I wanted so very much to write a fun April Fool's Day post. A few things stopped me, though. First, I truly detest April Fool's Day. Not a big trickster at all. And second, lacking inspiration, I couldn't think of anything good. I'd thought about saying we were going to send the boys to Orme Academy, a boarding school in Arizona, but was afraid that might start rumors in the family that it would take the rest of the year to quell. Then I thought perhaps I'd come clean that Zorak is moving to Mexico to join the Partido del Trabajo, but I couldn't bring myself to even joke about that. *shudder*
And when I'm not inspired, all I can think to do is plagarize. Every time I began to write, I'd think of last year, and start giggling.
Then I thought I'd post a bit about the history of April Fool's Day. Plenty of mystery and conjecture. Looks like the change of the calendar was as popular when it first came out as Daylight Savings Time is today. But still, nothing concrete. The best I could come up with was a little anecdote about the origin of the "Kick Me" sign on a person's back. (Authorities seem to blame that one on Scotland. They're a tough crowd, those Scots.)
Now the children are up, the ground is soft, and Spring is coming! So, however you celebrate April Fools' Day, have a very happy day. And if you do have big news to share, please wait until tomorrow, for you may not be believed today. ;-)
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Sunday, April 1
Saturday, March 31
Ufda!
Man, this whole having-to-be-places-regularly thing is a challenge!
John's team had two practice games back-to-back last night. Seemed a bit on the trial by fire side to me, to have the little guys out there so long, so late. But they're not... you know... babies... *sniff**sniff*
His team got wallopped pretty thoroughly the first game. The other team knew what the ball was for, and how to stop it, and all those pesky details of the game. *grin* Fortunately, we've got a great bunch of kids, a great team of coaches, and parents who can keep it positive. The overall enthusiasm stayed high for the second game, and they all did better. Still got trounced, but definitely better.
I'm still the only one who laughs herself into total debilitation, though, and am pretty certain there will be an intervention for my drinking problem before the season ends. HOW they can not laugh is beyond me. One boy hunkered down in the dirt and built dust castles. (It was windy; he had to keep starting over.) One boy spun around in circles until he tipped over. Another boy (*ahem*, mine) spent a good portion of the game doing some sort of leaping, kicking, toe fluttering ballet maneuver. One little sweetheart of a guy hit the ball, scrambled to first and kept on running - straight. We have no clue where he was going. This is funny stuff, folks. You just can't get this kind of entertainment from Hollywood. And someday all these children will be proficient, aware, and together enough that they won't have the adorable "puppies tumbling pell-mell" thing going, anymore. I have no desire to wish that away. It'll go quickly enough.
You'd think with all that activity, we wouldn't have been up until eleven with the boys (and until two with Baby Girl - what is UP with that level of stamina?) but we were. They were tired, but way too wired to stop vibrating and chattering.
And this morning? Up 'n at 'em with one more game. Not bad. None of us expected to see an improvement this morning from yesterday's games, but the kids did a great job. They can hustle. They can hit. They can mostly run. (John, not so much on the running. He's more of an ambler. Would've made a great cowboy.) They shouted and encouraged each other. There were high-fives and thumbs-up gestures all over the field. They lost by only one point. It was a sweet, sweet morning.
Now we're home, but only for a little bit. We've worked the compost, cleaned the kitchen, and now Zorak's fixing lunch. Easter Egg hunt is at two o'clock, so we've got to eat and get going. (I'm having a cup of coffee. This crazy schedule has my caffeine maintenance schedule all out of whack.) J and I were talking about scheduling multiple children for activities, and I kinda like her game plan. She laughed and said, "One child per year. Not one activity per child per year, but one kid gets to do one thing this year. Next year, the next child gets to do something, and so on." Doesn't sound like much fun for the kids, but I'll bet I go grey before she does! Smart lady. *whew*
OK, off to be helpful.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
John's team had two practice games back-to-back last night. Seemed a bit on the trial by fire side to me, to have the little guys out there so long, so late. But they're not... you know... babies... *sniff**sniff*
His team got wallopped pretty thoroughly the first game. The other team knew what the ball was for, and how to stop it, and all those pesky details of the game. *grin* Fortunately, we've got a great bunch of kids, a great team of coaches, and parents who can keep it positive. The overall enthusiasm stayed high for the second game, and they all did better. Still got trounced, but definitely better.
I'm still the only one who laughs herself into total debilitation, though, and am pretty certain there will be an intervention for my drinking problem before the season ends. HOW they can not laugh is beyond me. One boy hunkered down in the dirt and built dust castles. (It was windy; he had to keep starting over.) One boy spun around in circles until he tipped over. Another boy (*ahem*, mine) spent a good portion of the game doing some sort of leaping, kicking, toe fluttering ballet maneuver. One little sweetheart of a guy hit the ball, scrambled to first and kept on running - straight. We have no clue where he was going. This is funny stuff, folks. You just can't get this kind of entertainment from Hollywood. And someday all these children will be proficient, aware, and together enough that they won't have the adorable "puppies tumbling pell-mell" thing going, anymore. I have no desire to wish that away. It'll go quickly enough.
You'd think with all that activity, we wouldn't have been up until eleven with the boys (and until two with Baby Girl - what is UP with that level of stamina?) but we were. They were tired, but way too wired to stop vibrating and chattering.
And this morning? Up 'n at 'em with one more game. Not bad. None of us expected to see an improvement this morning from yesterday's games, but the kids did a great job. They can hustle. They can hit. They can mostly run. (John, not so much on the running. He's more of an ambler. Would've made a great cowboy.) They shouted and encouraged each other. There were high-fives and thumbs-up gestures all over the field. They lost by only one point. It was a sweet, sweet morning.
Now we're home, but only for a little bit. We've worked the compost, cleaned the kitchen, and now Zorak's fixing lunch. Easter Egg hunt is at two o'clock, so we've got to eat and get going. (I'm having a cup of coffee. This crazy schedule has my caffeine maintenance schedule all out of whack.) J and I were talking about scheduling multiple children for activities, and I kinda like her game plan. She laughed and said, "One child per year. Not one activity per child per year, but one kid gets to do one thing this year. Next year, the next child gets to do something, and so on." Doesn't sound like much fun for the kids, but I'll bet I go grey before she does! Smart lady. *whew*
OK, off to be helpful.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Thursday, March 29
ACK - it's dead!
Our memory card for the camera is dead. Well, not quite dead, but needs to be shot. Of all the photos I took today, only three uploaded. And of the three that uploaded, only one is even visible. And of that one that's visible, well...
...that's just not good.
Believe it or not, there's a funny story that goes with that photo. But it doesn't make much sense now.
Life is like that sometimes.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
...that's just not good.
Believe it or not, there's a funny story that goes with that photo. But it doesn't make much sense now.
Life is like that sometimes.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Not At Bad As It Sounded
No, none of it is as bad as it sounded. I was tired, and rather than going to bed like a normal person might, I stayed up blogging and chatting wtih J and Dee. Actually, that was cathartic. I wish J and I still lived in the same town - she's a wonderful friend, and I miss her. I miss her wonderful children, her funny husband (Ok, he's Zorak-funny, so it's probably not always funny to *her*, but he makes me laugh), and I miss her sweet, gentle nature. And her snarky side. But mostly just - all of them.
We'll head in to town today to make a Costco run. Payday is the day *after* Pioneer Club, so once a month I have to make two runs into town, and that's... well, *whine*whine*whine*. (ahem) Not bad. Really. The boys are dying to take flowers to Me-Tae, and if I can get moving quickly enough, perhaps we can stop by the art museum or at least Big Spring park and enjoy a nice day out.
John has practice today (that's somewhat like saying, "we're going to be breathing today", or "we thought we'd eat today" - I'm really thankful the ball field is just a few miles down the road!) and it's *team pictures* day. He gets to wear his full uniform. Oh. My. Word. The ANTICIPATION! I just hope we can find the socks. Smidge had them on as gloves the other day, and we had a heck of a time trying to convince him they're off limits.
Need to come up with some crockpot recipes this week. Want to share your favorites?
Aunt B's friends' son and his family are moving to the area, and we hope to be able to feed them this weekend sometime. (That has nothing to do with crockpot recipes. We have our "feed company" menus ,and they're all about the process and the fun of preparing food for enjoyment. If you leave our house hungry, it's not our doing, know what I mean? The crockpot thing is for our practice nights that happen to fall on errand days.) Anyway, they're doing the whole hectic "find a house and move" process. We'd like to help make the transition more enjoyable if we can. And we look forward to meeting them. Good people.
OK, I've got some fun things to post, but the Small Ones seem to need a little direction, and they've come running to the tapping of the keyboard like cats to a can opener. So, I'm going to go enjoy my little kitten-y Small Ones and have a productive, wonderful day. Y'all do the same!
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
We'll head in to town today to make a Costco run. Payday is the day *after* Pioneer Club, so once a month I have to make two runs into town, and that's... well, *whine*whine*whine*. (ahem) Not bad. Really. The boys are dying to take flowers to Me-Tae, and if I can get moving quickly enough, perhaps we can stop by the art museum or at least Big Spring park and enjoy a nice day out.
John has practice today (that's somewhat like saying, "we're going to be breathing today", or "we thought we'd eat today" - I'm really thankful the ball field is just a few miles down the road!) and it's *team pictures* day. He gets to wear his full uniform. Oh. My. Word. The ANTICIPATION! I just hope we can find the socks. Smidge had them on as gloves the other day, and we had a heck of a time trying to convince him they're off limits.
Need to come up with some crockpot recipes this week. Want to share your favorites?
Aunt B's friends' son and his family are moving to the area, and we hope to be able to feed them this weekend sometime. (That has nothing to do with crockpot recipes. We have our "feed company" menus ,and they're all about the process and the fun of preparing food for enjoyment. If you leave our house hungry, it's not our doing, know what I mean? The crockpot thing is for our practice nights that happen to fall on errand days.) Anyway, they're doing the whole hectic "find a house and move" process. We'd like to help make the transition more enjoyable if we can. And we look forward to meeting them. Good people.
OK, I've got some fun things to post, but the Small Ones seem to need a little direction, and they've come running to the tapping of the keyboard like cats to a can opener. So, I'm going to go enjoy my little kitten-y Small Ones and have a productive, wonderful day. Y'all do the same!
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Wednesday, March 28
Just...Stuff
(You know, I have to work very hard not to abuse that category!) It's been one heckuva week around here, folks. Not all bad, but please allow me to whine a bit, first.
All that dental work we've had done over the last year? Not a bit of it has worked. Not. One. Bit. I've got an appointment Monday with a new Dentist For Big People. I'm in so much pain right now from bad work the first dentist did. Gah. I hate this. I hate going in blind. Of course they're going to say they can help you. They want your business. But can they help? I've asked around, stalking people who have lovely teeth, but they either don't have a dentist locally, or they don't have anything yay-or-nay to say about their dentist. "Eh, he's okay. He's on my insurance." *sigh*
Well, being the eternal optimist *snort* (Yeah, I know, but it sounded good, didn't it?) I'd think some dentist, somewhere, is capable of filling a cavity and not leaving the edges sharp enough to break those teflon flossers. (Had those "fixed" by him, twice. And three of 'em are still breakin' floss.) Or perhaps of putting on a temporary crown that doesn't protrude so far out of whack that it forces the patient's jaw out of line. (My favorite memory of this guy will always be when I mentioned that particular one, and was told, "Oh, well, that's only for six months." Wha--? And it hurts now. Well, it hurt then. NOW, it's more than mere inconvenience.)
I had a delightful dentist once. He did an amazing job. He got it right the first time, every time. He was gentle, thorough, honest. Well, mostly honest. Turned out he had a pretty rabid cocaine addiction. But even with that little glitch, I find myself wishing I could make a quick run up to PA to get the rest of my work done. Yes, I know that's wrong on so many levels. But it just serves to illustrate how desperate I am.
Then, this morning Balto had a Grand mal seizure. Whooo boy. Of course, I didn't look at him vibrating on the porch, and think, "Oh, looks like a seizure episode." I looked at him and thought, "Holy cow, can fresh rabbit do that to you?" Actually, my first concern was that he'd been poisoned. The boys helped me get everybody shod and loaded in less than ten minutes (WOOHOO) and off we went to the Wonderful Vet, who did a thorough check and said he's in perfect health and shows no signs of toxicity. He said it looks like epilepsy. Huh. So, I looked into whether we need to worry about Baltoid's mental stability (such as it is) and general personality changes (could he, by chance, be a little more calm after a couple of these things?) From there, it's just a matter of learning to live with epilepsy.
Wonderful Vet did touch base about letting him go down to the creek, but when we described it - nothing like Melissa's creek, which is a real creek - we just call ours a creek, but the other creeks would shun it and deny it membership in the AW-CRAP (Associated Waterways - Creeks, Rivers, Aquaducts, Ponds), he gave the a-ok. Poor BaltoDog. He's been a big clingy since then, and I don't blame him. Seizures are freaky enough for a fully functioning human who can listen to an explanation and process the whole thing. What's that like for a dog? Ugh. I can only imagine, "Oh, man. It was awful. One minute I'm chasing robins off the porch and chewing on my feet, and the next minute, I'm belching foam and peeing all over myself. Then they made me get in the CAR! What's that all about? I don't know what happened, but... I don't ever want to be alone again, man." Plenty of gentle lovin's and snuggles seemed to make him feel better. If he plans to stay inside more often, though, he is SO getting a bath tomorrow. He's such a good dog, and I feel bad for him. We'll see if we can identify any triggers he may have, and help him develop a safe spot for when he's feeling punky. He's our Balto-Dog, and we love him.
Oh, the finger? Almost healed! I still can't put any real stress on it, or it makes a wretched tearing sound - similar to velcro being pulled apart - and somehow, that doesn't seem like it should be happening. But it's significantly better. I thought it was lookin' pretty good, until I showed it to Zorak and he said, "Aww, a FrankenFinger!" Um... yeah, thanks, Love.
AND, we made it to Pioneer Club. We made it home. We got everybody snuggled and loved on. And in the end, I'm sitting here typing with my FrankenFingers (it's okay, I never planned to be a hand model, really), with my goofy dog draped across my foot. My wonderful husband is passed out cold with Smidge, and there's probably no way I will be able to wiggle in there with them, but it's such a snuggly, inviting scene, I may try anyway. The big boys are big. They did well this week. They've really learned how to work together (when they must) and how to be caring for those who need it. Really, it has been quite a week. But not as bad as it sounds. I'm thankful.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
All that dental work we've had done over the last year? Not a bit of it has worked. Not. One. Bit. I've got an appointment Monday with a new Dentist For Big People. I'm in so much pain right now from bad work the first dentist did. Gah. I hate this. I hate going in blind. Of course they're going to say they can help you. They want your business. But can they help? I've asked around, stalking people who have lovely teeth, but they either don't have a dentist locally, or they don't have anything yay-or-nay to say about their dentist. "Eh, he's okay. He's on my insurance." *sigh*
Well, being the eternal optimist *snort* (Yeah, I know, but it sounded good, didn't it?) I'd think some dentist, somewhere, is capable of filling a cavity and not leaving the edges sharp enough to break those teflon flossers. (Had those "fixed" by him, twice. And three of 'em are still breakin' floss.) Or perhaps of putting on a temporary crown that doesn't protrude so far out of whack that it forces the patient's jaw out of line. (My favorite memory of this guy will always be when I mentioned that particular one, and was told, "Oh, well, that's only for six months." Wha--? And it hurts now. Well, it hurt then. NOW, it's more than mere inconvenience.)
I had a delightful dentist once. He did an amazing job. He got it right the first time, every time. He was gentle, thorough, honest. Well, mostly honest. Turned out he had a pretty rabid cocaine addiction. But even with that little glitch, I find myself wishing I could make a quick run up to PA to get the rest of my work done. Yes, I know that's wrong on so many levels. But it just serves to illustrate how desperate I am.
Then, this morning Balto had a Grand mal seizure. Whooo boy. Of course, I didn't look at him vibrating on the porch, and think, "Oh, looks like a seizure episode." I looked at him and thought, "Holy cow, can fresh rabbit do that to you?" Actually, my first concern was that he'd been poisoned. The boys helped me get everybody shod and loaded in less than ten minutes (WOOHOO) and off we went to the Wonderful Vet, who did a thorough check and said he's in perfect health and shows no signs of toxicity. He said it looks like epilepsy. Huh. So, I looked into whether we need to worry about Baltoid's mental stability (such as it is) and general personality changes (could he, by chance, be a little more calm after a couple of these things?) From there, it's just a matter of learning to live with epilepsy.
Wonderful Vet did touch base about letting him go down to the creek, but when we described it - nothing like Melissa's creek, which is a real creek - we just call ours a creek, but the other creeks would shun it and deny it membership in the AW-CRAP (Associated Waterways - Creeks, Rivers, Aquaducts, Ponds), he gave the a-ok. Poor BaltoDog. He's been a big clingy since then, and I don't blame him. Seizures are freaky enough for a fully functioning human who can listen to an explanation and process the whole thing. What's that like for a dog? Ugh. I can only imagine, "Oh, man. It was awful. One minute I'm chasing robins off the porch and chewing on my feet, and the next minute, I'm belching foam and peeing all over myself. Then they made me get in the CAR! What's that all about? I don't know what happened, but... I don't ever want to be alone again, man." Plenty of gentle lovin's and snuggles seemed to make him feel better. If he plans to stay inside more often, though, he is SO getting a bath tomorrow. He's such a good dog, and I feel bad for him. We'll see if we can identify any triggers he may have, and help him develop a safe spot for when he's feeling punky. He's our Balto-Dog, and we love him.
Oh, the finger? Almost healed! I still can't put any real stress on it, or it makes a wretched tearing sound - similar to velcro being pulled apart - and somehow, that doesn't seem like it should be happening. But it's significantly better. I thought it was lookin' pretty good, until I showed it to Zorak and he said, "Aww, a FrankenFinger!" Um... yeah, thanks, Love.
AND, we made it to Pioneer Club. We made it home. We got everybody snuggled and loved on. And in the end, I'm sitting here typing with my FrankenFingers (it's okay, I never planned to be a hand model, really), with my goofy dog draped across my foot. My wonderful husband is passed out cold with Smidge, and there's probably no way I will be able to wiggle in there with them, but it's such a snuggly, inviting scene, I may try anyway. The big boys are big. They did well this week. They've really learned how to work together (when they must) and how to be caring for those who need it. Really, it has been quite a week. But not as bad as it sounds. I'm thankful.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Tuesday, March 27
Is it really only 9:30?
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
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
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
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