Here a Sconce, There a Sconce

A couple years ago, Derek and I agreed that the lighting in our living room sucked.  Last weekend, we finally did something about it.  This is generally how long it takes for our home decorating ideas to go from concept to fruition.

Our house came with a number of questionable light fixtures that I'm guessing were chosen for price rather than style.  They're not ugly, per se, but they don't knock my socks off, although the ones in the living room and kitchen would knock Derek's head off if he didn't either go around them or duck every time he has to pass directly underneath.  Old houses weren't built for the very tall among us, and I'm guessing the suspicious previous owners can't have been much over six feet, judging from their fixture choices.  To be fair, if you're on the shorter side, you tend not to consider such things as, "Can I easily walk under this ceiling fan?" and "Will I have to fold my body into itself just to get into this car?" and I know that taller people do much the same thing, as I've lost count of the number of times Derek and I have had the "I don't know if it's up there, as I can't see the top of the fridge, remember?  I can't even begin to see it until I'm on the top step of our step stool!" conversation.

Want to see some of these "That just doesn't make sense!" fixtures for yourself?  Of course you do!

This is our living room fixture.  First of all, at eight feet high, we don't enjoy ceilings tall enough to warrant fixtures that from top to bottom hang two feet down, so why on earth wouldn't you get one of those handy dandy ceiling-hugging fans?  I know those remodelers were aware of their existence, as they put the exact same fixture in the kitchen, where the ceiling is equal in height, except this one doesn't hang down as far.

I'm also not crazy about the flower-shaped light shades, but I'm willing to admit that that is a matter of taste.  Even in the kitchen, however, this fixture is a poor choice, as the pull chain is a mere six feet off the ground.  Why would you put such a low-hanging fixture in a space like this?  We won't even go into the fact that these produce the most glaring, harsh light available on the market.  It's less "Welcome to our comfortable, warmly-lit home" and more "Welcome to Guantanamo Bay, hope you're not particularly attached to those teeth."  It just doesn't make sense.

And then there are the abundance of boob lights.

I call them boob lights because they look like, well, boobs.  Again, a matter of taste as to whether or not you want these things looming over your head.

Anyway.

A couple years ago, Husband and I agreed:  This lighting is terrible, and we spend a ton of time in this terrible lighting.  What to do?  Derek had the idea that sconces would solve all of our problems, I concurred, and then we turned to the internet, only to find that we have widely differing ideas on what constitutes a visually appealing sconce.  It was like picking out baby names all over again, for not since then had I heard the word "veto" repeated so often and so quickly.  He didn't like what I liked.  I didn't like what he liked.  Stalemate.

Then, somehow, right around a year ago, we found a sconce at Menards that neither one of us hated!  And they were on clearance! And yes, there were two boxes left!

Then those boxes sat on top of our deep freezer for a year.  This is normal home improvement behavior, right?

Finally, Derek arranged for his dad to come over last Saturday so they could do mysterious lighting things.  Loud sounds were made.  Multiple trips to the hardware store were undertaken.  Other things happened, like Dennis cutting into the wall to discover that the first layer was thick sheet rock,

Before, couch pulled out, sheet rock not yet cut through to reveal its secrets.

under that was thick plaster,

Why, hello, plaster

under that was wood lath,

Why, hello, wood lath

under that was wool used as insulation(!),

and then he said something about how it looked like the outside of the house used to be stucco?  Or, you know.  Something.  Aren't old houses fun/exasperating?

It ended up taking most of Saturday and then involved a return trip by Dennis on Monday to finish hooking everything up (again, normal home improvement behavior, right?), but finally, we had our sconces.  So exciting.  Such an improvement.

Please note the pillows that Atticus likes to have placed just so.

Better!

Why, hello, post-workout Husband.

Much better!

Tomorrow I'll tell you about Derek's favorite part:  The new lightbulbs.  He has lost his mind over those things.  I am not even a little bit kidding.  (WHAT A CLIFFHANGER, RIGHT?)

The Fire of a Thousand Suns

It's that time of year again.  The time when I rage and vent my spleen and call down (metaphorical) hellfire on those creatures of darkness.

"First he ate some lettuces and some French beans; and then he ate some radishes, and then he did not pass Go and he did not collect $200 but went straight to Purgatory for breaking the eighth commandment with such dark glee."  -The Edited Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter and K.C.

Listen, I know rabbits have to eat.  I do.  And I have a whole yard full of clover for them to munch on to their hearts' content, because try as I might, I just cannot make myself care about grass.  Sure, I like to mow, but I'm just as happy cutting clover as I am cutting Kentucky Bluegrass or whatever the greener stuff is they grow on the other side.  What I do care about are my flower beds.  Guess who's been spending time in my flower beds?

Change his fur to grayish brown and that skull to the remains of my tulips, and you have my flower beds as of about a week ago.  As any knight knows, swords and chain mail are useless against such beasts, so I turn to the only weapon in my arsenal.

Three years ago Cassi told me about this stuff.  I'm still crazy grateful.

I sprayed this around the bitten-down stubs of my tulip foliage last week, hurrying because Derek and I were about to scurry out for a date.  When we got in the car, I wondered, "What is that smell?"  I was unable to locate the source of the stench until I scratched my nose and realized that Oh.  The smell is me.  I'd gotten some Liquid Fence on my gloves and therefore smelled like death.  We had to run back home anyway, so I switched out my gloves, as I didn't think the scent of blood and rotten eggs would mix well with barbecue.  

I also received this hate mail last week, because rabbits won't stop until they've achieved world domination.  I half expected to see cut out letters pasted on there under the photo, but they're much too canny for that.  "Easter bunny."  Sure.  He probably also has some candy in the back of his van.  Just 'hop' on in to pick some out, little girl.

When I haven't been waving my spade and shouting amorphous threats at the furry inhabitants of our yard (oh, and we have new neighbors who I'm pretty sure witnessed some of this.  Remind me to tell you the story of how they probably think I'm a monster because I wouldn't help Adelaide out of the tree she was stuck in.), I've been enjoying the warm weather by cleaning out and weeding the flower beds.  I've got around half of them done, and it's not even the middle of March!  Thanks, sixty-degree days!  I've even got a big chunk of the toughest bed done, and I've only found two nails so far.  

Right side:  Creeping Charlie, grass, iris rhizomes, and nails.  Left side:  Iris rhizomes only!

A few more years, and it's possible I'll have cleaned all the metal out of the dirt in our yard.  No telling how long it'll take me to dig out all the bricks inexplicably buried under the grass, though.  

Battle of the Books: Year One

A few months ago, Adelaide was asked by a teacher to participate in Battle of the Books.  We had no idea what this was, but it was explained to us that it's a quiz bowl-type competition where you read a list of books chosen by the sponsoring library, then show up with your team to answer questions about them.  Now, it's true that it's supposed to only be for fifth and sixth graders, but we all agreed that although she was younger, this was right up Adelaide's alley, and in the end signed off on her competing with the fifth graders.

Adelaide got the list, read the books, and remained exasperatingly calm about the whole thing, even yesterday morning, mere hours before the competition started.  I'd repeatedly asked her if she wanted me to quiz her or help her review or anything, and every time she brushed me off with a nonchalant, "No, thanks."  People, she didn't even make flashcards.  I would have seriously questioned whether or not we were biologically related if it weren't for that whole childbirth thing.

So, yesterday afternoon, Derek and his parents and the boys and I trooped over to the Big Town library to watch upwards of 100 fifth grade readers answer bookish questions.  Adelaide arrived with her three equally adorable fifth-grade-girl teammates.  She seemed excited.

Those girls whipped through the first two rounds like little nerd-girl dervishes, and qualified for the third and final round with the only perfect score.  It was exciting, and nerve-wracking, and so fun for Adelaide.  Youth sports are big around here, but academic competitions?  Not so much.  At four years old you can be in Tiny Person Baseball and Tiny Person Soccer and Tiny Person Tae Kwon Do, but there are no spelling bees or math competitions, not much of anything that strives to combine academic pursuits with a sense of healthy competition or fun for children.  Our little town library works hard to put on a good summer reading program, but the other nine months of the year?  Best of luck to you.

Excuse me.  I am afflicted with very strong opinions on this subject.

Back to yesterday's Battle:  I'm sad to say the final round is where things went south for our little team.  They had the misfortune to draw two different year-related questions, my heart sinking each time they were read, before the girls even had a chance to answer.  Are there people out there who pay attention to years in the books they read?  I could tell you the minutest of details about the items a character packs in their suitcase for a short trip, but what year that took place?  No idea.  It would seem that our four girls are much the same, as while they did take wild stabs at answering, they were way off, and obviously had no idea as to the correct answer.  Bad luck, indeed, but overall, it was still a fun event, and although Adelaide was a little disappointed when it was all over (FOUR HOURS LATER), she was more philosophical about the experience than anything else.  

We treated her to a cheeseburger and chocolate shake afterward, and by the time we'd reached home she was already talking about next year and how she'll be closer to the age of her fellow participants (she said most of the kids she talked to were eleven, which, at this point, still feels so much older than her nine years of age), and musing about ways to talk her teacher into letting her pick the team next year.  For my part, I now know to bring plenty of snacks, and perhaps a little stress ball, something to worry in my pocket so I don't cut off circulation to Derek's hand each time our little girl (bravely, valiantly, brilliantly) stands up to answer a question for her team.  

See?  We all learned something yesterday.

Dessert and Derek and a Quiz

• Today I made a chocolate mousse for the first and most likely last time.  I enjoy mousse when other people make it for me, but when I'm the cook, I'm somehow constantly irritated by the whole process.  I really can't explain this, as I enjoy making cookies and pies and the occasional cake.  I think I'm just so lacking in polish and refinement that only the most basic of desserts can be made by my hands, at least with any pleasure.  Case in point: I think of chocolate mousse as fancy people food.  If any of you sophisticates care to make me a cheesecake topped by a thin layer of lemon curd like the one I had last week, I could probably rise above my station enough to enjoy it.  

• Derek was interviewed for a show on video production last week, and let me tell you, it was so fun to watch.  I couldn't explain, even to myself, why this was at first, but then I decided it's because proficiency is so attractive.  It's just nice to see something done well, or in this case, listen to my husband talk about something about which he's so obviously knowledgeable.  Now, to my non-video-professional ears, it sounded something like, "Derek, it looks like Brian has a question about snordlepicks.  Could you tell us about how you go about picking the best snordlepicks for the job, and why you make that choice?"  "Well, Mike, I'm glad Brian asked this, because snordlepicks can be a tricky business, especially when your wallbiters aren't calibrated to the correct galackchinerncy."  *good-natured chuckling by the hosts at my husband's ever-present but baffling-to-me-when-it-comes-to-video-production wit*

• Multiple choice:

The proper response when someone says, "Well, that's the weather in [insert location] for you:  If you don't like it, just wait five minutes!" is

(a)  "Hahahaha!  You, sir, are a riot!"

(b)  "Indeed?  I did not know this about Iowa/Kansas/Connecticut/South Carolina/Maine/Florida/Texas/Minnesota/Nevada.  Thank you for educating me!"

(c)  "Yeah, that's not the weather in this particular place, that's just weather.  PLEASE STOP SAYING THAT.  There is nothing special about the weather in this specific place, or how quickly and often it changes, okay?  It does that everywhere, in the majority of the places on earth.  You sound ridiculous."    

Now, if you've said something along these lines before, don't feel self-conscious.  I won't judge you, particularly if you feel the random yet insatiable urge to send me a homemade cheesecake topped with lemon curd.

Sprouting

Atticus is currently in a phase where all of the following are true:

Every time he says my name and I turn around, I jump a bit because his face is not where I'm expecting it to be;

The hems of his pants and his knees look as if they've been crooning, "Draw me closer to thee," to each other;

He finishes his meal and then looks around expectantly, like there's no way ten pancakes, a banana, and a big bowl of applesauce are the only things on the menu.


Yes.  Elder son is the in the middle of a growth spurt.  I continue to be astonished by this phenomenon, as if the past decade has taught me nothing about being the mother of tall children.  Adelaide complains of growing pains in her legs and a month later she's an inch closer to my own height.  I notice that Atticus is looking even skinnier and more stretched out than usual, then watch as, as was the case two nights ago, he ate a grilled cheese sandwich, the remaining cup, maybe cup and a half of raisins, half a block of cheese, a peach right down to the pit which he gnawed on so hungrily I worried he was going to chomp it to bits and swallow that, too, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, after which he sat back, patted his bulging stomach contentedly, and declared, "Ah, I can finally go to bed fat."  "Fat" is a regular goal for our son, as to him it means his insatiable hunger has finally- if temporarily- been satisfied.  Thirty minutes later he was shaking the remains of a bag of tortilla chips into his mouth.  He is seven years old.

Caedmon, on the other hand, is very much our slow and steady grower.  This is how I achieved my towering height of four full inches over the five foot mark, and it is something I understand.  Caedmon's increasing height makes sense on growth charts.  I can more or less predict when his clothes will no longer fit, and plan for it.  There is no "What do you mean those jeans no longer fit?  What did you do to all your clothes?" or "But you've barely worn those shoes!  Can't you just, like, cram your toes in there or something?"  Derek still worries that this more reasonably paced growing means Caedmon will be much shorter than his siblings, but I'm not worried- "He'll be plenty tall!" I reassure everyone.  Never mind that "plenty tall" is anything above 5'8" to me.

What's nice is that so far, no matter how much or quickly Atticus grows, I can still depend on a few things from him.  He still likes to sit rightnext to me whenever possible, and still wants plenty of physical contact.

He also, after realizing I'm taking a picture, rarely fails to beg, "Take my picture!" then strike a pose.  I hope this lasts for, oh, I don't know, ever.

I laughed while taking this picture.  Still laughing.

He's more sensitive to the emotions of those around him than either of his siblings, as is evidenced many nights at supper when Caedmon will tell everyone his Best Thing for the day is Daddy, and Atticus responds by coming to give me a hug and make sure my feelings aren't hurt.  He claps his hands over his ears when I'm reading a book to him and a character is bullied by another character or is embarrassed in any way.  When Caedmon says something borderline insensitive in public- like that time a nice man who just happened to only have one eye passed the time of day to us in the grocery store, and Caedmon stared in fascination at the empty socket, followed by the loud but expected query of, "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR EYE?"  Well, Adelaide and I were rather embarrassed, but Atticus looked like he wanted to die:  Red face, agonized expression, those hands clapped over his ears again, followed by a vehemently hissed lecture directed at his younger brother as soon as we'd turned the corner.  The man, by the way, was very nice about the whole thing:  "I don't know, look at around the store for me, will ya, let me know if you find it!"  Atticus tends to be so mortified by incidents like these that it saves me a lecture and lets me be the good guy.


I think we'll keep him for, oh, I don't know, ever.

If You're Happy And You Know It

The past several days have been very exciting, although keep in mind, "very exciting" for me includes scoring 2 gallons of vinegar for $3.48 (Sam's Club.  Get you some.) and gathering 90% of the ingredients for a new recipe for homemade laundry soap I'm making next week.  Also, this:

Anderson Erickson half-gallon of chocolate milk is on sale for 99 CENTS at Fareway this week, local friends!

But really?  The most exciting part of the past week?

That is dirt from my flower beds under my fingernails, and I couldn't be happier about it.  Last weekend our highs were in the fifties, and I was so happy yanking hunks of Creeping Charlie out of my warm beds that I didn't even think to look for those things I make you look at every spring until yesterday- but after clearing away several inches of winter debris, there they were:

Tulip shoots!  In February!  Yes, these are actually tiny, as I had to almost bury my phone in wet and frozen leaves to take this picture, and yes, there are only a few dozen so far because the rest are still resting under solid blocks of ice (as my poor fingernails discovered yesterday after getting a little over-excited trying to uncover all the tulip shoots), but still!  I squealed and did a little dance and said a prayer over them to ward off demon rabbits- you know, normal pre-spring rites.  Please also note I've decided to think of this time of year as pre-spring instead of late winter as it's exactly 78% less depressing.

Other fun things include the illness wending its way through our community, including our family.  Why "fun"?  Because this is strep throat/coughing/low-grade fever-type illness, which includes zero, I repeat, ZERO puking.  Remember the insane amounts of vomit I had to clean up only a month ago?  Yeah, I'm still not over that.  So when all our kids need to limp through this sickness is some extra rest and sugar-free hard candy to suck on to soothe their throats?  I'll take it.  Adelaide is old enough where all I had to do was make her a couple cups of tea and remain within touching distance for much of yesterday.

The above is a pretty normal sight when Daughter is under the weather, as she slowly inches her way around the room, body prone except for a single questing foot looking for some physical contact.  Sure, I could have helped her out and met her halfway, but I couldn't.  I was laughing too hard.

Instead I stayed right where I was and made her come all the way to me, although once she made it, I made sure to rub her head because I'm not completely heartless, plus she almost never lets me play with her hair anymore when she's well.  It reminded me rather strongly of the penultimate scene in To Kill a Mockingbird when Scout tells Boo, "You can pet him, Mr. Arthur, he's asleep.  You couldn't if he was awake, though, he wouldn't let you," in which case Adelaide is Jem and I am Boo.  Which brings me to something I found that I can't stop laughing at:

Derek laughed, too, when I showed it to him, albeit in a resigned way with which I am very familiar, because he is not on the winning side of this piece of relationship advice.

To Each His Own

This week, Adelaide's "own" was new glasses,

which she seriously loves, as do the rest of us.  They arrived just in time, as her cheaper, stand-in pair were literally falling apart every time she tried to do extravagant things like wear them on her face.

Derek's own, I think, was re-adjusting to Iowa temperatures after being in Florida for most of a week.  It's very strange to see him uncomfortable with the cold as he's usually the hardiest of us all, but something about going from shorts in 70-some degree weather to a snowstorm in 14-degree weather was a bit of a shock to his system.  Those of us who had remained in Iowa were very sympathetic to his plight:  "Uh-huh.  Here's your coat."  Not to worry, the hero worship commenced as soon as the kids were awake enough to realize he was back.

Caedmon's own was being a bit under the weather for a day, just long enough to stay home from preschool on a morning where Derek just so happened to also be home.  After a morning spent with Daddy, he used the "I'm siiiiick" excuse to stay in his jammies all day and spend naptime snuggled up next to me.  He claimed the poo pillow made him feel better.  

My own was falling for the first time on a run this winter.  Given how clumsy I am, I have no idea how I made it this long.  It was a minor fall, just slipping on some ice, then on down onto my hands and knees, after which I flopped onto my back to catch my breath and assess any injuries, which aside from a sore foot, were none!  I somehow managed to get mud on my face, and my fall was in front of a couple store fronts and in plain sight of a bunch of houses, so I can only hope my little stunt provided some kind of entertainment for those stuck indoors, endlessly waiting for spring.

War paint

Atticus's own, more than anything, was the death of my mom and Mark's cat, Ed.  We got Ed when I was in high school, so he lived a long life full of victorious crusades against the local vole and rabbit population, which he very thoughtfully left on Mom's front step on a frequent basis, and in his later years, he enjoyed a quiet life monopolizing Mark's lap and being king of all he surveyed, except when the grandkids came to visit and he paid for his otherwise peaceful life by suffering from an abundance of overly physical love.
I broke the news to the kids last night, and while Adelaide and Caedmon were sad at the news of Ed's passing, Atticus was the most upset, which I had expected.  He cried and wanted to spend plenty of time close to me, asking questions about how he died and why he died and whether or not cats go to heaven.  We told stories about Ed, mostly gentle ones from the kids, with a saltier one thrown in here and there by me, such as the time Ed lulled us all into complacency by sweetly sleeping next to the tank where Steph's teddy bear hamster lived, then shocking us all- particularly Steph, who was the first to stumble upon the scene- by one day removing the head of dear Harry Potter Price from his fluffy little body.  (Now, as a mother, I'm wondering how my mom got all that blood out of the blue carpet, because I remember there being a lot of it- both blood and carpet.)
This charming anecdote cheered Atticus more than anything, and he then put in a formal request for Grandma and Mark to get another cat immediately.  He is generously giving them two names from which to choose:  Either Ed, or Pooch.

And now, a gallery of Ed Photographs, because that's what you do when someone dies.

Ed being stalked by one of many enthusiastically affectionate grandchildren.

A typical scene when the grandkids came a-callin':  Children: "ED!"  Ed: "Kill meeeeee."