Pushing back the walls of ignorance

Lately I've been trying to write here about things besides V, though I know she is why many of you come here. It just helps me to remember that I'm not just a mama. Which is not to minimize mamahood, mind you...

Anyway, I haven't talked much about work here, mainly because 1. I'm not yet tenured (June! Hopefully!) and 2. I have an irrational fear of getting dooced, so named for Heather Armstrong of Dooce (you should totally click on her link, because right now she's got a video of Prince covering Radiohead, and that is worth clicking, if you ask me). It's funny, really, because I have nothing negative to say about this job 99.99% of the time. I love teaching, love my students, love my colleagues, love our administration. But lately, things have become excruciatingly difficult. Teaching, colleages, administration is all good. Which leaves, of course, students. Student, really...anyway, this is the hardest thing I've encountered in ten years of teaching. Ten years! Think of how many students....a thousand?

In light of the excruciatingness of all this, I thought I'd post this poem I wrote a few years ago about why I teach. I wrote it as an example for students who were writing a "this is the way" poem and didn't understand how to do it. As such, it still reads like a creative writing exercise, but I'm comfortable with that. Today, I need to remember why I do this job.

THIS IS THE WAY
And this is the way you worry about your lisp and enunciate to correct it; and this is the way you think hard before getting a visible tattoo; and this is the way you stay awake at night wondering if they’re learning and trying to finish your grading and thinking up new assignments; and this is the way they don’t know how to spell; and this is the way they lie to your face and you have to hear the truth somewhere inside; and this is the way you learned how to tell the difference between morning sickness and a hangover; and this is the way you teach birth control and prenatal care even though it’s a writing class; and this is the way you ask the girl with the finger-mark bruises on both arms who did this to her and she stares at you blankly and says “Did what?”; and this is the way you see their hurt and wish you could take it away; and this is the way you mourn students who’ve died of meningitis or in a car accident or who hung themselves in their dorm room; and this is the way you care about students beyond what you ever expected; and this is the way they see the world completely differently from you; and this is the way they make you feel alive and this the way you want them all to be healthy and joyful and kind; and this is the way your friends have jobs they leave behind on the weekend and you don’t; and this is the way they race around your brain and make your head and arms and heart ache all day long; and this is the way you push them to think for themselves, and this is the way your tires get slashed, and someone threatens to blow your head off with a shotgun; and this is the way you keep your phone number unlisted and try not to love them too much; and this is the way you hold them too close sometimes; and this is the way you need summers off; and this is the way they show up in your dreams almost every night; and this is the way, in the end, that you teach.

My next tattoo

I had a dream the other night that I had an enormous tattoo from my right hip to my ankle. It said "Elvis Presley" in red "Wonder Woman" print. What do you think that means, exactly? It was sort of empowering and strange at the same time. Now, I'm in the market for another tattoo, since my last one was over 8 years ago, and my first was 8 years before that. I seem to have a weird every 8 year kinda addiction. Hmm. Anyhoo, I like this peacock for several reasons. Here, let me list them:

1. It's a peacock, and I lurve me some peacocks. (I have a peacock room in my house. did you know that? it's a long story)

2. It's an old-school-flash tattoo. It is a bit dark for my tastes, and I kinda like that gorgeous blue real peacocks have all over the place. But I do like the 50s-esque look of this one.

3. I don't know anyone with a peacock tattoo. (of course, I don't know anyone with a leg-sized Elvis Presley tattoo, either, so perhaps this isn't the clearest criteria....). I have a cousin with a bird of paradise on her upper thigh, but no peacocks that I know of.

4. It would look pretty on my ankle or my arm, the 2 spots I'm considering.

I also love turtles, and butterflies have a mighty significance in my family...and I'm seriously considering a fancy letter V. So I have a lot of choices, and in all honesty, I suppose in order I'm considering a butterfly, then a V, then a turtle or peacock. Which means, let's see, the turtle/peacock won't be on the schedule until 2024.

Maybe I need to change my 8 year rotation. OR: get this...I could find a picture of a peacock-turtle-butterfly with the letter V prominently involved. Wow. Sometimes I even impress myself.

Send your recommendations & art submissions, won't you? I can use all the help I can get.

What we've been up to lately

Remeber this post? To mock me in my optimism, spring has come and gone already. I'm glad we got outside to play last weekend, because last night and today we got about 8 inches of snow. Maybe 10. I don't know. The wagon in the backyard is just a ribbon of red between the snow on the ground and the snow heaping on top of it. But to prove we did have spring, I offer the following evidence (photographed from just behind the first hung out laundry of the year).





V set up most of this on her own, including empty tin, terracotta, and plastic pots. Then she found two perfect sticks and sang and drummed and drummed and sang. I love to watch her when she thinks I'm not paying attention: she plays with her whole body (as these pictures show) and just sings from deep inside herself. I hope she never loses that pure joy of play. I'm grateful she's helping me find mine again.

While we were enjoying the weather, I broke out the sidewalk chalk. I don't know who decided to market big fat chalk sticks to use outside, but I love him or her. I introduced V to hopscotch, and though I'm no good at it, she's mildly obsessed. At least she was until it got covered in snow. To hop, she bends her knees and throws her body up in the air: it's awesome. Not all that effective, mind you, but fun to watch.




Our collective family has been suffering from what I thought were allergies, and maybe it was, but now we all have nasty colds. You may recall that when V has a cold, she mostly wanders around dull eyed and listless, occassionally yelling "Mama! Boogers!" It warms a mother's heart, really, to be so needed.

The reason I suspected allergies first, though, is the seedlings V and I planted several weeks ago. Mostly tomatoes, but you'll notice an enthusiastic pumpkin there, too. I'm really pleased at the progress they've made, just being left alone in our upstairs south window. I keep them watered and rotate them about once a day, but other than that it's been really cool to see things grow so quickly, and V seems to genuinely care about the "upstairs garden." It's too bad we'll never get to plant them outside though, since winter has already returned.

(V's face here is her new interpretation of "smile." I blame Dora the Explorer.)

Because we are country folk, and this is our way.

One day a few years ago, a deer bounded through our backyard. I know for many of my family members this is not that odd, but we live a good 15 blocks from the city limits on all sides (well, 12 blocks on one side) so it startled me. Shaun said I was hallucinating, but I ran out into the backyard to check and our neighbor to our west was doing the same. We totally had a "Did you see that too? Dang!" moment together. It was lovely. Though it's not likely safe for the deer, I wish it happened more often, really.

In only mildly related news, I had a nightmare once about being attacked by wild birds, prompted by the flock of turkeys that live by the Georgetown Bridge. I dreamt I stopped to take pictures of them (which I have done on several occasions) and they turned on me, and up from under the bridge came chickens and hawks and loons. The loons were the fiercest, and bit me repeatedly, even as I tried to close the car door without hurting them.

You'd think that would make me dislike this story, but actually I love wild birds, and it makes me really happy that no one is talking about how to get these beautiful creatures out of town.

But if a loon shows up at my front door, I'm not opening it. Just fierce, I tell you.

At least she hasn't destroyed the temple. Yet.

Dear Samson,

Look, I understand why you’re upset. I know you didn’t see this coming: frankly, neither did I. I mean, I kept hearing all this conflicting information: some people adored your long hair (my mom, your mom, little old ladies in the grocery store). Others, like your father, thought it was just getting in your way. All I know is that the snarls you woke up with on Saturday couldn’t have been worse if they’d been made my actual squirrels. Three combs broke just looking at those tangles.

Even before you were in the chair, I apologized to the hair professional for the mess she was about to encounter. And perhaps your screaming, which brought no fewer than 4 other stylists over with offers to help, is what made me finally decide. (Well, that and the knowledge that your hair grows faster than you talk, which is near the speed of light). At any rate, I hope you don’t look back on this weekend angrily in the coming years. I promise you can grow it out again, if you want to. It just had to be done.

Love,
Delilah

That one time when we did that crafty thing

I was beyond thrilled to get this book by my favorite blogger, Amanda Soule, this week. She has inspired me many times, and this lovely book is no exception. At Ms. Soule’s suggestion, I sat down with my 2 7/12 year old daughter to do some painting. Here is a transcript of yesterday, our first formal attempt at family creativity.

Me: Hey, you wanna do some painting?

V: Painting! Yay! Yes! Let’s paint!

Me: (glowing at her enthusiasm) Okay then! Let’s put down some newspaper, and lay out some wooden dolls and a couple of blank wooden boxes, and some small plates for pallets, and some brushes, and a damp cloth to wipe our fingers, and turn on the lights, and set out all 30 bottles of paint.

V: (rocking back and forth in her chair excitedly) Yay! Painting!

Me: I know! Cool, huh. So, what do you want to paint first?

V: This one! (she selects the biggest wooden doll form, which is okay, but it’s, erm…the most expensive, and one of only 2 that I ordered special from the internet)

Me: (Remembering Amanda’s chapter on “Using the good stuff”) Cool! What color do you want to start with?

V: Blue! Yay, painting!

Me: Right! Blue! (Pouring a quarter size dollop of blue metallic acrylic onto the aforementioned plastic plate) There you go!

V: (giggling as she blobs blue paint on the head of the Expensive, One of Only Two doll figure)

Me: Um, hey, do you wanna spread that around at all? It’ll dry faster.

V: (ignores Mama completely. Continues blobbing)

Meanwhile, I’m carefully painting 6 other figures, and trying to use up some of the metallic blue paint before she puts all of it on this poor doll figurine.

Me: You can paint that box, too, babe. I thought maybe our dolls could use those boxes as little houses.

V: (Smacking her paintbrush absent-mindedly inside the wooden box) I made a butterfly!

Me: Wow, that does kinda look like a butterfly.

V: I’m done now. I want some cheese.

Me: What? We’ve only used one color. And it’s only been 4 minutes since we started. What do you mean you’re done?

V: (louder) Cheese, please.

Me: But you painted that cool butterfly…

V: (much louder): CHEESE!

Me: If I give you cheese, will you paint some more?

V: No.

Despite this, erm, mediocre beginning, I feel good to be trying new things and letting go of my ideas of right/pretty/good a little bit. In fact, we painted again today, this time for about 7 minutes. If we keep this up, by May we’ll hit 40 minutes easy! As to the book, I am only halfway through it, but it’s already been worth the price: we’ve never had a weekend with so little TV. In a few months, I hope V’ll be up for embroidery, too: that’s one of my favorite sections so far, and includes, for those over 3, some burlap in an embroidery hoop, a blunt needle, and some thick floss in 5 inch stitches. Sort of a “no rules” approach that I would’ve loved as a kid. In the meantime, I gotta work on making her some sewing cards. Plus, sewing is a lot less messy than metallic blue paint.

Winter's last hurrah

Photos by Myra

Hey brother, can you spare a coupon? An epic tale of urine & finances.

I like the internet. I like to look stuff up on it quickly & make snap decisions on whether it’s reputable or not. I like to discover different points of view, ideas I’d never thought of, and stuff that might improve my quality of life. And videos of singing cats.

Three years ago, one such search (well, not the singing cats kinda search) led me to make all of V’s cloth diapers. All of them. 3 sets of sizes, in various configurations (some didn’t work at all, but by this last round they are pretty close to perfect for her). Initially I just wanted to learn about where one might purchase cloth diapers if we decided to go that way, but a Google search led quickly to the Sew Your Own Diapers website, and I was gone. I spent over ½ my pregnancy at the sewing machine, zigzagging fold over elastic around waterproof bum covers. I dreamt about diapers. I talked about them at family gatherings. It was embarrassing for everyone, really.

In the process of researching sewing my own diapers, I ran across information on Elimination Communication. (that's the actual site I first found. Weird, huh?)I was intrigued: I’d never even HEARD of such a thing (and I’ll bet most of you haven’t, either). What fascinating life was this? Let me say now that though I may sound disparraging, I really do think parents should do what feels most right when it comes to raising their babies, most of the time, and that includes EC. Just as a side note.

So I found this whole idea totally FASCINATING! How did I get to be 32 having never heard of this concept? At this time, Tenessa and Dan’s son Linus was about 8 months old, and I was about 5 months pregnant. Tenessa quickly assured me that Elimination Communication was not going to be my way: “That way lies madness,” she said, over and over. And thank goodness: my house is enough of a mess without having my infant daughter pee in the sink.

I tell you that story so I can tell you this story: it’s happened again. I’ve fallen in with a crowd of people I accidentally found online. I was searching “Frugality,” because, you know, we don’t wanna run out of milk money around here, and I found a seedy underbelly of coupon-clipping, obsessive clearance shopping maniacs. Dave Ramsey seems to be their king, and a lot of them have websites with lots of ads and e-books on how to save money that I can buy for $9.95 or less.

Clearly, this way lies madness, too.

Now I know the basics of economics: if you spend more than you earn, you’re screwed. There’s no way around that, and I have a good grasp of what we make (I see the paystubs) and what we spend. I also know that nearly every American is about 2 zillion dollars in debt (or so it seems) and if you don’t have at least 2 maxed out credit cards, you’re probably doing something wrong. I also know (mostly from watching people struggle, like my mom's struggles after my dad’s stroke) that not having a handle on money, even if you have good intentions, can be disastrous and take years to repair.

We have no credit card debt, except one interest-free jobbie we found at the dentist-who-will-eventually-own-my-first-born-child. We will pay that off this shortly with our recent tax return, and then our only debt will be student loans and the house mortgage. So we’re better off than a lot of folks, obviously. Most of that comes from my white-knuckled terror of high-interest debt, but some of it comes from the fact that I make pretty good money pushing back the walls of ignorance. It is not really due to stellar money management skill on our parts, though.

Cue the internet: I want to know how to do more with what we have. Shaun and I have worked on an allowance system for years: we each get a set amount each month to do as we like (usually it’s been $150, sometimes only $100, and on rare occasions below that), with the other not allowed to criticize however we spend that amount. It’s how I buy fabric without him muttering about it under his breath, and he buys yet another handheld video game. It also needs to cover any fast food we chose to eat, or vending machine snacks, or any new shoes for me. And it worked pretty well, overall. But in recent months (the last year? Maybe more…) we’ve gotten lax, and as my income increased slightly, our leftover cash did not. Turns out we were both overstepping our allowances/being more frivolous in other areas, and that quickly ate up what we were supposed to have leftover each month.

My research turned up some really interesting sites with helpful if repetitive information. Let me sum up: “if you don’t control your money, it controls you. If you’re not sure who’s in control, it’s not you. Now go pay off your debt.” Most of it is aimed at people with several credit cards, but still I’ve found helpful things. We’re starting a savings account this month at each of our banks…but you don’t care about the details. It’s really amazing, frankly, that you’re still reading after all this time. My point is, I found a lot of stuff that we can think about all from a mundane online search. And I’m utilizing sites like Hot Coupon World (sexy name, eh?), where crazy people sit around all day and look at ads and coupons and match them up for me so I can just go “Oh, look, tuna’s on sale this week and I got those tuna coupons in January, so they’d be free.” I don’t have to think too much. I get my mom to bring me her spare coupons, and I keep them in a binder like a dorky 3rd grader with a baseball card obsession. Why, just last week I got 6 free boxes of Pasta Roni.

Now, who wants to come over for supper? Pasta Roni’s pretty tasty, and I promise none of us are peeing in the sink. If you have any coupons laying around, why don’tcha bring them along?

For when she is famous for musical something or other

"I Peter Criss, Mama!"

"I play pyano!"

No words here: just a sweet face with poor lighting.

Right now, she's wearing some red flowered tights, her sneakers, and nothing else, performing a play/tapdance routine for her imaginary audience. I would film and post this, but I'm pretty sure the talent agents would never stop hounding us, and we really have a lot of important stuff we need to do instead.

Sphinx of black quartz, judge my vow.

I love the alphabet. I love when my kid sings abcdblahblahblah… you get the idea. I love typewriters, too, and though the words were never that compelling to me, I used to like typing “The quick brown fox jumps over a lazy dog,” because it used every letter in the alphabet. I think the first time I learned of this miraculous thing (called a pangram, for those of you who care) was in an Encyclopedia Brown book. To solve the crime, he used that sentence to check everyone’s typewriters to prove who had written the ransom note. Oh, Encyclopedia, what don’t you know?

One day while enjoying some free time on the internets, I came across a list of other pangrams (also sometimes called holalphabetic sentences, though my spellchecker prefers pangram). The goal, apparently, is to come up with some grammatically correct sentence that uses as close to just the 26 letters as possible, with duplicates being frowned upon. Still, some longer pangrams make me happy. At 61 letters, it’s not all that efficient, but I really like “The July sun caused a fragment of black pine wax to ooze on the velvet quilt.” Any sentence that uses “ooze,” “velvet,” and “quilt” is a good sentence, if you ask me.

It turns out “the quick brown fox jumps over a lazy dog” is a pretty mediocre example, actually, with 33 letters and no images I find especially striking. My favorite, which is the subject line, sounds ominous, doesn’t it? I imagine James Earl Jones booming “Sphinx of black quartz, JUDGE MY VOW!!!” Tee hee. At only 29 letters, it’s the shortest pangram without proper nouns, acronyms, initials, or odd punctuation. Besides, I never realized just how much I like the word sphinx. It’s fun to type, it’s fun to say. Try it for yourself! The quick brown fox can just keep jumping over lazy dogs, for all I care.

A River Runs Through It

V and I were driving along the river today (we had to take an underpass because I hate trains and V loves tunnels) in town and I pointed out the river to V.

"There's the Mighty Red River," I said.
"Where?"
"Right there." I pointed.
"It's white," she said. Which it is. 'Cause it's March.
"Yes," I said,"because it's winter. But the river's name is the Red River."
"No."
"Yes, it is."
"Nooo."
"Yes. You don't get to name this river. Go discover a river, and you can name it whatever you want."
"It's the Black River."
"No. It's the Red River. Sometimes it looks brownish, and right now it's white, but it is not black."
"ORANGE RIVER!!!!"
"Seriously, Black River was better than Orange River."
"ORANGE RIVER!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Okay. It's the Orange River."
"I knew it."

She's almost 30 months old, and she wants to rename geographic entities and act like she is right and I'm an idiot. I see a long, long adolescence in her future.

Pajamas

Oh, the joy of a newborn baby: that soft, soft skin, the fuzzy hair, the cute little outfits. When V was first born, I didn’t mind much at all when she’d wet through or spit up, because there were 2,000 sweet baby outfits she was never gonna wear out anyway. Each clothing change was an opportunity! Look how cute she is! Isn’t that daaaarling? Dresses with ruffles and flowers, tartan skirts with black turtlenecks and knee-high biker boots, tank tops with shiny lettering: the kid had the most stylish (and diverse) wardrobe on the block.

Now, when it’s time to get dressed in the mornings (10 am or so, ‘round here), I usually ask V what she wants to wear. In the last few weeks, her answer has consistently been “Pajamas.” Sadly, that’s usually what she stays in: with no daycare, V is free to wander the house for days at a time, wearing the same jammies as the day before. Essentially, we’re too lazy to dress the child, and she doesn’t seem to mind.

Sometimes, though, a good song comes on the radio, and she’ll gaze up lovingly at Johnny Cash, pull on her pink cowgirl boots, and dance until her hair gets frizzy. Despite our best efforts, our daughter is discovering her own style. And though it scares me a little, I kinda like it.

Yer slacking on the blog posts, hey.

My sister said that to me yesterday, so here I am, caving to her pressure and posting. That is pretty much how we talk to each other, too. At any rate, if this sucks, you can blame her.

A couple years ago, I was looking out our kitchen window in mid-April and I felt this huge weight lift from my shoulders. I just suddenly felt this immense relief, and I realized it was the coming of spring. I know about Seasonal Affective Disorder, and I know winter sucks, but it wasn't until that April day that I felt it so concretely. That sense of relief is something I'm anxiously awaiting, now. The end of February is in sight, and then brutal March, and then wet crappy April...

Well, I'm not cheering myself up at all. Harumph.

Here's a picture my mom took a few weeks ago. This time of year, when we sometimes have heavy morning fog which leads to this beautiful crystal white frosting, can be quite lovely. I drove V to Hendrum one such morning, just after the fog lifted, and we watched the sun melt the frost from the treeline. It was really kinda magical.

Speaking of frost, here's evidence that fatherhood is impacting Shaun. The white beard is less noticable if he keeps it trimmed, but this grizzled look is more his way. He's so cute.

You WILL give me candy.

She learned about candy at Halloween. Those candy companies are brilliant. Now she uses her powers for evil, mostly, in attempts to secure more candy.

Look in her eyes and tell me you could tell her no.

Just a little rant...

I saw this on the blog How About Orange, and felt it my duty to share it with you. If you really loved me, you'd buy it for me.

In How About Orange's comments, someone pointed out it looks like a tiny casket, but I don't care. If you know me, you know that only increases my love of it.

Honestly, this is one of those things that I can not justify spending money on now (or ever, really) but I will think of it for the rest of my life. Damn. I hate that. Other things in this category, you ask? Mostly funky furniture pieces from the thrift store that I passed up because I was either too broke or didn't know anyone with a pickup/vehicle large enough to bring it home for me. An especially well-kept sofa-chair set from the 1940s comes to mind. In that dusty 40s green. It had been kept under plastic, I think, for 60 years. The thrift store wanted $60 for both, but by the time I realized I would hate my life if I didn't buy it, it was gone. So here I sit, not on a 1940s chenille green sofa. Ugh.

I haven't posted in awhile, partly because I'm busy with work and all that, but partly because I was getting a little weary of blogland. I subscribe to about 40 blogs (meaning there's a central location I go to look and see if they've been updated, through Bloglines (that link might even take you to my list. Or maybe not. I don't know how this magic computer thing works).

Anyway, mostly I've been reading craft blogs and crafty-mom blogs, as you can (maybe)see. A few of those are blogs of real life friends, too...as for the non-real-life ones, most of the time they'r just a lovely diversion, a place to find covet-worthy orange casket prams and whatnot. But after Christmas I got a bad case of wanties over the life people present on their blogs and how far my life is from that. I know, intellectually, that their lives are shit sometimes, too, and sometimes the laundry doesn't get done and they're late on the eletric bill and their 2 year old cries every time you tell her she can't have a 17th piece of cheese.

But no one blogs about that. At least no one I was reading. No one takes pictures of the mess in the sink that's been there for two weeks and growing its own community. Or maybe that's just in my sink.

And that's the thing: I was feeling so much like it WAS just me. I know enough about the internet to know that this is the way the web works. It makes people/things/the world look simpler (and often more attractive) than it really is. But knowing that did not keep me from feeling guilty that we don't eat more homecooked organic vegan meals, or resentful toward my tv lovin' husband (I love tv too. I'm not saying it was logical resentment).

So I took a step back, and focused on other type of blogs that didn't make me feel so slovenly. And I'm trying to spend more time with flesh and blood friends: Crystal and Todd came over last week for RockBand Festival I, and we're hoping K.C. and Nancy will come play cards/Catan with us soon, and V's friend McKenna can come over and discuss the intricacies of Dora the Explorer with her. This helps. Remembering that I started reading blogs for inspiration, not condemnation, helps too.

At any rate, it's all such a fine line. Sometimes I fall off the line and it catches me under the chin and stings. But I still like the line and want to participate in/on it. And sometimes I just take a metaphor beyond ridiculous.

To end on a happier note, here are the cousins, rolling around at Grandma Myra's one weekend afternoon. They get so excited when they're together that sometimes they just fall down and roll. Hilarious. I especially love Will's face in the second photo.




1940s sofa or not, life's not all bad afterall. I can always just roll on the floor awhile.

Because it is cold and it is dark.

Post-haircut, trying to play with the toys at the salon just a little longer. That handsome boy in the corner looking in the mirror is Will.

Today is day three of our long weekend together. Shaun works all day every other Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, which means V and I get plenty of time to get sick of each other. I mean, enjoy quality time together. And since our Buick got sick, we're down to one car, which means she and I stay home and talk to the plants and feed pizza to the toy tiger and dream of spring. Perhaps this cabin fever is contributing to my sudden desire to grow something. Yesterday, Jess and Will and Grandma Myra came to town and the little ones got haircuts (which is exhausting. No one tells you when you're about to be a parent that a simple haircut can suck all the energy out of a day). Don't worry about the photo above: V just got a bang trim, and it's pulled back in the picture. After haircut-gate, we went to Lowe's to use a couple of $10 off a houseplant coupons I found online (it's not there anymore; sorry!). For $9.98, we found two big, lovely plants, and they look very alive and grow-y in our two south windows. While at Lowe's, since I feel guilty just gettng $20 worth of free plants and nothing else, I picked up one of those plastic greenhouse things with pellets of soil for $7. It is taking every bit of self-restraint I have to not plant seeds in it right now, but since we're 5 months out from planting season, I would likely wind up with spindly pathetic tomatoes & eggplants and flowers that were done blooming by May. I've never started garden plants from seed before, but my friend Robby did it last year and had amazing success, so I'm hoping I can use his expertise this year to get me through the darkest part (figuratively, for me) of winter.


On the other hand, V loves snow. She loves it so much she likes to take off her mittens to touch it, and then complain about how cold her hands are. Toddler logic is impressive, I tell you. I made her a bonnet over holiday break from Angry Chicken's pattern, and it came together brilliantly if I do say so myself. It was almost embarrassingly easy, made from fine wale brown corduroy, lined with peach-y bird patterned fabric, with a lavender grossgrain ribbon tie, and I am so pleased with how it turned out. Plus, it helps when I can tie her headwear on, because she's less likely to yank it off.

Isn't she a sweet winter Holly Hobbie girl?

The best part of the bonnet pattern is that it comes with a grown-up size, too, so I made one for myself (minus the brim, which I think might be a hazard while driving). It even fit my giant head. I left it at work on Thursday, so I can't take a photo yet, but I will, I promise. I made it out of velvet and a stretchy plaid pair of pants, and when I wear it my English-nerd colleagues call me Elizabeth Proctor. Awesome.

Let me mention, too, that I adore all the comments on the last post. Comments are like the cocaine of blogging: once you get one, you just want more and more and more. So please continue to feed my habit. I especially like it when commenters talk to each other: Kathy and Sam, you two should meet each other someday. It would be a hoot! Such disparate parts of my life coming together in one location...it makes me a little giddy.

Hope your Sunday is warm and full of chocolate (unless you're my sister, who doesn't like chocolate, in which case I hope her Sunday is warm and full of raspberry ginger ale).

I'm just Jenny from the blog

Ugh, sorry for the bad pun. My mom just wrote me an e-mail with the subject "Jenny's blog" and it struck me as very funny. Nobody who met me after 1991 calls me Jenny: I guarantee anyone calling me that is either related, a voice from my childhood, or trying to be cute. I guess that covers most people I know, though.

For years my mom insisted that she had named me JENNIFER, and that my kindergarten teacher had been too lazy and just taught me to spell Jenny, but even in my baby book, in my mother's own hand, I was Jenny. I'm only Jennifer at work or if I get in trouble. Again, that kinda covers a lot of ground....

On with the pictures! I haven't uploaded many lately, so these are from before Christmas. Please note that though our kitchen usually looks like this, we have since cleaned and straightened and done all sorts of things so it's much much better. For now. This is the first time V ever helped me bake. She found a box of cake mix and carried it around with her for three days, thrusting it at me periodically and calling out "Cake!" in a demanding tone. I finally caved in after my grades were turned in.

She's on a barstool here, and soon after these pictures were taken, she realized the benefits of life from this height. Now she climbs up on it regularly, and she especially loves to pepper everything in sight. Cauliflower, milk, dishwater...all peppered. She likes salt, too, but that she mostly uses to pour in her little play cooking pots and then dump on the living room floor.

Thank god for hardwood.

This is a photo I adore. She clearly has both her mother's love of chocolate and graceful eating skills.

One of my goals of parenthood (what? I have parenthood goals??) is that V will know that cooking/cleaning/thinking is not gender specific. But Shaun doesn't cook, so that one will be hardest to prove to her, I imagine. Of course, neither of us clean or think very often, either. In the kitchen realm, though, I mostly hope she won't be like me: when I had my first babysitting job, when I was almost 12, I was supposed to make macaroni and cheese for lunch. I had to call my mom and ask how to boil water. Once she stopped laughing at me, she graciously talked me through it, and I graciously pointed out that if she had just shown me how to do that one time we never would have had to have that ridiculous conversation.

The moral of this story is, V can now bake a cake mix. Soon she'll be bringing me French toast in bed. Merci. Etcetera.

Holiday Recap

Yesterday, Shaun and I took down the tree (partly because V has continued to ask for Santa to come every night since Christmas Eve). I'm impressed with us, because last year the tree didn't come down until at least March. Maybe April. But I know you're sitting there wondering what the Ganyo tree looked like this year, so here you go. V asked me over and over to take a picture of it, so I did. The barstool is V's addition: she likes to drag it around with her from room to room.

Ah, so much to catch up on. I always have big plans during holiday break: I'll blog everyday; I'll sew 45 new stuffed things, I'll make V and myself both new wardrobes. Hm. Stupid family and housecleaning and...grocery shopping and bathing getting in the way of my plans. Dammit.

Now, on with our story! Here is V, just meeting Mr. Squawkers (which she has named on her own; thanks for your naming suggestions, but it's pretty cute when the two year old says "Good morning Mr. Squawkers.") That's Uncle Steve and Pseudo-Aunt Johanna with her: Mr. Squawkers was courtesy of Uncle Steve.

She looks kinda scared in this photo, and actually she still is (remember, she used to be afraid of bubbles. And pumpkins). She talks to and about Mr. Squawkers often; she just doesn't get too close to him. He really is remarkably lifelike. Except no pooping. Thank god.

I made everyone in Shaun's family a beautiful homemade gift, which they all opened at once. I only got David's picture, though, because after the opening and subsequent wearing (and that was my favorite part: they all simply put them on, with no questions), V started screaming at the top of her lungs, so they were quickly removed. But oh, I laughed and laughed. Imagine Steve and Johanna and Shaun and Great Aunt Joy and David and Mary and me, all in one of these:


(actually, David's was the only one of that fabric, because it was a bear to work with. The others were out of either brown corduroy or grey fleece. The fleece was easiest to work with, but had a tendency to distort. The corduroy was my favorite). These were inspired by Mr. Moustachio, from Shawnimals. I omitted the eyes on most of them, because, well, I didn't want to be ridiculous. Also, I wanted them to wearable. I debated a long time on that white elastic: was it too garish? Too obvious? But then I remembered I was making stuffed mustaches, and obvious and garish need not be my main concerns.

Here's a blurry picture of Uncle Bill (of Fat Daddys fame) modeling his, the only one with eyes. I nearly passed out at this hilarity.

Christmas morning, Santa had delivered a bright shiny drum set. It was pretty sweet to hear her gasp as she came down the stairs: "DRUMS!" She's taken right to them, and it's not nearly as irritatingly noisy as I feared. Now when we play Rock Band on the X-box, Shaun sings, I play bass, and V plays her drum set. It makes my heart feel all tingly in a Von Trapp family way.
There are more photos, of course (though for some reason I didn't take any for Christmas Eve in Hendrum). It was all so so so lovely and busy and full of cookies. I hope yours were the same.

This weekend, V and I are off to Grandma and Grandpa's, and Shaun will enjoy a Weekend of George. (I am both utterly pleased and a little queasy at the fact that there's a Wikipedia entry for that). We will all return refreshed, I hope. Next week, I get to go back to work! Wanna come with?

And the winner is....

So I took the comments from post #100 in the order they were received, then added Kathleen as #8 (see post #102). The Random Integer Generator, which hasn't let me down yet, has spoken.

Random Integer Generator
Here are your random numbers:

7

Timestamp: 2007-12-28 03:22:10 UTC

This means Emily, Scott, and August are the winners of the contest! Whee! Before the end of the year, I'll be sending a special surprise package. In fact, since Emily's mom will be around this weekend, I'll probably send it home with her (if that's okay with you guys. I never promised I wouldn't try to skimp on postage). Then I'll post pictures, so the seven of you who didn't win will know why you're crying in your beer.

This was very exciting for me! I was nervous, I really wanted everyone to win...I guess it's a good thing I haven't been nominated for an Oscar or a Nobel Prize or anything.

Congratulations to our Esteemed Winners. Rock and Roll.

Last minute gift ideas

I know most of you come here for shopping advice, so here you are. My comprehensive list of gifts that will not generally annoy or upset the recipient. You may need to use your own judgement, at times, of course: #8 would be lousy for your recently on-the-wagon friend, and #6 won't do for that gambling addict you're hoping to get a date with. But otherwise, hurry up and shop. Time's awastin'.

9. Beta fish with food and water treatment stuff. Not for the petaphobic or those who lack the ability to really care for themselves. But they're pretty.

8. Pennsylvania Dutch Eggnog

7. New socks. Everybody loves new socks, even if they're cheap ones.

6. $20 in scratch-off tickets, all different denominations/varieties

5. Free childcare for those with children, or free pet-sitting for those with pets. Be specific, so that they are more likely to take you up on this. Instead of "One free night of childcare" offer "One free night of childcare any Friday in Jaunary or February with at least 48 hours notice". See the difference? If you don't, send me an e-mail and I will explain.

4. Pudding. Everyone loves pudding.

3. A good unscented lotion, like Aveeno. Don't give scented things like candles or lotion to people who may be either A. too sensitive to them, or B. Unable to smell them. If you're unsure, go unscented, or with #4, 2, or 6. A is worse than B in terms of offensiveness, but if I couldn't smell and someone gave me lemon verbena lotion, I would question their motives. But maybe that's just me.

2. A funny picture of yourself in a very nice frame. Make sure and point out that they are welcome to reuse the frame for a picture of their choice: not everyone's home decor remains dorm-like, so they may not want a photo of you in your floppy plaid cowgirl hat on display.

1. A lovely magazine (just one issue, if you like) in their area of interest that you're pretty sure they don't already subscribe to. This falls under the "indulgence" quality I discussed in my last post. For example, for my newly engaged friends, I might buy them one of those ridiculously ad-packed bridal magazines. It's not practical, and most of my friends wouldn't spend $8 on such frivolity, but it's also really fun to look at if that's what your mind is on. Check out Shinder's if you're in Minneapolis or any sizeable bookstore for a dizzying array of options.

There. Don't you wish I had posted this earlier? Me too. But now I can just link here for next year. See how I plan ahead?

Consider also: pomegranite juice, expensive apples, help in next spring's garden planting.

Avoid: bingo palace gift certificates, lead-based paint, and shopping while angry at recipient.