The Christmas season is upon us, and I am accosted daily by an ever growing list of desires from my brood, Caroline in particular. No session of cartoons takes place without several cries of "I want this!" from the living room, to the point that I asked her to come get me if anything she DOESN'T want comes on TV. Most recently she begged me to come see a commercial for a new Barbie, who comes with an adorable fuzzy dog named Tanner. And get this--he actually poops.
The way it works is this, and I quote: "Barbie doll has a dog named Tanner who is just like a real dog! Tanner is soft and fuzzy and her mouth, ears, head and tail really move! You can open Tanner dog's mouth and feed her dog biscuits. Comes with a dog bone and chew toys that Tanner can hold in her mouth, too. When Tanner has to go to the bathroom, Barbie doll cleans up with her special magnetic scooper and trash can."
Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of this doll is that the "dog treats" are little brown (apparently magnetic) pellets that go in the dog's mouth and emerge, unchanged, from the other
end with a simple press of the tail. Just warms the cockles of your heart, doesn't it? Tanner, however, is nothing like our dog, whose press would probably read something like "Chloe is almost like a real dog! She is soft and furry, jumps on visitors, has a compulsive licking disorder, and her breath could strip wallpaper! Watch adoringly as she rolls over and wets herself in new situations, eats dirty diapers, and trolls the bathrooms for unflushed toilets! Let Chloe become a special part of your family today!"
What? Not a dog person? Then perhaps you'd like Teresa and her litterbox using cat, Mika. Once again, I quote: "Teresa doll has an adorable cat named Mika who is just like a real cat! Mika can drink some water from a bottle and then wets in her litter box. Teresa scoops up the litter clumps. Teresa doll and Mika come with a kitty litter box, bottle, cat litter in a variety of colors, litter scooper, cat food bowl and cat toys."
At least with this one the fun must end at some point, as the rainbow colored "cat litter" comes in a finite supply, and as far as I can tell, there is no place to buy refills. Sheesh. Perhaps after a few weeks of Mika marking on her clean laundry and expensive rugs, Teresa will just make her live outside. At least she doesn't claw the furniture.
Yes, there are dolls that wet, poop, sleep, talk, grow, teach your daughter to be a vapid bimbo (see BRATZ), but something about buying a toy animal that actually does its business escapes me. I'd pass those up and go for the Love n' Licks dog or the Cold Nose Kisses puppy, but we already have the real thing (see CHLOE, above) . When they introduce an automated Dog Whisperer robot, that might be worth a trip to the store.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
These items are good lucky
Anyone who knows me well is aware that I have a serious affinity for Ebay. I like to think of it as a 24 hour a day, 365 day a year flea market. Who needs to count sheep when you can search for "antique pottery sheep lamp" at one in the morning? One of the unexpected byproducts of spending time on the site, however, is how educational--seriously--and entertaining it can be. Where else can you find aging floosies modeling vintage lingerie, vintage beer mugs with bobbling boobies, or page after page of listings for antique chamber pots? As with most discoveries, the most interesting ones usually occur on the search for something entirely unrelated. Today's example is a Chinese seller with an endearingly bizzare grasp on the English language. Offered for sale this week are:
Carve the penknife of the bone of woodgrain
The mysterious candlestick that silver and jade create
Rare of take amber of having the insect uniquely
The beauty is Mongolia good machete (and everyone needs a Mongolia good machete)
A rightness of silver wrap the bracelet of amber (there is never a wrongness of silver)
Your laughter to the idea of coconut doll
Special materials produced precious yellow necklace
The fairy that the strange material carves (This is a buddha; a little portly for a fairy if you ask me)
The jadeite of natural vogue is peaceful to button up
The beauty is good and the farmland white jade card (so is the farmland white? or what?)
The beautiful and good jasper carves flute (as opposed to the ugly and evil jasper?)
The silver wraps the tobacco pouch of rhinoceros Cape
The pot of dragon and coralline creation of printing
Can bring the copper frog of good luck and money (a surefire way to secure an invitation to any gathering)
Despicable dark big wing monster (on the other hand, don't show up with this)
The beautiful and jadeite view sound hangs a piece
The hand chain that the natural jade creates
Made of copper the clock of ancient rudder shape made
The beautiful and good silver wraps jade pipe
The silver wraps the pot that the jade drinks to use
3 layers of jades take the chain that red China knots
Take amber an official seal of having the scorpion rare
The pillow box used in matrimony of sexy pattern (oh how I'd like a real description of this one!)
The perfect snuff pot of ancient China
The silver wraps a natural horse to come to jade ring (no unnatural horses here)
The clock of the ancient birdcage shape of copper (because EVERYTHING in China is ancient)
The bucket of the flower of red enamel
Interestingly, if you take the time to look at each item, they each bear the same description, a generic proclamation of the luck, good fortune, and honor they symbolize, and a message imploring you, "If you love it, please do not missing the good chance to get it! Enjoying your bidding!" Or something like that. If you want to see for yourself, check out the seller grass019, as I seriously doubt anyone could come up with any of the search terms on purpose.
As for me, I'm trying to decide between "The fairy that the strange material carves" and"Can bring the copper frog of good luck and money." After all, they are "vivid and wonderful."
Carve the penknife of the bone of woodgrain
The mysterious candlestick that silver and jade create
Rare of take amber of having the insect uniquely
The beauty is Mongolia good machete (and everyone needs a Mongolia good machete)
A rightness of silver wrap the bracelet of amber (there is never a wrongness of silver)
Your laughter to the idea of coconut doll
Special materials produced precious yellow necklace
The fairy that the strange material carves (This is a buddha; a little portly for a fairy if you ask me)
The jadeite of natural vogue is peaceful to button up
The beauty is good and the farmland white jade card (so is the farmland white? or what?)
The beautiful and good jasper carves flute (as opposed to the ugly and evil jasper?)
The silver wraps the tobacco pouch of rhinoceros Cape
The pot of dragon and coralline creation of printing
Can bring the copper frog of good luck and money (a surefire way to secure an invitation to any gathering)
Despicable dark big wing monster (on the other hand, don't show up with this)
The beautiful and jadeite view sound hangs a piece
The hand chain that the natural jade creates
Made of copper the clock of ancient rudder shape made
The beautiful and good silver wraps jade pipe
The silver wraps the pot that the jade drinks to use
3 layers of jades take the chain that red China knots
Take amber an official seal of having the scorpion rare
The pillow box used in matrimony of sexy pattern (oh how I'd like a real description of this one!)
The perfect snuff pot of ancient China
The silver wraps a natural horse to come to jade ring (no unnatural horses here)
The clock of the ancient birdcage shape of copper (because EVERYTHING in China is ancient)
The bucket of the flower of red enamel
Interestingly, if you take the time to look at each item, they each bear the same description, a generic proclamation of the luck, good fortune, and honor they symbolize, and a message imploring you, "If you love it, please do not missing the good chance to get it! Enjoying your bidding!" Or something like that. If you want to see for yourself, check out the seller grass019, as I seriously doubt anyone could come up with any of the search terms on purpose.
As for me, I'm trying to decide between "The fairy that the strange material carves" and"Can bring the copper frog of good luck and money." After all, they are "vivid and wonderful."
Friday, August 11, 2006
No more bread and butter
I know it's summer. I know I should be grilling or making chilled chicken salads or cucumber soup or some other seasonally appropriate dish, but I just can't help myself. I love comfort food.
I could blame it on my Midwestern upbringing, and the fact that the first things I learned to cook from my mother were things like vegetable soup, chili, and meatloaf, but somehow when I want something really, really good to eat it always ends up being something hearty and bubbling in a big pot on the stove.
Yes, it was at least 80 degrees today, a typical muggy August day in the south, but as I scanned the freezer and contemplated what to feed my brood this evening I came up with an old fall/winter favorite: chicken and dumplings.
For years I would make this dish to lukewarm reviews, until my patient and long-suffering spouse informed me that he really didn't like the puffy bread dumplings that I made. Granted, for quite a while they turned out rubbery from overhandling the dough, but I finally mastered them, still to no avail. I finally broke down and bought the frozen, thin flat dumplings that his mother serves boiled in kraut (disgusted shiver here) and put them into my recipe. Result? He loves it.
The recipe on the box is a bit bland to me, so here's how I do it:
1 cup chopped celery
1 cup chopped carrot
1 cup chopped onion
Cook these in a little oil or butter in a large stockpot until tender. Then add:
1 pound chicken breast meat, cut up small. Forget cooking a whole chicken or using dark meat. Buy some breasts or cutlets and dice them up, preferably while still slightly frozen.
Cook the chicken with the vegetables until the meat is done. Then add:
about 8 to 10 cups water
two teaspoons chicken base or 2-3 bouillon cubes (or you can substitute a couple cans chicken broth for some of the water)
pepper to taste (I use between 1/4 and 1/2 teaspoon)
Bring to a boil. Then add an entire package (the large size) of Anne's Dumplings, a few at a time, bring back to a boil and cook for another 15 minutes or so to cook the dumplings and thicken the broth. Let cool for a few minutes before serving.
Note: humming or singing "Bread and Butter" by the Newbeats while cooking seems to help the outcome of this recipe.
Man, I've made myself hungry. I think I'll warm up some leftovers for a midnight snack.
I could blame it on my Midwestern upbringing, and the fact that the first things I learned to cook from my mother were things like vegetable soup, chili, and meatloaf, but somehow when I want something really, really good to eat it always ends up being something hearty and bubbling in a big pot on the stove.
Yes, it was at least 80 degrees today, a typical muggy August day in the south, but as I scanned the freezer and contemplated what to feed my brood this evening I came up with an old fall/winter favorite: chicken and dumplings.
For years I would make this dish to lukewarm reviews, until my patient and long-suffering spouse informed me that he really didn't like the puffy bread dumplings that I made. Granted, for quite a while they turned out rubbery from overhandling the dough, but I finally mastered them, still to no avail. I finally broke down and bought the frozen, thin flat dumplings that his mother serves boiled in kraut (disgusted shiver here) and put them into my recipe. Result? He loves it.
The recipe on the box is a bit bland to me, so here's how I do it:
1 cup chopped celery
1 cup chopped carrot
1 cup chopped onion
Cook these in a little oil or butter in a large stockpot until tender. Then add:
1 pound chicken breast meat, cut up small. Forget cooking a whole chicken or using dark meat. Buy some breasts or cutlets and dice them up, preferably while still slightly frozen.
Cook the chicken with the vegetables until the meat is done. Then add:
about 8 to 10 cups water
two teaspoons chicken base or 2-3 bouillon cubes (or you can substitute a couple cans chicken broth for some of the water)
pepper to taste (I use between 1/4 and 1/2 teaspoon)
Bring to a boil. Then add an entire package (the large size) of Anne's Dumplings, a few at a time, bring back to a boil and cook for another 15 minutes or so to cook the dumplings and thicken the broth. Let cool for a few minutes before serving.
Note: humming or singing "Bread and Butter" by the Newbeats while cooking seems to help the outcome of this recipe.
Man, I've made myself hungry. I think I'll warm up some leftovers for a midnight snack.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Book Tag
1. One book that changed your life?
Without a doubt, To Kill A Mockingbird, which I read in 10th grade. It was here I learned one of my favorite words, "elucidate," for which I had been searching forever. It also began my love affair with the mythical and perfect hero Atticus Finch, especially when imagined as the dark haired, square-jawed, bespectacled, tall and handsome, white suit-wearing Gregory Peck. He ruined me for all other men. Sigh. . .
2. One book you have read more than once?
C'mon, I was an English teacher, what book haven't I read more than once? Actually, though, there are several:
Fahrenheit 451 and lots of other Ray Bradbury. I always loved teaching that one to my gifted classes and getting their sweet little middle school souls stirred up about censorship. His craftsmanship is wonderful, and though he writes science fiction/fantasy, the man is a romantic at heart. When I had him sign my copy after an engagement at the Novello festival quite a few years ago, I was tongue-tied.
Letters from the Earth by Mark Twain. It's one of his lesser known works, which begins with a series of letters written by Satan, reporting on a visit to the "Human Race Experiment." I like this one better than most of his better-known works.
3. One book you would want on a desert island?
An anthology of great short stories, most definitely. Essays by Emerson,Thoreau, Whitman, and the like. The works of Robert Frost. Maybe some C.S. Lewis thrown in for good measure. And something to make me laugh--Ogden Nash or James Thurber, perhaps? Oh, wait, did that say ONE book?
4. One book that made you laugh?
I too laughed quite often through Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, especially when he scatters his mother's ashes--or at least attempts to. And anything by David Sedaris makes me pee my pants, which actually isn't that hard to accomplish after birthing three babies, but I do find him hilarious.
5. One book that made you cry?
I didn't cry, but I was very upset when the protagonist was killed off in the final pages of Cold Mountain. And the legendary tear jerking book in my family is a young adult novel, A Day No Pigs Would Die, by Robert Newton Peck. Still gets me.
6. One book you wish had been written?
The book that makes my family's storied and disfunctional past into a poignant and significant American narrative of triumph and survival, which is then adapted to the screen and makes enough money to keep me and my sister in flea-market junk and high-end shoe shopping cash forever
7. One book you wish had never been written?
The Heart of Darkness blows. Also anything by Herman Melville. And no, not even with Gregory Peck as Captain Ahab.
8. One book you are currently reading?
Change Me Into Zeus's Daughter by Barbara Robinette Moss. So far it reminds me very much of The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio--huge family, drunk father, long-suffering mother, no money. I'll see how the similarities hold up as the story unfolds.
9. One book you have been meaning to read?
The Ironic Christian's Companion by Patrick Henry. No, not THAT one.
Without a doubt, To Kill A Mockingbird, which I read in 10th grade. It was here I learned one of my favorite words, "elucidate," for which I had been searching forever. It also began my love affair with the mythical and perfect hero Atticus Finch, especially when imagined as the dark haired, square-jawed, bespectacled, tall and handsome, white suit-wearing Gregory Peck. He ruined me for all other men. Sigh. . .
2. One book you have read more than once?
C'mon, I was an English teacher, what book haven't I read more than once? Actually, though, there are several:
Fahrenheit 451 and lots of other Ray Bradbury. I always loved teaching that one to my gifted classes and getting their sweet little middle school souls stirred up about censorship. His craftsmanship is wonderful, and though he writes science fiction/fantasy, the man is a romantic at heart. When I had him sign my copy after an engagement at the Novello festival quite a few years ago, I was tongue-tied.
Letters from the Earth by Mark Twain. It's one of his lesser known works, which begins with a series of letters written by Satan, reporting on a visit to the "Human Race Experiment." I like this one better than most of his better-known works.
3. One book you would want on a desert island?
An anthology of great short stories, most definitely. Essays by Emerson,Thoreau, Whitman, and the like. The works of Robert Frost. Maybe some C.S. Lewis thrown in for good measure. And something to make me laugh--Ogden Nash or James Thurber, perhaps? Oh, wait, did that say ONE book?
4. One book that made you laugh?
I too laughed quite often through Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, especially when he scatters his mother's ashes--or at least attempts to. And anything by David Sedaris makes me pee my pants, which actually isn't that hard to accomplish after birthing three babies, but I do find him hilarious.
5. One book that made you cry?
I didn't cry, but I was very upset when the protagonist was killed off in the final pages of Cold Mountain. And the legendary tear jerking book in my family is a young adult novel, A Day No Pigs Would Die, by Robert Newton Peck. Still gets me.
6. One book you wish had been written?
The book that makes my family's storied and disfunctional past into a poignant and significant American narrative of triumph and survival, which is then adapted to the screen and makes enough money to keep me and my sister in flea-market junk and high-end shoe shopping cash forever
7. One book you wish had never been written?
The Heart of Darkness blows. Also anything by Herman Melville. And no, not even with Gregory Peck as Captain Ahab.
8. One book you are currently reading?
Change Me Into Zeus's Daughter by Barbara Robinette Moss. So far it reminds me very much of The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio--huge family, drunk father, long-suffering mother, no money. I'll see how the similarities hold up as the story unfolds.
9. One book you have been meaning to read?
The Ironic Christian's Companion by Patrick Henry. No, not THAT one.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
What I do all day. . . or at least part of it
The following takes place between 4:30 p.m. and 8:02 p.m.
Let's see. . . picked up crayons all over the floor in the study. Turned attention to "Zolos" building toy all over the floor. Picked up Zolos. James empties the crayons I just picked up. Pick up crayons again. James now empties Zolos. Put crayons out of reach and pick up Zolos for a second time. Find James a few minutes later in our bathroom, where he has been playing in the toilet. Remove James from bathroom, wash his and my hands and return to mess in study.
Realize James has been awfully quiet, and rush to find him sitting on Caroline's sink, which he has filled with toys that he is now dousing with water. Get James down and proceed to clean up bathroom.
Find James a few minutes later in his room, coloring all over himself, his bed, and his chair with a burgundy marker. (Washable, thank goodness). Take marker away. Take James downstairs.
Older kids are painting suncatchers. James wants to paint too. I let him paint on paper with washable paint. He makes several nice pictures and then begins painting himself. He has been undressed down to a diaper for the painting endeavor and has now painted his entire stomach, part of his head and both his hands.
Remove James from painting area. Escort him to the tub where he can be hosed down. Will return later to scrub paint ring left in tub.
Clean up paints and begin dinner. Nothing fancy tonight--Scott is working late so Kraft Mac and Cheese is on the menu. Caroline comes into the kitchen and wants to help. She pulls a chair to the stove where water is beginning to boil. This makes me nervous but I keep a close eye on her. Colin enters the kitchen and declares how unfair it is that she always gets to help with cooking since I won't let the two of them teeter on the chair together over a pot of boiling water. James attempts to climb chair to join Caroline and access boiling water while Colin complains. Remove James from chair. While I review the finer points of kitchen safety with the older children, James dumps box of uncooked mac and cheese on floor, then begins to scream.
Older kids enlisted to pick up hundreds of uncooked macaroni noodles. James wanders off, presumably to the living room. Upon closer examination 5 minutes later I find James in our bedroom, having decorated his freshly bathed self, along with my antique embroidered dresser scarf, with my recently opened (and discontinued) favorite lipstick and an orange gel pen found on the dresser. Remove dresser scarf to a bowl of sudsy water, where marks show some promise of coming out. Lipstick is a goner. Scrub James with wet wipes, which he protests heartily.
Return to kitchen with James and water is boiling. Colin and Caroline have finished retrieving spilled noodles. Open new clean box of Kraft and dinner is on. Kids wash hands, help with making smoothies out of some fruit that needs to be used. James screams for strawberries and "o-ark" (yogurt) while we explain repeatedly that they will be used to make the smoothies and will be ready soon. Our message falls on deaf ears. Blender is on its last legs but smoothies get made and finally, everyone sits down to dinner.
Dinner ends and older kids go out to jump on the trampoline. James wants to go too. Caroline runs to the back porch to tell me something, at which point we discover non-washable suncatcher paint on her brand new bathing suit. I strip Caroline and rush the suit to the kitchen sink where fortunately, most of the paint comes off. Meanwhile, Caroline brings a live ladybug into the house where of course it escapes. It flies behind the shade on the back door. While I scrub paint off her swimsuit, she constructs a tower of two floor pillows with a chair on top in an attempt to retrieve the fugitive ladybug. Colin, with his usual disregard for his little sister, bursts in the back door to tell me something and knocks her down. I will get the ladybug, I tell them both.
Run out to retrieve James from the trampoline, where Colin has abandoned him. Take James upstairs, where he suddenly protests having his teeth brushed, his diaper changed, and virtually every part of his bedtime routine except having me read an Elmo book with a built in hand puppet. Tuck him in, return downstairs to discover Caroline has made another attempt at catching the ladybug and torn the back door blind in the process. Grit teeth, thankful that it is only a temporary blind anyway, and breath sigh of relief that good drapes and sheers are intact. Give the children permission to watch Power Rangers. Count minutes until Scott returns home.
Scott arrives; the kids zone out in soft glow of a cheesy Power Rangers plotline. Now--to find that ladybug. . .
Let's see. . . picked up crayons all over the floor in the study. Turned attention to "Zolos" building toy all over the floor. Picked up Zolos. James empties the crayons I just picked up. Pick up crayons again. James now empties Zolos. Put crayons out of reach and pick up Zolos for a second time. Find James a few minutes later in our bathroom, where he has been playing in the toilet. Remove James from bathroom, wash his and my hands and return to mess in study.
Realize James has been awfully quiet, and rush to find him sitting on Caroline's sink, which he has filled with toys that he is now dousing with water. Get James down and proceed to clean up bathroom.
Find James a few minutes later in his room, coloring all over himself, his bed, and his chair with a burgundy marker. (Washable, thank goodness). Take marker away. Take James downstairs.
Older kids are painting suncatchers. James wants to paint too. I let him paint on paper with washable paint. He makes several nice pictures and then begins painting himself. He has been undressed down to a diaper for the painting endeavor and has now painted his entire stomach, part of his head and both his hands.
Remove James from painting area. Escort him to the tub where he can be hosed down. Will return later to scrub paint ring left in tub.
Clean up paints and begin dinner. Nothing fancy tonight--Scott is working late so Kraft Mac and Cheese is on the menu. Caroline comes into the kitchen and wants to help. She pulls a chair to the stove where water is beginning to boil. This makes me nervous but I keep a close eye on her. Colin enters the kitchen and declares how unfair it is that she always gets to help with cooking since I won't let the two of them teeter on the chair together over a pot of boiling water. James attempts to climb chair to join Caroline and access boiling water while Colin complains. Remove James from chair. While I review the finer points of kitchen safety with the older children, James dumps box of uncooked mac and cheese on floor, then begins to scream.
Older kids enlisted to pick up hundreds of uncooked macaroni noodles. James wanders off, presumably to the living room. Upon closer examination 5 minutes later I find James in our bedroom, having decorated his freshly bathed self, along with my antique embroidered dresser scarf, with my recently opened (and discontinued) favorite lipstick and an orange gel pen found on the dresser. Remove dresser scarf to a bowl of sudsy water, where marks show some promise of coming out. Lipstick is a goner. Scrub James with wet wipes, which he protests heartily.
Return to kitchen with James and water is boiling. Colin and Caroline have finished retrieving spilled noodles. Open new clean box of Kraft and dinner is on. Kids wash hands, help with making smoothies out of some fruit that needs to be used. James screams for strawberries and "o-ark" (yogurt) while we explain repeatedly that they will be used to make the smoothies and will be ready soon. Our message falls on deaf ears. Blender is on its last legs but smoothies get made and finally, everyone sits down to dinner.
Dinner ends and older kids go out to jump on the trampoline. James wants to go too. Caroline runs to the back porch to tell me something, at which point we discover non-washable suncatcher paint on her brand new bathing suit. I strip Caroline and rush the suit to the kitchen sink where fortunately, most of the paint comes off. Meanwhile, Caroline brings a live ladybug into the house where of course it escapes. It flies behind the shade on the back door. While I scrub paint off her swimsuit, she constructs a tower of two floor pillows with a chair on top in an attempt to retrieve the fugitive ladybug. Colin, with his usual disregard for his little sister, bursts in the back door to tell me something and knocks her down. I will get the ladybug, I tell them both.
Run out to retrieve James from the trampoline, where Colin has abandoned him. Take James upstairs, where he suddenly protests having his teeth brushed, his diaper changed, and virtually every part of his bedtime routine except having me read an Elmo book with a built in hand puppet. Tuck him in, return downstairs to discover Caroline has made another attempt at catching the ladybug and torn the back door blind in the process. Grit teeth, thankful that it is only a temporary blind anyway, and breath sigh of relief that good drapes and sheers are intact. Give the children permission to watch Power Rangers. Count minutes until Scott returns home.
Scott arrives; the kids zone out in soft glow of a cheesy Power Rangers plotline. Now--to find that ladybug. . .
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Hail, trampoline!
There are certain things I have always considered decidedly tacky. Yards strewn with faded Little Tikes toys, huge satellite dishes, and yes, trampolines in the backyard. When I married my husband I breathed a secret sigh of relief that he is not a serious collector of anything, a dedicated handyman, or a car or motorcycle fanatic. No more would I live with the relics of my upbringing: piles of crap that might be useful one day, old broken cars that will be restored "someday," a garage that hasn't had a car parked in it in years, if ever.
And then we had children. Three of them.
Our vehicles ARE in the garage, albeit skillfully wedged between the plastic tote full of roller skates and bike helmets, current bicycles as well as the outgrown ones to be handed down to younger siblings and cousins, baseball equipment, cat carriers, and my non-handy husband's surprising new assortment of major power tools. A broken plastic sand and water table languishes behind the garage, its legs crumpled beneath it like some fallen creature from a Star Wars movie. The partially constructed jungle fort swingset stands as a monument to great ambition and limited time, and school ends in three days.
So we broke down.
Never mind the atrocious customer service provided, both in person and online, by the behemoth retailer that we all love to hate--we went to Wal-Mart. And bought. A trampoline. A big one.
The kids are ecstatic. The thing went together in under an hour, and soon they were jumping, bouncing, flipping, giggling hysterically. And miraculously, not fighting. They even persuaded me, an adult woman, to climb up and join them, and I have to admit--it was really fun. Thank goodness we live in the country, and as far as I know, no one could see me. The kids jumped on it for, count 'em, THREE hours. As for me, my fun was tempered by the fact that the births of these lovely children and the bouncing of the trampoline were a vivid reminder to go inside and do about 180,000 more Kegels. Ahh, womanhood.
So, now we have it. The big honkin' redneck yard sculpture. The summer is looking better already.
And then we had children. Three of them.
Our vehicles ARE in the garage, albeit skillfully wedged between the plastic tote full of roller skates and bike helmets, current bicycles as well as the outgrown ones to be handed down to younger siblings and cousins, baseball equipment, cat carriers, and my non-handy husband's surprising new assortment of major power tools. A broken plastic sand and water table languishes behind the garage, its legs crumpled beneath it like some fallen creature from a Star Wars movie. The partially constructed jungle fort swingset stands as a monument to great ambition and limited time, and school ends in three days.
So we broke down.
Never mind the atrocious customer service provided, both in person and online, by the behemoth retailer that we all love to hate--we went to Wal-Mart. And bought. A trampoline. A big one.
The kids are ecstatic. The thing went together in under an hour, and soon they were jumping, bouncing, flipping, giggling hysterically. And miraculously, not fighting. They even persuaded me, an adult woman, to climb up and join them, and I have to admit--it was really fun. Thank goodness we live in the country, and as far as I know, no one could see me. The kids jumped on it for, count 'em, THREE hours. As for me, my fun was tempered by the fact that the births of these lovely children and the bouncing of the trampoline were a vivid reminder to go inside and do about 180,000 more Kegels. Ahh, womanhood.
So, now we have it. The big honkin' redneck yard sculpture. The summer is looking better already.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Take a load off
I took my two youngest children to have their pictures made today. Caroline wore a little crocheted dress made by my grandmother, and James wore the christening gown I made when Colin was born. (To see Colin's photo in the gown, click here. Enter the site, then click on "families and children." He's in the second photo). I had been feeling guilty for nearly a year over not having these photos taken, and even though it's been that long (longer?) since James was baptized, I figured it's better to have the pictures late than not at all. Miraculously, we got a few good shots, though Caroline still refuses to smile for pictures. I told her she didn't have to smile, but promised her the moon--or at least a Polly Pocket and some M&Ms--if she could just manage not to look sullen.
Later I enjoyed one of my daily chats with my sister, and we talked about feeling guilty for not having more professional photos made when the kids were tiny. It started me thinking of how many things we feel guilty about when it comes to our children. Collectively, she and I feel guilty for a host of things: not spending more time "enriching" them with various games or learning activities, losing our tempers from time to time; having more pictures of one than another, not being able to afford primo private school, kids having to share a room, feeding them non-organic food, having a messy house, not sewing all the daughter's dresses, giving up on cloth diapering, the fact that one has two cavities, you name it. After generations of our foremothers struggling for women's rights, we fret over not exhausting and martying our lives to provide a questionably perfect and idyllic existence for our offspring.
I can't help but reflect on the time when the little dress Caroline wore today was made--sometime in the early forties, by a woman struggling against the stark ignorance and poverty of coal-mining Kentucky, for whom adequate medical care or higher education, for herself or her family, was a fantasy. She died at 41 after delivering a stillborn boy, leaving behind 3 grown children, a teenager, and two preschool children (one of whom was my mother) whose remaining childhood became a horror story for another day. Somehow I doubt that against this backdrop anyone had time to feel guilty about the way she was raising her children. Getting food on the table and keeping a fire in the stove was worry enough.
Our kids have vaccinations, preschool, car seats, "Back to Sleep," crayons, paper, gratuitous amounts of toys, Leap Pads, flouride, water and heat that don't have to be brought in from outside, more photos already than my parents had made in a lifetime, combined, Flintstones vitamins, well checks, and a distinct lack of intestinal parasites and head lice, yet we neurotically worry that we're not providing some self-imposed standard of perfection in their young lives. My grandmother would think my children live like royalty.
Admittedly, I feel like a significantly better mother for having documented my little ones wearing these past and future heirlooms, but I think I'll counter that virtuous feeling by firing up the stove to prepare some Kraft Mac and Cheese for dinner, and I might not even serve a salad. I might even let them watch a little extra television since their Daddy is working late. To all other mothers, I suggest you take a load off too. We're doing better than we think.
Later I enjoyed one of my daily chats with my sister, and we talked about feeling guilty for not having more professional photos made when the kids were tiny. It started me thinking of how many things we feel guilty about when it comes to our children. Collectively, she and I feel guilty for a host of things: not spending more time "enriching" them with various games or learning activities, losing our tempers from time to time; having more pictures of one than another, not being able to afford primo private school, kids having to share a room, feeding them non-organic food, having a messy house, not sewing all the daughter's dresses, giving up on cloth diapering, the fact that one has two cavities, you name it. After generations of our foremothers struggling for women's rights, we fret over not exhausting and martying our lives to provide a questionably perfect and idyllic existence for our offspring.
I can't help but reflect on the time when the little dress Caroline wore today was made--sometime in the early forties, by a woman struggling against the stark ignorance and poverty of coal-mining Kentucky, for whom adequate medical care or higher education, for herself or her family, was a fantasy. She died at 41 after delivering a stillborn boy, leaving behind 3 grown children, a teenager, and two preschool children (one of whom was my mother) whose remaining childhood became a horror story for another day. Somehow I doubt that against this backdrop anyone had time to feel guilty about the way she was raising her children. Getting food on the table and keeping a fire in the stove was worry enough.
Our kids have vaccinations, preschool, car seats, "Back to Sleep," crayons, paper, gratuitous amounts of toys, Leap Pads, flouride, water and heat that don't have to be brought in from outside, more photos already than my parents had made in a lifetime, combined, Flintstones vitamins, well checks, and a distinct lack of intestinal parasites and head lice, yet we neurotically worry that we're not providing some self-imposed standard of perfection in their young lives. My grandmother would think my children live like royalty.
Admittedly, I feel like a significantly better mother for having documented my little ones wearing these past and future heirlooms, but I think I'll counter that virtuous feeling by firing up the stove to prepare some Kraft Mac and Cheese for dinner, and I might not even serve a salad. I might even let them watch a little extra television since their Daddy is working late. To all other mothers, I suggest you take a load off too. We're doing better than we think.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Houses in the Fields (apologies to John Gorka)
Sat on the back porch today, waiting while my newly adopted dog sniffed at everything and did her biological business, reflecting on the landscape around me. The air filled with the sound of migrating Canadian geese; in the distance was the sound of a woodpecker and a distant neighbor's barking dogs. Our home is recently constructed in the middle of a cow pasture on the old family farm, with rolling hills around as far as you can see and a huge, open, star studded sky at night, but as I waited for Chloe to finish her explorations, I couldn't help but wonder, how long can it stay this way?
Yesterday I drove near my old neighborhood in Charlotte (incidentally, on the way to and from Judy Chicago, which my sister sums up beautifully in her blog) which itself was once open farmland. Now there are rows and rows of treeless, mind-numbingly similar subdivisions, disorientingly and dispiritingly alike, punctuated by the same mega-corporate chain stores one can find from Detroit to Decatur. It is the America John Steinbeck predicted nearly fifty years ago in Travels with Charley. I moved only 4 years ago and barely recognize the landscape.
We live in a thriving region, which has many advantages, but one of the disadvantages is that the South I have come to love, the rolling countryside, the sleepy small towns, the family ties to land and place, is being overwhelmed by growth. Not orderly, measured growth, natural and desired, but a rampant and malignant excrescence that disfigures and blights its host. Hastily constructed neighborhoods spring up and spread like kudsu, with no time to plan for the type of design or construction that might feed the spirit or foster community.
Now I have enough red-blooded hillbilly in me to believe if you want to sell your land for profit, that's your business. But my heart sinks each time I see a parcel for sale, and the signs creep nearer and nearer to my own cherished open space. It's not that I dislike density--I love real cities, with their history and the energy that springs from the wonderful stew of diverse people and cultures bubbling in the same pot--or that I don't understand that the influx of new people needs a place to live. It's just that what I love most about any place is its sense of place, whether that be the outrageous chaos of Rome or the quiet melancholy of the Appalachians.
Growth seems like a giant amoeba, mindlessly absorbing everthing around it into one insentient, amorphous whole. The larger cities have their identities; I worry about all the smaller places in between. I worry about what becomes of individuality, creativity, when the experience of living in one place blurs into the next with no distinctions. I fret at the thought that we have to travel farther and farther to find something different from our own landscape. Will individuality flounder, or will it manage to simmer up from the bland stew of contrived lifestyle neighborhoods and homeowners' association restrictions?
It's a good problem we have, to live in a place where we can debate growth; where, poorly designed and executed or not, at least it's housing, but then, are stewardship and conservation of the land really a luxury?
I will go out with the dog once more tonight, and drink in the night sky while I can. And, with a nod to my former homeowners' association, when the dog poops, I will leave it to become a part of the landscape.
Yesterday I drove near my old neighborhood in Charlotte (incidentally, on the way to and from Judy Chicago, which my sister sums up beautifully in her blog) which itself was once open farmland. Now there are rows and rows of treeless, mind-numbingly similar subdivisions, disorientingly and dispiritingly alike, punctuated by the same mega-corporate chain stores one can find from Detroit to Decatur. It is the America John Steinbeck predicted nearly fifty years ago in Travels with Charley. I moved only 4 years ago and barely recognize the landscape.
We live in a thriving region, which has many advantages, but one of the disadvantages is that the South I have come to love, the rolling countryside, the sleepy small towns, the family ties to land and place, is being overwhelmed by growth. Not orderly, measured growth, natural and desired, but a rampant and malignant excrescence that disfigures and blights its host. Hastily constructed neighborhoods spring up and spread like kudsu, with no time to plan for the type of design or construction that might feed the spirit or foster community.
Now I have enough red-blooded hillbilly in me to believe if you want to sell your land for profit, that's your business. But my heart sinks each time I see a parcel for sale, and the signs creep nearer and nearer to my own cherished open space. It's not that I dislike density--I love real cities, with their history and the energy that springs from the wonderful stew of diverse people and cultures bubbling in the same pot--or that I don't understand that the influx of new people needs a place to live. It's just that what I love most about any place is its sense of place, whether that be the outrageous chaos of Rome or the quiet melancholy of the Appalachians.
Growth seems like a giant amoeba, mindlessly absorbing everthing around it into one insentient, amorphous whole. The larger cities have their identities; I worry about all the smaller places in between. I worry about what becomes of individuality, creativity, when the experience of living in one place blurs into the next with no distinctions. I fret at the thought that we have to travel farther and farther to find something different from our own landscape. Will individuality flounder, or will it manage to simmer up from the bland stew of contrived lifestyle neighborhoods and homeowners' association restrictions?
It's a good problem we have, to live in a place where we can debate growth; where, poorly designed and executed or not, at least it's housing, but then, are stewardship and conservation of the land really a luxury?
I will go out with the dog once more tonight, and drink in the night sky while I can. And, with a nod to my former homeowners' association, when the dog poops, I will leave it to become a part of the landscape.
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