I lured Zorak into proof-reading for me last night. It was painful, for both of us. But he's such a trooper, and I really appreciate him for going that extra ten thousand miles for me. Anyway, by the time all was said and done, we were too tired to gather the trash before bed. But our trash men are shockingly punctual, and when they recommend you have your trash out by six o'clock Tuesday morning, they mean it.
Of course, we live amongst the raccoons and stray dogs and other country varmints, so you can't just haul it to the road before bed. Well, you could... but, ew. (We know about the boxes. We'll make one. Eventually. The work on the property just hasn't radiated all the way out to the road yet.) So, we usually just gather it Monday night before bed and then Zorak trails it to the road as he leaves for work in the morning.
This morning, I got up and stumbled around gathering trash while he asked me questions, as if I were awake. "Have you seen my belt?" Honey, I love you, but I haven't seen anything other than the lower half of my right eyelid since I rolled out of bed. I'm gathering the trash on pure radar. Let's just pretend I'm not actually up, and go from there, shall we? (We did find another belt, though I have no clue, even now, with three cups of coffee under me, where his usual one went. I probably did it, but I don't know what I did. Or where.)
I stumbled back toward the hallway, bounced off the arm of the couch (that's my radar at work), and heard a giggle. Huh? James was up already. Smidge was up already. Look at them, there, all curled up and chipper.
Do y'all know it's still dark out?
...You do?
...And that doesn't mean anything to you?
Oh... I'm not going back to bed, am I?
And so, we've gone non-stop since whenever that was. I thought for sure it was time for lunch and a nap, only to check the time and see that it's only 9:30. Theoretically, we should be quite productive today. ;-)
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Tuesday, March 27
Monday, March 26
A tulip?
You tell me. I have no clue.
Other than that, school, composting, books (oh, I've GOT to blog about the books!), ball practice. Pictures Thursday. John gets to wear his whole uniform. He thinks it's almost as good as Christmas.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Other than that, school, composting, books (oh, I've GOT to blog about the books!), ball practice. Pictures Thursday. John gets to wear his whole uniform. He thinks it's almost as good as Christmas.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Sunday, March 25
Hi.
You get no title, but I'll post pictures. :-) I got up at some unholy hour the other day and figured I'd just run with it, so when the sun began to rise, I grabbed my coffee and camera and went out to take pictures. By the time I stopped wandering about like a lost child in Wonderland, the sun was pretty well up. Oh, well, it was still nice to just be there, in the quiet, the beautiful, sparkling, dewy quiet of it all.
Zorak wasn't feeling well when he went to bed last night, but I figured it was just allergies. (OK, posting flower pictures alongside an illness post, when the flowers aren't in a bedside vase, seems a little wrong. Poor post planning. Sorry 'bout that.) Anyway, he figured it was too much sun. Either way, no biggie. Then he slept pretty late this morning, and when Me-Wa called to see about going fishing, he wasn't up for it. I started to ask why, but then I looked up to see him sitting on a barstool, phone dangling from his hand, just sort of staring at the counter speckles and weaving back and forth. hooboy. That's one sick Daddy. He went back to bed and hasn't moved all day, save for two brief attempts to eat. Oh, and I'd slip in every few hours to rotate his pillows and get him to sip some water, but he didn't ever really wake up for that. He is SO sick, and so out of it. No fever, just chills, sweating, and total lethargy. I'm terrified to google those specific symptoms, but if he's still like this tomorrow, I plan to drag him to the doctor. At least on the upside, he'll be too weak and exhausted to kick and scream. 8^O
In other news, we are inundated with blooms and buds! The dogwoods and redbuds are all in full bloom, and it's BEAUTIFUL here! We have a lone flower in bloom, down among the bulbs, too. I thought it was a tulip, but the boys checked it out and said they don't think it's a tulip. It does look a little more starry-shaped than tulip-shaped. We'll have to post a photo, though. Whatever it is, it's the kind of flower that makes people say and do silly things in response to it.
Speaking of silly things, I've turned into "that woman". You know, the neophyte gardener, who is just beginning to get a feel for it. Or, as Zorak put it the other day on the drive into town, "Plants have become your Gamecube, you know." (I believe this was after the ninth or tenth time since leaving the property that I pointed and exclaimed, "OH, would you LOOK at THAT tree!" Um, yeah, we live in the south. There's more foliage here than probably anywhere else this side of Cambodia. Pleasant drive for him, I'm sure.) But it's fun, and it's wonderful, and I am *finally* beginning to understand how people can tell the difference between things like bulbs and ivies! It's much, much easier when you live among them, and can get to know them. Delightful!
Surprise!
Our digital camera doesn't take very good video, and I think our memory card is about to go t-u on us because the audio/video is out of synch. But we just couldn't resist trying to capture EmBaby's singing on video. She stopped singing the second the camera came out, and this is what we got, instead: her surprised look.
Oh, and that's Smidge in the background, singing "Mango", which you can find and then embed in your head, too, simply by clicking, here. That's also what EmBaby was singing, until it was time for her close-up.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Oh, and that's Smidge in the background, singing "Mango", which you can find and then embed in your head, too, simply by clicking, here. That's also what EmBaby was singing, until it was time for her close-up.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Friday, March 23
What are you bad at?
That's what the boys asked me today. The actual question was, "What do you enjoy doing that you're *really* bad at? And I don't mean, just *not good*, but truly awful."
Uh...
Well, there's a lot I'm just not good at. Some of it I do enjoy, anyway. Some of it, not so much.
But something I'm really bad at and still enjoy?
That would have to be singing. I've been asked not to participate in church choirs, recommended for transfer from school choir to another elective, and all four of my children have screamed like they're being eaten alive when I've tried to sing them to sleep. I think that probably ranks right up there in the "truly awful" category.
But, oh, how I love to sing!
That got me thinking, though. How do we view the enjoyment-competency relationship? I think it's natural for us to enjoy doing things in which we succeed. But do we lose touch with the enjoyment of doing? Or lose sight of the potential to accel, if we press on, and find enjoyment? Is there much room for enjoying an activity or venture that you are truly, deeply bad at doing?
Worth thinking about.
There's probably a song about it, too.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Uh...
Well, there's a lot I'm just not good at. Some of it I do enjoy, anyway. Some of it, not so much.
But something I'm really bad at and still enjoy?
That would have to be singing. I've been asked not to participate in church choirs, recommended for transfer from school choir to another elective, and all four of my children have screamed like they're being eaten alive when I've tried to sing them to sleep. I think that probably ranks right up there in the "truly awful" category.
But, oh, how I love to sing!
That got me thinking, though. How do we view the enjoyment-competency relationship? I think it's natural for us to enjoy doing things in which we succeed. But do we lose touch with the enjoyment of doing? Or lose sight of the potential to accel, if we press on, and find enjoyment? Is there much room for enjoying an activity or venture that you are truly, deeply bad at doing?
Worth thinking about.
There's probably a song about it, too.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Music in the House
This year, I've made a concerted effort to include more music in our daily pattern. We used to have music playing in the background almost constantly. Then, I think between all the change and chaos and noise, well, I admit I liked the quiet places between conversations and questions. But a day without music, even for people who don't play music, or write music, or consider themselves connoisseurs of music... still kinda quiet. It's been nice to get back to the sway of background music. It's also been nice to make our choices a little more intentional.
Now, we don't have iPODs, or nanos, or slingwhatsits. Just a very old stereo with the radio, a double tape player (although don't put tapes in the one on the left, it eats them), and a CD player. Simple. Old. The kids can operate it (which probably explains the situation with the tape player). But perfectly useful, and fun. We've been listening and talking and looking things up. It's active learning, but feels passive in that it's just part of the day, rather than anything structured.
Yesterday, I popped in our "From Dublin to Dakar" CD, and the kids surprised me by striking up a conversation about the music. John said, "This sounds very Egyptian." James said, "No, I think it's got more of an Indian sound." Smidge said, "HAHAHAAAAA!" (?? We don't ask.) We talked about the artists and their backgrounds. We danced a little and picked favorites. I asked them what about the music gave each of them the impressions it did - about its origin, its authors. What instruments do you think you hear? Some of their instincts were right-on, some were a little oh... really? but that wasn't the point of it. It wasn't a pop quiz. It was why we do what we do.
So they can learn.
So we can explore the world around us, and expand the world within us.
We'll take some things along permanently, and some we'll savor and discard later.
It's okay. We can enjoy this delicious life together. (If I were to dust off my food-related review guide, I'd say it was a musical sampler for a light afternoon's repast. Tapas, perhaps. Good stuff.)
Times like that, I'd give body parts to have a pocket musician I could pull out and set up on the futon. Wouldn't that be wonderful? He'd come with a full array of musical instruments, a broad background in various forms and music theory. Ah, yes, that's just what I need. I wonder if you can order one of those in a catalog somewhere? Can you see the ad:
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Now, we don't have iPODs, or nanos, or slingwhatsits. Just a very old stereo with the radio, a double tape player (although don't put tapes in the one on the left, it eats them), and a CD player. Simple. Old. The kids can operate it (which probably explains the situation with the tape player). But perfectly useful, and fun. We've been listening and talking and looking things up. It's active learning, but feels passive in that it's just part of the day, rather than anything structured.
Yesterday, I popped in our "From Dublin to Dakar" CD, and the kids surprised me by striking up a conversation about the music. John said, "This sounds very Egyptian." James said, "No, I think it's got more of an Indian sound." Smidge said, "HAHAHAAAAA!" (?? We don't ask.) We talked about the artists and their backgrounds. We danced a little and picked favorites. I asked them what about the music gave each of them the impressions it did - about its origin, its authors. What instruments do you think you hear? Some of their instincts were right-on, some were a little oh... really? but that wasn't the point of it. It wasn't a pop quiz. It was why we do what we do.
So they can learn.
So we can explore the world around us, and expand the world within us.
We'll take some things along permanently, and some we'll savor and discard later.
It's okay. We can enjoy this delicious life together. (If I were to dust off my food-related review guide, I'd say it was a musical sampler for a light afternoon's repast. Tapas, perhaps. Good stuff.)
Times like that, I'd give body parts to have a pocket musician I could pull out and set up on the futon. Wouldn't that be wonderful? He'd come with a full array of musical instruments, a broad background in various forms and music theory. Ah, yes, that's just what I need. I wonder if you can order one of those in a catalog somewhere? Can you see the ad:
What delights have you found in music lately?Get your own pocket musician! Amaze your children, astound your friends! Choose from many schools, and training levels. No bands or wholesalers, please.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Thursday, March 22
Getting Out The Door
A friend observed once that in order to get out the door at seven, she has to start the process at three. She wasn't joking, but the only ones in the group who knew that were the ones with more than two children. (This friend has six, and she's *good*. I want to be her when I grow up.) If you have children, you'll laugh because this wasn't you. If you don't, hopefully it will inspire you to have tenderness, and a flexible time frame, for your parent-friends. The friends in today's story are just such friends, and I love them for it.
Zorak calls at lunch and says, "Hey, they're gonna have the boat at the dock right after work. Can you have the boys ready?" (Me-Wa and Me-Tae bought a little fishing boat and wanted to surprise the boys. Totally awesome idea.)
Um... sure?
Now, I was planning to do all this on Friday. Or Saturday. This is Wednesday. What, in our ten-plus years together, made him think I am capable of this task on such short notice, I do not know.
But I gave it a good shot, and thought, for a while, that we would make it. I let the boys off the rest of their studies under the condition that they would please go find socks and some kind of shoes and meet me at the door. (Yes, this was around one. No, we didn't have to leave the house until after four. It takes that long.) Walk with me through the afternoon.
The three big ones shout, "OK, Mom!" and we're off!
Five minutes later...
I've scrounged up some empty bottles, filled them all carefully 2/3 full with water and set them (mostly) upright in the freezer.
I found a cooler. (Huh? This isn't ours. Where did this come from? *sniff* Well, it smells clean. It'll work.) Wiped it down. Threw in some cheese sticks. And some ice. Eight cubes of ice, to be exact, because somebody has - once again - turned off the ice maker.
John is standing in the front yard, wearing church pants. And pirate boots. And no shirt. "John, sweetie. You're going fishing. Don't you think you might not want to wear your navy Dockers?" With a cheerful, "OK, Mom," he heads inside to change. I'll deal with the boots later.
Smidge, honey, let's get your socks... why are you naked?
"Me wants to have JAMMY DAY!"
OK, that would be a place to start. Where are your jammies, then?
"No me no."
Alrighty, get some socks, sweetie. I'm going to go find Baby Girl.
"OK, Mom."
(I haul screaming BabyGirl in from the precipice of death that is our front porch, while yelling down the hallway, "JOHN, Honey, you can't leave the front door open. BabyFlash is an escape artist!" He yells back, "OK, Mom!")
As I set ScreamingBabyGirl down in the nursery, a pair of underwear lands on her head. *Huh?* Smidge has his head *in* the drawer, flinging skivvies, hand-over-hand. James enters, fully clothed in a sweater, jeans, thick socks, and boots. He immediately starts trying to intervene. (He's trying to help. He's trying to help. He's trying to help.)
Smidge is screaming, BabyGirl is screaming (and apparently stuck in the leg hole of a pair of whities). James is getting irate, shouting, "Stop it! You are NOT a cartoon character!" (I can't help but think he wouldn't say that if he could view this scene objectively...) I see movement from the corner of my eye, through the foyer and out the front door. Leaving it open.
That was John, now wearing his tan Dockers. And cowboy boots (because pirate boots just don't go with tan?)
"Smidge, why are you crying?"
"No me have socks."
"*sigh* James, can you catch BabyGirl (she's back on the porch now, and heading for the steps) and take her to your room while you change out of that sweater? You're going to roast."
"OK, Mom."
"And Smidge, let's get you some socks."
"OK, Mom."
(Yelling out the door,) "John, Honey, I was thinking something more along the lines of your cargo pants or jeans. Remember, not church pants, okay?"
"OK, Mom."
"And shut the door!"
"OK, Mom."
We get Smidge some socks. I direct him to find the clothes he was wearing prior to the JAMMY DAY announcement, and put them back on. James has BabyGirl safe and sound... I bolt to the basement to find the life jackets. Find them, just in time to hear a thump and some kind of wailing noise. (I have a game I play sometimes, where I try to guess the incident before I get to the scene of the crime. Was it Smidge, in the nursery, with the corner of a drawer? Or was it Emily, in the boys' room, with the ladder to the bunks? Kinda breaks up the tension.)
It was Smidge, in the nursery, on the doorknob. I was close. More crying. James announces he's ready. And he really is. Oh, bless that child!
(You do know, though, that we're not even CLOSE to being able to head out the door, right? But at least they're cheerful, and their hearts are in the right places. I can't get angry about that.)
John informs me that his shoes have no laces. Why? Who has taken them, and where are they now? (We launched a full-scale man hunt for the laces, but I ended up calling Zorak. "Are you still at the store? Oh, good. Can you please get John some shoe laces? Thanks!")
Smidge is dressed. But his feet have grown. Since last weekend. (Call Zorak back. "And Smidge shoes? I don't know. Hang on. Um, they're six and a half inches long... *screaming erupts in the background as BabyGirl claws at the front door and perfoms an opera about the orphan child locked in a dungeon - while Smidge starts yelling at James, who is digging through the craft things, searching for shoe laces* Can you convert from that? I've really got to go. Love you!")
James? Still good to go. Thank God.
Baby girl? She's okay, although exuding some kind of weird slime that's going to make her look dirt-breaded after five minutes on the bank of the river. But otherwise? She's fine.
Smidge? Still mostly dressed. I didn't even ask about underwear. He had pants. A shirt. Socks. Life is good.
Quick head count - 1, 2, 3, 4. *whew*
Check the water in the freezer. Only two spilled. Still no ice cubes. Stupid gremlins. Pack. Load. Wrangle. Wipe. Clean. Tidy. Pray. Pretty simple routine once you get the hang of it.
Zorak pulls up and it's a flurry of lacing and fitting and wiping and loading. Me-Wa calls. They've been at the dock for a while. They're waiting for us. What's taking so long? Zorak rushes. I do one last once over. Nobody is wearing anything too weird. Nobody's naked. Ah... I no longer care. "Load up!"
Zorak tells me we're taking the Suburban. Oh.
Yell out the door, "Wrong car!" Smidge cries again. Three hours ago, I would have bothered to ask. Right now, I can tell he's not bleeding, not stuck in the pickup, doesn't have a pitbull stuck to his head. He's fine.
And that's when Zorak looks at me and says, "You ready?"
Me? Oh, Honey. (Don't cry. Please don't cry, Dy. Deep breath.) I'm wearing one of your shop rag t-shirts, soccer-shorts-as-boxers, no bra, and I haven't showered in three days. I have zits. My finger isn't healed yet, and it hurts. Until you'd called, I'd been cleaning and teaching all morning long. And did I mention that I have PMS? Listen, I know where to find you. But there is No. Way. NOWAY I'm passing up the opportunity to wait until you leave so I can take a shower. Alone. With no "help". No stray drafts. No on-off-on-off of the vent fan. Nobody crying. Nobody screaming. No worries that someone has set BabyGirl adrift.
I. Am. Tired.
He shakes his head, but smiles. "OK, Mom."
I smile and wave. "OK, Dad. Love you!"
Ten years ago, a story like this would have scared the living daylights out of me. Now? Not it's not so bad. I wouldn't trade it for all the quiet, calm, or free time in the world.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Zorak calls at lunch and says, "Hey, they're gonna have the boat at the dock right after work. Can you have the boys ready?" (Me-Wa and Me-Tae bought a little fishing boat and wanted to surprise the boys. Totally awesome idea.)
Um... sure?
Now, I was planning to do all this on Friday. Or Saturday. This is Wednesday. What, in our ten-plus years together, made him think I am capable of this task on such short notice, I do not know.
But I gave it a good shot, and thought, for a while, that we would make it. I let the boys off the rest of their studies under the condition that they would please go find socks and some kind of shoes and meet me at the door. (Yes, this was around one. No, we didn't have to leave the house until after four. It takes that long.) Walk with me through the afternoon.
The three big ones shout, "OK, Mom!" and we're off!
Five minutes later...
I've scrounged up some empty bottles, filled them all carefully 2/3 full with water and set them (mostly) upright in the freezer.
I found a cooler. (Huh? This isn't ours. Where did this come from? *sniff* Well, it smells clean. It'll work.) Wiped it down. Threw in some cheese sticks. And some ice. Eight cubes of ice, to be exact, because somebody has - once again - turned off the ice maker.
John is standing in the front yard, wearing church pants. And pirate boots. And no shirt. "John, sweetie. You're going fishing. Don't you think you might not want to wear your navy Dockers?" With a cheerful, "OK, Mom," he heads inside to change. I'll deal with the boots later.
Smidge, honey, let's get your socks... why are you naked?
"Me wants to have JAMMY DAY!"
OK, that would be a place to start. Where are your jammies, then?
"No me no."
Alrighty, get some socks, sweetie. I'm going to go find Baby Girl.
"OK, Mom."
(I haul screaming BabyGirl in from the precipice of death that is our front porch, while yelling down the hallway, "JOHN, Honey, you can't leave the front door open. BabyFlash is an escape artist!" He yells back, "OK, Mom!")
As I set ScreamingBabyGirl down in the nursery, a pair of underwear lands on her head. *Huh?* Smidge has his head *in* the drawer, flinging skivvies, hand-over-hand. James enters, fully clothed in a sweater, jeans, thick socks, and boots. He immediately starts trying to intervene. (He's trying to help. He's trying to help. He's trying to help.)
Smidge is screaming, BabyGirl is screaming (and apparently stuck in the leg hole of a pair of whities). James is getting irate, shouting, "Stop it! You are NOT a cartoon character!" (I can't help but think he wouldn't say that if he could view this scene objectively...) I see movement from the corner of my eye, through the foyer and out the front door. Leaving it open.
That was John, now wearing his tan Dockers. And cowboy boots (because pirate boots just don't go with tan?)
"Smidge, why are you crying?"
"No me have socks."
"*sigh* James, can you catch BabyGirl (she's back on the porch now, and heading for the steps) and take her to your room while you change out of that sweater? You're going to roast."
"OK, Mom."
"And Smidge, let's get you some socks."
"OK, Mom."
(Yelling out the door,) "John, Honey, I was thinking something more along the lines of your cargo pants or jeans. Remember, not church pants, okay?"
"OK, Mom."
"And shut the door!"
"OK, Mom."
We get Smidge some socks. I direct him to find the clothes he was wearing prior to the JAMMY DAY announcement, and put them back on. James has BabyGirl safe and sound... I bolt to the basement to find the life jackets. Find them, just in time to hear a thump and some kind of wailing noise. (I have a game I play sometimes, where I try to guess the incident before I get to the scene of the crime. Was it Smidge, in the nursery, with the corner of a drawer? Or was it Emily, in the boys' room, with the ladder to the bunks? Kinda breaks up the tension.)
It was Smidge, in the nursery, on the doorknob. I was close. More crying. James announces he's ready. And he really is. Oh, bless that child!
(You do know, though, that we're not even CLOSE to being able to head out the door, right? But at least they're cheerful, and their hearts are in the right places. I can't get angry about that.)
John informs me that his shoes have no laces. Why? Who has taken them, and where are they now? (We launched a full-scale man hunt for the laces, but I ended up calling Zorak. "Are you still at the store? Oh, good. Can you please get John some shoe laces? Thanks!")
Smidge is dressed. But his feet have grown. Since last weekend. (Call Zorak back. "And Smidge shoes? I don't know. Hang on. Um, they're six and a half inches long... *screaming erupts in the background as BabyGirl claws at the front door and perfoms an opera about the orphan child locked in a dungeon - while Smidge starts yelling at James, who is digging through the craft things, searching for shoe laces* Can you convert from that? I've really got to go. Love you!")
James? Still good to go. Thank God.
Baby girl? She's okay, although exuding some kind of weird slime that's going to make her look dirt-breaded after five minutes on the bank of the river. But otherwise? She's fine.
Smidge? Still mostly dressed. I didn't even ask about underwear. He had pants. A shirt. Socks. Life is good.
Quick head count - 1, 2, 3, 4. *whew*
Check the water in the freezer. Only two spilled. Still no ice cubes. Stupid gremlins. Pack. Load. Wrangle. Wipe. Clean. Tidy. Pray. Pretty simple routine once you get the hang of it.
Zorak pulls up and it's a flurry of lacing and fitting and wiping and loading. Me-Wa calls. They've been at the dock for a while. They're waiting for us. What's taking so long? Zorak rushes. I do one last once over. Nobody is wearing anything too weird. Nobody's naked. Ah... I no longer care. "Load up!"
Zorak tells me we're taking the Suburban. Oh.
Yell out the door, "Wrong car!" Smidge cries again. Three hours ago, I would have bothered to ask. Right now, I can tell he's not bleeding, not stuck in the pickup, doesn't have a pitbull stuck to his head. He's fine.
And that's when Zorak looks at me and says, "You ready?"
Me? Oh, Honey. (Don't cry. Please don't cry, Dy. Deep breath.) I'm wearing one of your shop rag t-shirts, soccer-shorts-as-boxers, no bra, and I haven't showered in three days. I have zits. My finger isn't healed yet, and it hurts. Until you'd called, I'd been cleaning and teaching all morning long. And did I mention that I have PMS? Listen, I know where to find you. But there is No. Way. NOWAY I'm passing up the opportunity to wait until you leave so I can take a shower. Alone. With no "help". No stray drafts. No on-off-on-off of the vent fan. Nobody crying. Nobody screaming. No worries that someone has set BabyGirl adrift.
I. Am. Tired.
He shakes his head, but smiles. "OK, Mom."
I smile and wave. "OK, Dad. Love you!"
Ten years ago, a story like this would have scared the living daylights out of me. Now? Not it's not so bad. I wouldn't trade it for all the quiet, calm, or free time in the world.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Wednesday, March 21
Oh, look! Another big... uh, move along, kids.
So after working hard last Saturday, we realized we had (once again) not prepared something for supper ahead of time, and so... into town for supper. While waiting to be seated, we noticed another good-sized family beside us.
"Oh, look, they have as many children as we do!" I whispered to Zorak.
He counted. "More. They have five."
"Oh. No, one more. Six. How cool."
"They're cute, aren't they?" By now, our children are waving and smiling at their children.
"Yeah, they are. Oh, seven. Wow, that is so awesome!"
About this time, the father, whose ears are probably programmed to hear any mention of the number "seven", turned to find us staring at his family. He looked prepared to tell us it's none of our business. We smiled.
"We were just admiring your beautiful children."
He smiled.
We began talking. They're in town for a soccer tournament. Oh, what fun. Kids and hotels, and negotiating travel with so many people. General family chit-chat. The wife overheard adult conversation and turned around. She's pregnant! Oh, she's beautiful. Made me want to have quadruplets right then and there, just because.
Then she gave me the once-over and her whole demeanor changed. She shot him "the look", he gave us (me) the once-over. Conversation ended.
Huh. That was a little strange, I thought. Well, we have been working in the barn all day. We're a little grunged out. Maybe... I don't know. Maybe she thought we're in the business of nabbing other people's adorable children. *shrug* OK, whatever.
So we sat down, and I took off my coat and went up to get some food. And I got several other really odd looks. Mostly from families. What the --??
THEN it dawned on me.
We have a selection of t-shirts we use for wearing around the house, working on the land, etc. And I was wearing one of those. Emblazoned across my chest, in bold letters and detailed artwork:
Well. That would explain a lot...
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
*edited to fix the slogan
"Oh, look, they have as many children as we do!" I whispered to Zorak.
He counted. "More. They have five."
"Oh. No, one more. Six. How cool."
"They're cute, aren't they?" By now, our children are waving and smiling at their children.
"Yeah, they are. Oh, seven. Wow, that is so awesome!"
About this time, the father, whose ears are probably programmed to hear any mention of the number "seven", turned to find us staring at his family. He looked prepared to tell us it's none of our business. We smiled.
"We were just admiring your beautiful children."
He smiled.
We began talking. They're in town for a soccer tournament. Oh, what fun. Kids and hotels, and negotiating travel with so many people. General family chit-chat. The wife overheard adult conversation and turned around. She's pregnant! Oh, she's beautiful. Made me want to have quadruplets right then and there, just because.
Then she gave me the once-over and her whole demeanor changed. She shot him "the look", he gave us (me) the once-over. Conversation ended.
Huh. That was a little strange, I thought. Well, we have been working in the barn all day. We're a little grunged out. Maybe... I don't know. Maybe she thought we're in the business of nabbing other people's adorable children. *shrug* OK, whatever.
So we sat down, and I took off my coat and went up to get some food. And I got several other really odd looks. Mostly from families. What the --??
THEN it dawned on me.
We have a selection of t-shirts we use for wearing around the house, working on the land, etc. And I was wearing one of those. Emblazoned across my chest, in bold letters and detailed artwork:
Polygamy Porter
Why have just one?
Bring some home to the wives!
Well. That would explain a lot...
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
*edited to fix the slogan
Tuesday, March 20
No Goats?
I got this in my email today...
So, it looks like we'll be going with cows because of... semantics.
*giggle*
Kiss thosecalves er, babies!
~Dy
You have been thinking up a cool brand, right?
or are you still all about the goats?
I wanna be a goatboy, baby!
Goatboy Up!
Goatboys stay in the saddle...
Even sheepherding is cooler.
So, it looks like we'll be going with cows because of... semantics.
*giggle*
Kiss those
~Dy
Getting It All Done
Nobody gets it all done. Ever. Everybody must decide on the best return on investment for his resources: time, emotional attachments, money. Whatever resources you have available, you have to decide how and where to invest them. If you get up early, you don't get to sleep late. If you choose to eat out, you don't get to control what goes into your meal. Or you don't get to pretend you're an Old World Italian matriarch, feeding your famished chicks and fussing over them. (But then, that may freak your family out, and they wouldn't mind skipping it entirely.) But the point is, no matter how good anybody makes it look, there will always be something that doesn't get done.
And in that vein, I really feel I must 'fess up. Emily, who is currently running the "new mother of two" gauntlet, is feeling a little frustrated. (Y'all remember that beating, right? Shortly after baby #2 arrives, and suddenly it feels like the workload has grown exponentially and the workday has shortened by 16 hours?) She wrote:
I was going to sit back and feel smug and organized. You know, bask in the warmth of Adoration and Awe ('cuz I don't get it from anybody who knows me in person, believe me). But, well, I really like Emily, and so, I have to be honest. If you look very closely, you can see my trick. Details. It's all in the details. I write down every. single. move. we. make. Normal people might have written something like this for the "Progress!" post:
We prepped the garden and set the bed. Then we cleaned up the mess we'd made, and took ourselves inside. There, we shuffled boxes and culled a bit. There are slimy things growing on the bathroom counter, and the guest room looks like we have an insane mathematician living in there.
But you see, THAT kind of wording really makes it obvious that we stayed in bed 'til ten, didn't get outside until after lunch, came in when it got dark, and... well, that brings me to my second little trick.
"The Basics" - things like laundry, mopping, airing out the beds and dusting the ceiling fans. *snort* OK, I don't dust the ceiling fans. If you leave them alone long enough, you can just switch the direction of the fan blades and the furry bits fly right off. Kids think it's great fun, and scamper to gather all the "caterpillars", Voila! Put the blades back the right way, and as long as you don't turn the fan off while you have company (or blog it to the whole world), nobody will ever know.
But back to the general point. I don't do those things during the weekends. Weekend time is family time with the family member we miss out on most during the week. We do grocery shopping during the week. I have a husband who is thoughtful enough to keep us supplied with miscellany, should we forget something while we were there, but I don't set foot inside a market on the weekend, if I can help it.
Errands? P'ffft. I'll run errands on Wed, while we have to be in town, anyway. Unless you need me to drop something off to prevent, say, full-scale economic implosion, or a foreclosure on your home, I'm not dropping it off on the weekends. (Well, and chocolate. I will bring you chocolate on the weekend, but that's an act of mercy and love and totally doesn't count as an errand.)
By Friday (or Thursday, on alternate weeks), the laundry's caught up enough that Zorak can get through the weekend and have clothes to wear to work on Monday. The floors are relatively clean, the bathroom has been tidied. There's not much they can do to the house... well, strike that. No sense is tempting fate. I tried for years to have everybody pitch in and let's clean-clean-clean on Saturday morning! WOOHOO Isn't this FUN? (um... no.)
It feels like tradition to do it that way, but in our home, it just makes for a cranky dragonslayer, and an irritable mommy. So, I do those things during the week, and come the weekend, we can hang out, eat late, mosey about, work on whatever needs it, roll around like puppies, wallow in Daddy's presence. No, my home isn't showroom clean. But my family wouldn't be any happier if I spent the weekend getting it that way, and come Monday morning, Zorak would go off to work and the kids and I would be left wondering where our fun time with Daddy went. So I do it that way, and we get more done in a very enjoyable manner.
And then I record every. single. move. ;-)
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
And in that vein, I really feel I must 'fess up. Emily, who is currently running the "new mother of two" gauntlet, is feeling a little frustrated. (Y'all remember that beating, right? Shortly after baby #2 arrives, and suddenly it feels like the workload has grown exponentially and the workday has shortened by 16 hours?) She wrote:
How, how, how do you get so much done in a weekend? Tell me your secret, please!!! Somehow we never seem to get done even the basics that we hope to accomplish - the weekend is taken up with catch-up chores and grocery shopping and errands and then maybe, MAYBE we'll get one of our house/garden projects STARTED...sigh.
I was going to sit back and feel smug and organized. You know, bask in the warmth of Adoration and Awe ('cuz I don't get it from anybody who knows me in person, believe me). But, well, I really like Emily, and so, I have to be honest. If you look very closely, you can see my trick. Details. It's all in the details. I write down every. single. move. we. make. Normal people might have written something like this for the "Progress!" post:
We prepped the garden and set the bed. Then we cleaned up the mess we'd made, and took ourselves inside. There, we shuffled boxes and culled a bit. There are slimy things growing on the bathroom counter, and the guest room looks like we have an insane mathematician living in there.
But you see, THAT kind of wording really makes it obvious that we stayed in bed 'til ten, didn't get outside until after lunch, came in when it got dark, and... well, that brings me to my second little trick.
"The Basics" - things like laundry, mopping, airing out the beds and dusting the ceiling fans. *snort* OK, I don't dust the ceiling fans. If you leave them alone long enough, you can just switch the direction of the fan blades and the furry bits fly right off. Kids think it's great fun, and scamper to gather all the "caterpillars", Voila! Put the blades back the right way, and as long as you don't turn the fan off while you have company (or blog it to the whole world), nobody will ever know.
But back to the general point. I don't do those things during the weekends. Weekend time is family time with the family member we miss out on most during the week. We do grocery shopping during the week. I have a husband who is thoughtful enough to keep us supplied with miscellany, should we forget something while we were there, but I don't set foot inside a market on the weekend, if I can help it.
Errands? P'ffft. I'll run errands on Wed, while we have to be in town, anyway. Unless you need me to drop something off to prevent, say, full-scale economic implosion, or a foreclosure on your home, I'm not dropping it off on the weekends. (Well, and chocolate. I will bring you chocolate on the weekend, but that's an act of mercy and love and totally doesn't count as an errand.)
By Friday (or Thursday, on alternate weeks), the laundry's caught up enough that Zorak can get through the weekend and have clothes to wear to work on Monday. The floors are relatively clean, the bathroom has been tidied. There's not much they can do to the house... well, strike that. No sense is tempting fate. I tried for years to have everybody pitch in and let's clean-clean-clean on Saturday morning! WOOHOO Isn't this FUN? (um... no.)
It feels like tradition to do it that way, but in our home, it just makes for a cranky dragonslayer, and an irritable mommy. So, I do those things during the week, and come the weekend, we can hang out, eat late, mosey about, work on whatever needs it, roll around like puppies, wallow in Daddy's presence. No, my home isn't showroom clean. But my family wouldn't be any happier if I spent the weekend getting it that way, and come Monday morning, Zorak would go off to work and the kids and I would be left wondering where our fun time with Daddy went. So I do it that way, and we get more done in a very enjoyable manner.
And then I record every. single. move. ;-)
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Monday, March 19
Random Plants & Musings
Two big things:
1) I figured out how tocontrol *change* the exposure on my camera. And how to do something else.
2) And... I don't know what that "something else" is.
Technically, this could be #3, as well, but it's not. It's just me, thinking we really ought to see if we can find the owner's manual for the camera. Not only do I not know what the other thing is, but I do not know how to determine which one I'm controlling (and I use the term loosely).
There's one button on the camera that does more than one thing! Shutter speed, perhaps? Or isn't that exposure? What controls action? The other one allows me to capture action as if it's posed. For example, when I told the boys to wave their hands and heads as fast as they could, they did, and I started snapping and poking buttons. This is what I got:
Looks like your typical self-posed boy portrait, doesn't it? This is them, in motion. Sort of.
Do you know what this means? NO MORE SHMU PICTURES! If I can harness this technology, we could have crystal clear photos of all our children, and not have a photo collection of one-eyed, three-nostriled furry things. This is BIG!
And a few more things... dunno what these are. As always, input (knowledge, guesses, whatever) is appreciated. Thanks.
I found these on the ground while I was trying to get a good shot of a mushroom.
And Ernie, this is for you.
Those things grow fast out here. That log fell in a storm during the fall, and already it's covered in fungi (ok, "mushrooms" - but I don't know what kind, or if they're technically mushrooms, or whatever, but there they are, and the boys have been instructed not to eat them). This is the biggest one, and I love the way it cups up and out, and how that vine has grown right through it without either one seeming to take notice of one another.
This is so much fun!
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
1) I figured out how to
2) And... I don't know what that "something else" is.
Technically, this could be #3, as well, but it's not. It's just me, thinking we really ought to see if we can find the owner's manual for the camera. Not only do I not know what the other thing is, but I do not know how to determine which one I'm controlling (and I use the term loosely).
There's one button on the camera that does more than one thing! Shutter speed, perhaps? Or isn't that exposure? What controls action? The other one allows me to capture action as if it's posed. For example, when I told the boys to wave their hands and heads as fast as they could, they did, and I started snapping and poking buttons. This is what I got:
Looks like your typical self-posed boy portrait, doesn't it? This is them, in motion. Sort of.
Do you know what this means? NO MORE SHMU PICTURES! If I can harness this technology, we could have crystal clear photos of all our children, and not have a photo collection of one-eyed, three-nostriled furry things. This is BIG!
And a few more things... dunno what these are. As always, input (knowledge, guesses, whatever) is appreciated. Thanks.
I found these on the ground while I was trying to get a good shot of a mushroom.
And Ernie, this is for you.
Those things grow fast out here. That log fell in a storm during the fall, and already it's covered in fungi (ok, "mushrooms" - but I don't know what kind, or if they're technically mushrooms, or whatever, but there they are, and the boys have been instructed not to eat them). This is the biggest one, and I love the way it cups up and out, and how that vine has grown right through it without either one seeming to take notice of one another.
This is so much fun!
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Progress!!
I was quiet this weekend because I was either busy or asleep. Good stuff for the Forever Home.
Exterior:
We got the first raised garden bed built, painted, and out into the upper meadow. It's beautiful. Zorak ran herd on the boys while they painted it. I tried to go watch, but had to just snap some photos and then run back inside. Drip edges make me twitchy and overbearing, and I didn't want to ruin the adventure for the boys by micromanaging. So I'd slip out, shout *rah* *rah* *rah* *Look at you guys go!* (click, click, click), then run back in before I said anything else. That seemed to work well.
We got quite a bit of land tilled. By hand. God bless the horse-drawn plough. *whew*
We pulled two barrels full of weeds from Old Mrs. Cook's garden plot by the barn. That'll be our melon patch this year. We cut down quite a few stray trees, dug up quite a few stumps, removed about half of the rotted railroad ties, and turned the first few feet of soil. Then we collapsed in a heap.
Interior:
We refurbed the old bookshelf from the boys' room and set it up in the guest room, then loaded it down with the rest of the boxes in there. Turned out to be box after box of Zorak's school books. So now, it looks like we expect our guests to indulge in a little light differential equations and statistics reading before bed. (J, I promise I will find a better selection to add to it before you come! Honest!)
Are you familiar with those boxes that get packed at the very end of a move: pictures, drawings, single pencils, paperwork, tea bags, the occasional stray shoe? We went through a few of those. Probably three moves' worth.
Zorak trimmed out the master bedroom closet! WOOHOO! It's still a gaping hole, but now it's a decorative gaping hole.
Last week, Me-Tae gave the boys some foam critters that grow when you put them in water. So far, John's crawdad has grown to the size of a lobster. Smidge's pink seahorse is getting pretty big, too. James' whale-shark-thing just exuded some kind of slime and rolled over, but didn't grow. Actually, they all oozed slime, but his seems to have absolutely spewed it. We have a pretty nasty little menagerie on the bathroom counter at the moment. (How long do y'all normally keep things like that laying out before you make the kids pack 'em up?)
And now, we're back to work of another kind: areas of polygons and addition by 8; Caesar Agustus and Dick and Jane; the end of Aeneis' journey and the return voyage for young Harve and the crew of the We're Here. For me, this work is more restful than that which we did over the weekend, although both are equally valuable for forming young minds, and old bodies. It's good, good stuff.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Exterior:
We got the first raised garden bed built, painted, and out into the upper meadow. It's beautiful. Zorak ran herd on the boys while they painted it. I tried to go watch, but had to just snap some photos and then run back inside. Drip edges make me twitchy and overbearing, and I didn't want to ruin the adventure for the boys by micromanaging. So I'd slip out, shout *rah* *rah* *rah* *Look at you guys go!* (click, click, click), then run back in before I said anything else. That seemed to work well.
We got quite a bit of land tilled. By hand. God bless the horse-drawn plough. *whew*
We pulled two barrels full of weeds from Old Mrs. Cook's garden plot by the barn. That'll be our melon patch this year. We cut down quite a few stray trees, dug up quite a few stumps, removed about half of the rotted railroad ties, and turned the first few feet of soil. Then we collapsed in a heap.
Interior:
We refurbed the old bookshelf from the boys' room and set it up in the guest room, then loaded it down with the rest of the boxes in there. Turned out to be box after box of Zorak's school books. So now, it looks like we expect our guests to indulge in a little light differential equations and statistics reading before bed. (J, I promise I will find a better selection to add to it before you come! Honest!)
Are you familiar with those boxes that get packed at the very end of a move: pictures, drawings, single pencils, paperwork, tea bags, the occasional stray shoe? We went through a few of those. Probably three moves' worth.
Zorak trimmed out the master bedroom closet! WOOHOO! It's still a gaping hole, but now it's a decorative gaping hole.
Last week, Me-Tae gave the boys some foam critters that grow when you put them in water. So far, John's crawdad has grown to the size of a lobster. Smidge's pink seahorse is getting pretty big, too. James' whale-shark-thing just exuded some kind of slime and rolled over, but didn't grow. Actually, they all oozed slime, but his seems to have absolutely spewed it. We have a pretty nasty little menagerie on the bathroom counter at the moment. (How long do y'all normally keep things like that laying out before you make the kids pack 'em up?)
And now, we're back to work of another kind: areas of polygons and addition by 8; Caesar Agustus and Dick and Jane; the end of Aeneis' journey and the return voyage for young Harve and the crew of the We're Here. For me, this work is more restful than that which we did over the weekend, although both are equally valuable for forming young minds, and old bodies. It's good, good stuff.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Saturday, March 17
The End of the Day
Zorak is in the groove. He's brainstorming. He's sketching. He's on fire! The man's brilliance is showing, and he's throwing ideas out there the way some people throw, oh, I don't know, spit balls. It's impressive. But, you know, I'm really tired. I mean, really tired. As in, I would die an early, and probably whiny death as a depression era farm wife, tired.
I'm trying to hang, but have this internal running monologue:
I wonder if he will give me a foot rub? Ugh, my stomach hurts... I wonder if a foot rub would help? It couldn't hurt to ask. What's he talking about? Beams? Beams. Huh. That makes my feet hurt.
Then he asks me what I think.
I... uh... what was that, again?
He probably thinks I've become daft. I may have. But man, oh, man, am I tired. It's a good tired.
Maybe he'll give me a foot rub if I can come up with just one really good idea...
Dy
I'm trying to hang, but have this internal running monologue:
I wonder if he will give me a foot rub? Ugh, my stomach hurts... I wonder if a foot rub would help? It couldn't hurt to ask. What's he talking about? Beams? Beams. Huh. That makes my feet hurt.
Then he asks me what I think.
I... uh... what was that, again?
He probably thinks I've become daft. I may have. But man, oh, man, am I tired. It's a good tired.
Maybe he'll give me a foot rub if I can come up with just one really good idea...
Dy
Friday, March 16
Tips from the shop
I slipped down to the basement last night to see how the garden beds were coming along. (They're coming along splendidly, by the way.) But what caught my attention was this:
The work we've done would have been a lot easier with all the proper equipment (in this case, say, a table saw), but we've mastered the fine art of jig making. Er, in all honesty, Zorak has mastered the art - I couldn't make a jig if you handed me shoes and played me an Irish tune. He laughs and shoves off my compliments, usually convinced I'm mocking him. But I'm not. To him, it's just a matter of looking around and spotting, with his CreativeEngineerVision, something that would do the trick.
I don't know about you, but I never would have looked at quick clamps, stud hangers, scrap wood and saw horses and thought, "Oh, a table saw!"
It's not pretty, at all, but it's allowed us to do a lot over the years that we just didn't have the equipment for. And that's a beautiful thing. I hope the boys get Zorak's creativity, among other qualities.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
The work we've done would have been a lot easier with all the proper equipment (in this case, say, a table saw), but we've mastered the fine art of jig making. Er, in all honesty, Zorak has mastered the art - I couldn't make a jig if you handed me shoes and played me an Irish tune. He laughs and shoves off my compliments, usually convinced I'm mocking him. But I'm not. To him, it's just a matter of looking around and spotting, with his CreativeEngineerVision, something that would do the trick.
I don't know about you, but I never would have looked at quick clamps, stud hangers, scrap wood and saw horses and thought, "Oh, a table saw!"
It's not pretty, at all, but it's allowed us to do a lot over the years that we just didn't have the equipment for. And that's a beautiful thing. I hope the boys get Zorak's creativity, among other qualities.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Thursday, March 15
A Box!
Today was slightly chilly and rainy. Ball practice was cancelled. We did groceries, paid the electric bill, and got gas. Then we just came home and piddled about the house.
But then, the Big Brown Truck pulled up, and we got a box - a goody box from New Mexico. Aunt B, Gram, and Aunt Sally sent the kids all sorts of neat goodies: a beautiful afghan, delightful books, snacks, and a box for baby girl. Well, what better things to have on hand for just such a day as today?
We didn't move from this very spot until it was suppertime. :-)
Oh, and there was a box of beautiful chocolates that included a map, so there are no surprises when you bite into something! I would have posted a picture of that, too, but, well, I've hidden it. :-D
Thank you, guys!
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
But then, the Big Brown Truck pulled up, and we got a box - a goody box from New Mexico. Aunt B, Gram, and Aunt Sally sent the kids all sorts of neat goodies: a beautiful afghan, delightful books, snacks, and a box for baby girl. Well, what better things to have on hand for just such a day as today?
We didn't move from this very spot until it was suppertime. :-)
Oh, and there was a box of beautiful chocolates that included a map, so there are no surprises when you bite into something! I would have posted a picture of that, too, but, well, I've hidden it. :-D
Thank you, guys!
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Bad Mother of the Week Award
As I packed our bag for ball practice tomorrow night, I had to smile. We’re getting the hang of this. We’re not half bad, really. Well, most of the time. Monday wasn't what you'd call a "stellar" parenting moment. It's not quite Bad Mother of the Year quality (wouldn't want to peak too early in the year), but of the week? Yeah. You see, Monday, John was doing so well. He was hitting and running. Throwing and catching. Cheering and talking imaginary, mostly polite, 6-year old smack. He was a man possessed by the love of the sport. Until they put him on third base, which is about the same time I lost it.
Suddenly, the kid turned into Jack Sparrow. He was weaving and dodging, swiping at some invisible (to us) foe just above his head. The look on his face was an exact replica of Capt’n Jack – a mix of suspicion, irritation, and general confusion. I started to chuckle.
And then, I made the worst mistake you can make when you’re laughing and really oughtn’t be: I tried to stifle it. Might as well feed a gremlin in a pool at two in the morning. It was over. Soon I was cackling between sucking breaths. Tears bubbled up over my lids, and splashed down onto my cheeks. Just when I thought I had myself composed enough to join the practice again, I’d look up in time to see him sidestep and stumble over the base. Arms flailing. Eyes squinty and leering, chin set. And all composure was lost. My final hope of getting it together died instantly when a batter fielded a ball straight past him, and he didn’t notice until a hoard of children flew past him, all duck-walking to catch the ball. He spun around, cocked his head toward the children and then began swiping at the unseen foe. I was a goner.
Zorak chuckled a little at first, too. Then he started to ignore me. I’m pretty sure he scootched over at some point because when I toppled over onto his arm, it wasn’t there. Finally, he gave me the, “have you been drinking” stare, and that sobered me up somewhat. Well, that’s about when practice ended, too, so that may have helped.
For the record, no alcohol was imbibed at, or before this practice. Turns out there were mosquitos buzzing around John’s head at third base. After he’d been bitten by one, he determined there was no way he was going to let another one so much as land on him. Suddenly, his behavior makes a world of sense. And mine? Well, what do you want to bet someone slips me an AA tract after the next parent meeting?
But it was funny.
I do love that John Boy. Thankfully, that part’s a given, so when his parents occasionally perform a stunningly moronic slip, it’s easier to forgive. And, as James pointed out, I wasn’t laughing at him, I was laughing at the action. Yeah, I like that. But I still expect the award to arrive sometime this week.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Suddenly, the kid turned into Jack Sparrow. He was weaving and dodging, swiping at some invisible (to us) foe just above his head. The look on his face was an exact replica of Capt’n Jack – a mix of suspicion, irritation, and general confusion. I started to chuckle.
And then, I made the worst mistake you can make when you’re laughing and really oughtn’t be: I tried to stifle it. Might as well feed a gremlin in a pool at two in the morning. It was over. Soon I was cackling between sucking breaths. Tears bubbled up over my lids, and splashed down onto my cheeks. Just when I thought I had myself composed enough to join the practice again, I’d look up in time to see him sidestep and stumble over the base. Arms flailing. Eyes squinty and leering, chin set. And all composure was lost. My final hope of getting it together died instantly when a batter fielded a ball straight past him, and he didn’t notice until a hoard of children flew past him, all duck-walking to catch the ball. He spun around, cocked his head toward the children and then began swiping at the unseen foe. I was a goner.
Zorak chuckled a little at first, too. Then he started to ignore me. I’m pretty sure he scootched over at some point because when I toppled over onto his arm, it wasn’t there. Finally, he gave me the, “have you been drinking” stare, and that sobered me up somewhat. Well, that’s about when practice ended, too, so that may have helped.
For the record, no alcohol was imbibed at, or before this practice. Turns out there were mosquitos buzzing around John’s head at third base. After he’d been bitten by one, he determined there was no way he was going to let another one so much as land on him. Suddenly, his behavior makes a world of sense. And mine? Well, what do you want to bet someone slips me an AA tract after the next parent meeting?
But it was funny.
I do love that John Boy. Thankfully, that part’s a given, so when his parents occasionally perform a stunningly moronic slip, it’s easier to forgive. And, as James pointed out, I wasn’t laughing at him, I was laughing at the action. Yeah, I like that. But I still expect the award to arrive sometime this week.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Tuesday, March 13
From the stack...
I'm reading Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad. Most of the time, I'm laughing. Heartily. From my toes. It's like reading letters from my snarky brother on his travels. But, then, I amble across a tidbit of wisdom, or insight, that hauls me up short. Stills my laughter. Reminds me what made Mark Twain one of America's eminent story tellers. Makes me think. I found this tonight, and wanted to share it here.
Wisdom, indeed.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
When an acre of ground has produced long and well, we let it lie fallow and let it rest for a season; we take no man clear across the continent in the same coach he started in -- the coach is stabled somewhere on the plains and its heated machinery is allowed to cool for a few days; when a razor has seen long service and refuses to hold an edge, the barber lays it away for a few weeks, and the edge comes back of its own accord. We bestow thoughtful care upon inanimate objects, but none upon ourselves. What a robust people, what a nation of thinkers we might be, if we would only lay ourselves on the shelf occasionally and renew our edges.
Wisdom, indeed.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Red Wasp Control
First, you cleverly disguise an entrance for the wasps. Hide it so well that even you have no idea where it is.
Then you let the wasps in, one at a time. This method works best if you make sure you have a decent alarm system. A child who has been stung before works well, but if you haven't got one of those, any child who reads voraciously and proceeds to freak out about the possibilities of, say, a cobra attack in North America ("but someone could have smuggled one into the country!") will work just as well.
When the alarm sounds, you simply leap from the floor, sending the small ones flying (some head for cover, some simply roll right off your lap) and grab your trusty fly swatter. The wasp will likely show you to it, landing quietly just. by. the. handle.
Begin the umpteenth search for bug spray this week (which you haven't got, and never remember to put on the list until you're mid-battle, of course). In a pinch, Lysol works relatively well. More of a mental boost than any actual help, but that's okay.
Now, exude confidence. Express to your small ones that it's only a small wasp. It's okay. It doesn't want to be here (anymore than you do), and that it won't hurt you if you stay still. Unless, of course, you make it mad by spraying it with Lysol. (Small, of course, also being a relative term. They don't need to know that its red body bouncing off the walls looks, from your vantage point, particularly large and invincible. And angry.)
And so, you begin. Wait. Smack. Spray. Smack. Leap! If you'd like to do it the way I do it, which is truly quite exciting for all involved, shut one eye. This will eliminate any of that pesky depth perception some people have which allows them to hit the wasp on any attempt in the single digits. If, however, you happen to be fond of your depth perception, well, I can't blame you. I'd use it if I had it, too. Smack. Spray. Smack. DIVE! And so on.
Red wasps have incredibly hard bodies. It's amazing how quickly your standard store-bought fly swatter will crumple and bow beneath the impact, while the wasp will only glare at you and start dancing a jig above your head. But if you have the cardiovascular strength to keep up, you will eventually be able so show your small ones the corpse. And they always want to see it. I don't know why. It's not impressive. Honestly, for all the pomp involved, it's more than a little humiliating to have only that to show for it, but they insist on viewing the vanquished foe. (And am I the only one who cringes the entire time with fear that it's not Really Dead, but only playing oppossum and waiting to poke one of my children in the eye with lightning speed before I can reach the Lysol again?)
The house is wasp-free for another hour or so. It smells clean and antiseptic now, too. Ah, I love Springtime in the South!
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Then you let the wasps in, one at a time. This method works best if you make sure you have a decent alarm system. A child who has been stung before works well, but if you haven't got one of those, any child who reads voraciously and proceeds to freak out about the possibilities of, say, a cobra attack in North America ("but someone could have smuggled one into the country!") will work just as well.
When the alarm sounds, you simply leap from the floor, sending the small ones flying (some head for cover, some simply roll right off your lap) and grab your trusty fly swatter. The wasp will likely show you to it, landing quietly just. by. the. handle.
Begin the umpteenth search for bug spray this week (which you haven't got, and never remember to put on the list until you're mid-battle, of course). In a pinch, Lysol works relatively well. More of a mental boost than any actual help, but that's okay.
Now, exude confidence. Express to your small ones that it's only a small wasp. It's okay. It doesn't want to be here (anymore than you do), and that it won't hurt you if you stay still. Unless, of course, you make it mad by spraying it with Lysol. (Small, of course, also being a relative term. They don't need to know that its red body bouncing off the walls looks, from your vantage point, particularly large and invincible. And angry.)
And so, you begin. Wait. Smack. Spray. Smack. Leap! If you'd like to do it the way I do it, which is truly quite exciting for all involved, shut one eye. This will eliminate any of that pesky depth perception some people have which allows them to hit the wasp on any attempt in the single digits. If, however, you happen to be fond of your depth perception, well, I can't blame you. I'd use it if I had it, too. Smack. Spray. Smack. DIVE! And so on.
Red wasps have incredibly hard bodies. It's amazing how quickly your standard store-bought fly swatter will crumple and bow beneath the impact, while the wasp will only glare at you and start dancing a jig above your head. But if you have the cardiovascular strength to keep up, you will eventually be able so show your small ones the corpse. And they always want to see it. I don't know why. It's not impressive. Honestly, for all the pomp involved, it's more than a little humiliating to have only that to show for it, but they insist on viewing the vanquished foe. (And am I the only one who cringes the entire time with fear that it's not Really Dead, but only playing oppossum and waiting to poke one of my children in the eye with lightning speed before I can reach the Lysol again?)
The house is wasp-free for another hour or so. It smells clean and antiseptic now, too. Ah, I love Springtime in the South!
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Monday, March 12
This is a recording.
You have reached the blog of Dy. She is not at home right now, because she is in the barn, or at the ballfield, or en route to town.
Other people do these things, and do them with many more children in tow, and still remain articulate beyond suppertime. Yes, she knows this. (And if she were still articulate tonight, she would agree.) She is, however, a slow learner (remember, that's why God only gave her one at a time, no?) Plus, the typing-related speech impediment from her wound has reduced her to thinking in terms of spelling out entire words as she hen-pecks the keys. This new glitch, it seems, renders paragraphical thought a mere notion. Humor or wisdom are likewise out of reach for the time being.
Please leave a message at the bottom and she will get back to you when EmBaby leaves for college, or the splint comes off, whichever comes. Eventually.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Other people do these things, and do them with many more children in tow, and still remain articulate beyond suppertime. Yes, she knows this. (And if she were still articulate tonight, she would agree.) She is, however, a slow learner (remember, that's why God only gave her one at a time, no?) Plus, the typing-related speech impediment from her wound has reduced her to thinking in terms of spelling out entire words as she hen-pecks the keys. This new glitch, it seems, renders paragraphical thought a mere notion. Humor or wisdom are likewise out of reach for the time being.
Please leave a message at the bottom and she will get back to you when EmBaby leaves for college, or the splint comes off, whichever comes. Eventually.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
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