Iowan.

I learned this within days of meeting him.  Hours after that, I learned of his love for his home state.

I'm not sure what tipped me off, but I think it might have been his penchant for referring to Iowa as "The Promised Land."

Please be warned:  If you are neither from Iowa nor currently live in Iowa and you happen to meet my husband, you will be treated to a series of lectures.  I lovingly refer to them as "the Iowa sermons." 
Sermon titles include: 

• The Iowa State Fair
• Iowa State University
• Cyclone Athletics
• Iowa Corn
• Iowa Blizzards
• The Four Distinct Seasons
• B-Bop's
• Iowa vs Kansas
• Iowa vs Connecticut
• Iowa vs Any Other State, Province, or Country

One particular sermon that I heard with some regularity, not just from Derek but also from his family, was on the topic of Iowa dirt.

Yes, you read that right.  Dirt.

Ahem.  What I meant to say (and the way they actually phrased it), was Iowa soil.

It got to the point where any time I heard them start up on that "rich, black, Iowa soil" I would roll my eyes and start joking about black gold. 

Fast-forward several years.  Derek and I and our two children have moved to Iowa.  We have bought a house.  We have a backyard, where I am kneeling, getting ready to prepare the ground for a modest vegetable garden.  I dig my rake into the ground, pulling up grass.  After freeing the allocated section of this grass, I am greeted with the sight of this famous dirt.  It is black, and as far as dirt goes, yes, it's pretty.  But I'm still mentally rolling my eyes. 

Then I dig my hands into the dirt.  And I encounter soil.  Rich, moist, loamy soil. 

I flashback to watching my parents spend hours trying to install a garden in the backyard of my southern Kansas home.  A high clay content and flint rock make raised bed gardens a must down there.

I look around at the flowers growing in my flower beds.  Irises in the spring, roses, lilies, bleeding hearts, hostas, hibiscus and more in the summer.  These flowers can't seem to help but thrive in this beautiful Iowa dirt.

Excuse me.  This beautiful Iowa soil.