Gymboree. I adore Gymboree. First of all, it’s hopelessly cute. Second, if you are a devoted sale and coupon shopper, it’s pretty darn affordable. Next, could it be any easier to buy from a single Gymboree line, toss it in the closet and not have to worry that your child will emerge the next morning looking like she’s ready to audition at Rodeo Clowns R Us? And finally, it’s durable. Not Tuffskins durable, but durable in a way that makes me feel like I won’t be purchasing blue jeans for at least two months.
Or at least it used to be. Recent shopping excursions have netted t-shirts of the thin and “shapeless after washing” variety. I thought it might be a summer weight issue, until I bought some fall clothing. Even my not terribly fabric astute four year old who does not often see beyond Sparkles! and Horsies! noticed that her shirt “felt funny”. Then she complained of a hole in her new pants. Closer inspection revealed that both edges of fabric had not been picked up and there was a hole in the seam. I could have sewn it, I should have sewn it – but I exchanged for a different set. And am still explaining that I’m sorry the “purple pantseses with da bows” are gone, but the store no longer carried them in her size and I did the best I could.
The seven year old who prefers function over form was actually interested in appearances this year and selected two darling rugby shirts from another line. One was washed and worn. After the second washing I noticed that she must have undergone a mammoth growth spurt between August and September because I could see wrists and a tummy while she was wearing a shirt deliberately bought one size too large (oldest mom trick in the book). Then my gray matter stirred to life and I pulled out the other unwashed rugby shirt for a little comparative research. Two inch shrinkage in every direction.
It’s worth noting that when Rob washed and dried a pair of dry clean only linen pants he only managed about one half that amount of damage.
Not happy.
I like cute children’s clothes. I do not like having to put a lot of effort into children’s clothes – as a working mother I prefer to spend more time with the children and less with the clothes.
The receipt says “Gymboree Listens” – we’re going to find out.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Rooms To Go
I was going to try to come up with ninety-five of these and tape them to the store's front door, but frankly, it's not worth the effort.
From the website: Designed for decor flexibility, the collection is not only beautiful (Well, yes, it was attractive), but functional (And yes, you can sit on it). Each piece is well built on a hardwood (Is pine plywood now considered hardwood?) frame with precision tailoring for good looks and long wear (Five years??).
The purchase process was awful, and required a conference between the salesman, his manager, my husband and myself to verify that we would in fact not be purchasing a fabric warranty that did not include child or pet stains, spills, or other markings. Hello?
From the website: Designed for decor flexibility, the collection is not only beautiful (Well, yes, it was attractive), but functional (And yes, you can sit on it). Each piece is well built on a hardwood (Is pine plywood now considered hardwood?) frame with precision tailoring for good looks and long wear (Five years??).
The purchase process was awful, and required a conference between the salesman, his manager, my husband and myself to verify that we would in fact not be purchasing a fabric warranty that did not include child or pet stains, spills, or other markings. Hello?
When delivered, we had to remind the driver that the manifest also included end tables.
I have a price point after which I no longer expect to assemble – this was violated.
Packing rope was stapled to the underside of the tables. Stapled.
The finish on the end and coffee tables began to degrade as soon as the pieces were placed and we stood back to admire them.
The micro-suede on the loveseat has been worn shiny from repeated contact. Like the bottom of a pair of dance shoes for those of you that have ever taken dance.
The interior structure of the sofa is comprised entirely of scraps of wood stolen from the trash of a middle school shop class. We know this because we have opened the sofa and re-bolted and re-braced the frame not once, not twice, but three times. In five years.
The bottom frame is currently braced with three landscaping 4x4s. They are out of view, but I know they are under there and it rankles.
The back cushions are completely misshapen and require beating into submission before any sort of comfort level can be attained.
The seams are coming out of all four throw pillows. Which, for the record, we have never thrown.
Friday, August 6, 2010
For Carrie Sue
Even Lilly Pulitzer can make a mistake. I'll have to politely disagree with the "classic, classic, classic" description of this little frock. It looks rather more like what a better heeled mourner of Tai Shan's return to China might have donned to dab her eyes and tragically whisper to the cameras how much she's going to miss the little guy.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Public Service Announcement
If you decide that you simply must catch up with the first season of True Blood and a website has all the episodes right there, for free, something is probably too good to be true.
For example, when you try to stream the finale of the first season and you’re asked to take a quick quiz first, you may or may not infect your computer with a virus. That virus may or may not respond to standard anti-virus protocol and require that your husband spend four hours wiping the system clean and reinstalling everything.
On a positive note, the husband does love a project, and I’m always happy to oblige.
For example, when you try to stream the finale of the first season and you’re asked to take a quick quiz first, you may or may not infect your computer with a virus. That virus may or may not respond to standard anti-virus protocol and require that your husband spend four hours wiping the system clean and reinstalling everything.
On a positive note, the husband does love a project, and I’m always happy to oblige.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Saturdays With Sage
A not terribly old woman, a young girl, and I didn't learn my lesson.
My apologies to Mitch Albom.
Having failed to escape detection this morning, I took Sage along with me for the running of errands. Weight Watchers (where I learned I lost the exact same increment of not quite a pound as last week) went well, as did our impulsive breakfast at Mama Margie's. It would have been a truly special mother-daughter meal had Mama Margie not thoughtfully placed a large screen television right over my left shoulder. I tried, but I simply could not compete with King Julian.
He likes to move it.
Feeling full and sassy, we toodled over to Lowe's and managed to annoy every man in the store. I only saw one other woman there without a male companion - and she was in the outdoor gardening area. I was (gasp) loitering in the paint aisle. The males there clearly had Very Important Things To Do and had not factored in the woman with slow small child variable.
After Lowe's, my child, my coupons and I went to Target and saved money by spending money. I think there was more spending than saving, but I now have enough Cheerios to keep the spaces between the couch cushions nice and crunchy for months. Sadly, my failure to sufficiently caffeinate, the heat, a low grade sinus infection and Sage's incessant questions (what are humans made of, what is God made of, what are shopping carts made of, I WANT A SPARKLY PINK PENCIL CASE) brought on a crashing headache. We cut the trip short and eliminated the HEB leg completely.
After a nap and a handful of Tylenol, I decided to tackle the rest of the grocery issue. With Sage.
I wonder if there's any Darvocet left in the house?
My apologies to Mitch Albom.
Having failed to escape detection this morning, I took Sage along with me for the running of errands. Weight Watchers (where I learned I lost the exact same increment of not quite a pound as last week) went well, as did our impulsive breakfast at Mama Margie's. It would have been a truly special mother-daughter meal had Mama Margie not thoughtfully placed a large screen television right over my left shoulder. I tried, but I simply could not compete with King Julian.
He likes to move it.
Feeling full and sassy, we toodled over to Lowe's and managed to annoy every man in the store. I only saw one other woman there without a male companion - and she was in the outdoor gardening area. I was (gasp) loitering in the paint aisle. The males there clearly had Very Important Things To Do and had not factored in the woman with slow small child variable.
After Lowe's, my child, my coupons and I went to Target and saved money by spending money. I think there was more spending than saving, but I now have enough Cheerios to keep the spaces between the couch cushions nice and crunchy for months. Sadly, my failure to sufficiently caffeinate, the heat, a low grade sinus infection and Sage's incessant questions (what are humans made of, what is God made of, what are shopping carts made of, I WANT A SPARKLY PINK PENCIL CASE) brought on a crashing headache. We cut the trip short and eliminated the HEB leg completely.
After a nap and a handful of Tylenol, I decided to tackle the rest of the grocery issue. With Sage.
I wonder if there's any Darvocet left in the house?
Friday, July 16, 2010
Well Baby Visit
Rob says I can’t call it a well-baby visit when the baby in question is seven. I disagree.
As we were leaving yesterday, I noticed that Ashton had paired her less-than-demure-light-up Twinkletoes sneakers with equally less-than-demure pink, purple and silver sparkly socks (note to self – lose those socks in the wash this weekend). My plea to please change into socks less likely to induce a seizure was met with serious resistance until Rob walked in, took one look and very dryly pronounced her 25% clown. “25% clown” was an instant hit with the adults and is currently the quickest way to provoke a foot stomp and dramatic exit. We love it.
In any case, our well baby was found to have extremely loose ligaments in her knees. She does this odd thing where she can roll her knees back and forth, but thus far my concern has been limited to keeping her from doing it while walking (looks like she has spaghetti legs) and while she’s sitting next to me on the sofa. It’s hard to concentrate on Burn Notice when the cushions are rocking and rolling with her patellae. Dr. T has never seen a child do this and was amazed that with just a bit of pressure, it would be possible to push Ashton’s kneecaps out of joint. As a parent, I am less amazed and more concerned by the apparently shoddy construction habits of her general contractor - i.e., handwringing and “oh I just knew I should have taken in more calcium during the 21st week of gestation”. The long and short of it is that my high energy, high speed child is at increased risk for tearing her ACL, especially if she goes on to sports that will pivot her knees. Fortunately, some of that risk will be mitigated as her quadriceps develop and stabilize her knees.
Quads. Ashton. That’s funny. It would be funnier for you, dear reader, if I wasn’t so concerned about her finding this blog and having a meltdown when she’s fourteen – I’d post a picture of her decidedly not muscular legs. If you are a van Staveren, you know exactly what legs to which I refer.
I was feeling particularly snuggly and prone to coddling my delicate little flower until about ten o’clock last night when Sage started to scream that her finger hurt. Why? Ashton wanted to know if a bedside lamp was hot and convinced her three year old sister to touch it. One burned and blistered fingertip later, Sage had learned a hard lesson about the manipulative tactics of the older sibling. It’s a lesson I thought she learned during the “try to fly and I’ll catch you” episode that culminated in a trip to urgent care, but three year olds have retentive memory issues.
Sage, bless her heart, has decided that she is ready for preschool. At home. She refers to this concept as “preschool at my house” and much to my amusement has steadfastly refused to shorten it to “homeschooling” – which is essentially where we appear to be headed. I’m very excited for Rob, who I’m sure is simply thrilled. I have big plans involving school supply shopping, magnetic letters, books, flash cards and activities that will probably culminate in her stubborn refusal to do anything but sit at the kitchen table and draw very tiny monsters in one corner of a sheet of blank paper and insist that we keep and display them all. But I have to try, because that is what mothers do. If we throw enough mud at a wall, eventually, we hope, just a little will stick.
Not that Sage is a wall, or education is mud.
Perhaps my own mother should have worked on metaphors just a little more intensely…
As we were leaving yesterday, I noticed that Ashton had paired her less-than-demure-light-up Twinkletoes sneakers with equally less-than-demure pink, purple and silver sparkly socks (note to self – lose those socks in the wash this weekend). My plea to please change into socks less likely to induce a seizure was met with serious resistance until Rob walked in, took one look and very dryly pronounced her 25% clown. “25% clown” was an instant hit with the adults and is currently the quickest way to provoke a foot stomp and dramatic exit. We love it.
In any case, our well baby was found to have extremely loose ligaments in her knees. She does this odd thing where she can roll her knees back and forth, but thus far my concern has been limited to keeping her from doing it while walking (looks like she has spaghetti legs) and while she’s sitting next to me on the sofa. It’s hard to concentrate on Burn Notice when the cushions are rocking and rolling with her patellae. Dr. T has never seen a child do this and was amazed that with just a bit of pressure, it would be possible to push Ashton’s kneecaps out of joint. As a parent, I am less amazed and more concerned by the apparently shoddy construction habits of her general contractor - i.e., handwringing and “oh I just knew I should have taken in more calcium during the 21st week of gestation”. The long and short of it is that my high energy, high speed child is at increased risk for tearing her ACL, especially if she goes on to sports that will pivot her knees. Fortunately, some of that risk will be mitigated as her quadriceps develop and stabilize her knees.
Quads. Ashton. That’s funny. It would be funnier for you, dear reader, if I wasn’t so concerned about her finding this blog and having a meltdown when she’s fourteen – I’d post a picture of her decidedly not muscular legs. If you are a van Staveren, you know exactly what legs to which I refer.
I was feeling particularly snuggly and prone to coddling my delicate little flower until about ten o’clock last night when Sage started to scream that her finger hurt. Why? Ashton wanted to know if a bedside lamp was hot and convinced her three year old sister to touch it. One burned and blistered fingertip later, Sage had learned a hard lesson about the manipulative tactics of the older sibling. It’s a lesson I thought she learned during the “try to fly and I’ll catch you” episode that culminated in a trip to urgent care, but three year olds have retentive memory issues.
Sage, bless her heart, has decided that she is ready for preschool. At home. She refers to this concept as “preschool at my house” and much to my amusement has steadfastly refused to shorten it to “homeschooling” – which is essentially where we appear to be headed. I’m very excited for Rob, who I’m sure is simply thrilled. I have big plans involving school supply shopping, magnetic letters, books, flash cards and activities that will probably culminate in her stubborn refusal to do anything but sit at the kitchen table and draw very tiny monsters in one corner of a sheet of blank paper and insist that we keep and display them all. But I have to try, because that is what mothers do. If we throw enough mud at a wall, eventually, we hope, just a little will stick.
Not that Sage is a wall, or education is mud.
Perhaps my own mother should have worked on metaphors just a little more intensely…
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Making light of a serious situation
One might make the assumption that anything used to melt metal is a burn hazard.
Wire Feed Welders Recalled by Star Asia USA Due to Burn Hazard, http://www.cpsc.gov/cpscpub/prerel/prhtml10/10298.html
Of course, the "one" in question reads CPSC recall notices obsessively and was perversely delighted to learn that toy helicopters were bursting into flames mid-flight. At our house, that would be the hallmark of a truly outstanding toy.
Tween Brands Recalls Children's Metal Jewelry Due to High Levels of Cadmium, http://www.cpsc.gov/cpscpub/prerel/prhtml10/10297.html
We should all know better than to buy any sort of shiny trinket made in the People's Republic of Misfit Toys. Even my seven year old will flip over a potential purchase and think twice if she sees "China". I have nothing but good feelings about the people and culture of China, but I do have some misgivings about their manufacturing standards and government regulation of same.
If your child requires something shiny and inexpensive, get thee to the jewelry case at Wal-Mart and buy her something in a nice sterling silver.
On the other hand, while cadmium is generally toxic, most warnings involve ingestion. If a 10-13 year old is eating her earrings, perhaps a parent has more to worry about than reading government recalls.
Wire Feed Welders Recalled by Star Asia USA Due to Burn Hazard, http://www.cpsc.gov/cpscpub/prerel/prhtml10/10298.html
Of course, the "one" in question reads CPSC recall notices obsessively and was perversely delighted to learn that toy helicopters were bursting into flames mid-flight. At our house, that would be the hallmark of a truly outstanding toy.
Tween Brands Recalls Children's Metal Jewelry Due to High Levels of Cadmium, http://www.cpsc.gov/cpscpub/prerel/prhtml10/10297.html
We should all know better than to buy any sort of shiny trinket made in the People's Republic of Misfit Toys. Even my seven year old will flip over a potential purchase and think twice if she sees "China". I have nothing but good feelings about the people and culture of China, but I do have some misgivings about their manufacturing standards and government regulation of same.
If your child requires something shiny and inexpensive, get thee to the jewelry case at Wal-Mart and buy her something in a nice sterling silver.
On the other hand, while cadmium is generally toxic, most warnings involve ingestion. If a 10-13 year old is eating her earrings, perhaps a parent has more to worry about than reading government recalls.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Weight Loss & Water Heaters
I lost almost a pound. Fabulous. There was some wandering off the path, and there may or may not have been a chocolate episode, so I’ll take that not quite a pound and run with it. The past ten days have revealed a few things:
1. I truly dislike exercising in the morning. It is impossible to exercise in the evenings. Right about now seems like a good compromise, but once again employment kills the fun.
2. Pei Wei’s Vietnamese Chicken Salad Rolls (the pinnacle of authenticity, I am sure) are darn tasty and only six WW points for the dish.
3. I require protein to function in the mornings. Subway has a reasonable egg/English muffin thing, but it’s too hot to eat while driving, the “egg white” is a rubbery disc that is microwaved to something approximating reality, and the guy who makes them isn’t a very cheerful fellow.
4. I can make a quick little omelet in the mornings, but so far I have been able to either exercise or cook – not both – before leaving for work.
5. My children will eat broccoli and asparagus in mass quantities so long as it’s served as part of Olive Garden's Ventian Apricot Chicken.
6. I am making said Venetian chicken this evening and just realized we have no tomatoes.
7. Rob can fix a water heater.
That was a graceless segue, no?
Our water heater had been slowly doing a lot less heating and a lot more sitting around and relaxing. Saturday night we did the responsible thing and drained it, only to find that it had no intention of returning the favor and giving us hot water. Realizing that we were in this for the long haul, and fresh from a grossly inflated plumbing invoice that left us wary and suspicious of anyone carrying a wrench, Rob and I decided that google and youtube could get us back to hot shower heaven. Sunday was, simply put, a comedy of errors. We knew we had sediment in the tank (everyone in San Antonio has sediment in their tanks) so we decided to use water pressure to flush it out. We filled the tank, hooked up the water hose to the tank spigot, turned the water on at the top and left the pressure relief valve open simply because it made a lot of impressive noise and sounded like important things were happening.
They were. The pressure relief valve diverts the flow to the overflow pipe, a pipe whose outlet is somewhere in our backyard. Had Rob not picked just the right moment to take out the trash, we would have flooded our air conditioner. As it was, we flooded everything around the air conditioner, garage and back patio. He dug a very nice trench from the side yard to the front, channeled the water into the front yard, turned everything off and headed to Home Depot. After acquiring two new heating elements and the appropriate tool that can be used for nothing but installing water heater heating elements, we noticed that despite everything being set to off, we could still hear water running. Obviously we had to turn it off using that spooky and often bug-occupied thingy in the hole in the front yard. Rob has a more technical term for it that currently eludes me. In any case, he spends a lot of time out there turning the water off – most memorably when he pulled a pin out of a random valve in the shower faucet and diverted the full force of the water main into our guest bathtub. The scene was eerily reminiscent of the Seinfeld episode when Kramer installed his contraband showerhead.
Back to the heater. There could be no cessation of water until I had washed the dishes (by hand) and done a load of laundry (on cold), so he had a short and fortuitous reprieve. Fortuitous because when the water was off and the tank drained, he had the pleasure of discovering approximately all the sand in the world (or maybe it was just 18-24 inches) in the bottom of our water heater. The numbers and charts at the San Antonio Water System Water Quality site are just a fancy way of saying our drinking water flows over limestone before it arrives at our house and we really should invest in a water softener. Using highly sophisticated methodology involving a spare swing set part and a grainy youtube video shot at a ninety degree angle with a phone camera, Rob was able to get most of that sediment out of the water heater and into our cute lime green cooler. Four hours later.
We are very thankful for his hard work and shall not point out that I keep an ugly old bucket in the garage exactly for situations such as this. Or maybe we just did.
Clean tank. Brand new heating elements. Water on. Tanked filled. Water hot.
No. Water cold.
Monday, wide awake after my bracing and rejuvenating shower, I frantically googled and called home with every suggestion I could locate. To no avail, Rob unplugged and replugged, reset breakers and pushed buttons on the thermostat. We were discussing our options when a co-worker overheard and very graciously emailed me her plumber’s name and phone number. I called, he was busy. I called four hours later, still busy. He called two hours later for directions, and at 8:30pm either salvation or a very large plumbing bill rang our doorbell.
It was the former – for $65 he took Rob into the backyard and showed him where to find the breaker for the water heater and other major appliances. I’m sure I was grinning like an idiot as I wrote the check, and I think Rob’s heart grew two sizes when a real live plumber told him he couldn’t have done a better job himself.
Happy wife, proud husband, clean children, functional appliance. A Monday night can’t get much better than that.
1. I truly dislike exercising in the morning. It is impossible to exercise in the evenings. Right about now seems like a good compromise, but once again employment kills the fun.
2. Pei Wei’s Vietnamese Chicken Salad Rolls (the pinnacle of authenticity, I am sure) are darn tasty and only six WW points for the dish.
3. I require protein to function in the mornings. Subway has a reasonable egg/English muffin thing, but it’s too hot to eat while driving, the “egg white” is a rubbery disc that is microwaved to something approximating reality, and the guy who makes them isn’t a very cheerful fellow.
4. I can make a quick little omelet in the mornings, but so far I have been able to either exercise or cook – not both – before leaving for work.
5. My children will eat broccoli and asparagus in mass quantities so long as it’s served as part of Olive Garden's Ventian Apricot Chicken.
6. I am making said Venetian chicken this evening and just realized we have no tomatoes.
7. Rob can fix a water heater.
That was a graceless segue, no?
Our water heater had been slowly doing a lot less heating and a lot more sitting around and relaxing. Saturday night we did the responsible thing and drained it, only to find that it had no intention of returning the favor and giving us hot water. Realizing that we were in this for the long haul, and fresh from a grossly inflated plumbing invoice that left us wary and suspicious of anyone carrying a wrench, Rob and I decided that google and youtube could get us back to hot shower heaven. Sunday was, simply put, a comedy of errors. We knew we had sediment in the tank (everyone in San Antonio has sediment in their tanks) so we decided to use water pressure to flush it out. We filled the tank, hooked up the water hose to the tank spigot, turned the water on at the top and left the pressure relief valve open simply because it made a lot of impressive noise and sounded like important things were happening.
They were. The pressure relief valve diverts the flow to the overflow pipe, a pipe whose outlet is somewhere in our backyard. Had Rob not picked just the right moment to take out the trash, we would have flooded our air conditioner. As it was, we flooded everything around the air conditioner, garage and back patio. He dug a very nice trench from the side yard to the front, channeled the water into the front yard, turned everything off and headed to Home Depot. After acquiring two new heating elements and the appropriate tool that can be used for nothing but installing water heater heating elements, we noticed that despite everything being set to off, we could still hear water running. Obviously we had to turn it off using that spooky and often bug-occupied thingy in the hole in the front yard. Rob has a more technical term for it that currently eludes me. In any case, he spends a lot of time out there turning the water off – most memorably when he pulled a pin out of a random valve in the shower faucet and diverted the full force of the water main into our guest bathtub. The scene was eerily reminiscent of the Seinfeld episode when Kramer installed his contraband showerhead.
Back to the heater. There could be no cessation of water until I had washed the dishes (by hand) and done a load of laundry (on cold), so he had a short and fortuitous reprieve. Fortuitous because when the water was off and the tank drained, he had the pleasure of discovering approximately all the sand in the world (or maybe it was just 18-24 inches) in the bottom of our water heater. The numbers and charts at the San Antonio Water System Water Quality site are just a fancy way of saying our drinking water flows over limestone before it arrives at our house and we really should invest in a water softener. Using highly sophisticated methodology involving a spare swing set part and a grainy youtube video shot at a ninety degree angle with a phone camera, Rob was able to get most of that sediment out of the water heater and into our cute lime green cooler. Four hours later.
We are very thankful for his hard work and shall not point out that I keep an ugly old bucket in the garage exactly for situations such as this. Or maybe we just did.
Clean tank. Brand new heating elements. Water on. Tanked filled. Water hot.
No. Water cold.
Monday, wide awake after my bracing and rejuvenating shower, I frantically googled and called home with every suggestion I could locate. To no avail, Rob unplugged and replugged, reset breakers and pushed buttons on the thermostat. We were discussing our options when a co-worker overheard and very graciously emailed me her plumber’s name and phone number. I called, he was busy. I called four hours later, still busy. He called two hours later for directions, and at 8:30pm either salvation or a very large plumbing bill rang our doorbell.
It was the former – for $65 he took Rob into the backyard and showed him where to find the breaker for the water heater and other major appliances. I’m sure I was grinning like an idiot as I wrote the check, and I think Rob’s heart grew two sizes when a real live plumber told him he couldn’t have done a better job himself.
Happy wife, proud husband, clean children, functional appliance. A Monday night can’t get much better than that.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Confession time...
I have a time or two alluded to my ongoing weight struggles that began sometime in late 2007 and continue as of July 3rd 2010. I'm not going to post any numbers, but let's err on the side of kindness and say that I have a full-on mom figure, the figure I swore I'd never allow. A figure that keeps from wearing what I want to wear, doing what I want to do, and sadly, going where I want to go. I'm not morbidly obese, but neither am I the person I picture in my mind's eye on the very rare occasions that I think to picture myself in my mind's eye. In fact, I have a humorous tendency to stop short when I catch my reflection in a store window. Who is that person and why is her backside so large?
I can't blame pregnancy - I successfully lost the baby weight and then some after both girls. I'd love to be able to blame my thyroid, but those numbers came back normal last month. It's a sad day indeed when you hang a serious amount of hope on the possibility of systems failure. The doctor offered me a weight loss supplement, but of the many many things I not need, prescription stimulants are in the top three. Rob says I'm high strung, but I prefer... Hell. Who are we kidding? I'm high strung.
No, what I blame is lack of control and early childhood. It was so amazingly easy when Sage was nursing and Ashton thought green beans were haute cuisine. Now, despite earnest efforts to the contrarily, I do give in to the treat monsters. I bake rather than buy (Bless their hearts, they both prefer our kitchen to any commercial bakery.) and I'm just not the kind of girl who can stop at one cookie. I desperately want to be that person, but so far she eludes me.
My other bugaboo is a bad day at work. God help me, all it takes is one minor disaster and I'm stopping for pizza on the way home - and the crazy bread that arrives at our house will mysteriously be short two pieces. It's even worse if I leave work hungry. There is simply no telling what brightly lit sign will beckon and whisper that really, cooking is simply beyond you at this point.
So what to do. I'm a weight watchers veteran, used it successfully to lose weight after two babies. If I have the tools, I have the know-how, I have the membership, meetings, books, scales, recipes, even brand new pots and pans. Why then, can I not seem to use any of it?
Maybe I'll quite boringly journal these efforts. Maybe not. In any case, baby steps this week. Cook at home, exercise daily and drink more water than Diet Coke.
I can't blame pregnancy - I successfully lost the baby weight and then some after both girls. I'd love to be able to blame my thyroid, but those numbers came back normal last month. It's a sad day indeed when you hang a serious amount of hope on the possibility of systems failure. The doctor offered me a weight loss supplement, but of the many many things I not need, prescription stimulants are in the top three. Rob says I'm high strung, but I prefer... Hell. Who are we kidding? I'm high strung.
No, what I blame is lack of control and early childhood. It was so amazingly easy when Sage was nursing and Ashton thought green beans were haute cuisine. Now, despite earnest efforts to the contrarily, I do give in to the treat monsters. I bake rather than buy (Bless their hearts, they both prefer our kitchen to any commercial bakery.) and I'm just not the kind of girl who can stop at one cookie. I desperately want to be that person, but so far she eludes me.
My other bugaboo is a bad day at work. God help me, all it takes is one minor disaster and I'm stopping for pizza on the way home - and the crazy bread that arrives at our house will mysteriously be short two pieces. It's even worse if I leave work hungry. There is simply no telling what brightly lit sign will beckon and whisper that really, cooking is simply beyond you at this point.
So what to do. I'm a weight watchers veteran, used it successfully to lose weight after two babies. If I have the tools, I have the know-how, I have the membership, meetings, books, scales, recipes, even brand new pots and pans. Why then, can I not seem to use any of it?
Maybe I'll quite boringly journal these efforts. Maybe not. In any case, baby steps this week. Cook at home, exercise daily and drink more water than Diet Coke.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Summertime and the livin's easy
Unless you have a six year old who loves school and thrives on structure. After forty-eight hours of summer I uttered words that would have been unimaginable a year ago: “One more word and I’ll find a sleep-away summer camp that takes first graders for the entire summer”.
Of course, I could enroll her and her sister in day camp or sundry other activities that would let them open and enrich their minds, but seriously. I have summer and a two week stretch in December during which I can sleep in a bit and only worry about dressing and feeding myself in the mornings. This is my vacation, sad as that might seem, as well.
I also am a firm believer in the unstructured glory days of summer. Swimming, firefly catching, barbeques, swing sets, mosquito bites, bicycles, out until the streetlights come on - all that fabulous Americana that I want for my children, even if my paranoia (drowning/sunburns, light pollution has driven them away, carcinogens in the burned bits, broken arms, allergic to mosquitoes, hit by a car, child predators) gets in the way more often than not. It’s sad, really. Chances are that without a concerted effort from Rob and myself, as well as some Xanax and a nice glass of wine, an unstructured summer will mean entirely way too much television, a fair amount of bickering, and a few frantic trips out of the house during which we pray “No Fair, Sissy…” does not turn into an international incident.
We discussed summer after a decidedly inauspicious Sunday (“If you cannot find something pleasant to think of that will wipe that sour puss off your face, I will do it for you” – fine parenting moment #203) and came to a potentially catastrophic decision. No cartoons. Television shall be limited to the History Channel, Animal Planet and the like. The Learning Channel is out since they have become a little tawdry what with all the combinations of physical handicaps/bizarre birth stories/unfortunate accidents and maimings. I’m sure they mean well, but somewhere along the way they veered from Interstate Celebrate Differences to Farm-to-Market Circus Sideshow. Back to the cartoons. Be it something soft and sweet from PBS or that dratted yellow sponge and his blobbish pink sidekick, my children get all vacant and open mouthed when they watch them, and decidedly desperate when we switch them off. The intake episodes of Celebrity Rehab are less dramatic than the hour at our house after we turn the television off. Rob has the entire series of America: The Story of Us lined up, and I cannot wait to see how Lewis and Clark hold up against Scooby and the gang.
The backyard is currently a no man’s land, primarily because we have decided to donate some habitat to a mosquito population in need. We sent Sage out last week covered in all sorts of toxins and chemicals, and she returned with bites so swollen and bothersome that I didn’t dab calamine lotion on them. I soaked the cotton balls in calamine and taped them directly onto the bites. When you try to choose between DEET and West Nile Virus and they both win, it’s time to throw in the towel and pull out some board games.
The front yard is out for two reasons. First, we face west and have one severely stunted oak tree in the yard – I’ve seen tanning beds with more shade than our front yard has at three in the afternoon. Secondly, one of our neighbors has complained to the HOA about us no fewer than four times this year (trash can placement twice, a strand of Christmas lights so buried in rosemary that it could not been seen from the street, and the stray cat that lives behind said hedge). Let’s pause a moment and consider that one street over sits a yard that is reliably mowed once a quarter; instead of a tree, he has a PVC pipe topped with a beer can and ringed with two car tires. I do not jest. I’ve called, suggested, complained, and even offered to mow the yard myself on the chance that the resident had some sort of disability. I’m relatively certain the bylaws of our HOA prohibit this kind of décor, but given the widespread trash can anarchy, I have to assume they’re a little tied up at the moment. In any case, I have a tendency to glare balefully and do enjoy a good pout, so no front yard for a while. You just know that the whole street will notice, and care, right?
Summertime. I want them to have the summertime of my youth, but to be honest, after we moved to Texas, that consisted of a lot of late mornings, a little Days of our Lives with lunch (did you know that the storyline only advances about three days between the first day of school and the first day of the following summer?) and afternoons at the pool. It was just too hot for anything else. Mom and Dad discovered summer camp two years later and the rest is history. I was out of the house and half wild all summer long and loved every minute of it. I hope one day there will be enough Xanax and wine in the world for me to give that to my children.
UPDATE:
1. The bylaws of our HOA in fact do not prohibit beer can décor so long as your lawn is neat and edged. I am shopping for pink flamingos and yard gnomes this weekend.
2. They are up to the Civil War and completely enthralled. At this rate I'll need to procure a history professor and a trip to Valley Forge to round off the season.
Of course, I could enroll her and her sister in day camp or sundry other activities that would let them open and enrich their minds, but seriously. I have summer and a two week stretch in December during which I can sleep in a bit and only worry about dressing and feeding myself in the mornings. This is my vacation, sad as that might seem, as well.
I also am a firm believer in the unstructured glory days of summer. Swimming, firefly catching, barbeques, swing sets, mosquito bites, bicycles, out until the streetlights come on - all that fabulous Americana that I want for my children, even if my paranoia (drowning/sunburns, light pollution has driven them away, carcinogens in the burned bits, broken arms, allergic to mosquitoes, hit by a car, child predators) gets in the way more often than not. It’s sad, really. Chances are that without a concerted effort from Rob and myself, as well as some Xanax and a nice glass of wine, an unstructured summer will mean entirely way too much television, a fair amount of bickering, and a few frantic trips out of the house during which we pray “No Fair, Sissy…” does not turn into an international incident.
We discussed summer after a decidedly inauspicious Sunday (“If you cannot find something pleasant to think of that will wipe that sour puss off your face, I will do it for you” – fine parenting moment #203) and came to a potentially catastrophic decision. No cartoons. Television shall be limited to the History Channel, Animal Planet and the like. The Learning Channel is out since they have become a little tawdry what with all the combinations of physical handicaps/bizarre birth stories/unfortunate accidents and maimings. I’m sure they mean well, but somewhere along the way they veered from Interstate Celebrate Differences to Farm-to-Market Circus Sideshow. Back to the cartoons. Be it something soft and sweet from PBS or that dratted yellow sponge and his blobbish pink sidekick, my children get all vacant and open mouthed when they watch them, and decidedly desperate when we switch them off. The intake episodes of Celebrity Rehab are less dramatic than the hour at our house after we turn the television off. Rob has the entire series of America: The Story of Us lined up, and I cannot wait to see how Lewis and Clark hold up against Scooby and the gang.
The backyard is currently a no man’s land, primarily because we have decided to donate some habitat to a mosquito population in need. We sent Sage out last week covered in all sorts of toxins and chemicals, and she returned with bites so swollen and bothersome that I didn’t dab calamine lotion on them. I soaked the cotton balls in calamine and taped them directly onto the bites. When you try to choose between DEET and West Nile Virus and they both win, it’s time to throw in the towel and pull out some board games.
The front yard is out for two reasons. First, we face west and have one severely stunted oak tree in the yard – I’ve seen tanning beds with more shade than our front yard has at three in the afternoon. Secondly, one of our neighbors has complained to the HOA about us no fewer than four times this year (trash can placement twice, a strand of Christmas lights so buried in rosemary that it could not been seen from the street, and the stray cat that lives behind said hedge). Let’s pause a moment and consider that one street over sits a yard that is reliably mowed once a quarter; instead of a tree, he has a PVC pipe topped with a beer can and ringed with two car tires. I do not jest. I’ve called, suggested, complained, and even offered to mow the yard myself on the chance that the resident had some sort of disability. I’m relatively certain the bylaws of our HOA prohibit this kind of décor, but given the widespread trash can anarchy, I have to assume they’re a little tied up at the moment. In any case, I have a tendency to glare balefully and do enjoy a good pout, so no front yard for a while. You just know that the whole street will notice, and care, right?
Summertime. I want them to have the summertime of my youth, but to be honest, after we moved to Texas, that consisted of a lot of late mornings, a little Days of our Lives with lunch (did you know that the storyline only advances about three days between the first day of school and the first day of the following summer?) and afternoons at the pool. It was just too hot for anything else. Mom and Dad discovered summer camp two years later and the rest is history. I was out of the house and half wild all summer long and loved every minute of it. I hope one day there will be enough Xanax and wine in the world for me to give that to my children.
UPDATE:
1. The bylaws of our HOA in fact do not prohibit beer can décor so long as your lawn is neat and edged. I am shopping for pink flamingos and yard gnomes this weekend.
2. They are up to the Civil War and completely enthralled. At this rate I'll need to procure a history professor and a trip to Valley Forge to round off the season.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The best laid plans...
6:30 PM
Ashton wants to bring cookies to her teacher and teacher’s aide. Rather than make them from scratch, I decide to fake it and splurge with a gourmet organic break and bake.
8:00 PM
Storm clouds gather. I wait, not wanting to lose power mid-bake.
8:30 PM
The fury of hell is unleashed above us, lights are flickering, and I decide to psotpone until the storms are completely past.
9:30 PM
I preheat the oven and slap those bad boys on a cookie sheet. Of course, a circle of raw dough is snagged for quality control purposes.
9:41 PM
The cookies are warm and soft, but still retain their block-like shape. The house smells oddly of sour milk.
9:48 PM
The cookies are brown and hard, and still in their original block-like shape. I throw them away and convince Rob to run to HEB for some trusty Toll House break and bake.
10:00 PM
Rob calls from HEB – there are no lights on in the shopping center.
10:05 PM
Rob is the last customer admitted to the generator-powered store.
10:10 PM
The store is not selling cold or frozen goods due to the power outage. I send him to the baking aisle for vanilla, brown sugar and flour.
10:30 PM
I commence the from-scratch baking that I oh-so-cleverly plotted to avoid five hours previously.
12:00 PM
Done.
6:30 AM
Remember the cookie dough I sampled? My gills are green and I’ve lost five pounds between waking up and right now.
Ashton wants to bring cookies to her teacher and teacher’s aide. Rather than make them from scratch, I decide to fake it and splurge with a gourmet organic break and bake.
8:00 PM
Storm clouds gather. I wait, not wanting to lose power mid-bake.
8:30 PM
The fury of hell is unleashed above us, lights are flickering, and I decide to psotpone until the storms are completely past.
9:30 PM
I preheat the oven and slap those bad boys on a cookie sheet. Of course, a circle of raw dough is snagged for quality control purposes.
9:41 PM
The cookies are warm and soft, but still retain their block-like shape. The house smells oddly of sour milk.
9:48 PM
The cookies are brown and hard, and still in their original block-like shape. I throw them away and convince Rob to run to HEB for some trusty Toll House break and bake.
10:00 PM
Rob calls from HEB – there are no lights on in the shopping center.
10:05 PM
Rob is the last customer admitted to the generator-powered store.
10:10 PM
The store is not selling cold or frozen goods due to the power outage. I send him to the baking aisle for vanilla, brown sugar and flour.
10:30 PM
I commence the from-scratch baking that I oh-so-cleverly plotted to avoid five hours previously.
12:00 PM
Done.
6:30 AM
Remember the cookie dough I sampled? My gills are green and I’ve lost five pounds between waking up and right now.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Happy Birthday Brian
I must say that you've managed to overcome the disappointment I felt when mom walked through the front door with another baby wrapped in a blue blanket. I don't know which was worse - that she'd not brought home a sister, or that she whisked you back to the master bedroom and my next clear memory of you is when you bit my finger and drew blood in the shade of the maple tree on Anderson. A whole year of your existence, just gone.
Other Brian classics:
• The bag of candy you refused to share on your last day at The Early Learning Center and consumed in one stomach wrenching afternoon;
• The time Mom insisted that a bite of potato would not make you sick and you proved her gloriously, copiously wrong. In technicolor blue;
• The day you crushed Michael’s kindergarten dreams, picked up the bike he’d been trying so hard to master and zipped down the street while he howled in bitter anguish;
• Dressing you up as a Star and taking you trick or treating because you were sick and Mom said you could only go supervised;
• Cutting your hair the day before middle school started;
• Stuffing you into the new city issued 1578 gallon trashcan, tipping it and surfing the slightly battered contents down the driveway;
• Maury Meyers;
• Riding with Mom and Dad all the way from Texas to Florida because you were too cheap to chip in for gas in the fun car;
• Having to pick bell peppers out of your sandwich (you were how old?) on the same trip;
• Who could forget the side-of-the-interstate-during-a-hurricane fight with Mike over driving safety? Sweet irony;
• And of course your childhood opus, “I’m smrt”.
Chronologically the years say that you’re an adult, but you’re still the kid brother and the last 33 years have been full of laughter. Don’t grow up too much.
Cheers.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
From the mouths of babes...
For my mother, who insists that I record such things.
Ashton finished her inaugural year of CCD after dropping out last year. A year from now she'll be making first communion, and managed to overcome her nerves regarding this situation when I mentioned "new dress, party and gifts". Sadly, reconciliation (confession) must come first, and there is no dress, party or present. She's understandably not thrilled, but it was not fear of having a chat with Fr. Jan or remembering which prayer goes where that has her on edge. No, she hemmed and hawed and finally admitted "But Momma, I've taken a LOT of stuff". It's a relief to know I'm not crazy - things really are disappearing on a regular basis.
The trend continued when an actions and consequences activity at school involved listing a few things that she had done wrong at home and what had happened.
A: And for one I said you spanked me!
E: (silently, Oh God) For what?
A: I don't remember.
E: Seriously, what did you say I spanked you for?
A: Hmmmm.... Momma, it's too hard to remember.
E: Well, let's go through the list. Can't be too much, right?
A: Oh Momma, there is. I filled all the lines on the paper except the last two!
Increasingly verbal and yet with a slightly more limited vocabulary, interaction with Sage can be either lightness and joy or an exercise in biting one's tongue. She hasn't been feeling well, and had a bit of a scratchy throat the other day. "Momma, I have the wrong voice today." It's because you're sick. "I'm not sick". Well, maybe it's because you're a little congested. "What's congested?" Your nose and chest are stuffy. "Stuffy? Why do I have the wrong voice? When will I get the right voice???" You're just a little hoarse. "I AM NOT A HORSE!"
Is 7 AM too early for wine?
Ashton finished her inaugural year of CCD after dropping out last year. A year from now she'll be making first communion, and managed to overcome her nerves regarding this situation when I mentioned "new dress, party and gifts". Sadly, reconciliation (confession) must come first, and there is no dress, party or present. She's understandably not thrilled, but it was not fear of having a chat with Fr. Jan or remembering which prayer goes where that has her on edge. No, she hemmed and hawed and finally admitted "But Momma, I've taken a LOT of stuff". It's a relief to know I'm not crazy - things really are disappearing on a regular basis.
The trend continued when an actions and consequences activity at school involved listing a few things that she had done wrong at home and what had happened.
A: And for one I said you spanked me!
E: (silently, Oh God) For what?
A: I don't remember.
E: Seriously, what did you say I spanked you for?
A: Hmmmm.... Momma, it's too hard to remember.
E: Well, let's go through the list. Can't be too much, right?
A: Oh Momma, there is. I filled all the lines on the paper except the last two!
Increasingly verbal and yet with a slightly more limited vocabulary, interaction with Sage can be either lightness and joy or an exercise in biting one's tongue. She hasn't been feeling well, and had a bit of a scratchy throat the other day. "Momma, I have the wrong voice today." It's because you're sick. "I'm not sick". Well, maybe it's because you're a little congested. "What's congested?" Your nose and chest are stuffy. "Stuffy? Why do I have the wrong voice? When will I get the right voice???" You're just a little hoarse. "I AM NOT A HORSE!"
Is 7 AM too early for wine?
Monday, April 5, 2010
Easter!
This Easter was a landmark celebration for our family. For the first time since having children, Rob and I were able to sit down during Mass. In an actual pew, not on the floor at the back of the church. There was a fair amount of popping up and down for drinks of water and restroom requests, and Sage’s attention towards the alter has noticeably diminished since realizing that it wasn’t real Jesus on a cross suspended from the ceiling, but rather fake Jesus. Which is all very cute and endearing, but I’m somewhat troubled by the fact that I’m nurturing the little mind that actually thought some guy was allowing himself to be draped in a sheet and attached to a wooden cross every Sunday and on holy days. That’s a stinker of a long term job description.
After Mass we had some time to kill before our brunch reservations, so we decided to find a pretty bluebonnet field and take a few shots of the girls in their Easter outfits. It all sounds easy enough, but trying to crop out the shopping center on our left and the other three families on our right was an exercise in patience. In the end I was able to get some nice photos of them, as were the other three families. Years from now they will be scratching their heads and asking each other who is that slightly maniacal-looking red headed imp in the far distance of their Easter 2010 family portrait. As Ashton whizzed by, I noticed with some dread that the insides on her ankles were brown – and then heard Sage wail that the mud took her shoe. We spent the rest of our free time using a fortuitously placed 75-count container of Clorox wipes to clean our shoes, the girls’ shoes and feet, and all of Ashton’s legs. I swear that child goes feral the minute she sets foot on actual grass. She managed to get filthy right under our eyes, and we had no idea how bad it was until she was standing on concrete, grinning from ear to ear and channeling her inner Tom Sawyer.
We arrived at Bravo just in time, and just before the crowds – relatively clean and lemony fresh. Brunch was divine, probably more so for Rob who used as much of the tab to order alcohol as we did food. To be fair, it was mixed with orange juice, so we know he’s set for his monthly allotment of vitamin C. We toodled around the mall (excuse me, upscale assortment of outdoor shops) after eating and eventually found ourselves outside the still-closed Apple store. What greeted us was so cliché that I kept looking for a camera crew. Five people were all standing before the store, four of them not chatting or even taking in their surroundings, but rather frantically tapping and scrolling on their iPhones. The fifth was some poor bored teen stuck between his parents who were ignoring him and each other as they frantically kept their fingers on the pulse of the information age. Chiropractors must be making a fortune on treating the neck aches caused by all that looking down with hunched shoulders. I thought they were dead to the real world until Rob pointed out the new iPad and I dismissively shrugged. At that very moment, four heads must have snapped up in unison because I felt a Jobsian glare of distrust and derision bore into the back of my head. I’m so glad I was able to unite their little group on a nice Sunday morning.
When we got home, a still suspiciously cheery Rob went into the backyard to hide the plastic eggs, and in an ill-conceived moment of Easter insanity, I tossed the dyed eggs into the mix as well. The grass was wet, their tops were white – and another Clorox product saved the day. Thank you, bleach pen.
Teetering between exhaustion and delirium, we plunked the girls down in front of The Princess and the Frog and plunked ourselves down on the couches for a well deserved nap.
Success.
After Mass we had some time to kill before our brunch reservations, so we decided to find a pretty bluebonnet field and take a few shots of the girls in their Easter outfits. It all sounds easy enough, but trying to crop out the shopping center on our left and the other three families on our right was an exercise in patience. In the end I was able to get some nice photos of them, as were the other three families. Years from now they will be scratching their heads and asking each other who is that slightly maniacal-looking red headed imp in the far distance of their Easter 2010 family portrait. As Ashton whizzed by, I noticed with some dread that the insides on her ankles were brown – and then heard Sage wail that the mud took her shoe. We spent the rest of our free time using a fortuitously placed 75-count container of Clorox wipes to clean our shoes, the girls’ shoes and feet, and all of Ashton’s legs. I swear that child goes feral the minute she sets foot on actual grass. She managed to get filthy right under our eyes, and we had no idea how bad it was until she was standing on concrete, grinning from ear to ear and channeling her inner Tom Sawyer.
We arrived at Bravo just in time, and just before the crowds – relatively clean and lemony fresh. Brunch was divine, probably more so for Rob who used as much of the tab to order alcohol as we did food. To be fair, it was mixed with orange juice, so we know he’s set for his monthly allotment of vitamin C. We toodled around the mall (excuse me, upscale assortment of outdoor shops) after eating and eventually found ourselves outside the still-closed Apple store. What greeted us was so cliché that I kept looking for a camera crew. Five people were all standing before the store, four of them not chatting or even taking in their surroundings, but rather frantically tapping and scrolling on their iPhones. The fifth was some poor bored teen stuck between his parents who were ignoring him and each other as they frantically kept their fingers on the pulse of the information age. Chiropractors must be making a fortune on treating the neck aches caused by all that looking down with hunched shoulders. I thought they were dead to the real world until Rob pointed out the new iPad and I dismissively shrugged. At that very moment, four heads must have snapped up in unison because I felt a Jobsian glare of distrust and derision bore into the back of my head. I’m so glad I was able to unite their little group on a nice Sunday morning.
When we got home, a still suspiciously cheery Rob went into the backyard to hide the plastic eggs, and in an ill-conceived moment of Easter insanity, I tossed the dyed eggs into the mix as well. The grass was wet, their tops were white – and another Clorox product saved the day. Thank you, bleach pen.
Teetering between exhaustion and delirium, we plunked the girls down in front of The Princess and the Frog and plunked ourselves down on the couches for a well deserved nap.
Success.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Over the river and through the woods...
As with Christmas, I'm not dealing very well this week. Holidays, despite the fact that for the latter half of my childhood we lived 1200 miles south of Michigan, still have an undeniable emotional connection to my grandmother. Grandma didn't just observe a holiday, she made it an event. I can still remember waking up in the guest bedroom with the long drapes and glass corner shelf with wee little ceramic figures, staring out the window overlooking "Grandma's towers" (radio array with blinking red lights you could see from almost every window in her house) and being so excited about Easter that my stomach was in knots. It's important to know that aside from receiving a pink plastic bucket filled with green Easter grass and what seemed to be an endless supply of jellybeans and chocolate, I don't remember anything else. The sugar high must have wiped the Easter dress, church and what would have been dinner with the most impressive salad bar I've ever seen outside a restaurant clean from my memory.
I can remember the salad bar being most often laid out on my grandfather's stereo console in the living room. It was a thing of beauty in the eyes of a child, so much so that to this day I am generally disappointed when I amble up to the leafy offerings of your average family eatery. For an intimate family gathering (four adults, three children) she would of course have lettuce, and then, all cooked and grated, chopped, sliced or otherwise processed by hand - carrot, hard boiled eggs, cucumber, tomato, onion, cheese, croutons, bacon bits, sunflower seeds and about fifty-eight kinds of salad dressing. All fresh and all homemade - not quite the same as ripping open a bag of greens and dumping it into a bowl, is it?
Grandma also had a bona fide dining room and a china cabinet filled with... actual china. These things didn't exist in a home containing three small and highly active children. I can remember staring at the antique cut glass, beautifully painted china and wine glasses, appreciating without quite understanding that these items were special.
Everything about Grandma's house was special. All of her window ledges in the kitchen, downstairs den and office were lined with collected figurines of birds. Looking back, I don't know how she kept them all dust free and neatly aranged. Her kitchen also had a nifty bell on a stand with the oh-so witty "Good bread, good meat, good gosh, let's eat!", she had special glasses just for juice and a toaster on her kitchen table. That made such perfect sense to me that I could not understand why we didn't do it - until Brian laid his arm across our toaster one day and was driven screaming bloody murder to the emergency room.
She and Grandpa laid in a good supply of Jay's potato chips, 7-Up and ice cream before the kids arrived, and she could be counted upon to have fresh cookies, cake and a lemon meringue pie stashed somewhere on special occasions. She taught us "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice scream" with no regard for volume and also introduced us to the concept of drowning innocent ice cream in chocolate. This is the same woman who after Grandpa died thought nothing of tossing a perfectly good steak in the microwave and eating it after the buzzer sounded. I guess she earned that right after all that cooking in the 1950s and 1960s, but the dichotomy amuses me to no end. It may also be why she and "The Colonel" had an ongoing relationship. Grandma's arrival in Texas *always* meant fried chicken.
Her pillowcases had hand-embroidered edges, she would let me try on any of her shoes, she had a collection of beautifully illustrated books about birds, we were allowed to use her tape recorder and binoculars (heady stuff!), she dutifully and thoroughly maintained the photographic history of her family from the 1930s until arthritis kept her from using a camera regularly - and would patiently take the albums down and let us peruse them at will. I don't know how many questions she answered with a smile about our Aunt Jeannie. Aunt Jeannie died when she was just two years old.
Last, but most importantly, she had bits and pieces of Christmas stashed in every drawer and closet in the house. Grandma did not believe there was a such thing as too many Christmas decorations.
Pulling up to Grandma and Grandpa's on a dark night was a magical experience for a small child. But I think I'll save that one for a few more months.
I can remember the salad bar being most often laid out on my grandfather's stereo console in the living room. It was a thing of beauty in the eyes of a child, so much so that to this day I am generally disappointed when I amble up to the leafy offerings of your average family eatery. For an intimate family gathering (four adults, three children) she would of course have lettuce, and then, all cooked and grated, chopped, sliced or otherwise processed by hand - carrot, hard boiled eggs, cucumber, tomato, onion, cheese, croutons, bacon bits, sunflower seeds and about fifty-eight kinds of salad dressing. All fresh and all homemade - not quite the same as ripping open a bag of greens and dumping it into a bowl, is it?
Grandma also had a bona fide dining room and a china cabinet filled with... actual china. These things didn't exist in a home containing three small and highly active children. I can remember staring at the antique cut glass, beautifully painted china and wine glasses, appreciating without quite understanding that these items were special.
Everything about Grandma's house was special. All of her window ledges in the kitchen, downstairs den and office were lined with collected figurines of birds. Looking back, I don't know how she kept them all dust free and neatly aranged. Her kitchen also had a nifty bell on a stand with the oh-so witty "Good bread, good meat, good gosh, let's eat!", she had special glasses just for juice and a toaster on her kitchen table. That made such perfect sense to me that I could not understand why we didn't do it - until Brian laid his arm across our toaster one day and was driven screaming bloody murder to the emergency room.
She and Grandpa laid in a good supply of Jay's potato chips, 7-Up and ice cream before the kids arrived, and she could be counted upon to have fresh cookies, cake and a lemon meringue pie stashed somewhere on special occasions. She taught us "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice scream" with no regard for volume and also introduced us to the concept of drowning innocent ice cream in chocolate. This is the same woman who after Grandpa died thought nothing of tossing a perfectly good steak in the microwave and eating it after the buzzer sounded. I guess she earned that right after all that cooking in the 1950s and 1960s, but the dichotomy amuses me to no end. It may also be why she and "The Colonel" had an ongoing relationship. Grandma's arrival in Texas *always* meant fried chicken.
Her pillowcases had hand-embroidered edges, she would let me try on any of her shoes, she had a collection of beautifully illustrated books about birds, we were allowed to use her tape recorder and binoculars (heady stuff!), she dutifully and thoroughly maintained the photographic history of her family from the 1930s until arthritis kept her from using a camera regularly - and would patiently take the albums down and let us peruse them at will. I don't know how many questions she answered with a smile about our Aunt Jeannie. Aunt Jeannie died when she was just two years old.
Last, but most importantly, she had bits and pieces of Christmas stashed in every drawer and closet in the house. Grandma did not believe there was a such thing as too many Christmas decorations.
Pulling up to Grandma and Grandpa's on a dark night was a magical experience for a small child. But I think I'll save that one for a few more months.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Grade School Drama
Rob let it slip this morning that one of Ashton’s classmates told her a while back that he does not like me. Where does an adult go with that? It’s not like he’s ever been to our house or that I’ve volunteered in the classroom. Our completely non-verbal acquaintance is limited to about three minutes of exposure to my apparently heinous self when I deposit Ashton into her morning line. I wish I could be a big enough person to let it slide, but let’s face it – I’m really not. In fact, I revel in occasional pettiness, and it matters not one whit that the object of today’s pettiness is a six year old boy.
I think what really bothers me, though, is that he said it to Ashton. She is simply not the type of child who understands pith, pettiness or general nastiness. Yes, I understand how heroically ironic that is given her parentage. The universe has to balance itself out somehow. She has not yet even worked up to hurt feelings when confronted with a nasty little playmate because her brain is still busily trying to ascertain the “why” of such behavior. I love this innocence and openness and pray that she maintains the strength of character needed to hold on to her belief in goodness while dodging the barbs of childhood and adolescence.
Meanwhile, I am trapped. I would dearly love to say something to the mother of our questionably mannered antagonist about saying something unkind to my child, but really, is there any possible way I could walk away from that conversation without looking like I care that it was about me?
I didn’t think so.
I think what really bothers me, though, is that he said it to Ashton. She is simply not the type of child who understands pith, pettiness or general nastiness. Yes, I understand how heroically ironic that is given her parentage. The universe has to balance itself out somehow. She has not yet even worked up to hurt feelings when confronted with a nasty little playmate because her brain is still busily trying to ascertain the “why” of such behavior. I love this innocence and openness and pray that she maintains the strength of character needed to hold on to her belief in goodness while dodging the barbs of childhood and adolescence.
Meanwhile, I am trapped. I would dearly love to say something to the mother of our questionably mannered antagonist about saying something unkind to my child, but really, is there any possible way I could walk away from that conversation without looking like I care that it was about me?
I didn’t think so.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
It was predictably a... zoo.
I’d really like to bring something truly witty and hysterical to the table today, but sadly I am sidelined with what is starting to feel like an upper respiratory infection, or maybe a touch o’ the plague. Couple that with forms, filings and audits (oh my!) and I’ll bet much of the rattlesnake population of Texas is less testy than I am right now.
The zoo was full of animals on Friday. Unfortunately, many of them were of the two legged twelve year old boy variety. I’ll be the first to admit that I could use some personal growth in the parenting department – my patience (it should not take an hour to brush your teeth), empathy levels (I’m pretty sure that it’s impossible for your sister to hurt Mr. Stuffy’s feelings) and complete dependence on caffeine (Momma cannot see to cook waffles until she’s had her twenty ounces of carbonated bliss) all need a little tweaking. That said, I was feeling a little smug by the time we left.
Let’s talk about strollers. I am not referring to strollers containing children with disabilities that make it difficult or impossible to walk. I am referring to the umbrella stroller into which had been squeezed what appeared to be a healthy first grader and a jogging stroller containing a girl with hair on her legs and visible bra straps. Those things just below their ankles are called feet. Give them a try sometime.
Next, if your child uses Speed Stick, it’s a clue that perhaps the Tiny Tot Nature Spot isn’t the most appropriate area for him to be wrestling with his buddies. You get exactly one eye roll and an imperceptible sigh before he gets within five feet of my delicate little princess – after that I might do something really drastic like flounce off muttering under my breath about ill behaved children and clueless parents. If I’m really angry, it might be loud enough for you to hear.
Speaking of Tiny Tot Nature Spots, your three year son’s does not need to be on display. Give the poor guy a little dignity and change his swim diaper somewhere besides the middle of the venue.
On a much more positive note, the girls noticed not a bit of this and had the time of their lives. They handled the crowds beautifully, saw everything on their little mental lists (you wouldn’t believe the financial commitment we had to make to see an alligator and a cheetah), Daddy spoiled them when my back was turned and they came away with actual zoo souvenirs and ice cream and I spoiled them by letting them get wet and filthy in the Tiny Tot “riverbend”.
Whe all was said and done, there was of course much complaining about gritty shoes and cold walks to the car as passersby giggled at our sodden and muddy jaguar and giraffe – the stuff childhood memories are made of.
The zoo was full of animals on Friday. Unfortunately, many of them were of the two legged twelve year old boy variety. I’ll be the first to admit that I could use some personal growth in the parenting department – my patience (it should not take an hour to brush your teeth), empathy levels (I’m pretty sure that it’s impossible for your sister to hurt Mr. Stuffy’s feelings) and complete dependence on caffeine (Momma cannot see to cook waffles until she’s had her twenty ounces of carbonated bliss) all need a little tweaking. That said, I was feeling a little smug by the time we left.
Let’s talk about strollers. I am not referring to strollers containing children with disabilities that make it difficult or impossible to walk. I am referring to the umbrella stroller into which had been squeezed what appeared to be a healthy first grader and a jogging stroller containing a girl with hair on her legs and visible bra straps. Those things just below their ankles are called feet. Give them a try sometime.
Next, if your child uses Speed Stick, it’s a clue that perhaps the Tiny Tot Nature Spot isn’t the most appropriate area for him to be wrestling with his buddies. You get exactly one eye roll and an imperceptible sigh before he gets within five feet of my delicate little princess – after that I might do something really drastic like flounce off muttering under my breath about ill behaved children and clueless parents. If I’m really angry, it might be loud enough for you to hear.
Speaking of Tiny Tot Nature Spots, your three year son’s does not need to be on display. Give the poor guy a little dignity and change his swim diaper somewhere besides the middle of the venue.
On a much more positive note, the girls noticed not a bit of this and had the time of their lives. They handled the crowds beautifully, saw everything on their little mental lists (you wouldn’t believe the financial commitment we had to make to see an alligator and a cheetah), Daddy spoiled them when my back was turned and they came away with actual zoo souvenirs and ice cream and I spoiled them by letting them get wet and filthy in the Tiny Tot “riverbend”.
Whe all was said and done, there was of course much complaining about gritty shoes and cold walks to the car as passersby giggled at our sodden and muddy jaguar and giraffe – the stuff childhood memories are made of.
Friday, March 19, 2010
To the zoo and beyond
It's 8:30, I've had my coffee, the clothes are in the dryer, and the zoo awaits. There really is no reason to be sitting here other than the shameful admission that if they're sleeping, they're not fighting.
The silence is bliss. Well, except for the snoring.
I should be online acquiring and paying for our family membership to the zoo. However, I'm a tad hung up on the "family plus one" membership and cannot seem to let it go. We have no "plus one", and even if we did, the Element will only seat two children. There is also the little known fact that I once lost a stranger's child at the Houston Zoo. To be fair, the other family did look like a lot more fun than watching me and a friend try to make sure ten children did not bolt in ten directions, and they did return him, so no harm no foul, right?
The "family plus one" membership comes with free admission to Zoo Boo, and I do love a good deal. Even if it means paying for a child whom we don't know, cannot transport and might possibly lose.
The silence is bliss. Well, except for the snoring.
I should be online acquiring and paying for our family membership to the zoo. However, I'm a tad hung up on the "family plus one" membership and cannot seem to let it go. We have no "plus one", and even if we did, the Element will only seat two children. There is also the little known fact that I once lost a stranger's child at the Houston Zoo. To be fair, the other family did look like a lot more fun than watching me and a friend try to make sure ten children did not bolt in ten directions, and they did return him, so no harm no foul, right?
The "family plus one" membership comes with free admission to Zoo Boo, and I do love a good deal. Even if it means paying for a child whom we don't know, cannot transport and might possibly lose.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Tot ziens dutchmafia.net
The three year saga of our family blog has come to a bittersweet end. Bitter because it was fun - and funny. Sweet because not many of us are treated to the sight of one of our very own posts during a presentation of what not to do and discuss about your company in the public domain. Let's raise our glasses to Brian - he brought us into this blogging world and he took us out with panache and and not a small amount of drama.
So I find myself solo and ready to join the legions of mommy bloggers. Stories about my children that only I and the grandparents will appreciate? Check. Complaints about home improvement gone horribly, deliciously awry? Check. Antics of the four legged members of our household? Check. Detailed descriptions of the pained look of long suffering permanently etched upon the visage of the man of the house? Check.
And yes, they have colored on the cat.
So I find myself solo and ready to join the legions of mommy bloggers. Stories about my children that only I and the grandparents will appreciate? Check. Complaints about home improvement gone horribly, deliciously awry? Check. Antics of the four legged members of our household? Check. Detailed descriptions of the pained look of long suffering permanently etched upon the visage of the man of the house? Check.
And yes, they have colored on the cat.
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