Because Laura Ingalls didn't have any pink plastic toys.

I love Amy Karol: her book on sewing, her blog, her projects...but lately, I've especially loved her rants about plastic things. Today she posted about the scary toy recalls and offered fabulous solutions (that's my favorite part, the solutions), and you should all read this and take it to heart. Even if you don't have children, you know small people, or you might someday have your own, and plastic crap just crawls toward your house once you have an infant.

Just my opinion. I mean, we have more than our share of plastic crap, indeed. V is fond of plastic crap, and I myself have a healthy collection of crappy plastic. But I have been lately making a collection of soft food: I find it challenging to make and hilarious to play with, and V grooves on it. Here's my professional-looking photo shoot. Hopefully you can tell, but here we have bread (with butter), chocolate cake with pink frosting, a tiny slice of watermelon, a carrot, some celery (go Wonderpets!), and an egg with two fancy pieces of bacon. Brilliantly (or perhaps because I am a disgusting packrat) I had an extra metal lunchbox so V can tote her new food hither and yon. Meanwhile, enjoy my delicious picture. And feel free to suggest other fairly-simple-to-translate-into-fabric food stuffs. I'm actively searching for inspiration.

V's hobby of the month

Actually, she's done this a long, long time. She's just getting better at it. Here, she chooses another pair of her parents' underwear from the clean laundry basket.



And another.



And here she is dancing while wearing over a dozen pairs of her parents' underwear. When she dances a pair off, she simply steps out of them and puts them back on over her head. Obviously.

We really need video of this, becuase she just seems intent on putting on every pair of underwear she can find and then dancing. That's understandable, right? Right?

In other news, her favorite word of late is "pizza," which she says as a command. "Pizza!" Sweet. Also, in bringing laundry in tonight, I couldn't carry everything, so I handed her two diapers. She carried them all the way from the backyard, into the house, up the steps, and into the kitchen, even though she has to lay down to roll up stairs. Finally, I'm getting some work out of this expensive little pizza eater.

I realize that the above is normal childhood development, but damn, it made me proud. V helped mommy! Whoo hoo!

A crafty summer so far

Not exactly earth shattering, but I have been up to lots of little crafty projects this summer. At our local St. Vincent's thrift store, I found this sweet little doll-sized quilt, about 2/3 to 3/4 hand stitched, for 50 cents. These sorts of things make me sad: what happened to whoever was working on it? If they got ill/died/forgot how to sew, why didn't someone finish it for them? How does it end up in my grubby little hands for less than a soda pop? I dunno, but I spent four evenings finishing the hand quilting (not nearly as even and steady as my predecessor, by the way) and machine bound . The next morning, I explained to V that she had a new blanket for her dolly. She squealed in excitement, carefully spread it out in the middle of the family room floor, gently lay her naked dolly upon it, and then left it and the dolly there all afternoon. Apparently she took "new blanket for dolly" literally and left dolly alone with her treasure.


Because we insist on continuing to feed the wee child, she keeps growing, and by the end of May clearly needed bigger diapers. So mostly during naps I've been putting together some larger sized ones. We do laundry almost everyday, so we really only need about a dozen to keep her dry and (mostly) happy. It took almost two months, but I made large #12 last week. Here's a picture of part of the collection, on top of Dolly's quilt. Some (those with flannel tabs) use recycled parts from diapers I made that turned out not to be waterproof. Oops.



In other do-it-myself news, we're having toilet problems. It's a long dull story, but we had a plumber here a couple of weeks ago, and at $70 an hour, he's not invited back. (I just seriously believe that plumbing is something more people should be able to do for themselves: not laying pipe for that upstairs bathroom you've always wanted or anything, but fixing almost any toilet problem or drain clog should be totally manageable for the average person who has their whole summer off to figure things out. To this end, I went to the thrift store about four years ago and bought a book for 25 cents on general plumbing. It's not like toilets get outdated every few years, I reckon, and my quarter has already saved us about $500.) So I'm putting in a new toilet, with Shaun as my devoted, cautious (in that "just remember you're mad at the toilet and not at me" way), helper monkey. But even with a helper monkey and a 1978 plumbing text, I cannot for the life of me get those #$%*ing rusted-on bolts off the base of toilet. I almost went to Wal-Mart in desperation at 10pm tonight, but then I remembered I hate Wal-Mart, and can wait until tomorrow when I can go to our neighborhood Ace Hardware where people there are nice to me and provide worthwhile advice.

Also, we are having a ginormous rummage sale in September, so I am trying to carefully sort my fabric stash with the requirement that if I don't love it or need it, it has to go away. I actually thought it would be much more difficult, but I've pulled about 1/3 of it out to the garage already. Mark your calendars, because, um, I need someone to come take this stuff out of my life before I get lost in here.

So, see? We're not just galavanting around Minnesota or lounging in the backyard. We have quilts to finish, diapers to sew, and toilets to replace. Is it any wonder I need a nap?

Old new friends and the joys of geography

(sorry for the mediocre picture)

Shaun has these amazing friends from college, and we went to a wedding reception for two of them this weekend. Pete and Laurie are the kind of couple that you feel lucky to even know. Like $'s other friends, as every single time I meet one of them I'm struck by how open and kind and welcoming they are. I mean, I married Shaun, and I really like him and all, but his friends are just amazing. Everyone I met (or saw again, most for the first time in three years) this weekend seemed honestly happy to meet me, genuninely friendly, and just funny as all heck. Shaun insists that this is one of the many, many merits of his alma mater, but I've met his friends from high school, too, and find this to be true of all the people who love my husband. Maybe it's the Shaun Phenomenon.



At any rate, we spent just one night in Southwestern Minnesota, put nearly 1,000 miles on the car, and it was worth every minute to see these folks.



Plus, the Mississippi River Valley is just breathtaking. There is something about the history of that river that I find so compelling. When I was in New Orleans, one of the most remarkable things, having grown up next to the start of the river, was seeing the other end of it.



But the Minnesota portion is pretty fantastic, all by itself.

Twenty two months of cousinhood

They certainly fill out the strollers more fully now, don't they? The more recent one is from a trip to the famous Fargo Street Fair last week.

Sometimes you just gotta dance a little dance

We've been very, very busy lately. Too busy. (That sounds like we're CTU operatives, which we're not). We've been out of town, crossed the state and came back again. I have much more to say, but it's 97 degrees here, with about 94 % humidity, and this has caused my brain to dissolve into pudding. Once it firms up, oh, the stories and photos I'll share.

No, Kerouac did not return my camera. Instead this one is on loan from the in-laws, and I spend most of my time trying not to misplace it.

In other equally fascinating news....

The blog hit 750 sententences with that last post. Can that be right? But most importantly (to me, anyway, and perhaps the occasional other English nerd reading here) we've acheived an 8th grade level in the Juicy Readability Test! I'm pretty sure it's because I typed "benevolent idealist" seventeen times in my last post.

One other question: How long can one safely keep Bailey's Irish Cream out of the refridgerator once it's been opened? And if it is unopened, will it eventually go bad? And how can something so magically delicious be 34 proof? Mmmm....irish cream...

I'll Benevolent Idealist you.

As if this weren't already obvious....the website PersonalDNA says I'm a benevolent idealist. Why do I waste my time on quizzes that, if they're any good, tell me stuff I already know, and if they're not any good, just piss me off?

I do feel this one gets a bit personal, saying I'm very confident but not open to others, and that I'm into neither authoritarianism nor style. Hm. Take the test and tell me what you turn out to be, so I can find out what else is out there. (The site says it'll take 30 minutes, but if you can read at a reasonable rate it won't take you that long). And Tami, if you're reading this, they allow for lots of grey areas: most of the questions are on scales, not true/false.

Only one question made me nervous in a "patriot act" sorta way: when I had to place myself on a grid of liberal/conservative in terms of social/fiscal issues. I shoved myself up into the far corner (benevolent idealist indeed!) but paused; if my answers were being recorded for posterity, at least I hope nobody was wasting paper printing them out.

I got some photos developed from the 35mm with a CD. Once I find where I put it I'll try to post more pictures. In the meantime, don't take advantage of my benevolent idealism, and go take that test.

Jack Kerouac stole my camera (and welcome to the world, Friday!)

On Monday, our best friends in the whole wide world had their second son. Above is Tenessa (and the soon-to-be-born boychild), from our adventure at Clare's Well two weeks ago (Clare's Well post to come later). Isn't she gorgeous? Then on Tuesday, $haun and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary, and thirty seven years ago today my parents got married. Whoo-doggies.

My point is, this late June time is just ripe with happiness. (Unless you're in the Benoit family, but that's neither here nor there. Though I don't want to get into this, I must say that I'm concerned that the Benoit family ordeal will be attributed to pro wrestling or steroids, and though both of those may have contributed, it's clear the man went, as $ likes to say, "bat-shit crazy." Mental health is not so easily explainable, and certainly I know a lot of depressed (treated and untreated) folks who have never harmed themselves or their families...but nobody just hauls off and does what Benoit did without serious, tragic imbalances).

Right. I did say I didn't want to get into that, didn't I?

I've heard from lots of people I love dearly lately, many of whom have commented on my lack of posting here. Das tut mir leid, meine liebchens. I ....well, I lost our digital camera. In Boston. Er, on a trip to Boston, wherein we took a detour to Lowell, Kerouac's hometown, to see the amazing scroll upon which he originally typed the first full draft of On the Road. It was so breathtaking, so tingle-making, I walked away from over 100 pictures of my first trip without family in seven years. I was optimistic, at first. Left my name and number with 5 different people in Lowell. I figured anyone who cared enough to come to the Boott Cotton Mill in Lowell, Massachusetts to see a Beat Generation historical document would be the kind of person to turn in an inexpensive, already far outdated Kodak C330 digital camera with over 100 dorky tourist pictures on it, including about 20 of the interstate between Boston and Lowell. But no. Apparently Kerouac attracts the sort of folks who walk off with a nice Minnesota girl's camera.

Plus, they had free beers at the reception, and I managed to get four of them. I really blame Boott Cotton Mills. To make a long story slightly less long, it's hard to post when I have no fabulous pictures to show. It's sad to think about what some crazy Beat jerk(that sounds dirtier than I mean it to) is doing with my Kodak C330. But I love you guys, and apparently a few of you are out there. So I'll do the best I can with what I have.

So here's V, two days before I left for Boston, concentrating really hard on pouring water from her cup into a variety of buckets (and eventually on herself). I like the different white shapes behind her, her deep concentration, and the way her feet are spread apart to keep her from falling down. 21 months is a good age for this child.

Finally, here is the last photo uploaded before I went to Boston. A peony from our backyard. Like my Kodak C330, the peonies are all gone now, too. Sniff.

I fully intend to post something less pathetic in the near future: it would help if I knew how to get photos off my phone onto my computer. Send tech help, if you would.

Until then, peace out.

The most fertile soil on the planet

When I was a little girl, my parents (my mother, mostly) had a huge garden: half an acre or so, with potatoes, carrots, radishes, pumpkins, squash, cucumbers, zuccini...Until I was ten or eleven, I didn't know stores even sold potatoes. I thought everyone either grew their own or got a grocery bag full from someone like my mom. By spring, we were eating the last of them and still had enough left with sprouting eyes to plant for the next crop.

My sister and I (and many of our cousins and friends) worked hard in that garden (gardens, really, since there were 2 in town and a giant one on the farm), when we were still so small the shovel handles whacked us in the head each time we jumped on them to dig. Now that V is mobile and fascinated by everything and everyone, I think of those days spent gardening, and I want her to experience at least a little bit of that joy. And sure, there's a part of me that looks at her and thinks "When I was your age, I was already weeding crabgrass and plucking potato bugs." So there's a little bit of an impulse for her to suffer as I've suffered. Mostly, though, I just want her to love the feel and smell of dirt between her fingers, and enjoy the strength in her own hands and the warmth of this soil. Is that too much to ask?

Not entirely about us, for a change.

I love blogland, despite my occasional rants to the contrary. Lately, I've been a regular reader of Sweet Salty, this amazing woman who just had twins at 28 weeks. That's really, really early, for those of you who haven't had 37-40 weeks of your life devoured by a fetus. At any rate, she writes with clarity and brutal honesty, and it's just the most dramatic, compelling, moving story I've ever read. If you'd like to experience this, start here.

The thing is, these sort of stories are what terrified me before we had V, and what keep that baby-urge from returning. People don't hesitate to point out to me that, at 34, I should really be thinking about another pregnancy/baby before too long, if we're going to do that. And most people make it clear that we really OUGHT to do that. My favorite are those childless people who have strong opinions on the drawbacks of only children. (that's a funny plural, isn't it?).

Sweet Salty and those with stories of her ilk are also moving and inspiring in the whole "triumph of the human spirit" vein, and unlike the morbid fascination people have when, say, driving by a terrible accident, the blog format allows strangers (and loved ones, too) in to a deeper, more personal, more interesting place. It's ten thousands times more effective than those sappy People Magazine articles, and I find this use of a blog--to share burdens, to provide clear, honest prose on human experience in a day-by-day format--to be the most impressive, even honorable, use of what can often be a fairly ridiculous, self-involved medium. I mean, certainly, Sweet Salty's blog is self-involved. But she cuts through the banal with such honesty: maybe it's that, more than anything, that impresses me. I've read so many blogs that delicately try not to offend anyone (including Great Aunt Louise, who can't even turn on a computer, much less read your blog) or that provide humor and avoid truth. I understand the compulsion to both options, but I prefer to read clarity and honesty.

I also enjoy blogs that share information or inspire: for me, that's mostly craft or design blogs, like SouleMama, Inside a Black Apple, and Print and Pattern. When I first started blogging, this was the sort of thing I hoped Languishing would become. But I don't have the energy or desire for that, and I don't have the cajones it would take to be as honest as Sweet Salty. So instead, Languishing remains small, intimate, as a way to quickly get updates out to people I love (much like the paper version of Languishing, started so many years ago, original was meant to do).

I guess despite the title of this post, it really was about us after all. Languishing seeks her place in blogland, and enjoys many of the different voices in this choir. Happy first of June. Count your blessings. Be kind to only children.

As if we had angered the gods by our presence....

First, we lived. No one got seriously hurt (except for a few dozen unlucky woodticks and a few hundred Junebugs), and I even took some pictures. Thank you all for your concerns.


We arrived on Friday, and it was very warm and sunny and lovely. Our friends (you didn't really think V and I would just haul off and camp all by ourselves, did you?) helped us put up the tent and settle in. V loved the fact that she had oodles of space to walk wherever she liked without having to hold anyone's hand (like in a parking lot) or being redirected away from the street (like at home). She played in the dirt, she chucked rocks, she tried to take a short cut and got caught in a bunch of thorn-covered something or other. She explored binoculars and decided they were good for sucking on. She didn't even seem to mind the Junebug infestations.


The first night, we went to bed around 11:15, and the storms hit around 11:40. V was sound asleep, and didn't wake up once, except when I poked her in the ear to make sure she wasn't dead. What kind of human sleeps through thunder that shakes the ground beneath us? Or lightning so bright I could've read by it? My daughter, ladies and gentlemen.


The storm(s) raged until around 4:30, when I finally fell asleep (the tent took in water at one point, when the surrounding ground was so saturated that it was raining upwards for a bit, splashing up under the rain tarp into the tent. That was fun). V woke up at 7, all chirpy and annoying and excited to play. That first picture, above, is from that morning. In my optimistic camping stupor, I had neglected to pack enough warm clothes for the sweet girl, so I layered. Jeans, long sleeved onesie, pink summer shirt (with no warming value, but cute). And then the fashion highlight of the day: her fleece jumpsuit. Everyone wanted one of these, and not just because it was 42 degrees.

In the background you see our tent, still standing despite the wrath of mother nature. And V's jumpsuit has a hood, but apparently she stayed plenty warm under all that hair.

So day 2 was colder, but we had lots of discussions on how we all experienced the storm differently (Tony was worried about deranged murderers; I was thinking through my rusty tornado knowledge, i.e. "is that a freight-train noise, or just prolonged thunder?" and Crystal slept like V). We had french toast and sausage for breakfast (thanks, Jensens!), and V conned several people into reading to her or cuddling her (that's Nancy, K.C., and Todd. Sorry if you didn't want your photos posted, guys...).

For supper, we had ham and delicious, buttery potatos, courtesy of Shari and Fej, and then we hung out in the Giant Party Gazebo, which was modified with a tarp to keep out the freezing wind. We listened to music, had lovely conversation. About 9:30, V seemed tired enough for bed, so we said our goodnights and toddled back to the tent.

V was asleep before I even closed the zipper on the door. But I was cold. The wind seemed to sneak around every seam and cut through all four of my shirts. In my very tired state, I started worrying about toddler hypothermia. Yeah, she's asleep, but if she was in danger from cold, would she wake up? Would she fuss and complain? Or do babies just sleep even if they should be trying to warm themselves? She wouldn't let me cuddle her, and kept rolling out from under the covers. So I made an executive decision, and we came home. She slept the whole way, I cranked up the heat in the car, and made it home by 12:30. Shaun had insisted we could, after all. Oh, and what sweet, sweet comfort in my own bed.

When V and I got up on Sunday, we got back in the car and went back to the campground (it's only a little over an hour away), where we were greeted warmly by people who are probably still not fully thawed out. We missed K.C.'s famous omelets for breakfast, but got to hang out with everyone some more, and leisurely pack the tent, having slept well and warmly the night before. When our camping cohorts work up Sunday morning, it was under 40 degrees. This detail definitely made our late-night dash for home seem less pathetic and more wise.

Everyone helped us load our stuff, and we lingered into the late afternoon. V chucked some more rocks, dug in some more dirt, and wandered all over the trails. By this time she was a bit tired of walking, though, so there were several shoulder rides.


Though the weather did not cooperate, I still think V's first overnight camping adventure was a success. I hope she will come to find solace in natural places like I did when I was a child. I hope she continues to let me tag along for the ride.

We're going camping.

She's over 1 1/2 now, so I've decide to pack her, a borrowed tent, some 30 year old foam mattresses, a bag of diapers and a few clothes, and a jar of peanut butter into the old Mazda and go out to the wilds of a Minnesota State Park. For two nights. Shaun keeps pointing out that we don't have to stay for two nights, if everything goes horribly wrong. But I've already paid for two nights, so I'm pretty sure it would take a tornado to get me to leave.

We'll see. Sometimes V can be very tornado like.

So in the next three hours before we leave, this is what is left to do:
1. Bathe. Both of us. Because we don't want to scare off any exciting wildlife with our stench.
2. Find a tarp to put under the tent so the moisture of this park doesn't all soak into our sanctuary-like dwelling.
3. Roll up bedding so it's not impossible to tote to the campsite.
4. Take a nap.
5. Put the kid in the car and drive 81.3 miles.
6. Enjoy.
I'll be back Sunday with what will hopefully be a joyful and entertaining run-down of the weekend excitement. Wish us luck.

Laundry time

This is the season's first two loads of laundry to be hung on our backyard line. My favorite part is that almost everything in this picture was either a gift, thrifted, or made by me. Of course the beautiful spring day I chose to hang out laundry also caused the neighborhood sugarbeets to rot all to heck, so things smelled somewhat skunk-like. But it seems as if the clothes have escaped fairly unscathed.

My dear stalkers...

Hi, stalker friends. Those of you who want to hear back from me who don't use Blogger should include in your comment some way to reach you: Pete and Laurie, for example, I know you commented ages ago, and we love and miss you and have your wedding picture on our fridge, but we don't have a way to reach you.

And Sam? I hope you're my former student Sam, and not some one I forgot I dated at one time...but I can't find a way to reach you, either.

If you are squeamish about leaving a blogpost comment that includes an e-mail address, well, you can reach me at johnsonnumber9 (at) yahoo (dot) com. [edited to take out creepy rant...please disregard...]
For those of you not stalking me or who already know how to reach me, here's a picture, because what's the point of a post without a picture? This one is from the zoo, too, and her t-shirt has a little chick and a broken egg, and says "You crack me up." And she does crack me up, all the time.

thrift+zoo=yum

Ah, meine liebchens....it is finals week here at Casa Languishing, and that means three things: grading, grading, and wishing I was drunk. But it also means I have cleaned the stove, scrubbed the sink, and am eyeing the bathroom: anything to get away from the giant pile of essays I have to read before Monday.

And also it means I must blog! Of course! First, some thrift store triumphs: I paid less than $5 for the two of these beautiful, size-appropriate baby outfits, still on their original hangers. The pink one still has tags with washing instructions and "mostly permanent press" labels. I estimate it's from the late 50's. Mary Poppins, on the other hand, is a fabulous pinafore style...oh, mercy. The picture makes my heart pitter-pat. Now I just need to figure out how to wash them without having their 50 year old threads disintegrate, and I'll be set. Or V will be set, any way.


And yes, that is our Christmas tree serving as a display stand. No, I didn't take these pictures five months ago. We are rapidly approaching the point where we will just leave the sucker up, because it's close enough to next Christmas.


Sigh. My poor child is going to be so messed up.


In other news, we went to the zoo a couple of weeks ago, and I got pictures of my favorite bird ever. If I could, I would have 5 or 6 of these in my backyard. In the interest of not further alienating the neighbors, though, I guess I'll just go to the zoo and pretend.

Aren't they startlingly lovely? The one on the top is eating dippin' dots, we think. The breakfast of champions.

And here is blurry proof that the cousins are starting to play together: here's V and Cousin WDK, checking out the spiders, much to Uncle Brad's chagrin.

That's our last couple of weeks in a concise, interesting post. Note the larger size of the vintage baby clothes photos. A girl's gotta have priorities, you know?

Only the truly lazy need apply.

About a year ago, my mother brought us the Best Thing Ever Invented: a purple dinosaur (Triceratops, I think) that shoots bubbles out its mouth. No more huffing and puffing. No more dripping bubble wands. Just pull the trigger, listen to a slightly louder than necessary motor whirring, and wait for the magic of bubbles to begin.

For parents as lazy as we, nothing could be better. And just look at the joy on that baby's face.

In other news, bubbles photograph beautifully in our house in the early evening. Who knew?

Monday mornin' comin' down

I hate it when people write in their kids' (or worse, pets') voices. I'm becoming those kinds of people, I guess. Skip it: I would. But this is the true story of today so far:

8:45 am: Woke up. Demanded a bath by running to the bath tub and smacking it with hand. Drank some bathwater. Got dried, woke up Father, went downstairs, got dressed.

9:15 am: Ate a banana and a piece of peanut butter toast. As usual. And some peas. Drank milk and non-bath water.

9:45 am: Brought jacket to Mother. Mother put it on me and resumed talking to Father. Took jacket off, brought back to Mother. Said "Ah! Ah!" with excitement and urgency.

10:15 am: Parents finally get hint. Take me outside. Laugh at something called "plumber's butt." Climb up and down crumbling front steps. Play with potentially toxic bricks. Knock on front door and laugh hysterically at self.

10:30: To the back of the house. Climb up back steps. Knock on back door and laugh hysterically at self. Clap.

10:35: Get strapped into new wagon. Pretend I'm royalty and make Father pull me around like my servant. Laugh hysterically at self.

Peruse neighborhood/kingdom on wagon ride.

11:00 am: Return home. Remove jacket and shoes. Drink water. Eat animal cracker. Lay on the floor and play with hair. Cry a little.

11:20 am: Upstairs for earliest nap in life.

What we've learned today is that if you get your kid's heart fixed, you better be ready for a lot more activity and earlier naps.

Also, I have a great picture of the aforementioned plumber's butt, and I actually had it posted here, and then started writing a paragraph of apology to V. Then I remembered how vast the internet is, and how wrong some people are, and how much I hope V doesn't hate me when she gets older, and I deleted it. But for those of you who I know in real life, I'll gladly show you the next time we're together. It's really really lovely, albeit not appropriate for web posting.

All quiet on the western front

Just a quick evening post, with a promise of more in the next couple of days (including pictures, for a change...). The procedure went very well, and though all three of us were worn clear out by Thursday evening, Miss V was told at least 3 dozen times that she was "a real trooper!" and "such a cutie!" I'm afraid she'll want to return to the hospital more often. She was awfully adorable in her tiny little Tasmanian Devil robe and Ronald McDonald pajamas.

So V's wee heart is fixed, we're slowly catching up on our sleep, and we thank everyone for their sweet, healing vibes y'all sent. We felt them, truly. Well, V and I did...Shaun, not so much. And so it goes.

Freebird!

When Guitar Hero first came out for Playstation, I overheard one of my students telling the guy next to him about his job at Best Buy. He said with more disdain than I felt necessary: "Man, all these 30 year old guys come in and buy Guitar Hero, and tell me how they stayed up all weekend to beat it over at their friends house. If I'm still doing that when I'm 30, kill me. Don't these guys have anything better to do?" So I smiled at him politely and said "You're describing my husband and many of our friends," and then turned and rolled my eyes and gagged myself with a spoon. Why do I reveal my soft underbelly to their judgemental little brains?

So, uh, if you wanted to see this family socially, you're gonna have to come over and bring your X-Box guitar because we've got game. And don't expect much conversation, because we're concentrating very, very hard on our solos. (Psychobilly Freak out, anyone?) As a very minimally experienced classic rock girl (particularly with the song selection in Guitar Hero II), I have a disadvantage, so feel free to challenge me to a duel. But when the Johnny Cash version of this game comes out, I'll be the Queen.

For anyone still reading, V's surgery is set for Thursday, April 12th. We have to be at the hospital at 6 am (why does everyone need to be there at 6 am? Don't doctors like to sleep? At least the anesthesiologist must like to hit snooze a few times). Here's a link about her condition, for the curious or the morbid, or both. After check-in, we'll meet with various people involved, and they hope to begin the procedure by 8 am. We can't be with her during this part, but I think we can be with her as she comes out: the surgery takes 1-2 hours. Grandma Myra's coming around 8, and I finally decided to take the day off of work. I don't teach until 1 on Thursdays, but I don't imagine I'm going to have much to offer my class that day after hours at the hospital.

So if you get a chance, think of us on Thursday, and send us healing heart vibes, or something. In the meantime, practice your Sweet Child O' Mine. We'll be ready for you.

On rearing a wee serial killer*

Is it wrong that this plastic doll arm is one of V's favorite toys? Is it wrong that she's wearing a Johnny Cash t-shirt with red and yellow hawaiian print pants and a pink sweater? Because if this is wrong, honey, I don't wanna be right.

I also find myself compelled to buy the strangest toys at thrift stores. I know I posted in the past about the ever-so-appealing Gomez Addams doll, but did you know V also plays with not just a Mr. Magoo doll, but a Mr. Magoo On Vacation doll?? I'm pretty sure this is how to raise your own serial killer...

In the back of my mind, I recall a controversy from the recent past about a Mr. Magoo movie that was never released because the blind population protested. Maybe I'm making that up, but just in case, let me for the record state that I do not condone the mocking of blind people, nor do I find it funny when people can't see. I just think stuffed toys in the form of little old men are funny. Now I suppose the AARP will stomp all over me with their canes and Hoverrounds, but sometimes you just gotta take a risk.

Here's a handy list of words my kid can say. She doesn't use them in context much (except for "hi," "Bye!" and "cracker") but she can say the words.

Bye

cracker

circle

thank you

moo

cluck (duck? muck? It's so hard to tell)

two (said in response to "one...")

four (in response to "three...")

quack

yeah

no

meow

hi

I'm not so sure the child needs to know what animals say: how often do you personally use this information? At any rate, there's really not a lot more she needs to know. I mean, many people get by in life with even fewer words. Speech is overrated.

Now I'm gonna get yelled at by the mutes and speech teachers and animal rights activists. Damn.

*Did I ever mention that as a child I was mildly obsessed with Ed Gein? And as an adult how I am mildly obsessed with hating on Wikipedia?

Guten Tag, Meine Liebchens!

Ah, another triumphant return...So Blogger got all advanced while I was gone...stand-by for much high-falutin blog-antics.

Things I've been up to in the last 5 weeks:

1. Preparing for the largest garage sale NW Minnesota has ever seen

2. Enjoying spring break, including quality time with and without my sweet girl

3. Working

4. Sewing funky dolls (see photo, above, from the fabulous book Stupid Sock Creatures, a gift from my sister)

5. Reading lotsa blogs

6. Watching LOST, American Idol, and catching up on 24

7. Making myself new skirts

8. Playing Viva Pinata

9. Eating Girl Scout cookies

So as you can see, my dance card is full, and this extended absence is clearly not personal. It's not you, it's me. I do hope to be posting more regularly, and as I continue to refine my audience (hi, Aunt Shirley, Carla, and Tenessa), I expect I will get more excited each day.

And Sprout grows every day. Here she is, in a t-shirt from Prospective Aunt Johanna. 18 months old and moving at the speed of light. She likes for her belly to stick out of whatever she wears, and at this point it's too cute to worry about her reputation.

She's been diagnosed with a congenital heart defect, which we'll hopefully be having repaired in mid-April...mostly I'm trying not to think about it, in the hopes that then it won't bother me. It's a same-day surgery (she won't have to spend a night in the hospital) and fairly simple, but it is still the scariest thing we've encountered yet. I always thought those Hallmark cards and movies were overly enthusiastic about the heart-wrenchingness of parenthood, but the fact that just typing the words "congenital heart defect" makes me want to projectile vomit leads me to believe they were considerably more accurate than I could have ever imagined. It reminds me, too, of how much more comforting life could be if I only believed in some semblance of higher power.

Damn atheism, failing me again.

Umlaut

Since we named our child a letter, I should confess that I've always loved the word umlaut. I love how it sounds like what it does to a vowel: I love its simplistic little sideways-colon-ness. Perhaps someday when we have a pet again, we can name her or him Umlaut, and I'll get to say it all over town.

The cold is wearing me thin here, but I've been making lots of dolls and doing some embroidery, which is sort of new for me (the embroidery, I mean). I'll try to get pictures, though I'm not terribly proud of most of them since they are from patterns or other outside inspiration and not of my own devising. I mean, I'm still proud, just not AS proud.

In other news, I can barely contain my excitement for the new LOST episode on tonight! I so want to be a non-tv person, but it's just not possible with my lifetime companion, so I've caved in and now accept my fate.

V is walking now with a vengeance (hm. Maybe I should tell people that's what the V stands for), and it melts a momma's heart. We are better now, from my whiny last post, and thank you all for your support. I'm still trying to catch up but will very soon be there. To prove I wasn't making it up, though, here's a shot of V in the hospital crib with her Daddy looking on:

I know, I know, it's terrible, isn't it? But at least the sides are down, and she doesn't look so much like a caged zoo animal. Her arm is in the splint to keep her off the IV, which had been removed by the time I took this. And she was just mad for a second and then cheered right up, I swear.

Now, a more normal picture, showing off her sweet haircut and intense stare.

Isn't that better?

Where've you been, my darlings?

So the stomach flu has hit this part of the state with a vengeance. Or at least our part. I had so much posting to do about holiday goodness, but instead, I'm going to fill you gentle readers in on my activities from January 5-12, 2007.

• Friday am: V wakes up vomiting. We are out of town, but after five hours of throwing up we decide we better get her home in case she needs to be hospitalized
• Friday 5pm: V admitted to the children's ward of our local hospital, having vomited over 50 times in 10 hours. In her iron crib with a plastic canopy, I try to get her to play "Boy in a Bubble" until I realize it's not funny.
• Saturday 5pm: V gets discharged, and is much better. I go to to the grocery for jello and pedialyte and come home sick. Violently sick. Stomach pains so severe I repent for sins I haven't even committed yet sick.
• Sunday am: V throws up in her crib, Shaun runs downstairs to call my mom, then sits, trying to take deep breaths, in his chair. (I should note for those of you unfamiliar that Shaun has deep, dreadful anxiety, and much of it is connected to vomiting).
• Sunday at 5: My mom goes home. I feel better, and V has settled down. Shaun proceeds to get sick.
• Monday, 3:30am: Shaun, V, and I go to the ER because Shaun can't stop vomiting. V throws up in the ER. I take her home, sleep 4 hours, and call my mom. Shaun's mom comes Monday night.
• Tuesday: V keeps getting better, I go to work for 4 hours, garner pity with my generally pathetic appearence. I finally get Shaun's psychologist in to see him. Shaun's mom and I hang out, talk about how cool V is, complain about George Bush.
• Wednesday, 6am: My mother-in-law calls out from the guest room to tell me she's sick. I drive the hour and half (twice, for three hour total) to their house before noon to go get my father-in-law, because they only have one car and I can't have a sick mother-in-law on my hands too.
• Thursday: My mother-in-law has gall bladder surgery. We still don't know if she had the flu or if it was just a horribly timed gall bladder attack.
• Friday, 9 pm: Shaun's released from the hospital, but not before I bring V over and let her yell in the hallways near his room, so they have to hurry up the discharge process.

Sorry if this was self-indulgent/not helpful. It helps me to sketch it out, and I feel a little less like this has actually been a 2-month long nightmare when I can see it in a weekly schedule. Shaun is still only working at about 75%, and is exhausted and barely eating, but he's recovering. V is much better, and I just haven't had any time to be sick. There were times in the last two weeks when I felt like I was only still moving forward by gritting my teeth incredibly hard and clenching every muscle in my neck.

So, for those of you wishing for an update from this house, you didn't really want to know, did you? Please if you've tried to contact me recently, know I'm working on getting back to folks and gradually working my way through the backlog. Classes started last week (in the midst of all the horrors) and I'm just now feeling prepared to teach.

In the meantime, a little picture to cheer us all up. Here is V and my mama, who was the only one left standing after all this. I don't know how we would've made it through without her. I am reminded again how good it is to have family just 30 minutes away that I can call, anytime, day or night, and just know they will help make it better.

Hope you had a blessed holiday season, and may this stomach flu give you and yours a wide berth. And may 2007 get better from here on out.

Issue 1, Volume 9

Ah, the namesake of this website's Issue I, V9 is finally back from the printers. Those of you who signed up for my art trade will be getting one, as well as something that involves more glue. Those of you who are regular Languishing (the paper version) subscribers will get one, too...anyone else who wants one can ask, and as long as I have enough leftovers after the subscribers and contributors, I'll keep sending them until I run out. The photo doesn't caputer this, but the cover is a lovely cream color and the pages are coral. It's sort of a dreamsicle issue, and the theme (we rarely have themes, and when we do they are so loose) is Work. Back issues are also available, but I should look into that more and provide more specific detail before I get everyone in a lather over it. I know how you all like to get in lathers.

Perhaps my gentle readers are wondering why I would try to finish this new issue of Languishing during the last week of class. Mostly it's a procrastination tool for me: something distracting and satisfying that keeps me from the utter depression that is 50 research essays by college freshpeople. I actually graded 25 of those last night, and will do the other 25 tonight, so the zine was a welcome, cheering break.

AND! Our digital camera came back from the shop. I didn't mention the fact that it was ailing for fear of pissing off the camera gods even more, but it was covered under warranty and is all better now. Expect more mediocre pictures in blogland, thanks to United Camera Repair in Illinois.
15 months old, and she's just this tiny little person. She is so different from her father and me in so many ways. I love her.

Exciting Opportunity! Kinda!

I saw this on MaryAnn's blog, and now I'm adding it to my blog. The first five people to respond to this post (via the comments section) will get some form of art made by me. I haven't posted much of my art on this blog, but trust me, you'll like it. Well, trust me, it'll be different than you expect. Okay, you might not exactly like it, but it will certainly be memorable. And what's not to love about interesting mail??

The only catch, of course: if you sign up, you have to put this in your own blog as well. If you don't have a blog, well, you should, but I'll still send you something just the same, if you write in your comment a good excuse as to why you are not blogging like the rest of the world.

Okay? Exciting, exciting. It might take me a couple of days to send things, because I'm in my last week of classes right now, but don't worry, I won't forget you. Make sure I can reach you through the info you leave on the comment (an e-mail or some such thing) so I know where to send my artwork.

Sweet blogging art world meme. I love it.

Champagne Tastes and a Beer Pocketbook...

I guess I've decided to title my posts of late with songs my father loved. It sounds like a K-Tel compilation, doesn't it? "Songs my father loved...now for only $19.95!"

A tiny picture of the baby, who is 15 months old tomorrow:

My parents, my father, especially, loved to take pictures of us in mirrors. This way he could show my long, flowing, naturally curly hair and my cute pixie face at the same time. I wish we still had that mirror we used for those photos: it was old, a little discolored, and had a wide white frame. For now, we're punting with this unbreakable one, and V seems to dig it.

In other news, new issues of Languishing are finally ready to go to press. Thanks for all who have patiently waited on this...I promise it'll be worth the wait. Well, it'll be better than a poke in the ass with a cold carrot, as Tenessa's dad likes to say.

I won't go huntin' with you Jake....

Quilt retreat, fall 2006. A commissioned baby quilt for Grandpa Glee, for a hunting friend's new son. I made a matching pillow, too, and sent it off before Thanksgiving. It's weird making a present on behalf of someone else...for someone I've never met. But it turned out pretty well, methinks. I used 2 layers of poly batting, backed it in navy blue poplin, and machine quilted in the ditch.

We've been going to quilt retreat up to twice a year for about eight or nine years, and it is a rejuvinating experience everytime. We started because my mom's best friend from college, Kathy, was going with her daughters, Jennifer and Emily, who are roughly our age and whom we've known all our lives. But it's at a Baptist Bible Camp, which does wear on a good atheist girl like me. Every time for the past few years, either my sister or I have struggled, and vowed not to return. But I think we would all miss the seclusion and shared eye-rolling that comes whenever people pray for non-believers or a fellow quilter tells me with a straight face that she "voted for Pat Buchannan for president, because he most closely stand for what I believe in." I don't really spend time with people like that in my real life.

Another photo of quilt retreat: the whole gang: all the people connected to Kathy. The clown noses are because it was a circus theme. That's me in the upper lefthand corner, and yes, I'm pissed off. But that's another post.