When You're Stuck Inside

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

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

So.  Fun inside stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There's the tongue again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caedmon got a Batman sword.  

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

Atticus got ninja stuff.

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

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

Click to embiggen, for the sake of your eyeballs.

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

Atticus intent upon attaching the net to his basketball hoop.

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

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



On Christmas Day:

 During Mommy's Post-Christmas Purge:

Best Books of 2014

Now, when I say "Best Books of 2014," I do not mean the best books published in 2014, I mean the best books I read in 2014.  This isn't the New York Times, people; my sense of self-importance isn't constantly threatening to explode all over you and this post isn't going to be twenty years long.  (I actually love the New York Times.  But the previous statement is still completely true.)

The problem is, even though the majority of what I read wasn't brand spanking new, some of it was still pretty great, great enough to want to not-so-subtly pressure/ recommend you read it, however, what started as a quick, "Here's my favorite five or so books I read this year" listy kind of post quickly mutated into something twenty years long.

For around eight seconds I lost my head completely and thought about cutting books from the list (the horror), but then inspiration struck, and rather than one huge list, I decided to divide the books into smaller, sometimes genre- specific, sometimes completely arbitrary lists of my own design, because that's... well, certainly not shorter, but perhaps a bit more organized, and seeing as tomorrow's the beginning of a New Year I understand mobs of people are going to be obsessed with organization for two whole weeks, right?

Anyway.  Onward!

Fiction by Brits  

To be read with tea, or with coffee and you can just pretend it's tea, because tea is nasty.

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce

Read this one if you want to pull for an older man and his wife and walking and the strangers he meets and England.  I've always loved the idea of a pilgrimage, but then, I love to walk.  Everything happens so fast when you're driving; whereas walking provides time for introspection and it forces you to be in that great healer The Outdoors, plus you feel great when you reach your destination.  Don't believe me?  Ask Harold Fry.







Maisie Dobbs by Jacqueline Winspear

If you like mystery series or female protagonists who have a working brain or the 1920's- 1930's or, again, England, these are the books for you.  This is one of those where Ms. Winspear makes me love her characters so much that I get exceedingly nervous for them, having to pause and put the book down to take a deep breath when they get themselves into pickles or when there's only ten pages left but they do something stupid; can't they see the book's almost over and they're in danger of being killed off?!  Plus there are close to a dozen books in the series, so if you do love it, you have ready-made reading material far into 2015.

Fiction by Other Foreigners

Is there any way to say "foreigners" without sounding completely hateful?  Because I really don't mean it that way.  I mean, who knew Australians were so funny?  And now I'll stop before Derek has a heart attack, even if my prejudices are xenophilic in nature.

Big Little Lies by Liane Moriarty

I started this book and stayed up way too late reading into one night and neglected certain halfway necessary tasks the next day just to finish it.  Then I went into my library and wheedled and pleaded until the librarian had requested every other book by Moriarty she could find.  Big Little Lies remains my favorite of this author's books so far, although they're all entertaining; her characters are absolutely endearing, the pace of the books is quick, quick, quick, and the observations on human behavior are en pointe and absolutely hilarious.  

The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion

I talked about this and a few other books in this post, and I'm guessing by now you've heard about this book everywhere.  It's charming.  The characters are lovable.  You won't be able to put it down.  Everyone loves it.  Your library likely has several copies; just go get one already.

Fantasy

To be read while eating cookies, because calories don't exist in Faerie.

The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making by Catherynne M. Valente

Ms. Valente is ridiculously creative in her world building and twisty, turny plots, not to mention her incredible skill with fickle, fickle words.  Perfect escapist fantasy, Adelaide and I both adore this book and the two others in the series; Adelaide recently mentioned that if she could pick one book to go on and on forever, it would be this one, because our daughter has excellent taste.

A Wind in the Door by Madeleine L'Engle

I read and loved A Wrinkle in Time as a child, and while it remains one of my all time favorites, I had yet to read the Time Quartet before this year.  I'm not really sure why I waited so long, except for the always valid excuse that there's never enough time to read All The Books.  I loved this book: the continuation of a beloved story, its inherent message, and the fact that I can't stop thinking about the way she chose to depict an angel.  Forget halos and gentle smiles and curiously Scandinavian hair and skin; this angel was memorable and somehow feelingly real.  

Historical Fiction

Even those of us who actually liked reading our history textbooks have something to learn from these, and bonus!  There will not be a test when you're done, but feel free to come by my house; we'll bury the kids in Legos and argue about the protagonists' motives over coffee.    

All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr

This is brilliant WWII fiction; if you've already read a bunch of WWII fiction (who hasn't?), and you therefore don't need to read this one, I say fair enough, as long as you already know about the use and importance of radios used in the war, you're aware of the part locksmiths played in European museums, and you've never wondered how certain parts of the population- such as the blind-  survived living in Occupied parts of Europe.  A must-read.

Whistling Past the Graveyard by Susan Crandall

This is The Help if the The Help had been told from the point of view of a plucky nine-year-old who's a magnet for trouble but still entirely likeable.  She and her comrades-at-arms will have you cheering and crying and hoping that they'll somehow find their way out of the inherent scrapes that come from being an African American, or even being seen with someone with darker skin, in the South in the 1960's.  Recent events here in the real world may leave you the tiniest bit depressed while reading this book, though, thinking that perhaps we haven't come so far after all.

Fever 1793 by Laurie Halse Anderson

You are only allowed to skip this book if you can give me a full dissertation on the yellow fever epidemic of 1793.  If not, read this and send me a heart-felt thank you note later.  I did a more complete review in this post, and my feelings have not changed:  this one's a keeper; one of the few books I've actually bought with real live money just so it could occupy a precious space on our bookshelves.

The Kitchen Boy by Robert Alexander

At the beginning of this book you'll be smiling and whispering, "Oooh, this is a good one," halfway through you'll start to worry for the characters and whisper, "Well, I apparently know NOTHING about Russian history," at the end you'll flip through the final pages in bewilderment, whispering, "It's over?  That's it?  After that plot twist?"

Actually, I hope you don't do any of that.  All of that whispering is creepy.

Memoir

Because people are interesting.

A Girl Named Zippy by Haven Kimmel

Read this one after you've slogged through half of The Goldfinch before remembering no one's actually forcing you to read such a lugubrious tome of a book.  Kimmel is just as smart as Tartt but about a million times more relatable.  From Kimmel's father convincing her they really did adopt her from a band of traveling gypsies to her wry observation that her older brother was a very attractive, angry young man and that girls went nuts over him, you'll wonder why she ever had to stop telling the world at large about her family and innocuous Indiana hometown.  I love this one.

Books You Want to Shove In Other People's Faces

But don't.  People don't like that, I've been told.  

Quiet : The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain

This one should by on your Life's Syllabus, if only because it will describe the maddening, befuddling actions of a large part of the population.  I'm a strong introvert, and I was astonished over and over again to have so many of my behaviors identified and explained, but also validated, with helpful coping mechanisms suggested throughout.  My mom thinks it should be required reading for teachers; I would only expand that to anyone who works with other human beings.









Still Alice by Lisa Genova

Yes, I'm still harping about this book.  Yes, it's about a university professor who develops alzheimer's disease. No, there are no frolicsome wyverns or romps through beautiful lands; they can't all be The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland.  But as I no doubt said before, this book feels important, like you're learning to empathize with anyone who's ever been forced to wander down the terrifying path of Dementia, and it's written in a way that you're not forcing yourself to pick it up and keep reading; you're eager to do so.








One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp

This is a book to be slowly and thoughtfully ingested, one precious revelation at a time, until you reach the end, and then you flip back to the front and start over.  You'll wallow in little things like grace and compassion and thankfulness, and who doesn't need that?

For Derek's Birthday I Didn't Buy a Useless Antique

Yesterday was Derek's birthday.  The Vikings were gracious enough to grant him a birthday win, I made him a giant birthday cookie, and my mom and Mark, since they were in town, offered to watch the kids while the birthday boy and I went on a date.

We enjoyed a nice dinner out and Derek tortured himself at a golf store, but in between those two we went to the Brass Armadillo, antique mall extraordinaire.  (If you click on that link back there, brace yourselves:  There are painful spelling and grammatical errors galore on their website.  Hear me now, friends:  "Isles" DOES NOT equal "Aisles."  When they write "Stroll through isles of..." I, naturally, picture hopping from island to island of antiques and quirky vintage treasures, not, as I can only assume they mean, walking through aisles of the same.)

The thing is, I love the Brass Armadillo.  It's where I adopted Hermione.  I almost always find super creepy dolls and marionettes to snap pictures of and send to my traumatized sisters.  I found a beautifully illustrated old hardcover copy of one of my favorite books there for two dollars.  (Just like this one, actually.)  When I visit that place, I like to take my time, examining any items that catch my eye (read:  half the things there, taking upwards of two hours.  I recognize that this is crazy.).

But when Derek and I went yesterday, he had a stern talk with me before entering, reminding me that we were on a mission, that we were looking for a specific item, that I needed to focus.  I did spectacularly well the first three steps in the door, until I saw a Christmas tree full of truly tacky old ornaments.  I faltered for a few seconds before muttering "Get behind me, Satan!"  (I couldn't tell if the lady manning the welcome station by the front door heard me or not; interpreting her facial expression was rather difficult due to the bold decision to paint her eyebrows on her forehead.)

Thereafter I was a model shopper, whipping up and down aisles in search of a coat tree, pausing only once in a moment of weakness caused by an antique bed warmer.  This is precisely the kind of thing that calls out to me at antique stores, begging to be taken to its forever home.  I knew Derek would ask ridiculous questions like, "What exactly are you going to do with it?  Where are you going to put it?"  Because "Smile at it," pretty much never satisfies him, I tried to frame some kind of persuasive response.  I mentally appealed to his logical side:  "Use it for its original purpose!"  Unfortunately we don't have a ready supply of coal and I had a sneaking suspicion that Derek would veto potentially burning our children alive, anyway.

Still in search of a loving home.

So it was with great sadness that I moved past the bed warmer, sending out psychological messages of "It's not you but it's also not me, it's my husband," which is probably a common refrain in there; rational spouses ruin all the fun but also save lives.

Thankfully I had this fun little trinket to console me when I got home:

My mom ferried this up to me from my grandma.  If you don't have a grandma who buys you random old stuff at auctions, I feel sorry for you.

It's a small tin grease pot that's a little dusty on the outside but immaculate inside.  It makes me wonder if it was ever used, given its purpose.

Actually, what is its purpose?

There's a removable strainer that sits just under the lid, then another at the inner entrance to the spout.  I'm assuming you pour the grease from your bacon or beef or whatever into the top, through the first sieve, then it gets strained a second time when you go to pour that same grease... where?  All over your food?  (retch)  I don't really understand the need to strain and then pour grease onto anything.  I pour our excess grease straight from the pan into an empty can and keep it in the freezer until it's full and ready to toss.  

Still, I like the look of it, and every time I walk by it I find myself singing "Grease is the word, have you heard, it's the word..."  Plus I just found the exact same thing on an ebay auction; it sold for $26 + $10 shipping, and I can promise you my grandma didn't pay that much.

I've also been throwing lots of smiles in its direction, although I've yet to find a good place for it.  I've had it in the kitchen windowsill, but that's a dangerous location as it's right in Derek's line of sight.  It'll probably end up where everything else does: on one of the piles of books scattered throughout the house.  Hey, it's smaller than a bed warmer, right?

A Special Kind of Smart

Last weekend Derek and I got to go play laser tag with some friends.  It was the one thing Derek really wanted to do for his birthday, so his mom kindly came over to watch the kids, and though I've never played laser tag before and really wasn't expecting to enjoy the whole activity, it was for my husband's birthday, so I decided to close my eyes and think of England, as it were, and at the very least pretend I was having a good time while running around shooting fake guns at people.

Well.  It was actually incredibly fun, darting around a big warehouse and peering around pieces of drywall, trying to take out the somewhat obnoxious strangers on the opposing team.

The part that I keep thinking about, however, is at the end, when we were removing the velcro straps from around our foreheads, and the employee said, "Everybody hand me the non-fabric part of the strap, please, there at the end."

I proceeded to do my darndest to take that little piece of the strap off the rest so I could hand it to him, but my gosh, how was I supposed to do that when it appeared to be sewn together?

I wrestled with it for several seconds before looking around to see how everyone else was faring, but it turns out every single other person there had understood his instructions and were holding their headbands by the tips, on the non-fabric end.

Ah.  I see.


I have wondered in the past how it is that so often everyone else understands these things but me, but then I think of my mother and my daughter.

Now listen to me.  My mother is a very intelligent woman.  Our daughter is a very intelligent girl.

My mother is also the person who, when we were out for a walk through a nature preserve while she was visiting us in Connecticut, exclaimed, "I just saw a really old squirrel!"

When I asked how she knew it was really old (never having known before that she was any kind of squirrel expert), she explained that it had gray hair.

Oh, how I laughed.  But also understood.  We only have brown squirrels in Kansas, as opposed to the gray squirrels that inhabit CT.


Then I think about the time I was sitting in a bedroom in our house in Kansas, holding a baby Atticus, and asked two-year-old Adelaide to turn on the light.  She tried but couldn't reach, so I told her to go get the step stool.  A couple minutes later I turned my head at the sound of something scraping against the wall;  our daughter had the step stool stretched over her head, attempting to catch the light switch with it to turn it on, rather than, you know, standing on it.


Or how about when I was a teenager, my mom and I walking out to the parking lot to get in my car, the Little Tercel that Could, and it wouldn't start, which wasn't like it at all.  No air conditioning, no radio or in-dash clock or power steering, but that thing always, always started.  We got out, opened up the hood (which, looking back, is completely laughable- I'm astonished we even knew how to open the hood), then gasped in unison.  There was a gaping hole right in the middle of all the other unidentifiable stuff (that is to say, everything)- someone had stolen part of our engine!  

I'm guessing it was my mom who thought to thumb through the owner's manual to see just which crucial part had been taken, when we found it- that big blank space was where the air conditioner went in cars that weren't completely stripped down.  You know, the one my car never had?  We fell all over each other laughing, and then I don't remember what happened next.  I'm assuming we got out of that parking lot somehow, as I am not presently there.


I must say, if you don't mind looking foolish from time to time, it isn't a bad way to live.  At least we laugh a lot.  At ourselves.  Along with everyone else.

A Useful Pre-Christmas List

Today is the 22nd of December.  Three days until Christmas.

Perhaps you're scrambling right now, trying to get everything everything everything done before Christmas.

Or maybe you're a born procrastinator (here!), and you're looking for something to do that will enable you to put off all those seemingly important things you have to do.  If that is you, well, friends, the internet and I are here to help.

A Few Things to Look at Instead of Doing Whatever You Should Be Doing Right Now

(Stop sighing, Derek, Mr. Responsible.  I am providing a service.)

• In the spirit of Christmas, first up is an article about old suitcases that were found in a now-defunct mental asylum.  They belonged to patients who presumably died within its walls, and each is now a unique time capsule, brought to life by photographer Jon Crispin.  Here's the article my sister originally shared, and here's the original Willard Suitcases website if you want to see more.

• If insane asylums don't give you the holiday feel-goods, maybe this article by Anne Lamott will, which begins thusly:

"I used to hear in early sobriety that if you had an idea after 10:00 pm, it was probably a bad idea.

I think the same is true about any ideas you may have in the next few days.

Everyone is very crazy. Some of us are better at covering this up than others. Some people will say how cheerful they feel and how much they love the holidays; but these are very angry people. Try not to be alone with them for any length of time."

• And finally, here's a video Caedmon watched three times in a row this morning.  Derek and I often joke that Cade is a future politician (*shudder*), with his ability to charm the public at large and his penchant for baby-kissing.  He's excellent at saying exactly what I want to hear, such as the following, excerpted from our conversation this morning:  

"Mommy, do you know what my favorite Christmas song is?"

"I don't.  What is it?"

"'Mary Did You Know?' because I like the words."

At that point I was torn between gushing and skepticism- I mean, he really was laying it on a bit thick.  

Anyway, as half the western hemisphere is currently obsessed with Pentatonix, I had seen this video, and decided that just in case it really was his favorite, I'd reinforce it with some lovely a capella harmonies.  

Just Trying to Save Lives, Here

Earlier this week I got a bad paper cut and discovered that if I'm ever in any real trouble and Caedmon and I are the only ones home, we're both pretty much screwed.

I got the cut while reading a book with unusually heavyweight pages, and while it didn't hurt much, by the time Cade and I left to get the kids from school I'd been bleeding for close to an hour; I just couldn't get it to stop.  Upon disembarking from the bus, Adelaide and Atticus took immediate notice of the blood-soaked kleenex wrapped around my hand, and on the short walk home, Adelaide took what I think was rather perverse enjoyment from musing about whether I had lost enough blood to lose consciousness (I hadn't.  Not even close.).  That, of course, reminded me that we hadn't done any Mom's-Unconscious-What-Now? Drills lately- incredibly irresponsible of me; I fall and accidentally start small fires in our home too often for me to shirk these kinds of duties.

Adelaide and Atticus only needed a brief refresher course on how to use my phone and how to dial 911 and how to call anyone else on my phone, plus what to do if my phone is missing (I can't find my phone half my waking hours.  I used to keep it in my pocket but it kept falling out and into water and under the wheels of my van.  Really, it's safer this way.), which is basically just going from neighbor to neighbor until someone answers the door.  

Caedmon, however, decided to obsess about which house he was going to first, what technique he was going to use to bang on their door, and whether or not there might be any cookies in each house that could possibly be shared with him.  When receiving a tutorial on how to call 911 on my cell phone, he wouldn't stop gazing fondly at the photo of himself that is my phone's wallpaper to listen to his sister's impatient instructions.  I'd like to think she would have eventually gotten through to him, but Atticus started crying, apparently getting freaked out because I'd been lying unresponsive on the floor a bit too long for his comfort, especially when blood started to pool under my outstretched, limp hand.  (Hey- when you're doing Mom's-Unconscious-What-Now? Drills you go big or home.  And by "go big" I mean collapse as realistically as possible and answer zero questions from your useless offspring, because how else will they learn?)

I did eventually stop bleeding, but haven't made much headway in the days since while trying to educate our youngest in the ways of Saving Mommy's Life.  He does well with the practice EpiPen (aside from that one little incident of pretending to stab it in my temple- but we agreed not to bring that one up), and I know I can count on him to at least save himself by running to a neighbor's before getting distracted by toys or dust motes, but he's never going to be on one of those recorded 911 calls where the plucky preschooler calls in, saving their guardian's life.

And just a little side note:  If you're having trouble teaching your kids to care enough about you to dial 911, do yourself a favor and DO NOT google "dog calls 911" because apparently ALL DOGS love their owners more than Caedmon loves me.

Hello, NARCISSIST.