Connections

So often, we make decisions based on what "feels" right. And, if we've been taught by good examples and have a good moral underpinning, this method of deciding can often serve us well. But, if there are kinks in the system, they can be next to invisible to us, since they don't "feel" wrong.

I think that I conflate people with possessions. No, not in that way! The other way. It's more like treating things as people than treating people as things.

I come from a grand tradition of people who keep things. My grandfather once had to move his study to the opposite side of the house because their enormous old home was settling unevenly due to the weight of all of his books.

As they grew older and moved into smaller places, my grandparents did have to downsize, but in the end they were all left with so many treasures, things that they'd collected throughout their long lives or inherited from their own parents. Many of those things are now with my parents, or with my sisters and me.

My parents' basement is currently unnavigable, despite their also having at least one storage unit packed full of stuff somewhere. And most of it is really great stuff!

I also come from a long tradition of people who are extremely loyal, who stay married forever, who measure friendships in decades. And, in my mind, I think that these two traits have become entwined, indistinguishable, merged.

I have a friend who laughs in disbelief whenever I start a sentence with, "I stumbled across an old journal from junior high, and . . . "

I know lots of people who aren't overwhelmed by clutter. But those who have perfectly neat homes, with no overflowing files, shelves of old textbooks, labeled plastic storage bins containing elementary school perfect attendance awards, high school homecoming court sashes, and pre-marriage/kids Halloween costumes - well, I can't help but feel like they're missing something critical, like they've ripped off little pieces of themselves and discarded them along the way.

Clearly, I'm in real trouble if we're ever hit by fire or natural disaster. Without these tangible bits of my history, who on earth would I be?

Fizzle: this is where the should-be-unrelated synapse fires, the faulty logic is born. A part of my brain thinks, "He just lets things go when they get messy; this is why he's been married so many times." "This is why they go through friendships like I go through underwear." (That's just a figure of speech. Of course I still have underwear from college! You don't?)

That illogic stopped me cold when I noticed it recently, which made me work through the whole chain of thoughts until I found the break. Clearly, I attach way too much importance to stuff, but not in an I-must-have-that-Birkin-bag kind of way.

My husband would like me to add, here, that I tend to keep little bits of information in my head the same way I keep old greeting cards and address books.

In other connection news, since the ban on bubble baths has been strictly enforced, Ellie's symptoms have have cleared up. No more accidents!

The girls have my cold, though. (And I still have it too.)

Getting Things Done

Did you know that Kozy Shack makes sugar free tapioca? They do, and it's pretty good. (I gave up sugar for Lent. And I have decided that Sundays don't count. After all, they're not counted in the 40 days.) Resuming exercise will have to wait until this blasted fever is finally gone gone gone. Is bronchitis supposed to be a chronic condition? I feel like a walking plague, especially since my girls seem to be getting colds.

Despite all being a bit off, we had a very productive weekend here. On Saturday morning, Paul and I took the girls to a Parents as Teachers event that they both loved, and Sunday we all went to church. Other than that, we spent most of our time working around the house.

We cleaned the bathrooms, dusted and cleaned the front rooms, did lots of laundry (and folded it, and put it away) and organized throughout the rest of the house, especially in the girls' rooms. We also spent hours downstairs in the basement, slowly putting it back together after its big painting experience a couple of weeks ago.

(There was also writing, good stuff, but that story can wait for another day.)

We're supposed to have company next weekend, though I'll almost be surprised if they still want to come. (Sickness, violence, bad weather, who could blame them for wanting to stay home?!) Hey, Monroes, Kirkwood is still a lovely, safe place, if an imperfect one.

But if they decided to surprise us by showing up a few days early, we'd be ready for them. Our house is in decent shape! And no last-minute rushing-around necessary; we were just keeping up with things like responsible adult people. Imagine that.

Out of Chaos, Hope.
Build for Life.

Two Sermons

There has to be a first next post, after that last one. It could be a cute picture of my children, it could be an update on Sarahlynn: Operation Get Your Shit Together, or it could be something serious. But there has to be a first one, and it's going to be now, so I'll recap the sermons from church this morning.

Our minister is a very emotional guy, and he has mastered the art of being able to talk coherently while crying, a trick I'll never learn. He didn't cry this morning during his sermon, until his voice broke a little on the last word. Throughout the sermon, his voice was rough, his tone angry.

"I am not ready to stand up here and give a message of hope, of reassurance; that message will have to wait for another day."

He spoke passionately against the use of the word "war" as a few in the Meacham Park community have used it, "a seeming defense of an indefensible act." He spoke of misunderstanding and reconciliation, of thoroughly cleaning our wounds before allowing them to heal over.

It was a good message, if not the one I expected to hear today. It made me feel uncomfortable at times, and left me feeling ruffled.

Then came Communion, a wonderful experience on a traumatic weekend with a packed church, sitting quietly in the beautiful sanctuary, listening to the organ, watching hundreds of my fellow Presbyterians proceeding up the aisle to receive their grape-juice-dipped wafers, waiting my turn in peace.

Our associate pastor is a friend of mine, and she has one of the most soothing voices I've ever heard. Her communion prayer was quite long, almost a second homily, and I savored every moment of it. I no longer remember what she said, though I remember nodding along at the time. Afterwards, I was immediately left with a feeling of safety, of home. This prayer felt a little like a mother patting her fearful child on the back, murmuring words whose tone is more important than their substance, though the substance is there, for those ready to absorb it. For the rest of us, we could sit quietly, listen, and feel like there was someone taking care of us.

Amen.

Local Tragedy

We chose our little community very carefully. It's not without its problems, but it's a charming little place. Kirkwood is an old, beautiful community, established in 1853. There's a mixture of large houses and small in mixed neighborhoods, lots of homes with great character, tall shade trees, a thriving downtown area with shops and restaurants, and a distinct small town community feel in this quaint enclave in the St. Louis metro area.

But no place is perfect. There's one particular area of Kirkwood, Meacham Park, which is a traditionally African American community, and there have been tensions between residents of that area and city officials, for various reasons, some (in my opinion) quite valid.

One neighborhood resident grew particularly enraged about what he perceived as his ill treatment by the city council. (A federal judge disagreed with his claims.) After acting out at several meetings, he attended a council meeting tonight (perhaps in response to that judge's ruling) and made a final stand.

As the mayor began his opening remarks after the pledge of allegiance, this man shot and killed a police officer outside city hall. He went inside to where the meeting was taking place, and shot and killed another police officer, then opened fire on council members and city officials. 30 people were in attendance at the meeting, including a reporter for the St. Louis Post Dispatch, so news of what happened got out quickly.

He shot seven people, killing five, before being killed by police. The two survivors are a local reporter, possibly hit in the hand by a ricochet, and the mayor, who is in critical condition at a local hospital.

Kirkwood authorities have decided not to release the names of the deceased tonight, to give them time to notify families, though our local Fox affiliate television station has irresponsibly shown pictures of those killed, not saying so explicitly, but drawing the obvious inference. (As we know, only two who were shot survived, X and Y, and we also know that these three people were also shot, so . . . )

It's horrifying that this happened so close to home, in our safe community. It's almost unbearably tragic to think of the families touched directly by this tragedy. It is also more personal than is comfortable. (And what distance would ever be comfortable, I wonder?) I read unofficial minutes from council meetings and subcommittee meetings, which helps me feel like I know some of these people more personally than I do. And all reports of what happened tonight mentioned the name of the Kirkwood Public Works Director Ken Yost as one of the shot. Ken is far more than just a name to me.

Ken was the webmaster for our church, Kirkwood First Presbyterian. He ran the amazing local recycling center and was an environmental activist. His wife is a church staff member, in charge of new members and mission work. She was one of the first people we got to know in our congregation when we joined more than 8 years ago, and they were both at our wedding. They are incredible people who walk the walk, and my heart is so full of pain for Ken's wife and son.

I feel a tendency to ramble on and on, a lack of perspective, and an inability to edit my thoughts properly into a cohesive message.

Someone I knew and respected a great deal was killed tonight. It's horrible. My prayers are with the families of all those killed and injured tonight. I feel powerless, and my prayers feel insufficient. I want to be actively doing something, anything to help. Unfortunately, there's little to be done now.

Bronchitis

Viral upper respiratory infection with fever, bad cough, etc. No antibiotics necessary, which is good. Wait it out, which is hard.

What shall we do this afternoon, kiddos? Videos? Or, perhaps, videos? And what do you mean that you can't take yourselves to the potty yet? Alas.

Maybe Another Day

I should have quit smoking years ago. I don't actually smoke, but this week I sure sound like I do. Cough-cough-hack-hack-moan! Have I mentioned that being sick is a lot less fun when you're the mama? Also, I'm pretty bad at knowing when it's time to go to the doctor. I feel like I often err on the side of not going soon enough (especially with myself) and then over-correcting (especially with the kids).

I took 5 trips to the pediatrician's office in January, after having only a couple of sick-child visits all last year. On the other hand, when she was 2-1/2 Ellie had pneumonia for weeks before I took her in. Her only obvious symptoms then were a cough and an occasional low-grade fever.

Today, I sound like a wounded seal who happens to have a slight fever. Bark. Bark. Whimper. Sort of like our electoral process, actually.

Anyway, Ellie's been having accidents for the last few days, and she occasionally grabs herself and fusses a few minutes after going. I was planning to call her pediatrician about a UTI, when I learned that Paul has recently started giving Ellie bubble baths again. Apparently, the warnings that regular bubble baths aren't that great for little girls wear off after time, and do need to be repeated. If only there were indicators, like on my toothbrush bristles. So here's hoping that once the bubble baths have stopped, and end-of-bath rinsing in clear water commences, symptoms will clear up. Poor kid. I've really been frustrated with her about the accidents (which often come shortly after assuring me that she doesn't need to go) because I'm a jerk mom like that.

All things considered, I think I'll wait on calls to the doctor for both of us. Just like we'll probably be waiting a while to find out who the Democrats are going to nominate for president.


When Ellie was 12 months old, they actually let me take her to the polling place dressed like this.

Super Tuesday Is Now!

As it turns out, a confused - or malicious - squirrel was chewing through "the line" as it ran from the telephone pole to the house. New line, no more phone static and vastly improved internet access. Voila! Now my Blogger spellchecker isn't working, though, so please try to politely ignore my typos.

By this time tomorrow night, the Democrat and Republican nominees for president will probably be decided. (If you live in one of the 24 states holding primary elections tomorrow/today: go vote! Vote! Seriously, vote! Isn't this almost as important as the SuperBowl, which 97.5 million people watched? Yes, it is. Trust me. It's still a silly game, but with far more meaningful consequences.)

The last six couples I talked to about the primary are split the same way Paul and I are. I'm planning to vote for Clinton; he's planning to vote for Obama. There's no political rankor in our home; both of us believe that both candidates are qualified and would do a good job. We each dithered back and forth between the two before landing where we have. It's still interesting that so many people we know are splitting this same way: women for Hillary, men for Barack. These are, for the most part, all liberal, progressive, pro-feminist, racism-is-baaaaad folk.

I too am excited by Obama's positive, energizing message. I'm very excited by the possibility of an African American president. I think it would be overwhelmingly wonderful to have a president named Barack Hussein Obama who spent several of his formative years in an Islamic nation.

Given all that, there are three main reasons why I've decided to vote for HRC tomorrow.

1. I took that quiz I told you about, and it told me that I (surprisingly!) agree with Hillary on most of the big issues.
   
2. I think that she has the experience to know how to work the system in the way that it needs to be worked in order to get things accomplished. I don't like that this system is there, but I think most new presidents have a learning curve as they realize how they must bargain with congress.
   
3. While I was watching the pre-South Carolina debate, I had a visceral response to seeing Clinton on that stage, with Obama and Edwards, running the show for large chunks of the evening. I didn't think it would make such a big difference, but I felt something, watching someone who looks a little like me in that position. What would this say to girls - and boys - who grow up seeing this as normal, as a possibility?

Of course, I have some reservations, too.

Another interesting piece of this decision is Edwards/Kucinich/Dodd/Biden/Etc. My youngest sister and I find ourselves at odds with our parents over this issue. My parents like Edwards, and feel that he's electable. That might had made them decide to vote for him in their primary (had he not dropped out already) despite their being excited by the possibility of a female or African American president. To them, the big question is: who can win against the Republican candidate?

That's not the major issue for me. I'm more jaded. I've seen Democrats who aren't so different from Republicans. I am skeptical about how much good a president can really do. There wasn't a perfect (for me) white male candidate in the field. (In fact, HRC and Obama come as close to representing me as any other candidate.) Given that, I can't bring myself to vote for a white man who looks just like every single other president we've ever had. Sorry, Edwards.

At Least I'll Go To Bed Before Midnight

. . . well, almost.

Our broadband internet connection is still leaving something to be desired. Like, you know, reliability. And the ability to download as well as upload. That sort of thing. I have no idea what's going on, but the problems have spread to our suddenly strangely crackly home phone, too. Time for a call to the phone company. Right, from the mobile phone. Let me just hop online and look up their phone number. Wait . . .

On a related note, I finally read A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini. Doing so right after seeing Charlie Wilson's War made me think this: There's probably some sort of introductory/initiatory stuff that newly elected congressional representatives and senators must read/watch/sit through before beginning their first legislative sessions. I think that all members of the 111th United States Congress need to read these books before they start having any discussions involving budget and foreign policy.

We simply must learn from our mistakes. We simply must stop playing deadly games in others' yards, then going home, leaving nothing but our weaponry and a huge vacuum behind us.

Now let's see if I can post this . . .

Trying to Feel Good

My internet connection is annoyingly up and down this week, which keeps me from doing the "research" I’d planned to do for the blog post that I’d planned to write. Instead, I’ll try this modified little meme-thing I picked up while stumbling around the internet. That makes it sound like an STD.

With no qualifications or justifications, here are 5 things I'm proud of about me:

1. I’ve never had casual sex. (I've never had an STD, either.)
   
2. I know a little bit about a lot of stuff. On a related note, I read a lot: fiction, nonfiction, genre fiction, memoir, Newsweek, etc.
   
3. My body does a good job with pregnancy, labor, and baby feeding. I did natural childbirth once! And might do it again someday when I don't have to play with Mr. Pitocin.
   
4. I think about things, really think about them. For the past 10 years or more, I've been trying to train my brain to look behind the emotion at the facts, the logic, the different sides of a situation.
   
5. Sometimes I can make pretty pictures with words.

Hmm, that was harder than I thought it would be.

Sorkin

First of all, thanks very much to Jessica for staying with the girls tonight so that Paul and I could go out for a movie and dinner. I originally wanted to see Juno, but we ended up seeing Charlie Wilson's War, and enjoying it very much.

I didn't think that I was interested in seeing a movie about US 1980s cold war politics in the middle east. But I like Aaron Sorkin's writing and there was a good cast, so we went.

I'd love to talk about it with any of you who've seen the movie, especially other feminists. Obviously, Wilson is a flawed character (and I liked the way that's obvious from the opening scene). But his politics were pretty sound, and he was good at working the system to accomplish things. How did you feel about the sexy female aides? How about the way he treated them in the film (flirtatiously, but with respect)? He relied upon them and trusted them to do the jobs that needed doing; they certainly weren't just eye candy. Except for the belly dancer and the Playmate.

A Few Good Men. The American President. Sports Night. The West Wing. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. If you write it, baby, I'll watch it. But (note that this is the tongue-in-cheek part) I wish he'd do an interview confession which projects he wrote while straight and which ones he wrote while high, so I can decide how I prefer his work. For example, Matthew Perry is often better looking while on pills (the emaciated look makes for a strong jawline) and he's got a haunted quality that is more serious actor and less class clown when he's fighting his monkey. And Stephen King admitted that he can't even remember writing Cujo. I'm as square as they come, but I do find it interesting to compare people's work while loaded versus sober.

Hooah

How do you go from being a high school drop-out to being a soldier? How do you go from drinking on the job at a factory to leading a platoon? How do you go from gang-banger to hero?

My best friend is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Army. As I'm a liberal raised by pacifists, married to another liberal raised by pacifists, this friendship has been an interesting and educational experience for me. Her husband, also a good friend, just returned from 14 months in Iraq.

I spent 11 years of my childhood living near Fort Riley, Kansas, "Home of the Big Red One," First Infantry Division. Instead of, "Yo mama so fat" jokes, kids in my schools said, "Yo mama wear combat boots." Often, this was true.

People talk about flashbulb memory in conjunction with events like the assassination of JFK or MLK, Jr. My first and clearest experience with the phenomenon was while washing dishes one evening as a teenager. It was cold, winter, and my parents were out running. I had the small, black-and-white TV on for company and I heard President George H.W. Bush declare war on Iraq. "Damn," my father said later when he returned from his run, half-frozen, and I repeated the news.

War has always effected me politically, of course, but somehow it never touched me personally. I wore slogan support bracelets - Desert Shield, Desert Storm - but I didn't stay up at night, worrying about loved ones and imagining what their lives were like over in that desert. I recommend that everyone get close to someone who experiences war on a personal level.

In the meantime, here's a snippet of what Basic Training is like. Note the recruit who didn't realize that we are at war, the spelling and grammar in the letters home, the complaints about maturity and discipline. Note how different they look at their graduation ceremony. Think of going from child to warrior in 9 weeks.

Ada's One

In the white space between songs on one of her beloved Ralph CDs, Ada says, "The End." I took a list of more than 50 words Ada says along with me to her 12-month check-up, and she's added quite a few more words in the days since. "I've never seen a 12-month-old who's quite this verbal," the pediatrician said. Of course, Ada was showing off quite a bit, enunciating, "Doctor" clearly, when she normally says, "cah" for cat and car.

Last weekend, we drove up to my parents' house to celebrate Ada's first birthday, along with that of her cousin, Arria, who was born one day later. Arria prefers walking to crawling, a leap in preference Ada hasn't yet been willing to make consistently. Until peer pressure kicked in. Today, for her Parents as Teachers Parent Educator, Ada happily walked all over the room, talked up a storm, stacked cups, played high five, sang songs, and generally acted like a very happy, compliant, much older baby.

Not that I'm complaining.

One Year Old Pictures

Who's a cute little baby? Ada's a cute little baby!





And she's got a cute (but sick) big sister, too.

Excellent!

A big Thank You to Beverly at Homeschool Image for awarding me one of Project Mommy's Excellent Blog Awards.

In turn, I pass the award on to:

1. Peripatetic Polar Bear from The Ice Floe because of her beautiful prose and often resonant descriptions
   
2. Kay Olson at The Gimp Parade because she challenges to me to see what I should be noticing and am very good at ignoring
   
3. Flea from One Good Thing because she writes honestly about things that "we" just don't talk about
   
4. Andrea McDowell at Beanie Baby for a combination of factors, including: subject matter, writing, and challenges to my comfort zones
   
5. The PCUSA Blog, which merits the award for its amazing blogroll alone!

And these bloggers because I find myself checking in with them regularly just to see what's going on in their lives. These blogs are sometimes here's what happened today sort of blogs, but they're written in such a way that I feel like I know the author, and am usually friends with her. That's a pretty cool effect to achieve with a blog.

6. Moreena from The Wait and the Wonder - poignant!
   
7. Psycho Kitty at SBFH - I actually called her, on the phone based solely on bloggy communication. Amazing.
   
8. Angela at Fluid Pudding - witty, local
   
9. The Crazy Cat Woman - love the quick-to-read, daily posts that paint such a clear picture
   
10. Portia at The Winding Sheet - because we shared some similar painful experiences around the same time, which helped me tremendously.

Sidenote: wow, does my whole template - most especially my blogroll - need an update! So sorry, everyone.

And on Beverly's blog, I found this most excellent quiz, for all you Tudor fans out there:






Which of Henry VIII's wives are you?
this quiz was made by Lori Fury

Congratulations! You are Katherine Parr.
Katherine Parr spent nearly her whole life married to crotchety old men: Henry was the THIRD old fart she was forced to marry. Is it any wonder she turned to books and religion to occupy her time?

Katherine wasn't just smart, she was a tiny bit uppity, too: she almost got herself thrown in jail for arguing with His Royal Fatness about some theological issues. After Henry croaked, Katherine dropped the prim and proper act and married Thomas Seymour, a handsome, dashing pirate kind of guy who was also as dumb as a post.

Which goes to show you that even bookworms know how to get it on.

First Down

Happy first Birthday, Adelaide! The year has gone so fast.

2007

2008


Yesterday, Ellie and Ada and I went to Cici’s for lunch. The girls were munching on pasta and breadsticks while I got drinks and pizza to share. When I sat back down, I distributed drinks (lemonade for Ellie, water for Ada) and handed Ellie her plate of pizza, Ada her homemade quesadilla with chicken, cheddar, and pureed broccoli.

“Ma-ma-ma-ma” she said, “I want pizza.”

I’d rather expected that she would, so I had a piece of sauceless cheese on my plate for her. But seriously. It was the day before her first birthday. "I want pizza?!!" Don't get me wrong, she still sounds like a baby much of the time. Most of her words are very hard to understand out of context. Cat and car both sound a lot like, "cah," for example. Still, Ada's amazing, beautiful, wonderful; it's been a great year.

Yes, a Jewish Carpenter

Ellie's in Sunday School for the first time this year, rather than just childcare while Paul and I are in Sunday School and church. I've been pleased with how smoothly she's made the transition from: church is a place to play to and learn, too. Just like preschool.

I know and trust the teachers, so I'm comfortable that she's unlikely to be learning a lot of theology I'm uncomfortable with. But I admit that I didn't expect her to absorb a lot of it.

Imagine my surprise, then, when Christmas rolled around and she seemed to get it without any prompting from me. First, let me admit that I haven't spent much time at home educating Ellie about the wonders of Santa Claus and his North Pole dwelling, gift giving ways. Nor have I spent much time explaining about Jesus. I know, I know.

"Later," I thought. I'm not sure where to start, and where to stop. Sure, Christmas is the birthday celebration of the baby Jesus, a reasonable concept, but Ellie's very literal. Won't she expect an actual baby? And what do I do in a few months when it's Easter? "Hey, Ellie, remember the baby Jesus? Well, some people really didn't like him when he grew up, and . . ."

"Maybe next year," I thought.

Imagine my surprise, then, when Ellie was very engaged from our first reading of Who Is Coming To Our House? in early December and, on the last page, she answered the question before I could read it:

"Baby Jesus!" she said with great excitement. Except that, with her adorable little Ellie voice, it sounds like, "Baby Jew-zus."

I nearly fell right over. So we have talked quite a bit about him lately. I'm still not sure what I'll say at Easter, though.

Not Quite Freestyle

I love HGTV. I get that it's supposed to be "reality" TV, or at least more so than fictional medical dramas and that sort of thing. For me, however, they're not so different. I watch TV to enjoy a world I wouldn't otherwise inhabit, and, for me, dramas with incredibly good looking vampires are about as realistic as professionally designed spaces.

I have no gift for interior design. Actually, I like a couple of rooms in my house: the front room doesn't look professional, but it's pretty cool with "wet sand" colored walls, black furniture, and bits of art from around the world. Ada's room is straight out of Dr. Seuss. Ellie's garden room is lovely, too. I can do a theme upon occasion, but none of my rooms looks professionally designed.

Currently, I'm confronted with an intimidatingly blank slate. We have a large, finished basement. There are three unfinished parts (laundry room, utility room, shelved storage room) and the rest is finished. There's a good-sized home office, a bedroom, a new bathroom, and the big, open room below the upstairs living room and family room. We just had this whole area painted, all very light, and hope to design and decorate the space so that it becomes, eventually, our main family room.

It's a big, rectangular space, and we have it divided into two parts: playroom and family room. The 30' southern wall has a chair-rail with wooden wainscoting below, all painted to match the upper wall. The shorter western wall has the same design. The long northern wall is partially open to the office and stairs; the rest is lined with built-in shelves for book and toy storage. The short eastern wall has doors to the bathroom, utility room, and storage room.

As you walk down the stairs, at the eastern end of the northern wall, I'd like the space to open out into the playroom, since that's where the taller, deeper shelves for toy storage are located. We have a wonderful wooden indoor slide, and the great wooden kitchen set that Ellie doesn't even know that she got for Christmas yet, since we're waiting until it's all set up to show her . . . and the room just finished being painted a week or two ago; we haven't moved the furniture back yet, let alone set anything up or decorated. It makes sense, then, for the family room area to be at the western end of the room.

What I'd like to see, I think, are big murals above the chair rail of the long southern wall, probably different ones to define the two spaces, with a tall cabinet or something to divide them. We need a new TV, or we will soon be watching the radio instead. I think a wall-mounted, ventless fireplace would be lovely on the short western wall, drawing attention away from the TV. (Did you know that you can get these, in cool-looking copper, for only $200?!) I'd also like to carpet the stairs, replace all the lighting, and get a new ceiling. Oh, and put down a new floor in the laundry room.

All this stuff is reasonably priced individually, but way out of reach when we add it up - especially as we try to crawl out from under Christmas - so we'll be doing it very, very slowly. It's a playroom/family room, but we don't want it to be too cartoony. I've considered "maps" and "libraries" as themes for the two rooms, as well as "sky" and "trees."

But if any of you have some passion for decorating and would like to draw up a design plan for me, I'd love to see it! I'm so stuck. Of course, if you'd like to pay for it, too . . .

Trustee No More

I am thrilled to report that I lost about 20 pounds yesterday. Don't worry about my health: this was a combination of figurative weight loss and non-biological weight, including files and emotional burdens.

On January 19, my three year term as a subdivision trustee finally ended. Wahoo!!!

I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I volunteered. I was just at a meeting, and no one else wanted to do it, and I felt like everyone was looking around waiting for someone to volunteer, so I foolishly piped up.

"How much time is required?"

"Oh, very little! This is a quiet little subdivision; usually there's not much to do."

Inevitably, I volunteered. And it turns out that I sucked as a trustee.

I got nothing in the way of initiation or training as a trustee, so I spent my first year with no responsibilities except to listen to people whine and complain about how tall so-and-so's grass is this week and whether the tarp over the car in that carport is a violation of the restriction indenture. Occasionally I had to write a letter politely asking someone to paint a shed or remove yard waste. That's when I realized that I really don't care about those things, except perhaps in extreme situations.

In my second year things got worse. One of the other two trustees really liked the power and control of being a trustee, I suspect, and was happy to do all the work himself to maintain that control. Fine by me! When his mother died and he sank into a depression, he was unreachable much of the time. This left me with lots of legitimate resident complaints and no clue how to address them. Where's the annual assessment notice? Are we having the subdivision garage sale this year? The trustees of the adjoining neighborhood want payment for shared landscaping expenses. Gah! Clumsily, I began figuring out what needed doing and how I might do it.

In my third year, I was just counting down the days. I knew what to do and was doing it responsibly (mailing out assessment notices, writing and mailing a newsletter, contacting residents and trustees of our plat and the adjoining one about various issues, reminding people about the annual meeting, and so forth) but a new trial was sent for me in the guise of the new trustee, a retired man who has long been very active in subdivision affairs.

This dude seemed to be of the contingent that disparages the young whippersnapper new residents - those of us who aren't the original owners of our 50-year-old homes - and our lazy approach to subdivision trustee-ism (the depressed former trustee is about my age). So from the outset we have a dynamic where I feel like he's judging me and am feeling defensive about my accomplishments and performance. And his wife is sick, which is probably affecting him as well. I try to be sympathetic to that, but it's hard. Here are a couple of sample e-mail exchanges (irrelevant bits removed).

This was one of our very first interactions, sort of a get-to-know-you exercise. He wanted us to contact neighbors and contacts in the county government to follow up on rumors that someone was considering building a fence for which he hadn't personally been contacted for permission:

Sarahlynn: It is my opinion, given the description of the duties of the neighborhood trustees in the subdivision indentures, that it is not the role of the trustees to approve or deny proposed new building projects, as long as said projects do not violate any local building codes or subdivision indentures.

Older Trustee (OT): I think that we can not function effectively as the Board of Trustees under existing conditions. I do not understand our problem. Please tell us how you think we can cooperate. If we fail to continue to serve as Trustees and other homeowners do not volunteer, St. Louis County will appoint a Board of Trustees.

Nearly a year later, this was from one of our last interactions:

OT: My wife is very ill, and I am spending a lot of time with her at doctor's visits and testing labs. I don't know how much time I will have for Trustee functions. {snip} Please tell me the plans for the Annual Meeting.

Sarahlynn: I will be happy to send out the mailing this weekend, so that you can have more time with your wife. The annual meeting will be at the usual date and time, and {Neighbor Name} has offered to host again this year.

OT: Thanks for your kind offer to mail the trash newsletter. {snip boring bit about our waste management contract} I think that all the plans for the Annual Meeting should be discussed jointly by all of the Trustees before you make any decisions about them. We would sincerely like to hear your opinions. You don't seem interested in ours. We may not all agree with your thinking, e.g: date, time, place.

Sarahlynn: The meeting time and date are specified for us in the Restriction Indenture {extremely boring citation}. To date, I have had one subdivision resident volunteer to host the annual meeting at his home. Unless either of you would prefer host, or have been approached by another resident requesting hosting responsibilities, I recommend that we proceed with the resident who has so offered.

Argh. Dealing with this sort of crap was much more tolerable when I got paid for it. It's not very fun to do for free when it's a cause I don't much care about. So, I'm thrilled to be done. And I now know for sure that a career in politics is not for me!

Regardless, I'm done! And, if you actually read that whole, boring post, you can celebrate because you relived the experience with me, and you're done too! Let's eat Rotel cheese dip together!

Why Do We Even Have Cold Medicine?

This is a continuation of my erratic series of posts tackling the really controversial issues in our society. (Note the sarcasm.) Praise God, we're all healthy here right now.

But I really am annoyed about cold medicine. I prefer not to take it, myself. I believe that my body is producing all the excess snot because it's trying to clear out the virus. I believe that if I suffer few a few bad days, I'll be through with the cold sooner. But sometimes that's not an option. Sometimes, I really really just need to sleep or function at a higher level, and I've been known to take a little cold medicine on those occasions.

It's worse with my kids. They don't understand what's going on when they're sick, and they can't force themselves to sleep when they feel awful. Nor can they do some of the things I do to help when I have a bad cold, like sipping on scalding hot water or sucking on sugar free hard candy as I try to fall asleep with a tickle in my throat.

We're so so fortunate that both girls have been healthy this year (knock wood!). But there have been times when Ellie's had such a bad cold that she can't breathe well, such a bad cough that she can't sleep for days and nights at a time.

It's easy for "officials" to say that children don't need cold medicine, but if they don't, do adults? Why are we expecting more of our youngest children than we expect of ourselves? I hope that no one involved in this decision by the FDA allows themselves any OTC cold medicines for the next several years as an act of penance.

I don't care that some studies show little improvement of symptoms with some cold medicines; I know what does work for my child. I know what I can safely give her that will help dry out her nose or quiet her coughing for a few hours so that she can sleep at night.

Because these risks they speak of? When we you really drill down into it, it turns out that the risks are mostly from parents over-dosing their kids. Parents don't realize that there's Tylenol in Tylenol Cold & Cough and double up doses of both. Yeah, that's terrible and dangerous and it sucks.

But the answer isn't to get rid of the medicines! It's better packaging, better education, better front-line training by pediatricians, etc.

Because it's not like removing medicines from the shelves is going to make things better. When parents are exhausted in the middle of the night, some are going to reach for their own cold and cough remedies to help their kids sleep. And that is absolutely not safe.

And if they come around later, trying to take away my Concentrated Infant Motrin Drops (Dye-Free) I'll pop 'em in the nose. You try living with a teething toddler whose pain you know you can sooth with a little droplet of ibuprofen. She looks up at you with this betrayal in her eyes, which are clearly saying, "Why are you doing this to me, Mommy? It hurts! Make it better!" It makes me much more understanding of the grandparents who reminisce about rubbing brandy onto babies' gums.

There's no evidence that these oral drugs actually ease cold symptoms in children so young - some studies suggest they do no good at all. And while serious side effects are fairly rare, they do occur. Indeed, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention last year reported that more than 1,500 babies and toddlers wound up in emergency rooms over a two-year period because of the drugs.

"It's one thing if you're curing cancer, but we're talking about a self-limiting illness," said Sharfstein. "If there's really no evidence of benefit, you don't want to risk the rare problem. Then you're left with tragedy that you can't justify."

. . .

Last October, CBS News correspondent Wyatt Andrews reported that the cold and cough medicine industry admitted that 92 deaths were connected to combination cold medicines - but claimed 79 of them were due to misuse or overdose.

Health groups acknowledge that while low doses of cold medicine don't usually endanger an individual child, the bigger risk is unintentional overdose. For example, the same decongestants, cough suppressants and antihistamines are in multiple products, so using more than one to address different symptoms - or having multiple caregivers administer doses - can quickly add up. Also, children's medicines are supposed to be measured with the dropper or measuring cap that comes with each product, not an inaccurate kitchen teaspoon.

What Year Do You Belong In?

Oh, alas. The Keatons must have done me in.

You Belong in 1983

Wild, over the top, and just a little bit cheesy. You're colorful at night - and successful during the day.

What Year Do You Belong In?

For the record, I was nine.

This Round's On Me

Paul's an elder at our church. For those not familiar with the PCUSA style of government, the similarities between it and the U.S. version of a representative democracy aren't entirely coincidental. Elders are a little bit like senators, and the session committees are where a lot of the work of running a church is handled (Building and Grounds, Mission and Outreach, Finance, Evangelism, Youth and Family, etc.).

Anyway, there was a session meeting tonight and one item for discussion was a change in church policy so that - with prior pastor, business administrator, and clerk of session authorization - wine would be permitted in the church for a specific event. Examples given were for wedding parties and receptions and the occasional formal dinner hosted in the new fellowship hall.

I am very uncomfortable with this, and still trying to put my thoughts in order. What better place to hash them out?

Why am I so opposed, when I am not a teetotaller?

1) People bring alcohol to weddings anyway, of course. I'm sure lots of brides and grooms are swigging from flasks before walking down the aisle. Doing so illicitly feels different to me than doing so with church approbation. In my opinion, marriage is not something to be undertaken with the assistance of "liquid courage." If such is required, perhaps the timing for this marriage is not right? Others' opinions may vary, but should the church be in the business of endorsing that?

2) I am uncomfortable with the role alcohol plays in our society. "Partying" is used synonymously with getting loaded, and is apparently impossible without alcohol (or drugs). Binge drinking is glorified and commonly referenced, just listen in immediately following any college exam or during high school lunchroom discussions.

"I had a rough day; I need a drink," is such a common sentiment that it's unremarkable, except that, when you think about it, it's a little horrifying. Your day was so bad that you need an addictive and mind-altering substance? You need it? Perhaps this is cause for some concern?

A nice dinner isn't a nice dinner without wine, a party isn't a party without cocktails (or a keg, depending on your friends), a celebration just really isn't without the titillating promise of booze.

We don't even use wine with communion at our church. Why do we want to open ourselves up to these sorts of societal and moral, let alone legal concerns? What is gained? What is lost? I don't see the benefit. I can drink pretty much anywhere else; I don't need to do so at church.

I'm not sure I've made any sense of the muddle in my head about this yet, or put my finger on what's really making me uncomfortable. Perhaps your comments will help. So, let me have it!

"Super" Tuesday

The longest primary season ever is nearing its (de facto) close, a mere 9 months before the general election. Groan. This process is so painful! I hope that someone somewhere reads Anna Quindlen's article about making the primary and convention process meaningful again.

Four years ago, I watched every single primary debate. This year, I haven't watched a single one. Burned out. Still. But I do need to know who to vote for on February 5th.

So I was excited when a friend sent me this link to Minnesota Public Radio's Choose Your Candidate quiz. I found it interesting and educational to take, was surprised by my results, and am beginning to get a little more excited about the election now. All good things!

At the very least, my results narrowed down which party's ballot I should request:
Hillary Clinton 26.0
John Edwards 24.0
Barack Obama 24.0
Dennis Kucinich 22.0
. . .
Fred Thompson 1.0
My results were slightly different the second time I took the quiz, though the order was the same. I answered the same way, but weighted my answers slightly differently. This was a very interesting exercise.

While I'm talking about politics, did you all catch the thing about Huckabee's son hanging a dog and then-Gov. Huckabee leaning on police and prosecutors to ignore it? Good.

In My Own Skin

Living with me, I imagine, is a little like living with a cactus. I'm a bit prickly (but really tender inside! juicy delicious!) and it helps to have a thick skin.

Living with Paul is a little like living with someone who's suffered terrible burns over most of his body. Everything hurts, infections c'mon in, and and what's left of his skin is very thin.

This is why we need therapy!

Perhaps what we need instead are regular spa treatments for me (to pluck out all those quills, of course) and, well, therapy for Paul. Heh.

Edited to add: This is not meant to imply that things are going poorly. They're not! I think it's good that we're aware of our issues. I need to remember to be gentler, more considerate with Paul. And he is increasingly able to laugh at himself when he sees that his initial reaction is out of proportion to the situation. Yay, therapy! Also, our therapist has been on medical leave for nearly 2 months and we're beginning to feel the strain a little. Humor helps.

Bucket List

No, not the movie, the St. Louis Bloggers January Carnival. My recent not-cancer freak-out threw this one into bold relief for me:

Sarahlynn's To Do Before I Die List:
1) Watch my kids grown up healthy and happy.
The End.

Since I'm trending a bit contrary, my other would-like-tos include:

• Have my whole house organized, top to bottom, with no Monica Closet. Not even a Monica Drawer. Just once, just for a few minutes, just to see what it feels like.
• Publish a good book, to good reviews and sales.
• Find a miracle cure for my feet so that I can rollerblade again.
• While I'm at it, find a miracle cure for cancer. And world hunger. And so forth.
• Have sex with Taye Diggs and his identical twin brother.

What? What?!

OK, well, I don't like New Year's Resolutions and I don't like Bucket Lists, so I don't play nicely with either. My mind just doesn't naturally think in superlatives like, what's my favorite book/movie/song/color? What do I most want to do before I die?

There's a lot of stuff I want to do before I die. There's a lot of stuff I want to do before Easter. There's a lot of stuff I want to do before bed tonight.

But last Sunday, I did "ask" my Sunday School class make some sort of New Year's Resolutions, because the lesson suggested that we do so.

We Believe that our lives are pieces of God's plan. What can we do in our immediate futures to help imagine our eternal lives in God's presence?

Ah, this exercise I like better. It's far less morbid!

• I can practice saying, "Yes."
  
• And I can stop waiting for the question, looking instead for opportunities to volunteer in ways that make a significant contribution without inspiring me to feel resentful or overwhelmed.
  
• I can continue the practice I began working so hard on last year, involving compassion and understanding.

On these, I've already begun. About these, I already feel hopeful.

And, in the end, I think they're more important and valuable both to me and to others than worrying about when I'll die, or where I'll travel, or even the state of my half-organized basement storage closet.

Note To Self

My doctor doesn't think that I'm dying of cancer.

I went to see him about the mysterious blister on the underside of one of my breasts that doesn't seem to be healing well. When added to the terrible itchiness, brief flirtations with mastitis, and alarmist emails, well . . .

It turns out that I probably have dry skin, irritating nursing bras, and a burn on the underside of one of my breasts from sleeping on a heating pad turned up too high to help with a (normal, typical) clogged duct.

He thinks it's healing fine, and will send me to see someone else if it still looks ugly in a couple more weeks. (It has started healing better over the last couple of days, and the increased pain I think is a good sign of feeling actually returning to the burned area. The only weird thing was that it didn't hurt at the time, probably because I was feverish and sleeping. I am an idiot.) And since my itchy skin is much, much better with the new moisturizer I'm using, I'm inclined to believe him about the cancer.

Whew.

Here's where I went wrong with the doctor's appointment. "I need to find a babysitter; what a pain," I thought when the doctor's first available appointment was at an inconvenient time for Paul to be away from work. Then I remembered, "Hey, I'm in a babysitting co-op!"

I made one call, which didn't immediately pan out perfectly. And I hate the phone and go to great lengths to avoid it.

"Hey, again," I thought. "This is a short visit. I'll just take Ada with me. Everyone will love seeing the baby I was pregnant with this time last year. She can sit on my left knee while the doctor fiddles with my right breast. Much easier!"

See what I mean by great lengths?

This is how it actually played out. I arrived on time (yay!) but neglected to think about the fact that the doctor's practice had split/moved, plus it was a new calendar year, plus we have new insurance. So I had to occupy Ada while filling out a lot of paperwork.

Ada loves books. I packed 7 of her favorites, and she wasn't interested in a single one of them. Of course. So after the paperwork, I spent the next 10 hours (or minutes, whatever) bouncing up and down, singing, dancing, whooshing around the tiny waiting area, letting her touch the doorstop, blinds, magazines, etc.

Finally (after a wait that would have been too brief if it had been just my book and me alone in a chair) I got to go back to an exam room. Well, first I had to be weighed, and the less said about that, the better. The nurse held Ada, who screamed about it.

Then I had to figure out how to unhook my bra while holding a child. (I put her down, natch. Fortunately, she was willing and able to stand next to me.)

Then I held her on my lap, perched on that table we women know all too well, feeding her Goldfish while we waited for the doctor. Who wanted me to lie down for the examination.

Picture this: I am lying back on the exam table, shirt raised and right arm over my head. My left arm is fully extended out in front of me to hold onto Ada's arm. She, meanwhile, is perched on my left knee and is not very fussy or wiggly, thankfully.

But she must have been a little stressed by the experience; she fell asleep in the car on the way home and napped for more than an hour; an unusual experience for my little daytime sleep dieter!

"Self," I thought on the way back out to the car, "Just pick up the doggone phone next time. What sucks in the moment is so very, very worth it in the end."

Also, I'm having a hard time imagining my next annual pap smear (8 weeks from now, but who's counting?) with a baby on my lap.

Savvy Traveler?

I've exposed my ignorance; now it's your turn.

Link courtesy of my wonderful sister and brother-in-law: The Traveler IQ Challenge

I'll show you mine if you show me yours . . .

Warning, it's a little addictive. And surprisingly educational. I don't think I'll ever misplace Malaysia again.

On a completely unrelated note, Ada learned to kiss today. "Say goodnight to Daddy, Ada."

"Mmmmmm-ah!" she says, pressing her lips - pushed together into a flat line - against his cheek. This was funny and therefore much repeated, until it became a painful experience involving her many teeth. But still: funny! adorable!

Now, go tell me how smart you were on your first trip through the geo-quiz.

Baby Talk

Ada's focused on walking right now. She gets this intense and excited look on her face, then rushing stumble walks over to you, never breaking eye contact. She laughs and laughs.

This is really saying something, given that my poor baby has been a CRANKY girl for these last several weeks, gums swollen and bleeding as 4 molars and 4 eyeteeth try to break free at once. By the time she turns one in a few weeks, she might have all of her baby teeth. A long break before the 2-year-old molars would be nice for all of us.


Ada's increasingly comfortable taking 3-5 steps between things. Any further distance, and she attempts to map out a cruising route. Failing that, or in a big hurry, she just drops down and speed-crawls, which is the most adorable thing ever. I will be sad when this stage is over (not the teething part!).

When I say that Ada talks, it's hard to give an accurate reflection of what that means. Let me try a little harder. Ada babbles a lot, like many babies do. I love her fast angry babble, "Gah!Gah!Gah!Bla!Buh!NaNaNaNak!" There's her happy, keep-holding-my-hands-I-love-walking babble, which sounds like a little piece of song. And there's her singing itself, which transitions us into Ada's speech.

Ada labels things correctly, a scary lot of the time. She was 8 months old when her Uncle Rob said, "Quack!" across the room and she said, "Duck." By that time, she'd already been telling us some things (Mama, Dada, Wawa, etc.) for quite a while.

Lately, we might be reading a book that is not about teddy bears or kitty cats but if she sees a teddy bear or kitty cat in an illustration, she'll point it out and name it. I couldn't begin to list all of her words, partly because it's only gradually that I realize what they are. She's hard to understand a lot of the time - she's 11 months old! - but I suspect that quite a lot of her babbling sounds are actual words. And that it pisses her off that I don't recognize them.

Unlike her big sister, Ada's very much a schedule girl. If I don't have her in bed by 7:00, I'm likely to see quite a bit of this sort of thing:


She still nurses. She's very clear about what she does and does not want to eat at mealtime, though "Chezzo" (Cheerios) is one of the few foods she asks for by name. She loves to pinch my nose until I honk. She loves to say, "eye" and poke finger into her own, and then mine. She ate beef stew for dinner Saturday night, with a biscuit, just like her big sister, her parents, and her godmother. The next night was the "meatloaf" and "mashed potatoes." Tonight we all had cheeseburgers (with zucchini and mushrooms on whole grain) and baked sweet potato "fries." She eats some jars of food for convenience and nutrition, but at dinnertime she eats what we eat and loves it.

She does some of this:

And this:




Hopefully these pictures have have brightened your January Tuesday a little, just as their subject brightens mine.

Subluxation

Two parenting moments for today.

First, Ellie developed nursemaid's elbow again, which is another story for quite another forum. As usual, I tried to make her comfortable in bed, this time with Finding Nemo on the portable DVD player by her head. But when Paul had finished preparing a Deceptively Delicious dinner of meatloaf (with pureed carrots) and mashed potatoes (with pureed cauliflower) I wanted Ellie to be up and about in order to share it with us.

Nursemaid's elbow usually reduces on its own, and if it doesn't, or if she seems to be in a lot of pain, I take her to the pediatrician for a quick reduction. Today, she wasn't crying, so we were waiting it out to see if it resolved itself before bedtime. Then I decided that I could probably do it on my own. I am, after all, a formerly certified E.M.T.. So I supported her elbow with my left hand and pulled gently on her wrist, rotating just slightly, and, "pop!" Immediate use of the arm again. I am SuperMom! It felt amazing, and now I understand why Ellie's pediatrician says that reducing nursemaid's elbow is one of her favorite parts of her job.

Later this evening, both girls were playing happily together, on their own, and with us, in Ellie's room, in Ada's room, in our room, in the hallway, in the family room, in the living room, etc. At one point, they decided that they wanted baby bottles with water in them. Don't ask me, I'm just the mama. They had great fun with these silly toys (neither of my girls would drink from bottles) and at one point, Ada was holding her bottle above her head with an out-stretched arm as though it were an Oscar.

Ellie leaned over and clunked her bottle against Ada's. "Cheers!" she said. Where did she get that?

So adorable.



Christmas Eve, at my dad's church

Gee, Thanks

I understand why people made this video, and why others send it around. But, man, do I ever wish I hadn't gotten this particular "send it to all the women you love!" email a few months ago.

I'm talking about inflammatory breast cancer, Google at your own risk.

Bottom line: if I suspect that I'll be dead before next Christmas, is that making me a better, happier person, spouse, or parent right now? Answer: As it turns out, NO.

And, yet, oh the panicky hours and many late nights I've spent quietly freaking out about this.

In my opinion, the target audience for this sort of piece should be primary care physicians and other front-line health care practitioners. So at my next well woman check up, if I tell my doctor that my left breast itches like crazy and my right breast has its own issues (two bouts of clogged duct/mastitis in the past six months of nursing, one experience sleeping on a hot pad and getting a terrible blister that looks disgusting and is not healing well) my doctor will know if I need further tests or not.

See, this is a type of breast cancer that forms in "sheets" and produces no lumps visible via standard imaging technology (including mammograms). The only way to really test and diagnose is a biopsy, which can be painful, disfiguring, and incompatible with breastfeeding - not a step to be taken lightly. Speaking of breastfeeding, this is a type of cancer that's apparently not deterred by pregnancy or breastfeeding. And it can strike young women as easily as older women. Oh, and it's usually fatal. Very aggressive, fast-moving, etc. Until recently, the mortality rate was 100%. The current treatment involves a very aggressive regimen of surgery, chemo, radiation, more chemo . . . and that only gives you a 40% chance of being alive in a couple of years. So, yeah.

This is, apparently, a rare type of breast cancer. One site I saw said that 1% of all diagnosed breast cancers is inflammatory breast cancer. Do you know how many women are diagnosed with breast cancer? Unbelievably high numbers. So 1% is still a lot of women. And "rare" means something different to me, a woman who had a baby with Down syndrome while still in her 20's, a woman whose younger sister had a malignant brain tumor. "Rare" translates into "targeted for Sarahlynn" to me.

Still, I'm not usually freaked out by these sorts of emails. Except that breasts simply don't behave normally while breastfeeding (weird lumps, strange sensations, itchiness possibly explained by the ring-around-the-boob fit of nursing bras) so I seem to be exhibiting almost every advertised symptom.

I don't want to die. The thing that paralyzes me? The thought of not being around for my babies as they grow up. Man, I love those kids, and as imperfect as I am as a mother, I know in my bones that they're better off with me than without me.

So, please.

Next time you get one of these horrifying DON'T GET RAPED! or HEALTH RISK YOU SHOULD BE AWARE OF! or YOUR MICROWAVE WILL KILL YOU! SEND THIS TO ALL THE WOMEN YOU LOVE! emails, please wait a moment before hitting "forward."

First go to Snopes.com; check it out.

Then, once you've determined that it's real, think about it for a moment. Will sending this really make the recipients safer? Healthier? Happier? Or will it just freak them out needlessly?

Then reply with a big "fuck you" to your book club friend's mom's great aunt who sent it to you, and hit "delete."

2007 In Words, out of context

First sentence of the first post of every month of 2007:

January: This is the first sentence of the first post of the month thing.
February: Post retracted by request.
March: I've been writing a lot about Adelaide, but there's so much to say about Eleanor too.
April: I was tagged, so I'm slipping this in right before Monday becomes Tuesday.
May: Quick update on my way to bed.
June: My day can be summed up like this:
Today was the first day of Ellie's summer vacation from preschool, and it rained.
July: Wow oh wow oh wow.
August: School starts in about a week, and I'm looking forward to it.
September: Recently, I wrote about what Ada's been up to lately.
October: For the past couple of months, I've been seeing red and white signs around Kirkwood:
Protect Historic Kirkwood
Preserve Our National Historic District
Don't Buy 407 E Argonne (now removed due to threatened legal action)
Taller Than Allowed Downtown?!?
Please Build It Lower!
and so forth
I find myself oddly on the other side of this issue.
November: Yo yo yo, it's NaNoWriMo; here we go!
December: I can't blog right now!

In titles:

January: 2006 In Review
February: Back to Draft
March: I Love Ellie
April: Magical Moment Monday
May: The House is Neat, Finally
June: I Don't Get Enough Sleep
July: Close
August: Summer Vacation
September: Literalist
October: Protect Historic Kirkwood! Or Not
November: Write On!
December: It's Time for Christmas Letters

2006

Oh, for heaven's sake. I'm boring myself. Next year, I'll change it up and pick random and interesting posts rather than just the first post for each month. Bob forbid I actually quit this tradition!

Big, Fun, Scary

This is a follow-up to NaNoWriMo. The challenge is to take on one big, fun, or scary goal for 2008. You know, sort of exactly like a New Year's Resolution. Which I don't do. But.

Why not?

Big: Weigh less than my (stunning if I do say so myself) Y2K weight by Christmas

Fun: Cruise the Inner Passage, go to Disney World, and spend a long, hot, child-free weekend in Mexico

Scary: swim cage-free with sharks

No, really:

Big: Limit gorging and resume regular workouts (notice how this is not a SMART goal, but I'll know and that's all that matters)

Fun: go on at least one date per month, and therapy sessions do not count

Scary: Submit at least 2 magazine articles to editors and at least 5 novel query letters to agents.

Merry Christmas!

Mini-Poll: If you celebrate Christmas, when do you decorate? When do you take it all down?

I decorate whenever it's convenient, though always during Advent. I undecorate when it's convenient too, though I try to do it around Epiphany, 12th Night, the 12th Day of Christmas, January 6th, the day we celebrate the arrival of the three wise men with gifts for the infant Christ. Last year everything came down early because we were sure that Adelaide's arrival was imminent. We were, of course, quite wrong.

The first hurdle for me is removing all the autumn decorations and cleaning the house (straightening and dusting). Then we decorate all together as a family with carols on the stereo and eggnog in our cups. Well, that part's just for Ellie and me. And really Paul hangs most of the ornaments on the tree. I unwrap them and hand them to him or Ellie. Ellie takes what she wants and runs around the house with it, excited about all the new stuff. Ada just watches and plays with the wrapping paper at this point.

My mother's parents decorated on Christmas Eve, so that when she and her brothers came downstairs on Christmas morning, the newly installed tree was part of the big reveal.

We had a good Christmas this year, and a lovely visit with my family at my parents' house. We won't see Paul's family this year, which does suck, and all their gifts (so many!) are still piled under our tree. Maybe we'll dive into the pile this weekend, or maybe we'll celebrate on New Year's Day. Why not? It's a holiday and the tree will still be up!

Ellie was very excited about Christmas this year, lighting candles on the advent wreathe she made in Sunday School, opening doors in her advent calendar, talking about baby Jesus, and watching Shrek the Halls daily throughout December. I'm not entirely sure that she's differentiating between Eddie Murphy's Dreamworks character and Mary's transportation into Bethlehem, but more's the fun, right? I mean, don't you think Eddie Murphy's Donkey would be an excellent addition to the nativity?

Unfortunately, she was very sick on Christmas Day. I was really worried about her. She wasn't having GI issues, and she wasn't running a fever. She was, however, completely uninterested in food, touch, or interaction, and she was terribly lethargic. Just when we were about to start loading up the van on the morning of the 26th to drive back down to see her doctor, if not go directly to Children's Hospital, suddenly pink flowed back into her cheeks and lips, and she ate a little breakfast. She's a little whiny but otherwise back to normal now, and we're keeping an eye on her. Both girls and I are congested, but what could cause such a strange illness? I'm still clueless.

I had a little bout of illness myself; on Saturday night I developed mastitis. That afternoon, my breast started hurting. I just figured that someone had been a little too rough with it; my breasts are community property after all. But by dinner time it was hurting worse, and by the time our friends left that night, I was running a fever, shaking and miserable, and my breast was throbbingly sore.

I woke up Ada and had her nurse for an hour, then took some Tylenol (should have been Ibuprofen for its anti-inflammatory effects; I switched over in the morning after my fever was decreased enough to allow internet research) and went to bed, sleeping with my breast on an electric hot pad. Set too high.

My nursing shirt must have slipped open, because I have an impressive blister on the underside of my breast, which I didn't notice for a couple of days until Paul pointed it out to me. I didn't even feel it, because my breast was so sore. But it was worth it; the treatment (ibuprofen, frequent nursing, self-breast-massage, and heat) worked: my fever never broke 101 and I didn't need to go to the doctor or get antibiotics. Hooray for my body!

Other than that, we're all tired, happy to be home, and ready for a little rest. I was thinking that if I had the sort of blog where I assigned nicknames to my family members, I'd call Paul Major Whiny. Or, maybe, Captain Passive-Aggressive. But then I realized that he could probably just call me "Ms. Pot" (as in, calling the kettle black).

Exposing My Ignorance

How does it work in political systems that have both a prime minister and a president? I understand the parliamentary system and how a prime minister is elected (at least in Great Britain), but how does a president fit in? What's the division of authority? Is it a little like having both a president and a CEO at a company? Actually, I find that a bit confusing, too. Do you have any suggestions for places to go do quick-and-very-easy research?

I am also lacking in hiring babysitter smarts.

I keep not thinking about New Year's Eve, because it's still so far in the future. It's after Christmas, after all, and that's unimaginably far away. Except that it's not. And our usual 13-year-old has all-night plans.

We don't have enough youth sitters. Finding kids you like and know and trust enough is hard, when your own kids are so much younger and most of the families you know well have children the same age as your own.

Also, the window for being a good sitter is so small. You're too young and possibly afraid of the dark or not allowed out after 9:00, and then suddenly you can drive and you're in drama club and you're way too cool for babysitting on Saturday nights. The 3-4 year window goes by so fast, and most people agree that younger is mostly better; younger kids are eager to impress, harder-working, less concerned with appearances. And less likely to bring over their boyfriends.

But I think our New Year's Eve job would be a pretty cool gig for some 12-year-old girl. We'll be going out after the kids are asleep, so if all goes according to plan, she won't have to actually do anything. She can just hang out here with a girlfriend, eating snacks, watching movies, and drinking sparkling grape juice while ringing in the new year. There's the fun of being away from home, the beauty of eating someone else's food and getting paid for it, and no real work! What's not to love?

Maybe I'll skip teaching Sunday School on Sunday in favor of hanging out in the Middle School classroom and looking for the kids who don't look quite cool enough to have been invited to all-night parties yet.

Any tips?

And the Girls Met Santa and All Was Good

I miss writing. I love December, but things are pretty uncreative around here if I'm not even finding the time to blog!

The silver lining is that January is usually cold and dark and depressing; the excitement of the holiday season is over and there's nothing immediate to look forward to. By "holiday season," I mean September through December, including my birthday, Ellie's birthday, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Advent, Christmas, and New Year's Eve. What's not to love?!

Wait, I forgot the lining. After all that excitement, January is a bit of a let-down. But this year I can promise myself that, amidst all the exercising I'll be doing, I will also be taking time to WRITE again, which makes me feel happy and good in ways that nothing else really touches.

So, yay for January!

In the meantime, here's a writer joke.

A linguistics professor was lecturing to his English class one day. "In English," he said, "a double negative forms a positive. In some languages, though, such as Russian, a double negative is still a negative. However, there is no language wherein a double positive can form a negative."

A voice from the back of the room piped up, "Yeah, right."

It's Catching Up With Me

This morning, I fell asleep sitting up. Holding Ada. Fortunately, I am good at this and neither of us was injured. I did have a weird dream, though.

Too many weeks of insufficient sleep have rendered me semi-human. And ah haf uh code. I've got a Kleenex affixed to my nostrils as I type this, which I'm sure you're glad to know. Worse, Ellie's got a little congestion too and Ada has that face-like-a-glazed-doughnut thing going on. Sorry to all we've germed upon. No one seems sick, though, just snotty.

Our open house was Sunday, and I think it went well. I was surprised that about 40 people showed up, given the weather and timing. Hopefully, many of them had fun! I found it humorous that most of our younger friends came and went early, and the last people here were some of our older friends. By older I mean our parents' age, so older than us, but very young-at-heart. Which was fun. And fie upon those of you who came, dropped your white elephant gifts, and left again without taking one of ours! On a related note, would anyone like a pizzelle maker?

My Christmas shopping is done (!) and we're addressing Christmas cards tonight; we're trying to pare the list way back this year and we've cut to 86 families, though that number will increase as we reply to cards we receive this week and next. Hopefully, soon we'll be able to sit in front of the TV and wrap more presents. It's nice to have the pressure off: the shopping's done, the open house is over, the cards are nearly ready to mail, the house is clean and decorated, there are cookies everywhere.

What am I forgetting?

Family of Origin

I am very close to my family. My parents are still married, and my grandparents were married, too, until, one-by-one, they each died. That sounds confusing. But I don't mean that my grandparents were in an unusual 4-way marriage. I think you know what I mean. Moving right along. I have two younger sisters.

We have each had our personal problems, of course. But up until relatively recently, I would have told you that as a family, we were pretty much perfect. Growing up, we had family game nights, and we still do. We had family bike rides, all in our matching helmets. (Oh, how I hated that. No one wore helmets back then.) We still go on family walks when we get together at the holidays, each sub-family - all three girls are married now - with its own dog loping alongside.

After I had Ellie, and she was so sick, and things were hard, I began to turn inward. Gradually, I began to define "family" as Paul and Ellie, and define "home" as St. Louis rather than my parents' family, my parents' house.

Perhaps I began this process when my mother insisted that we come to their house for Christmas that first year, when Ellie was 2 months old, had been diagnosed with failure to thrive, and had heart surgery scheduled for a couple of weeks after Christmas. Our house was clean and decorated - we hosted family for her baptism a few days after Christmas - but my mother wanted us to drive 300 miles with that sick little baby, through the snow, to her house for Christmas. In retrospect, I can't believe that we did it, but at that time, not having Christmas with my family seemed inconceivable.

Over time, I've begun to feel uncomfortable with other things about my relationship with my family, specifically about the role I play.

When we go to visit my parents, it's hard not to be lazy, to feel like it's a vacation and surely someone else can take care of . . . the cooking, the dishes, whatever. (Exception: the kids. I never expect someone else to change diapers, help Ellie onto the potty, or watch the girls, unless they offer. The girls are my - and Paul's - personal responsibility just like going to the bathroom and showering myself are my responsibilities, iykwim. Baseline expectation of myself: basic hygiene and taking care of my children. Though I do expect my family to want to spend time playing with my girls. After all, they don't get to see them every month.)

It's also hard not to fall back into the predictable patterns of interaction, especially when people are treating me like they expect me to react the way I used to. You know, when I was a kid. This is uncomfortable, because I'm not a kid, and I don't want to be the kid I was.

I also don't like the specific part I've been assigned. People like to do things; we all reflect back happily on fun things we've done as a family, and some people complain if we sit around and do nothing, but getting the large group of easily distractable people to mobilize in concert is a Herculean (or Sisyphean) task.

I am the cheerleader, the ringleader, the bossy first child, the A-type personality, the boss. Just roll your eyes and follow along, folks.

If I don't start the conversation and marshall it along, the conversation often does not happen. I'm not just talking about which movie we should see on a Friday night, I'm also talking about which dates everyone is planning to be there, so that we can adjust work schedules and overlap our visits to my parents' house. So it's chaos and last minute scrambling and lots of time just sitting.

And it's become a family joke that Sarahlynn always wants to play board games. Of course, everyone likes playing games, and they frequently play even when I'm not there to suggest it.

But when I'm around, it's done with a let's-humor-Sarahlynn attitude, because that's my role. I don't like that role. I don't like being cast as the one who wants, who needs, the family and its corny-but-fun activities more than everyone else. It makes me feel like the worst parts of being a very young teenager again, with the seeking to belong, the fear of rejection.

It's not like all these issues are new. Some of them have been around for a long, long time; I've just been denying them. One summer, when I was home on break from university, my middle sister kept her diary on my computer. She didn't bother to password protect it; she just typed out her thoughts and plans and frustrations into my keyboard all summer. "I hate Sarah," she wrote. "She's such an ugly fat pig." And so on.

Over Thanksgiving, I overheard her talking to my mother. (When will they realize that I have always had very good hearing?) "Sarahlynn is acting just like she did back in high school," MiddleSis said. "She's totally . .. blah blah blah." I don't choose to remember it anymore; it was ugly. Also untrue.

So I decided to leave that afternoon and come back to St. Louis early. (That wasn't the only reason; there were lots of good reasons to come back here on Saturday, rather than Sunday, and we were all glad for the extra night's sleep in our own rooms, the extra day's rest at home before Monday.) In the car, on the way home, Paul and I talked a lot about what happened, and the ways in which being with our families can be stressful. The end result is that we can't and don't expect anyone else to change, and that we're all imperfect people. We can only monitor our responses and adjust our expectations. Hopefully, the Christmas visit will go more smoothly.

It seems that, perhaps, my picture-perfect family never really has been so picture perfect underneath, no matter how much I wanted that to be so, and believed that it was so. Here I am, in my 30's, surprised that we're an ordinary family with ordinary problems, after all.

Papa's Got a Brand New Bag

Well, not yet, he doesn't. But he wants one. See, I wasn't kidding a few days ago when I threatened to write about Paul's Christmas present.

Christmas 1997. I was making $8.81 an hour as an editorial assistant, and my student loan payments had just kicked in - I was 6 months past college graduation.

It was my first Christmas with Paul; we'd been together 11 months. I knew that he wanted a nice bag to carry to class and work, an over-the-shoulder bag rather than a backpack.

I spent what was, for me at the time, a lot of money at L.L. Bean or Land's End - I always get those two confused - and got Paul a great, personalized, leather-trimmed bag. He was suspicious and I believe in the importance of surprise, so I wrapped in a long, flat package along with several of my big college textbooks, but he knew what it was before he opened it, anyway. Disappointing. But he did like the bag and used it.

More disappointing was the fact that some months later, his parents got him a more expensive, all leather bag and he never used mine again.

This year he wants a new laptop bag, and he wants a backpack this time (after all, he's been carrying an over-the-shoulder bag for 10 years now). No problem, right? I'll tell his parents and they can get him a very nice new bag.

But no.

Paul wants me to get the bag for him, presumably to make up for ditching my last bag in favor of a nicer one from his parents. Sigh. You mean I'm going to have to let this go? After all these years?

Alas. I've looked around online a little but not fallen in love with any non-bulky laptop backpacks. Any suggestions? Do any of you have one that you love?

It's Our Fault, You Know

Why do so many toddlers live on french fries, cheese, pizza, pasta, and chicken fingers? It's seen as such an inevitable part of growing up, but it really doesn't have to be.

It's because we parents are lazy, we're weak, we confuse food with love, we confuse giving our children what they say they want with giving our children what they need, what will really make them happy.

Ellie has long been an unusually good eater. She didn't discover cheeseburgers and french fries until she was 3-1/2 (a feat that's practically unheard of amongst her peers). She still doesn't eat chicken fingers or toasted ravioli, though she really does love pizza and pasta these days. Fortunately, she still eats other things as well. She likes corn, she loves spinach souffle, and when I make crock-pot-roast, she'll eat the mushrooms and carrots all night long.

But I have become lazy. I've started feeding her foods that are easy to purchase, store, and prepare. I've started feeding her the foods that I like to eat rather than the foods that are best for her. Heating up a Lean Pocket for lunch is easier than, well, just about anything else, even a sandwich with healthful sides.

When Ellie started preschool, she was 15 months old and not yet walking. Later that year, she did learn to walk, but would plop down onto the ground whenever she got tired, no matter where she was, and her teachers were always trying to cajole her into walking a little further. Eventually, they hit upon broccoli bribery.

"Ellie, if you walk all the way back to the classroom on your own, we'll give you some broccoli!"

"K!"

When Ellie was little, she loved purees (which Paul made for her from fresh, organic vegetables and fruits). Now she's slightly interested in them again as I feed them to Ada, and that's OK with me. Alas, poor Ada gets store-bought purees, which she frequently declines to eat, favoring whatever we're having, and I don't blame her one bit. Such is the plight of the second child.

But I'll feed my girls pureed vegetables until they're 18, if they'll accept them, or add them to their quesadillas, pizzas, and soups, as well as continuing to offer fresh fruits and veggies with meals. Keeping and preparing fresh fruits and vegetables is harder, of course, as fresh foods tend to spoil quickly, which is why we drift into "easier" patterns over time.

At least the girls are getting important nutrients on my lazy days, even if they're not developing the best eating habits. (Puzzler: how to convince a child who can't stand the texture of raw vegetables to eat them? Or the slime of fruit?)

But let's not look too far from home when looking for causes in today's obesity epidemic. Our toddlers, preschoolers, and elementary school children are not so affected by commercials that they're driving themselves to McDonald's and buying their own junk food.

We're the parents. We stock the pantries, we drive the cars, we control the money, we should be monitoring the television. It's our fault.

Glamorous Vacation

I had some dental work done yesterday, the kind that involved 8 injections and some intimate time with a drill. Some of you might recall that I am a bit phobic about the dentist.

Don't feel too sorry for me, though; I only felt the first 3 shots in their full glory, despite the topical numbing agent. I didn't feel the next two at all, and the last three were but mere pinches. In my gums. And only the second filling got contaminated by those bleeding gums, requiring redrilling and touch-up work. So today my jaw is still sore from tensing it so hard while keeping my mouth wide open for two hours.

But I digress a little.

While waiting for the anesthesia to take effect, I managed to read the first three chapters of my new novel. Well, not my new novel, but you get the idea. I didn't have spend that time worrying about the baby, since Paul took the day off and stayed home with her.

And, for me, I was unusually relaxed. My fingernails didn't even draw blood while clenching into the opposite hand in my good luck squeeze position.

Even the dentist noticed.

"You know, I see some mothers of young children who say that it's actually a bit of a relaxing break to sit here and have a cavity drilled. It's funny that anyone enjoys this."

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that was it. Sure, I was enduring one of my least favorite activities in the world, but, hey, I got a morning off!

And then Paul, the girls, and I all went out to lunch together, where I realized that I couldn't even slup water neatly, though I did manage my milkshake nicely, thankyouverymuch.

Here, Fishy Fishy

Silly face:

Ada's a little scary. She's 10 months old. She talks some, uses some sign, looks very serious and wise, and seems to understand things that she should not. Like when she was 8 months old and someone across the room said, "Quack," and she replied, "Duck." And like yesterday, when she pointed to a picture of herself on the computer (actually, just a picture of her head - alongside her sister's, cousin's, and cousin-dog's, but she pointed to herself - atop an elf's dancing body) saying her name over and over. And like today, when she was happily chewing on a teething toy and occasionally holding it out to me, for my inspection.

"Ada, you've got a fish! Does it taste good?"

She looked at me like I was a little nuts, then crawled over to the fish tank and held her fish-shaped teether against the glass for a while.

I don't quite know what to do with this child, so I'm just enjoying her.

And her big sister, too, though I jinxed things by posting that I couldn't remember Ellie's last potty accident, prompting one accident a day for 4 days in a row. Whew.


Ada also plays "Where's Ada's nose? Mommy's nose? Where are Ada's eyes?" etc. I assume that's normal for this age. I'm really enjoying not knowing, not worrying, this time around. Ellie broke her brief cycle of daily accidents by initiating an entire potty cycle by herself and not telling me about it until afterward, including taking off her naptime pull-up and throwing it away. Amazing.

Huh. That's not what I was going to write about at all. This was going to be all about Paul's Christmas present this year. Guess you'll have to wait a little longer, honey.

Christmas To-Do List

I love this time of year, but I'm also (always) a bit overwhelmed by it.

Chopping down the tree
Writing Christmas letters
Christmas pictures/cards
Assembling and addressing, etc.
Cooking, baking, cooking, baking
Cleaning the house
Decorating the house and tree
Favors for the open house
Shopping for the open house
Preparing for the open house
THE OPEN HOUSE
Parties to attend, Secret Santa surprises to coordinate
Advent lessons to prepare
Christmas shopping
Wrapping
Mailing
Packing
Traveling

I'm doing a lot of this in my own way. We have the picture (just the girls, this year) and are close to ordering the photo cards. I'm working on the letter, which we will fold into envelopes with the photo cards. Paul will do the addressing, etc. I like the idea of homemade cards, but that's just not feasible. How many end-of-year/Christmas/holiday cards do you send? We send 100. I've cut way back to get to 100, and have experienced squawking when I tried to cut further. So no new friends can get cards until older friends die. Sorry. 100 is the limit. Because I'm married to Paul, we have a fancy database that coordinates all of this. How on earth do people do this with paper and pen address books?!

I am working on Christmas shopping. I have a grid listing each person for whom we need a gift, with a column for gift ideas and another column for actual gift purchased. Some of these I delegate out to Paul, often with a suggestion, but request that he actually do the shopping. Mostly, I love Christmas shopping. But it's sometimes a little overwhelming, too, especially this year when I started late. Oops.

We have the tree hanging out in a bucket of water in the car port. I should be cleaning the house right now, but I'm not very motivated because everyone went to bed early tonight, and so my night feels . . . unstructured.

For our open house party favors last year, we created a CD of some of our favorite Christmas, winter, and Hanukkah music, complete with personalized labels. I don't want to do that again this year, but am at a loss for what to do. I thought of personalized cocoa packets, but Paul thought that maybe that's not lasting enough. Hmm. Suggestions?

I should go to bed, I suppose. I have an early morning appointment with a dentist's drill. Ah, a crying, teething baby. Perhaps I'll go tend to her, instead.

It's Time for Christmas Letters

I can't blog right now! I'm writing our family Christmas letter! This year, again, I can't bring myself to write neat paragraphs describing our year. (Sarahlynn likes to read. Paul has a new job. Ellie is cute. Ada was born! The end.) So I searched around online, and I'm trying to write a menu that describes our year, as though we're a restaurant.

For example:

Entrees
Haggis, served family style (we took a 10-day family vacation to Scotland in June)

And so forth.

Do you know that some people think that writing longer things takes more time? Unless we're talking about a novel vs. a postcard, I find the opposite to be true. It's hard, very hard for me to edit, refine, pare down, keep the meaning without all the words. Words, words, words are easy.