Chatty Cathy

I was in the library wasting a bit of time with the littlest about a week ago.  Another mom with two kids, a boy and a girl that were probably about 3 and 2 respectively, was in the same area as we were and ended up chatting with mine as I was gathering armfuls of books nearby (again I say...the children's section of a decent library is addictive to me).  My "little" is selectively chatty.  Apparently, this other mom passed her test because there was all sorts of conversationing happening.  Elephants and butterflies were being identified.  Questions were being answered.  It was all lovely, and it settles my nerves a bit to see one of my children being something more than frigid with friendly strangers (you know, in a safe kind of way).

But then came the "She speaks so well...!" comment with the heavily unspoken element of "...unlike mine."  Well, okay.  How does one answer that?  In doing so, I inevitably feel like I am joining in an unwanted dialogue whereupon I am, by default, saying something to the effect of "Yes, she is...and your kids aren't."  Which isn't where I want to stand on this or any issue.  When a parent offers praise to another parent in front of her own children, I find that there tends to be something of a wistful sigh imbued into those words of flattery: Oh, why, can't my child(ren) be this _____________???

Come, now, parents.  We don't have to always be praising other children.  We don't have to always be so blatant about making sure the other parent feels good about their kid.  If the child is decent at what-have-you skill, then the other parent already knows it.  Here on out, this should be my response to the future mothers in the children's section at the library:

We've been hitting the Judith Butler pretty hard.  She's almost ready to lead a class discourse about gender as a learned response. 

I realize implicitly that this post can easily be skewed a number of ways (She's just bragging!  She's just whining!  She's a heartless mother who doesn't think her kid is best thing since lemon sweet rolls with cream cheese frosting and who obviously doesn't care about what a miracle her precious little angel truly is!).  Friends, not so.  This little nugget is my chill baby, for whom I am every moment grateful.  But my bundle of intense love does not become relevant upon sizing up the competition.  We gain nothing in finding our progeny either better or worse than their pint-sized peers. 

Mind your compliments, fellow parents. 

Bread

Before I really get into the gist of this, I'm going to tell a short story about a little girl.  [Editor's comment--this "short story" is actually longer than the actual purpose of the post.  Such is life.]  She's a sweet little 20-month old.  A big ball of cuddles (and has learned to say "I need you, Mommy/Daddy..." in the most plaintive voice).  She's also a thumb sucker, which, frankly, I don't mind in the slightest.  Nope.  In fact, we less than anxiously awaited the moment when she would figure that coordination procedure out to get thumb to lips reliably when she was a wee tot as she followed in her big sister's pattern and eschewed all things pacifier.  That thumb has served her quite well until of late when she has sucked all the moisture out of her skin.  Something like that.  Combined with the dry, dry winter air, her sucking has opened up a biggish gash at the top and smaller gashes along the bottom.  Red.  Dry.  Skin.  But that little pipsqueak hasn't complained except telling Daddy once that it hurt.  Little heart.  Suffice it to say, she's on antibiotics every 6 hours to reign in the infection that started and Mommy is playing the need-to-moisturize dance, which is also somewhat precious as she'll just hold her thumb out as if it's poisonous after getting dosed with Lansinoh.  (I just read one of my favorite bloggers, and she's very Texan, so I feel that some of her style has crept into my story here.  Forgive me!)  Luckily for all, she has not reacted to this dose of antibiotics yet, else we may be in danger of repeating ER-crisis-2013.  (By the way, we still haven't received a bill for that.  Does anyone know what the protocol is for that?)

Here's the real purpose for today's blog.  We've decided to do away with processed breads during Lent.  The biggest purpose to this is that I am very much looking forward to the making of bread either by hand or even bread machine as a ritualistic, thoughtful time to step away from the crush of hyperactive mode mixed with the inanity of Mondays and Fridays.  I'm hoping that it will become, even if just for a few weeks, a habit of rhythm and purpose.  There's a basic, sustainable thumping in the kneading that I always enjoy.  Flour coats my counter or table and it feels earthy and determined just as the ashes smeared on the forehead do. 

I've been mulling this idea for about a year now and have chewed it down to what makes sense for us.  "Bread" will not encompass every grain product, meaning we're not giving up cereal quite yet.  Yet the daily bread will be replaced with that which has come by some amount of sacrifice of time and energy in order to create it, and we will all have a hand (figuratively and literally) in this practice.  There is room for more of this in our lives.

Kindergarten blues

Remember how I occasionally lament hard choices that we continue to face (probably not since, really, who keeps up with my muddle?)?  It's never ending, even when one choice has been decided.  Even though that option hit the skids a few weeks ago, we're no nearer to really decided permanence than we ever have been.  It's coming up on about 3 years of where-should-we-be-what-should-we-be-doing, and here we are.  Still here.  Still right where I feel more and more led to believe is not where we should be soon. 

And here's another complicating twist that I don't think I've yet mentioned.  We have a kid on the cusp of kindergarten next school year.  In fact, I just had my very first parent-teacher conference as the parent.  It involved tiny chairs, a kidney-bean shaped table, and musings over cutting exercises and how my kid doesn't draw arms out of the sides of a head when she represents people.  I took that to be a good thing, though (and seriously, who's with me here?) I keep stopping myself from using phrases like "Good job!  You stayed in the lines!"  I guess cutting along the lines is different than actually coloring within them, but still, I feel a bit confuddled about how/what to praise at times between my by-the-book upbringing and modern-day parenting perspective engorged on many, many different perspectives and writings.  Regardless, the first thing our pre-school teacher said as she pulled a veritable portfolio of my kid's childhood memorabilia toward her was "Yeah, she's definitely ready for kindergarten."  I mean, we know that already and haven't been stressing about it any more than we are concerned about her ability to draw/color/cut/run like a cheetah.  These things will just work themselves out, and I could pretty much care less if she's at the top of her class in her cutting skills so long as she's drawing on the walls/coloring her sister's face/cutting her carpet/running with the cheetahs.  (By the way, I'm including this last one--running like a cheetah--not to be funny, per say, but because she uses this phrase all of the time.  She's wearing her "running like a cheetah" pants--navy leggings with big aqua circles on them.  They must make her feel fast.)  Each parent stresses about different things, I'm sure, and I know that she's capable of normal kid things.  Neither her dad nor I genius artists; why would we stress about whether or not she is?  That doesn't make sense to me.  Lest I lead you to believe that I'm super relaxed about parenting...oh, not so. 

I watch my kids very carefully about their word abilities: what words do they know? how well do they read? can they spell? can they recognize words when they see them written down?  To me/us, the ability to master language is the foundation for all education, for all learning throughout their lives.  And knowing my kid who is quickly approaching what will likely be her first experience with "traditional" schooling, I feel completely inept.  I have spent more time worrying/figuring/worrying some more/burying my head like an ostrich about all of this than I ever, ever spent in regards to my own education.  This smacks of folly, I know. 

1.  We don't know where we will be in 6 months.  I don't really want to start throwing around non-refundable enrollment fees that will go to waste.
2.  We are 100% in favor of half-day kindergarten.  But no one offers that option anymore. 

What's the best choice here?  There isn't one.  There is absolutely, without a doubt, no right choice right now when enrollments is starting to open.  I'm feeling the kindergarten blues big time right now.  If only I had some magic-cape-that-makes-all-hard-decisions-for-me equivalent of navy blue with big aqua circles leggings.  Better yet, if only I  had an invisibility cloak so I could truly hide from life for a little bit...maybe until the girls are each in college.  Darn darn darn...I just opened up a whole 'nother anxiety-inducing topic to worry about some more.  But that's another post for another day.  I need a paper bag to go hyperventilate into right now.

Today's the day

Ignoring those niggling thoughts of everything I should be doing now instead, I will blog today, dang it. 

I will blog...
because I've gotten stuck in the snow twice in the past month.  And both times on my street, which is really a court and about as long as Peyton Manning can throw...and I live at the front of it. 

because I get too wrapped up in myself and the minutia of washing diapers and unloading the dishwasher.

because I read The Saint of Lost Things by Christopher Castellani as I told you I would, and it rocked.  Now, I'm listening to The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh as I drive to class at night, and it is beautiful.  I wish that I was reading it rather than listening to it so that I might savor the words a little longer and re-trace passages as I go rather than fumble with the seek button in the car. 

because I spent my scant free time on Friday, the day when everyone either didn't sleep at all or woke up early, wading my way through technology issues for a class that I teach that has an online component for which I am not prepared to answer questions regarding.  That's frustrating. 

because I randomly think of things that are humorous when I am getting out of the shower in the morning, with no way to write anything down.  And then I forget them.  Such is my memory of late.  It used to be that I could give detailed explanations of individual needs and abilities for 100+ students at any given time before coming home and leading the frantic dinner/bath/bedtime dance.  But in this gray area time when I'm weirdly both working from home and not, I feel as if I'm apologizing for my forgetfulness and inability to answer seemingly basic questions more often than I am answering anything confidently, as if I know what I'm doing.  I'm starting to come to terms with this, that I'm not the same anymore, and I need to figure out where I'm at mentally at some point.  It's been a long haul to get to this point.

because my youngest is a cuddler, and knowing that she's the last fuzzy head that's going to burrow into my neck, it makes me happy that she is this way.  She's also building quite the repertoire of songs that she will gladly sing upon request (she appreciates applause at the end) or for no reason whatsoever...like in the middle of the Nicene Creed come Sunday morning ("Baa baa baa baa baa baa, SHEEP.  Yes, sir, yes, sir, baa, baa, SHEEP.")  Ya gotta see it sometime.

because...why not?  Today seems like a day that needs some new words in it.

The mouse (eating cupcakes) in the house

Here's the story of the mouse (eating cupcakes) in the house.  What a louse, that mouse.

It sure was a shame, and it was even kind of lame for that louse of mouse in the house.  It started simply enough, but then it got tough when the house decided to enter the house.  A simple birthday surprise that I'll now have to reprise because that mouse decided to enter the house unannounced.  We dropped off a treat, and you know it was sweet, because when else can you beat getting the pass to eat all the ice cream and cake that you can take? 

We dropped off a bag that didn't have a tag, and it held a chocolate treat that was snuggled in sparkly paper, nice and neat.  While on the phone, she opened the bag that didn't have a tag, but she knew it was from us and there was no artifice.  We heard her exclaim in delight what was soon in her sight.  But that shout turned to shock as she began to loudly talk, "There's a mouse in the house, get it Dave!"

So the mouse came in the house in the bag with no tag.  But it was soon escorted out with nothing short of a shout.  It was priceless to hear her tone as she was still on the phone.  And now I need to re-treat an equivalent sweet treat.  But perhaps we will bring it inside rather than try to hide that innocuous bag with no tag that the mouse turned into his own little house.

Hear ye, hear ye...I shall now prophesy!

I have some super duper exciting news to share with everyone anyone (???) who reads this.  I personally play a very, very big role in the Bible.  As in, God foretold it.  I'm part of a prophesy from centuries past.  I'm pretty stoked.

Every once in a while (when I can't think of excuses to get out of the homework), I put on my pretend-you're-a-Baptist hat and join a couple of women pals at their church for a Wednesday morning Bible study.  It's kind of like a kid de-tox because one child is at pre-school and the other gets to enjoy the free childcare.  Both are happy and munching on some variation of child friendly snacks (e.g. crackers), and I get to sit and listen.  During most of my day, I'm the director of this cruise ship, so it's really pleasant to have someone else lead me.  It's a very welcoming environment, which is pretty great seeing as how a) I'm definitely not Baptist and b) I can surreptitiously cheat my way through knowing where the tinier, obscure-r books of the Bible are by sideways glancing at which way my fellow Bible study-ers are confidently flipping.  Hey, did you know that there are 9 books between the Psalms and Daniel?  I do (now).  I can't name them for you, nor do I feel the need to really try to memorize them (I kinda don't get that, so much...index anyone?), though at one point in the spring of my sophomore year in college, I could name all the books of the New Testament (when you have a professor who tells you to call him "Uncle Bob" and wears a Chinese gangster style dragon/fire shirt on the day that he lectures on Revelations, you give in and do what he assigns). 

So this particular Bible study is on the book of Daniel.  Two weeks in, we're only through chapter two, but there is some wicked cool stuff going on.  Thanks be to those who walk among us and take the time to sift through the laborious work of Bible historians and pedagogical experts and then share it with us mere mortals.  It's a blessing.  Turns out, Daniel is kind of like a mini Revelations (in my mind, at least), which includes P-R-O-P-H-E-C-Y.  And this is where I come in. 

Chapter 2 of Daniel includes an extended passage on Nebuchadnezzar's dream when he brought forth his astrologers, demanded that they first tell him what his dream was (a test, you see) and then interpret it.  They couldn't.  He had them killed.  Nice guy, no?  This was right around the time of the Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego debacle, and we all know the intent there, right?  Ultimately, Daniel stepped up to the plate, having already challenged the royal authority at least once before, and was all "Settle down, settle down big guy...I got this."  (He's no Richard Sherman, but Daniel also knew when he had 'dem skillz.)  So Daniel not only correctly described Nebby's dream, but he also interpreted it.  And you know what...it's come true so far.  My chips are all in on this bet about what will happen next.  But Daniel isn't the only one all Prophesy! Prophesy! here.  Jeremiah also guest stars for a quick cameo.  It's a veritable trend.

Here's the deal.  I've been meaning to write a post for a couple of days anyways about my bi-zar-re dreams that I've been having every night of late.  (And they're not even pregnancy induced.  For the win!)  I've been thinking about what to write cause "Well, I've been having dreams lately.  And they're weird" just doesn't come across as all that interesting.  And I want to keep my one remaining reader coming back for more, you know?  Well, this morning around 10:53 a.m., it came to me.  These aren't just any old dreams; these are prophecies.

How else can you explain the random mishmash that is taking place while I'm in sleep mode?  Por ejemplo, I woke up a couple of days ago in the middle of being chased by a teen/early 20s blond woman dressed up in pioneer garb through a period reproduction home in a tourist-y spot after my daughter's pre-school teacher (also dressed as a pioneer woman) told me/us to go see what was in the other room.  There was also something about a field in that one.  Then, this morning, I was helping a friend jumpstart his car in "my" driveway (totally not my actual driveway) with "my" SUV (definitely not my sedan) and then my dad was there to help out even though he lives 2 hours away, and prior to the dead battery debacle, we were chatting about whatever while either cleaning out the dishwasher/putting dishes away/making tea/something kitchen-y (the memory is a bit hazy right there).  In hindsight, I realize that one can be all "Whoa..." and whatever, but it was uber-innocuous.  I assure you.  Those are merely 2 examples from the past 2 solid weeks of sta-rrrraaaaannnnnggggge dream shinnanigans happening pretty much every morning when I wake up.  

Unfortunately, I'm more like King Neb (sans the murdering vein) than Dan, however.  A Daniel, a Daniel, my kingdom for a Daniel.  (Name that reference and I'll send you some cookies for winning my self-imposed contest jackpot.)  My dreams may not have the full import that Nebuchadnezzar's did, but wouldn't it be cool if...???     

I won't thank my husband for watching our kids

I won’t tell my husband “thank you” for watching our girls when he’s not at work.  

I used to, but I won’t anymore.  I had this moment of realization when I caught myself saying thank you to him when he was simply doing what he is supposed to do naturally given that he is the father of these two lovelies, and they are his responsibility as well. 

 

I won’t say thank you for going to work today (though given the amount of snow days as of late, I’ve secretly been calling his school to thank them for not cancelling despite the detestable weather).  I won’t say thank you for going to the dentist.  I won’t say thank you for putting air in the tires of your car.  So why in the world did I find myself repeatedly gushing thank you!!! as I was putting my coat on to go to my job?  Why would I do that?

Reason: He’s working a regular job, and I know how tired that makes you feel.  Except that I also know how full-time parenting is a regular job and how tired that also makes you feel.  We're often meeting on equal levels of energy on any given evening.

Reason:  I don’t want to bother him.  Except that if I can’t “bother him,” then what recourse do I have?

Reason:  He’s a guy who wants to do other things.  Except that he’s foremost a guy who is fully committed to being a full-time father, and if I don’t let him spend alone time with his children, then I am the problem.  And we both want to do other things.  We share the time we have.

I deeply value the little extras that he gives me, including the rare hour home by myself upon occasion.  I choose to reserve my heartfelt thank yous for those times when the gift was proffered unexpectedly rather than for the day-to-day existence when we are both doing our understood jobs.  

Hey…thank you for giving me some time yesterday to work in silence.  It was exactly what I needed.  Thanks.