Birthday girl

The first time I met Crystal, I was 9 1/2 months pregnant, and it was the first day of faculty inservice at my new job. She was wearing one of my favorite t-shirts, and I thought she was probably too cool to be my friend.

I was wrong. I mean, she is very cool, but she's become a dear friend these last 4 year. Our office cubes faced each other until this semester, so we were practically roomates at work. Out of seven full time faculty in our department, we're the two with MFAs. We went to the same graduate school; we both have one younger sister. She's in a band and is, I think, even more optimistic than I am about teaching and the world. Aside from the fact that my job lets me discuss topics I'm passionate about all day long, it also brought me together with some fantastic people. Through Crystal, I met Todd, above.

And Nancy, whom V calls "Mancy." (I've got a similar shot of Nance holding V when V wasn't even a year old yet...I should find that)Shari, whose new office is next to mine, and whose music I can hear wafting in through the open ceiling. It makes me happy to be her neighbor. K.C., who should consider unclehood as a profession.

(I've got photos of Sue, Joyce, and Fej, too, but I should get permission before I expose them to my immense blog readership.)

I miss my old friends who've moved away all the time. But I feel so, so blessed by my new friends.

Happy birthday, Crystal Rae.

End of summer

ca. 1976ca. 1979

ca. 1998

Anyone know where we can find a good sunflower field in which to stick our kids and take pictures? Jess and I may be getting too old for this.

Big Girl Haircut

She goes back to preschool in a week. She doesn't like having her hair brushed, and when we're on a morning schedule, it's just painful for everyone. So we walked into a discount hair salon a few days ago and cut off a bunch of her hair. When I tell people this before they've seen her new look, they tend to gasp a little bit: before the haircut, she looked like a toddler with more hair than most grown ups. A wee Cousin Itt, if you will.

But when they see her? It's all good. And if she decides she doesn't like it? It'll grow out soon enough. But for now, she is an adorable big little girl, if I do say so myself.

Some posts just can't be titled effectively.

I have a link to share with you. But first, I have to tell you a story. Don't worry; unlike most of my stories, it doesn't have a horrible ending or wind up with me begging you for something.

It was 1994. I'd turned 21 a month or so earlier, and my sometimes-sweetheart was a college student in Moorhead. So we went to Ralph's Corner Bar, a Moorhead institution, where grizzled locals and college students alike shared cheap beer and greasy burgers. I liked the bar: it was old, and grungy, and my mom had maybe gone to it when she was in college. Live music played in the back room, and years later I'd see bands with names like Diesel Jenny play there.

This was only my second time in a real bar (my first was in Morris, where I turned 21), and it was different than just a college bar. It was older, and dirtier, and felt more grown up. Plus they had black leather booths, cracked with age and smoke, that made me think of movies like The Untouchables. It was the kind of place that, when you walked in, a good dozen people turned to see who you were. Like the gas station in my hometown, but with the smell of stale beer.

After our first pitcher, I excused myself to the ladies' room. It was one of those single-room ones, with a thin wood veneer door and push button lock. As I dropped my Levis and turned to sit, I saw a sign on the back of the bathroom door. It was one of those black and orange signs you can buy at K-Mart that say "Garage Sale" or "Beware of Dog," but this one was blank in the middle, and someone had scrawled in black Sharpie:

Remember:

No Drugs

in Your 'Gina.

I am a simple, inexperienced woman in many ways. I grew up in a town of 300 people, and I swear no one I knew had ever even THOUGHT of what this sign was reminding me not to do.

We left after that one beer, and though I went back in later years, I never saw the sign again. This was long before digital cameras, but man, I wish I had a photo of that sign. Who put it up? Was it a joke? Did someone really need to be reminded? As if someone might forget and oopsie! There's drugs in my 'gina again.

Anyway, I told you all this to show you this, an article about the new business in that old space. I'm not a believer in this kind of thing, honest. But if any place in the world might need cleansing, I can vouch that it's that bathroom.

V loves IKEA

We went to the big Cities this weekend, and saw about 1/4 of our dearest friends in what turned out to be a bit of a Saturday-Sunday marathon. We saw the Gem*elke-Lees, the Spo*hrs, some Smiths, the S*undse*ths, the P*atricks, Uncle Steve, another S*und*seth, and IKEA. I have a handful of photos to share from the Pat*rick/Sund*seth visit, but they will have to wait. I mean, lookit that first picture. V's doing her "I'm so excited to be at IKEA!" dance. V and Shauners visit about our big trip.V finds Swedish Snoopy adorable (what would my Grandpa Art say? Besides uff da or ... valsinga gud...or...dang, I don't know much Swedish) V loved this area the best: "Daddy, it's all for kids!" she said excitedly, just before her nap.

Overall, we had a lovely time. And those of you we didn't see, we'll catch you the next time around. After we've recovered a bit. If you'd meet us in the kids' section of IKEA, that would probably help, too.

Oh, and also, yes, I made V's clothes in these pictures, and yes, that shirt covers her belly, if she's not dancing around or being a doofus. Which is pretty rare, come to think of it.

Flowers for Myra

My mama's off on vacation, on a car trip to New York State with her dear dear friends. She'll be gone two whole weeks, and we already miss her. When my parents got married, my dad was already 40, so they wanted to hurry up and have children (my mom was only 27). They planned to travel together once we were grown, and they had retired. Besides, at 40, my dad had traveled throughout the US, and served in the Navy, building swimming pools in Cuba and Morocco. Anytime my mom said she'd like to go someplace, he'd say, "I've been there! Let me tell you about it instead."

15 1/2 years later, he had a stroke, and we were still far from grown up. Not only did they never get to travel together, but he couldn't even tell her about all the places he'd been anymore, because of aphasia.

Four years after the stroke, she took a trip to Lake Tahoe for work, and she came home so, so happy. Travel suited her, and she'd finally seen what she'd been missing.

When he died in 2002, travelling kept her busy, and though her friends and family teased her (because seriously, she was going all the time!) we were glad she could go. She's been to Alaska, California, Oregon, New York, and everywhere in between.

I hope this trip is at least as fun as the others have been, and I look forward to seeing her when she gets home, all aglow from adventure, good company, and many miles there and back.

flowers are all from Myra's garden, as photographed by her. I'm not weeding the flowerbeds while she's gone, either. Correction: As my sister pointed out in the comments, some of the flowers are in Jess' garden. Sheesh. All these territorial gardeners.

Rainy Day

Today was thick with humidity until it finally rained around 4: that kind of rain that we're just glad finally came, because we knew it was coming all day.

So what to do with an almost 4-year-old who only wants to watch Spongebob and tell made up stories called "Our family, the Addams Family, the Star Wars Family, and KISS all go to Las Vegas" (you think I'm exaggerating, don't you?)

When I couldn't take either of those things anymore, I broke out this set of Melissa and Doug Dough Play toys we got at Saver's a few weeks ago for $2.99, still in the box. (I know the photos leave a lot to be desired. It's a rainy day, people. What did you expect?)

Then, because I solicited information from you guys a few posts ago and got suggestions and even a bona-fide recipe via e-mail (thanks, Donna!), I decided to make our own dough. I had to empty salt shakers I'd forgotten we had, and didn't think to take pictures during the cooking phase, but here's our finished project. It's from a recipe pretty similar to the first one here. It's really smooth and kind of sproingy, and especially fun when it's still warm. Look at the anticipation in her face:And there's not a talking sponge or Millenium Falcon in sight.We rolled, and pulled, and squished, and laughed. It made the whole day so much brighter.

C'mon over on your next rainy day, and we can all play together.

Cute shoes

I've slowly gotten away from full-on school shopping. I mean, I'm a grown woman, for pete's sake. It's not like seventh grade, when I grew three inches in the summer and got all curvy all of a sudden. Was there anything better than that thick, back-to-school issue of Seventeen in August? All those ads for Bonne Bell and plaid skirts...

But I digress. My point is, it's not like I need any new clothes. But shoes? I'm a walking cliche of a woman when it comes to shoes. And I'm a total nerdy, old-lady-shoe-loving teacher person. I'm not even ashamed. I'm 36: good arch support matters to me more than anything.

I taught all summer, so I rewarded myself with some new shoes. Here's the first pair, a pair of Earth shoes from Seirra Trading Post.


Arent they perfect? Earth shoes' main selling point is they have a lower heel than toe, which means when I wear them, it makes me feel like I'm about to tip over backwards. I assume this gets better. Besides, they are supposed to be all good for my posture, too, and help strengthen my calves or bicuspids or something.

I need shoes that can go with skirts or dress pants, that are comfortable for 6 hours on my feet, pacing back and forth in front of bored students. These are my first Earth shoes, and I adore how they look. My past favorites include Dansko and Ecco. I'm allowing myself two more new pairs of shoes: dear readers, do you have any suggestions?

Play!

V and I got to the playground today, and she took off running toward her cousin, yelling, "There's my best friend Will!"

There's nothing better than a warm August morning with the whole family, swingin'.

Swimmin'

It was hot, damn hot. Luckily, I remembered I bought a pool at KMart on clearance last fall. It was $8.It took forever to fill with just 4" of water. But that was all V needed. The pool didn't stand up too well with just 4" of water, but V didn't mind. She likes to pretend to be a mermaid, but she doesn't like to get her face wet. As you might imagine, that complicates things.Still, mermaids have lovely wet hair. Now, some mermaids lean back and get their hair wet from that direction. Some less brave, less innovative mermaids.Not V though. She's a front-facing mermaid, and managed to do this without initially putting her face in the water. Of course, it's hard to keep one's face dry when one dips one's bangs in the pool.
But real mermaids get over it quickly. There's $8 worth of pool to enjoy, after all.

Like aunt, like nephew

What is it about tractor tires that inspire photographs with children? Is it their appealing roundness? The implied work ethic? Is it to prove that yes, indeed, we're farming people, and we're proud? I know Will loves all things related to vehicles, particularly large vehicles. Here he is, age almost-four, at Harrington's farm this summer. The look on his face is, I believe, barely contained joy, and a barely contained desire to run around the farm as fast as he can.And here I am, around 15 months, late summer/early fall 1974. Jess probably wasn't born yet. It looks like I'm just propped up against the tire, ready to take off toddling across the field as fast as I can.

We are simple people. It takes so little to make us happy. A big tire and space to run? That's all we need.

Feeling the love

Hey, guys, thanks for the comments and personal e-mails y'all sent from the last post. We so love hearing from you, any way you feel like responding.

A few people have asked what they can do to help. I'm not really sure. We're still learning what works and what doesn't, too. This whole process, though, has made me much more patient, both with V and with other people's children. I used to be one of those annoying judge-y people when I saw a kid having a fit and the parents were reacting in a way I thought was wrong. I know now that "wrong" is so relative. When she has a meltdown, sometimes it helps V the most to be spoken to in whispers, so she can focus on what we're saying. Othertimes it's just a matter of getting out the door as fast as we can. And still other times, a stern "Stop" seems to provie the jolt she needs to come out of her rut. So what you can do most, I guess, is be patient with her and us, and know that she is not necessarily being naughty, but is overwhelmed. As are we...

Oh, and understand if we turn down invitations to plays or large-venue events, at least for a little while. The more notice we get for any kind of socializing, the better (though please don't stop inviting us).

In person, V's just like any other 3 year old. She obsesses over some things, loves to eat, dance, and tell made up jokes. When you see her, you won't notice she's got any kind of issue, in all likelihood. Unless the sun's out, or she's tired, or a motorcycle drives by.

In other news, today, we're thinking of making some homemade playdough. Anyone have a favorite recipe to recommend? I did a preliminary online search and found about 200 different ones: sheesh!

Our Out-of-Sync Child

I try not to be one of those gushing "Oh, lord, isn't my child the cutest thing you've EVER SEEN?" parents on here, because that gets old fast. But I'm a mama, dammit, and I love my daughter, and I share a lot of cute photos and tell what I think are funny stories here. As this blog serves partly for your entertainment, but also as a record of our lives, I want to share the not-so-shiny times, too. Don't worry: V's still hilarious and brilliant and all that. It's just that she's more than that, too.When V was first born, she pulled away from bright light. I thought at first it was, because, you know, the womb is pretty dark, and the world is not so dark. But it continued. Lamps, windows, being outside: they all caused her to squirm hard and turn away. Then I thought maybe it's because her father is part mole, but he assures me this is not the case.

As she got older, more verbal, she hollered about direct sunshine. It made her uncomfortable, sometimes to the point of screaming and writhing. So I gave her a shoebox to put her head into when we were in the car. She felt better, but I don't know if she can go to kindergarten with a box on her head. We've tried to replace the shoebox with sunglasses (which she abhors), bonnets, and stylish hats. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. If she's tired, or we're someplace new, bright light can push her over the edge.
Maybe I'm part vampire.

Anyway, then came potty training, which I quietly boasted about here. And here. It went well, and she quickly had it mastered. But the first time she used one of those self-flushing toilets in public, she jumped in the air, threw her hands over her ears, and burst into tears.

Then preschool started. It takes an only child who's been at home with her daddy all her life a little while to adjust, we figured. But she really didn't adjust. I mean, she's smart enough, and talked excitedly about her friends and teachers, and learned new things. But in the classroom, we quickly got the impression she was not anywhere near a star pupil. She struggled with transitions. A lot. She got upset when it was clean up time, and the lights were turned on and off over and over. She loved her new friends, but when she arrived in the morning and 5 or 6 of them would swarm her, she slowly backed away, albeit while smiling. She refused to listen to directions from her teacher, and instead of circle time, V liked to visit with one or two friends. During structured work time, instead of established works, V made up her own sorting games. She sometimes just wandered through the classroom singing the Star Wars theme at the top of lungs. We thought maybe she was just the weird kid. I mean, she's ours, after all. I don't know much about Shaun's family history, but the Johnson gene pool isn't exactly paved with gold. And as for the two of us? Well, Shaun loves Neil Diamond, KISS, professional wrestling, and milk. I love cemeteries, two dollar bills, Johnny Cash, and sideshow freaks. What did we expect to create? Besides, she's the only child we have. We don't know anything but what we've known with her. She defines normal, for us.

Then, in April, we decided to go to the circus. Now, I don't want to get into a debate about the ethics of the circus. I understand that animals are mistreated, and I am in no way pro-animal mistreatment. But that is not the point of this story.

So we were all excited to go to the circus. V had been on her best behavior, because she has an unnatural love of the Fargodome, where the circus was happening. We parked the car and the three of us walked in holding hands, a big pile of happy family. I had to run ahead to buy the tickets, because we don't so much plan ahead. I gave the nice lady $39 (kids 2 and over are full price. Those Shriners know how to get you), and by the time I found my beloveds, it was all over. Even before we entered the event proper, the screaming had commenced. And though we tried everything but the shoebox, she would not be consoled. She wrapped her arms and legs around her Daddy, buried her head in his beard, and begged to leave. We bought her a light saber and some cotton candy, but she wouldn't let go, clinging first to him, then to me. And then the motorcycles came in, and I could feel the terror fill her little body. We went home. As we drove away, Shaun and I agreed that we needed to see if she could get some help, or we could learn to help her. We didn't see any other three year olds sobbing uncontrollably at the circus, and our excited little moppet was worn clear out from fear, and we'd only been there seven minutes.

Through her preschool, we found a center who did an evaluation and is now providing us with weekly therapy. V's diagnosis is, basically, "failure to develop normal physiological responses." It's the kind of diagnosis kids with Asperger's syndrome get, and folks who have what's called Autism Spectrum Disorder. No one is saying she has either of those, exactly (at least not to us), but she exhibits some responses of that ilk. Sometimes severely so. And even though we've known much of this since she was born, it's still hard for me to see it written down. She is our angel straight from heaven. So what if she spins aruond in a tight circle for minutes at a time, or stands on her head several times a day, or plugs her ears and sings the Addam's Family Theme song to block out the sound of her teacher? She's our sweet sweet treasure, dammit.

She's been to therapy three times so far, and we're hopeful they can help our amazing, hilarious, beautiful girl shine through, so she need not be afraid, and need not hide from large parts of the world.

I'll try to keep you updated on this less cutesy part of our lives, if'n you're interested. Hopefully we'll see her doing better in all sorts of ways by the time school starts again in August. And if not, and you see V on the first day of school, be sure to say hello. She'll be the kid with the box on her head, singing KISS or Johnny Cash. Or the Addam's Family Theme.

A favorite photo

This was either someone's wedding, or someone's funeral, or my grandmother's 80th birthday party, because my father only wore a suit for those occassions. I think my aunt Shirley took this, sometime before 1986.

I miss him everyday.

Bring Out the Gimp

I've been trying to use this software I read about someplace called GIMP: it's a free photoshop-esque software. Of course, I am lousy at reading directions, so I just go in and click on stuff and pull down menus and say yes to whatever just to see what happens.
This is "posterize." I kinda like it.

Anyone know anything about GIMP? Is it worth reading the directions for? What do you think of my pop-art version of V?

Afternoon scene

V is throwing all the cushions off the new couch. This is something she knows we don't like, but she also knows we're too lazy to get up and stop her every time.

"Flamingo! No! Stop!" V is yelling at air.

"Who's Flamingo?" I ask.

"He's my friend."

"What does he look like?"

"Um. like an animal I know."

"Which animal?" I'm thinking I already know the answer.

"Like a moose. And a peacock. And maybe a cow." I was totally wrong.

"Oh, wow."

"Yeah, he's throwing pillows. And I'm not going to play with him. Any. More."

At least someone in this family is a disciplinarian.

Lake Belle Taine

This is one of the very few benefits of being up by 6am on a Sunday.

Smoothie tips

One of the keys to full smoothie enjoyment is proper equipment.Note: jumbo straw. (regular bendy straw pictured just for scale).

Other suggestions:
Frozen strawberries + fresh blueberries+half a fresh pineapple +2 Tablespoons Coconut Cream.

Rum is optional. Jumbo straw is mandatory.

Exciting News!

My cousin Deron received new lungs last night! Even if you don't know him, you should really check out his blog, http://deronarnold.blogspot.com/, because it's a heckuva story. I talked a little about him here, you'll recall, and posted a photo of us here (he's the one on the right).

It's such a massive surgery, and there are so many possible complications, and getting healthy donor lungs took such a long, long time. But since he was four years old (when he was diagnosed), Deron's been fighting cystic fibrosis valiantly, and in my heart I feel such relief. If anyone can recover from such a surgery, my cousin can.

Today, I will pray often (though it is not my practice anymore), thankful to the donor family, hopeful for Deron's speedy recovery, and holding my own child while I think of Deron's twin boys, who are old enough to remember today, now, and what a memory it will be for them. I will also smile often today, thinking of the joy my Aunt Sharon and Cousin Dawn and her family must be sharing in Iowa.

I hope they know just how many people are rejoicing with them today.

Gardening Mama

I want a rich, overgrown garden that looks like it's been there for a hundred years and grows effortlessly, beautifully, on its own, with vines and willow trees mixed in among corn and sunflowers and exotic lilies and wild roses.

When I win the lottery, that's one of the first things I'll do after I buy my gorgeous huge old house that's totally updated in wiring and plumbing and insulation but still has the original hardwood floors and stained glass windows: fill up a securely fenced in, expansive backyard with loads of easy to care for, self weeding plants. Oh, sorry. I digress. Sometimes I get distracted by my retirement plan. In between now and then, I'm working on our (extra shady) backyard and overly-landscaped-by-the-previous-owners-frontyard. In fact, my mama came by the other day with some hostas she'd divided from her own garden, and we put V to work with her first in-ground planting project. She helped divide the plants, choose where they would go, dig the holes, fill them in, and water. She also got dirt in her hair and my hair, and hosed off my otherwise dry sneakers and her own underpants. She is her mother's daughter, her grandmother's granddaughter, and one of my favorite gardening accomplices. I hope she appreciates stained glass as much as I do.