Life with the Kid(s)

School Begins Again

2012-01-09T21:17:00.000-06:00

So, for the sake of some sort of continuity, our homeschool began again today.

Which essentially meant that we had one lesson in the morning (on weather) and set up our little weather flannel board.

And then we went to play with our homeschool friends - a wonderful little family whose mama is in a similar boat as I am (i.e. just moved here, just started homeschooling, kind & courteous children, etc.).

A scene from an earlier last visit, involving Ancient Egyptians.
And a cat costume.

Olivia always hates to leave there, and today was no exception - after we erupted a volcano (a baking soda & vinegar one), it was time to get our things on to go out, and she snuck out back to the tree house and hid. Oh, well. I am glad that she likes to play with her homeschool friends, right? I'm sure I felt the same way about leaving places, too, and I know that my homeschool mama friend didn't think that I was a bad parent. Whew!

Elsie butterfly inspects her friends' toys.

This evening, I was out running a rare childless errand (Nathan had come home early from school today and was home with the girls) when I saw the rising full moon. I saw another educational opportunity and so I called Nathan to let him know we were going on a full moon walk. I swept home and picked up the fam-a-lam and then we drove out into somewhere to see if we couldn't find a place to walk around in the woods. We found a big lake, which was closed (how can that be? I didn't know lakes had "hours"). Also, the thought of walking around by a lake with two small children in the semi-darkness didn't bode well. So essentially we drove around in the country looking at the moon. Not to go home empty-handed, we stopped at our local Bryan Park (at which you could park until 11 PM! Take that, lake!) and ran around in the open dark-ish area. Olivia and I found Orion and Taurus and the Pleiades and Cassiopeia (there are a lot of "eia" constellations, aren't there?), but we couldn't see Ursa Major, maybe due to all that full moon light. We decided that we would go out on the next New Moon and do some star-gazing.

So we went home and looked on the calendar to find that the next New Moon (i.e. No Moon) is in two weeks, and is ALSO Chinese New Year. Which brought on a whole new discussion about calendars.

So we decided that this week, we would learn about all different types of calendars - Gregorian and Lunar and Baha'i and whatnot - and then next week, we'd work on stars and constellations, to prepare for the following Monday's No Moon Star Seeing.

And we wrote it on the calendar.

I love homeschooling. Everything is a opportunity to teach and learn, and I think that's what I've learned most so far. Learning can happen anywhere and at anytime. Even in the dark.

Making Applesauce

2011-12-29T18:31:00.000-06:00

SO - this post is about two months late.

We're on vacation (hooray for grad school winter break!) at the Davis Enclave and I have a moment to clean up my computer files. Read: I'm sick in bed and I'm bored out of my mind. So I'm tidying up iPhoto and I came across our little photo shoot that the girls and I did when we canned our first batch of applesauce ever.

So, without any more boring introduction, here's what we did:

Washing the Apples

Olivia and her fancy pose.

I have no idea what is happening here.

Cutting up the apples to cook.

Elsie and her table knife.
Also, I have no idea why she is wearing two shirts.

All the pots a'boiling.

PLUS these apples, too. Not cooking yet.

Olivia (wo)mans the food mill.

The food mill is amazing.
I cooked the whole apple and this baby sorted out the nasty bits.

Yum. I guess I forgot to take a photo of the final product. I know there must be one somewhere, but I suppose in all the hurry to can those babies quickly for fear of botulism, I forgot to document. Oh, well.

Needless to say, the girls love it. They won't eat store made applesauce, which is bad, because we don't have enough to last until the new season. Come over before its all gone. Next year, we're making 4 bushels.

Eggs

2011-12-16T10:32:00.000-06:00

I love eggs.

There's no doubt about it - even if I have two dozen in the refrigerator, if I see an interesting dozen at the grocery (our local Big Girl Chickens sells theirs with green ones!), I'll buy it. Then I'll sit and think of ways to use them.

The egg spectrum, as manifested in my refrigerator...

My favorite eggs are from happy chickens. That may be a bit anthropomorphic, but what I mean are chickens who are allowed to be chicken-y. Scratch around for bugs and seeds. Run around and squawk at each other. Go outside in the sun or stay cozy in the shade at their leisure.

My favorite chickens live in Berea, Kentucky. My friend Jessica tends them as part of her work at college. When the girls and I went to visit earlier this fall, we got to meet them. And pet them. And buy two dozen of their eggs. The yolks were literally orange, they were that full of vitamin A. These chickies could eat grass and be in the sun. And their eggs were that much more nutritious. Without any sort of human intervention, like adding Omega-3s to their food or whatever.

Aside from the eating part is the fact that eggs hold so much potential. They, given the proper conditions, could grow into another living thing.

So here's a little photo ode to eggs. Glory in their perfection, in all its forms!

It's like the Italian flag. In egg form.

I love speckled ones!

Can you find the tiny feather?

From long and skinny to fat fat fat.

So the next time you scramble, fry, poach, coddle, or whisk your eggs into another wonderful dish, take a moment to appreciate them.

And the chicken who made them.

Holiday Shenanigans

2011-12-14T10:39:00.000-06:00

I've seen and heard a lot of talk about "political correctness" and saying "Merry Christmas" instead of "Happy Holidays" recently. Of course, much of it stems from the general feeling that "other people" are "taking over" "our country" - rhetoric that any student of history can identify as accompanying a general feeling of unrest in any given culture. The truth is, our country is - and always has been - a big ol' stew of folks - forget the melting pot. We aren't melting into one glop of homogeny, we are a tasty mix of potatoes and carrots and meat. Or beans, if you're a vegetarian.

Anyhow, all of this has come to the surface around Christmastime - which, as it is celebrated here, is itself a big ol' stew of pagan and Celtic and German and Roman (to name a few) traditions. Those, topped with a lovely helping of consumer frenzy (do you remember when "Black Friday" was a term reserved for those familiar with retail-ese?). It is also, of course, Solstice-time and Hanukkah-time and Kwanzaa-time (no Eid this year).

And guess what? We celebrate all four of those holidays.

Primarily because we don't really celebrate any of them.

Confused? I was.

It started when I was little. My family (read: mom and dad), bless 'em, were members of the Baha'i Faith. The Baha'is have an entirely separate set of Holy Days, and none of them happen to fall around the beginning of winter. However, growing up in the United States, specifically the Midwest, I found myself to be a little Baha'i bobbing around in a sea of mostly Christmas-celebrating peers. While my friends' families were setting up the delicious-smelling Christmas tree, and baking equally delicious-smelling cookies, decorated in an assortment of brightly-colored frostings (yum!), were were not. No Christmas lights for us, no wreath... nothing. Our house was a dim spot on the corner in an otherwise gaily-lit town. When people asked me what Santa would bring, I would never really know what to say. What would Santa bring to a heathen?

Enter: Gramma. An important principle in the Baha'i teachings is that of unity - especially among the family - and so my parents would celebrate Christmas with our extended families. We would go over to my dad's mother's house for a brief stint, but the real fun was at my mom's mother and father's house. My grandmother was (and is) a teacher, and so she really knew how to relate to little children. We could decorate the tree there and help gather greens for a wreath and my grandpa would build a fire and we would leave cookies for Santa and stay up late to see a) if we could hear Santa on the roof or b) if we could figure out exactly HOW our Gramma got those presents under the tree.

My cousin and I always contrived to catch/disprove Santa. One year, my cousin and I stayed up (we took shifts) to wait for Santa, and, late in the night, we actually heard some rustling in the direction of the living room AFTER we had SEEN our Grandma and Grandpa go to bed. Excitedly (and frankly, a little trepidatiously), we tiptoed to the living room, only to find my uncles putting up a computer in the study. Our presents from SANTA (for some reason, Santa always wrote his name in capital letters, like he was trying to disguise his handwriting or something) were already under the tree. Foiled again!

Anyhow, for a little Baha'i kid, I didn't really miss out all that much on the Christmas action, although it always rankled a bit to know that my cousins got more presents than I did. I knew that if we had celebrated Christmas at home, we would have double the presents, and so I was always a little bitter that my parents had chosen to shift their beliefs. Not only that, but no one else in our family was a Baha'i, and so we were really the odd ones out. I don't think anyone approved, either, except maybe my grandmother, and only because she wanted to preserve the family unity. We were definitely weirdos, and no one wants that, especially a little kid.

Needless to say, it always felt a little off to be celebrating a holiday that we didn't actually celebrate. The Baha'i time of gift-giving (Ayyam-i-Ha) is in February, before the Baha'i New Year (yeah, we've got a different one of those, too), and it was always a little anti-climactic, since we were the only ones in our family celebrating it. My parents did their very best to make it seems really special - we had an Ayyam-i-Ha Camel who would leave presents. Sometimes it would leave presents in laundry baskets. One year, when I asked for some Honey Nut Cheerios (my mom never bought us sugar cereal, either. Man - we were lepers!), I was excited and then disappointed to find that it had brought me what looked like a box of the cereal but was in fact some "Get in Shape, Girl" weighted exercise bangles. What was that all about? My wrists were weak? My hands were fat? Gee whiz! Santa would have never brought me that - maybe these gift-giving folk need to have a convention or something, and share pointers.

Fast-forward to the present. I have two children, and ever since the first one was born, I have been acutely aware of the way that we present this Holiday Season. First of all, there is a huge deluge of Christmas-themed things everywhere. Walk into Target the day after Thanksgiving, and you'll think you missed a whole month or something, with all the decorations for Christmas. The television is rife with mentions of Christmas (have you ever seen a Hanukkah special? I think that there is one, and it stars Adam Sandler.), and kind people ask us at the library or the bank or the grocery store or wherever we go what Santa is bringing the girls for Christmas. There's no escape!

I needed a strategem, and quick. Help came in the form of some dear friends - Baha'is, whose family is Jewish - who invited us to celebrate Hanukkah with them. Slowly, an idea began to form. We would celebrate and recognize every holiday, but with a twist - we wouldn't celebrate them at home, but we would celebrate them with other people. That way, the association wouldn't be about the presents (at least, we hope not), but with friends and togetherness. This association has become even more acute after our recent move. My girls are Chicago girls, and their friends mostly live there. We have yet to build those friendships with children here, and so it is a special treat to see our friends.

By now, my girls have it down. We celebrate Hanukkah with Ma'ani and his family, we celebrate Christmas with Go Go Betty ("great grandma Betty," in two year-old speak), and we celebrate Kwanzaa with the cousins. We have a good old school friend who is Muslim, and we know that she celebrates Eid at the end of Ramadan (only that won't be in the winter here for a few years), and we celebrate the Solstice as the first day of Winter, Olivia's favorite season. We know that we have many friends who celebrate Christmas, but we also know that we have many friends who don't, and that takes the burden of isolation off of my little girls.

But the best part is that we also know that we have our very own special Holy Days - ones that we celebrate at home AND with friends - and I have tried to fight the tide of images by bringing out some of our own - making our own family traditions (there's a lot of leeway in the Baha'i Faith for commemorating Holy Days, it being a relatively new religion and all, plus that world-embracing vision thing means that celebrations can be culturally-specific). We go all out - special tablecloths, special foods, special themes and flowers and decorations. All of this to help build a strong identity as a world citizen.

And I think that is what is called for today - a sense of appreciation. We know that we aren't the only people on this earth, and we know that God has lovingly created every single person on this earth, and endowed each person with unique capacities and faculties. This is our role, then, as citizens of a tiny planet, itself bobbing in a sea of space. We must learn to celebrate and appreciate our differences, because we know that - underlying them all - is a similarity, a oneness, of the human experience.

So, I say to you:

Merry Christmas
Happy Hanukkah
Joyous Kwanzaa
and Hooray for Solstice!

Making Cheese

2011-12-13T09:03:00.002-06:00

I once read that a real woman makes her own cheese.

I don't know about the validity of that statement, but I am happy to say that I have entered the cheese-making arena.

I ordered a little kit from the amazing Ricki the Cheese Queen this past summer and the girls and I tried our hands at the creation of some soft cheeses. We made cow mozarella and goat chevre. Yum! We knew what went into it, and it all tasted so good!

We are going to make some mozarella today, and in that spirit, here are a few photos from our first foray into cheese-land this past summer, at Ganni and Poppa's house:

Heating the milk

After we add the culture, the curds begin to form

Our cheesecloth, ready and waiting!

Ladling the cheese curds into the colander

Kutuh comes to help!

Gathering the cheesecloth

Ready to hang!

Olivia helps to "milk" it

Ta-dah!

Elsie wants to poke it, too...

Our chevre, hanging over the sink.

Getting ready for batch #2

It's Kutuh's turn

Ladling.

Olivia takes a break for a jump.

Draining the whey from the curd

More draining.

Olivia sneaks some dripping whey.

Jessica doesn't even try to sneak.

Notice the whey dripping from the bottom.

You are going to be so good!

Whey to go...

Mama Love

2011-12-09T14:51:00.000-06:00

Recently, my girls and I drove to LouHelen Baha'i School in Davison, Michigan, for a weekend course on Environmental Stewardship.

We met up with some dear friends, and we had a little photo shoot prior to our departure.

This is my favorite of me and the girls from that roll:

Sweet, right? But, notice all the outtakes needed to get a (semi)sweet shot:

Elsie seemed determined to eat my face. Oh, well. I think I have actually bitten both of my children (accidentally), trying to nibble those cheeks. I suppose it's only fair that they have a turn.

A Little Bit of Sacrifice

2011-12-07T08:16:00.000-06:00

I've started doing yoga again! By which I mean that I woke up this morning and practiced for two whole sun salutations (with variations!).

Well, everyone has to start (again) somewhere, right?

I suppose I'm used to myself by now, after 31 years, but every now and then I get a little disappointed with my erratic habits.

For instance (don't be grossed out), but sometimes I forget to brush my teeth. When I remember (and if I'm not in bed under the comforter where it's warm or busy typing a blog entry), I'll do it, but I'm not the kind of person who can't sleep knowing that she's forgotten something like that.

Don't judge.

I think that adding first a child and then children to the mix didn't help much, either. What with the needs of little ones added to the needs of everyone else (read: husband), my daily maintenance got pushed to the back burner.

Fortunately, I don't think I'm the only one. Well, that's fortunate only for my own ego, I guess. It's no good when a bunch of mothers (or fathers) neglect personal needs in lieu of the needs of others. Right?

But there must be something to this - I'm sure that you have heard the story of the single mother who, for the sake of the education and benefit of her child ended up working two jobs to make sure that her son made it through college. That son is aware of this and is ever-grateful.

You may also have heard the joke about mamas and black stretch pants. No? Maybe that's a city thing - where the uniform for mothers is a baggy top and comfortable pants - in stark contrast to the helled boots, skinny jeans, and for. (At least these days they're called yoga pants, which make them seem a little more respectable than the sweat pants my mother used to have to wear.) The jeering came from those women (mostly, and sadly) who either didn't have any children OR re-entered the working for pay world very soon after baby's birth, leaving the post-partum comfortable (and happily cuter than ever these days) clothes behind in favor of a smart two-piece blouse and skirt ensemble.

The tricky bit about being a mama is finding the right balance, I suppose. For some women, that means forsaking personal plans (or at least putting them on hold for a time) in favor of raising a child. For others, that means demonstrating to the child the value of self-worth by continuing to pursue a chosen career. And for all, it means a little bit of sacrifice. No doubt the mother returning to work dreams of staying home and being with her sweet baby all day, being present and wholly enraptured with the everyday goings on. No doubt the mother staying at home dreams of the time when she can be unconstrained by the will of another and make the choices that suit her alone.

For me, this is the point where I feel as though I'm emerging from the cocoon of infant-raising and stepping out, little by little, into the arena of life again.

And I can see what that little bit of sacrifice has paid for - my children are (relatively) well-adjusted. I haven't missed a single event (although I do wish for some do-overs). And I'm in a place where I can serve as my children's first teacher in our little home-school.

So I did some yoga today. Maybe I'll do some tomorrow, too. The best part of life is that each day is a new chance, with no mistakes in it (yet).

Dolly Days, part 2

2011-12-06T07:17:00.002-06:00

A friend asked for a tutorial on how to make the sweet little dollies that we did.

I must admit it was definitely a learning curve - a.k.a. wonderful puzzle - that I enjoyed trying to figure out how to do. And, to make it seem more "official," I took photos of the process, and so I'll be making a little tutorial on how we made ours (and how you can make one, too). Look soon for that.

But there I go putting the cart before the horse. First, I wanted to give you a little (almost) done peek at the dollies. Granted, this is before they had faces or clothes, but you get the picture. (note: Gramma, if you click on the picture, it should open in a new window and be a little easier to see!)

They still don't have clothes, but at least they can see now. And smell and talk. And of course, notice the little ears - that was Olivia's request, because everyone should have the opportunity to hear, if at all possible.

...

More soon, but I've got another post itching at my brain, and I need to type it out before it goes somewhere else and I forget altogether.

Dolly Days

2011-12-05T18:56:00.000-06:00

Today, we decided to make some dollies.

Inspired by a friend's sweet dolly, courtesy of Warm Sugar on Etsy:

You can purchase these gorgeous little handmade dolls here.

We, however, wanted to do it ourselves, and make them just how we want them, and so we went to the fabric store to get some people colors. Here's what we found:

Beige for mama, Caramel for Olivia, and Cocoa for Elsie

We made up a little pattern:

Head/torso, leg, & arm

We cut out our pieces:

And sewed and stuffed.

We aren't done yet, but my eyes and hands are tired. Here's a little preview of what we've done so far (in the terrible overhead light):

Don't worry - tomorrow, with some more stuffing, finished faces, and better lighting, they'll look much more glamorous.

But for now, goodnite!

Sick Days

2011-12-02T08:51:00.002-06:00

How anti-climactic can it get when - after months of preparation and planning - the first day of officially-structured "school" is a sick day? And, in our case, more like a sick week.

After our long trip to Florida this past week over the Thanksgiving Break, I returned with a wonderful complete schedule for the next few weeks for the girls' homeschool. Olivia returned with a cold.

And, owing to her loving nature, she has shared that cold with the rest of us.

So we have spent the last few days in the "sick bed" - which is really the girls on the couch-bed in the front room, resting, watching shows and drinking fluids, and me cleaning up after our trip.

(On a side note - how is it that, regardless of the spotless state of one's house before a long trip, during which NO ONE is in the house, the place looks a tornado ran through it after you get home?)

Anyhow, the girls are getting a little better, as evidenced by their rampage through the house this morning, and I'm in bed with a nasty headache.

Oh, well.

Today, I will finish the last bit of tidying (I trust), and preparing the house for winter. Exciting, I know, but these little things make a big difference.

Look again next week to see how our schooling is going. Today, I think that if I can finish the tidying early, we'll do a little sewing - it's time for warm pajamas and slippers!

Maybe something like this?

http://snickerdoodlesteph.blogspot.com/2010/01/cozy-slipper-tutorial-part-2-making.html

Yum!

Little House in the Hills

2011-12-01T05:14:00.001-06:00

When I was little, I loved to read Laura Ingalls Wilder's books in the Little House series. I loved hearing about her mother and father and sisters and the goings-on of every day life. I even recall thinking that the best museums would have little interactive "vignettes," where the patron could see and feel and BE a part of the every day life of different cultures over time.

I suppose that's why I'm am anthropologist.

Anyhow, it wasn't until later that I learned all the rest of the story: that the Ingalls and other settlers weren't moving into uninhabited land; that the U.S. government broke every treaty it signed with the First Nations peoples of this continent; that there was a lot more going on than smoking meat and learning to sew.

However, none of that was suitable for children - which brings me to the present day and my very own children. And how I'm raising them and teaching them about the world and their role in it.

And how - interestingly - we have moved from a big old city to a little (old) town in southern Indiana, and how I'm going to pretend to be a homesteader with a (real) cultural world-view and grow my own Swiss chard. And my kids are going to learn about West African dance and Cherokee-style basket weaving and to speak Chinese and Spanish and about the native plants in Southern Indiana and the lives of Indiana farmers.

So from here, on, dear readers, we will begin the journey of a homeschooling mama and her two little kidlets.

***

It began when Nathan applied for graduate school. Immediately, I was searching Craigslist for suitable housing in four different localities and had four plans of actions for every contingency. Well, five, actually, including the possibility that we would stay where we were, but I didn't think that would happen, simply because this change of pace for him just seemed right.

When we found out that we would be moving to Indiana (Indiana?!), I started in on the schools. Olivia had been in a wonderful Montessori school in Evanston - Chiaravalle - and under the wings of Molly and Kate she had really blossomed into an independent and articulate child. Well, she may have already been articulate, but the independence espoused in the Montessori philosophy was wonderful. So there was a high standard to be met by the schools in Bloomington.

I didn't even think that there would be any difficulty transferring her to the Montessori school here - my biggest concern was whether it would be as wonderful as Chiaravalle. Well, I needn't have worried. There wasn't even room in the Bloomington Montessori school for my sweet child. Apparently, one may place his or her child on the waiting list at the moment s/he is born and there must have been a lot of children born in Olivia's year. We received a package containing a note saying that we were on the waiting list and a copy of a book entitled How to Raise an Amazing Child the Montessori Way, which explained how to implement Maria Montessori's methods into the home.

It was at that moment that the idea entered my head that perhaps I could teach my own children at home, using the Montessori curriculum. The idea was only the size of a tiny seed, but we all know what a seed can do.

I had already explored the other options available to us: Harmony School (a democratic school), the Project School (a charter school) and of course the local public school. Both Harmony and the Project School were full, and we didn't know much about Templeton, our local school, except that the building was brick and there weren't many windows. I decided that I would move forward on the homeschooling idea, and so began to plan.

When I had just started, we moved. And we moved in with my in-laws for the summer, meaning unlimited Ganni and Poppa time as well as unlimited cousin time (my sister-in-law lives right down the street). So that was about two months of distractions.

Then I got sick. Really sick with a nasty virus (read: no medication).

And then we moved again. This time to Bloomington. And I was still sick.

Then I had to unpack our house. In a week and a half.

Then we had to go to IKEA.

Then Nathan started school.

Then - well, as you can see, things were a little distracting. I was worried because I didn't have the materials set up for Olivia's school yet. And it was school time. Ack!

So - after a final plea to each of the schools on our list - and a final denial from each - Nathan and I decided on a whim to try Templeton. I went in to see how things looked from the inside (my windowless impression had only been an outside one, you see). There were still few windows, and when I explained to the very nice lady in the office that we had a daughter and asked what the school was like, I learned that it was a Title something-or-other school (Title 1? I don't remember). I suppose that was supposed to mean something to me, but it didn't. I also learned that they had a multi-age classroom, which sounded promising. Oh, but that was full. If I enrolled Olivia she would be in a classroom with twenty-four other students and one teacher. I said I would think about it.

I did, and Olivia was so excited about the possibility of school that I said we would try it. She could go half-day and see what she thought. She tried it and liked it enough to go back the second day. But when the third day rolled around, she voiced her concern: she couldn't go to recess. She couldn't play with her classmates because she was a half-day student and left right before recess. In fact, she got in line to go to recess every day but had to leave the line at the front office and wait for me, watching her could-be friends march outside to the playground.

I marched into that office and asked if she could stay for recess. Could I pick her up a little later? No. What if I picked her up and took her to the playground myself? No. She wouldn't be permitted on the school grounds if she wasn't in school.

What? Is she a little criminal? In jail?

Harumphed, I went home. Nathan and I didn't want Olivia in school all day long - the school day was seven hours long and there was only one recess - and that was only 20 minutes long. To add to all the numbers was my little five year-old. Who really wanted to play.

So, we decided to try it. The next week, she started as a full day-er. The nice office lady almost squealed when I say she'd be in full-day. Like that was some sort of prize. Conspiracy? I think so.

Anyhow, my radical thoughts notwithstanding, Olivia trooped out of bed at 7 every morning (against her usual 9ish time), got ready, walked to the bus stop, took the bus, and came home bedragled. It was only the first day, so we tried again. Again, a cranky and crotchety five-year-old was my prize at the end of a long day. I thought that we should give it a week. If she didn't spruce up, we'd try something else.

At the end of the school day at Chiaravalle, Olivia didn't want to leave. She'd get in the car and say to me, "Mama! Did you know that three tens is thirty?" She would ask to go to school on Saturday. This in sharp contrast to my Templeton Tiger, who was dragging in the morning, didn't want to talk about school, and brought home worksheets that asked her to sort items by color. One day, when we were singing a little song about patience (it's hard to be patient when you're 2 or 5 or 31), she said, "Mom, I'm going to sing this song to the kids in my classroom at school, because they don't listen very well in line and are hitting each other." Excuse me? My five year-old has to enforce courtesy? Where is the teacher?

The last straw came when we received a letter from the teacher. It explained the curriculum for the year and introduced the teacher to us. And it said that never in her 13 years teaching Kindergarten has she had such a work-based curriculum - she said that she would do her best to "work in" play time and other activities. Essentially, reading between the lines, we saw that our child's teacher thought that the new standards were crap.

Enough was enough. I just needed a reason to pull my baby out of that place, and this letter did it. We left the school supplies of tissues and pencils and crayons and took that little girl home.

It was fun and exhilarating - I got to play my mama card.

But after that excitement wore off, I was left with the plain fact that I didn't know what to do next. I hadn't done any preparation. I had a few books and I had seen the Montessori classroom and materials. None of which I had. So I began to cast about for some sort of something to help me figure out this dilemma.

It finally came when I met a friend at the farmer's market. We were waiting in line for bacon and eggs. I don't know how we did it, but a conversation sprang up. She was new to the area. She had three girls (2, 4, and 7). She was homeschooling. Too. For the first time. Too.

We hung out. We talked about curriculum. About how homeschooling is not the same as school-schooling. How we aren't trying to recreate the classroom, but to make the classroom the world. How every day experiences are learning opportunities. Things began to take shape. My brain started to function again. Ideas swirled around in my rather cavernous-feeling head and congealed into clouds. Olivia and I had a little brainstorming session together to figure out what she wanted to learn. I had begun to water that seed.

So that's where we are now. My poor little homeschool seed is just beginning to peek its little shoot out of the ground. But at least it's growing. We've set up a daily schedule. Olivia is taking piano lessons and we go to the library and WonderLab once a week. We've instituted some home "school" rules and home "home" rules. After the winter break, we will be starting up our official math again.

Looking back on the past three months, this first session was really about determining our assets and needs. The whole time, I was lamenting not having a structure or a curriculum or a degree. But my girls were learning about our new home, our environment, our town, and our food. We took field trips to farms and met our farmers through our CSA shares. We learned about bees and kettle corn at the farmer's market. We practiced organization and discipline in setting up our new house and the girls' classroom. And we discovered the seasons with our leaf collection, yard work, and preparing the house for winter.

Now, with winter coming, it's time to settle in. We're snuggling down for the snow. On the horizon are some exciting projects: embroidery and sewing, knitting, reading and writing, counting and measuring, bread baking and cookie making.

Maybe we're not the Ingalls, but this Little House is ready for what's next!

The Family Bed

2011-11-30T05:37:00.001-06:00

If you've been reading "regularly," and I use that term loosely, considering that I loosely post things here, you may have guessed that by now, we've moved.

We have, and are *almost* settled into our new little place in Bloomington, Indiana. There are, of course, the little bits of things that still need sorting and put away, but they are becoming fewer and fewer. Phew! (er)

When we moved, we pared down our things (you wouldn't have guessed it if you had helped us move), trying to streamline the amount of STUFF we owned, and trying to guess what we would need in the new house. There was quite a bit moved along to new people, including our beloved bed. We bought it when we had been married only a year and were moving out of our teeny-weeny apartment (in which you had to walk through the closet to get to the bathroom) (and which also came with its own bed - looking back on that - ick!) and into new digs, in which we needed our very own bed. That comfy thing lasted us from IKEA through the rainy three-plus-hour drive home tied atop our little Kia Rio Cinco and for almost eight years (including two pregnant ones for me)! You know it's comfy if a pregnant lady can sleep on it. But, I digress. The most comfortable bed in the world is now living at my in-laws (where we can visit it any time we want) and we bit the bullet and bought the ultimate: a king-size bed.

For a family of four living on a graduate student budget (read: enough actual income to pay the monthly rent and the rest loans/grants/family support), the king size bed was a big bullet to bite. But we knew that with more space - including a room especially for the girls - we would need it. Why? Because, even though their Gramp built them a beautiful bunk bed - which, dad, if you're reading this, they love dearly and we WILL use it, I promise - our girls sleep with us.

Still.

They have since they were born - first Olivia, wrapped up like a baby burrito on her little crib mattress (on the floor) next to our mattress (on the floor). I remember those first few nights, me rarely sleeping as she lay alone on her little bed, wondering if she was cold, if she was breathing, if she was lonely. I know I was lonely, and, little by little, I moved her into our bed.

Nathan and I had made a conscious choice that we would be co-sleeping. That's the official term for parents and children sleeping in the same room. Some people buy special beds for their babies (we had one with Elsie - a co-sleeper from Arm's Reach) that can be attached right next to the big bed like a sidecar. Others put the crib in the room of the parents, or, as we had, put their big mattress on the floor abutting a little mattress for the baby. After a while, we found that the best way for us was to all be in the same bed - the family bed.

I loved the thrill of it - first of all, I had a big row with my mama about it, so I felt a little rush of adrenaline, knowing I was being disobedient. But I also felt connected to mamas the world over who sleep with their babies in whatever bed they have - futons, straw mats, Serta sleepers, a blanket on the floor - whatever. I remember nursing Olivia to sleep in our little place on Newgard Avenue, and drifting off, thinking that mamas the world over were nursing their babies at the same time - that I was participating in a timeless rite - a cultural tradition of the human experience.

By now, at least for some of you, I know that there must be alarm bells and whistles going off in your heads. "No! No!" you might be thinking, "You'll roll over on the baby! The baby will fall on the floor! The baby will suffocate! That's what cribs are for!" Don't worry - these aren't new thoughts - all of these worries came through my head, too. And, if you know me, you know that I'm a worrier, so all options needed to be examined before I could relax. Of course, we had to be informed - one doesn't plop a baby in an adult bed and expect everything to work out beautifully. We read bazillions of articles, we asked people who had co-slept, we looked at the statistics (a good article can be found here), heard arguments on both sides, and then - well, we did whatever we wanted.

The truth (at least for our family) is, bed-sharing was the easiest and best way for everyone to get enough sleep. I couldn't imagine having to make up every two or three hours for those first few months (and during every growth spurt after that) to get up out of bed, walk into another room, take my crying baby out of her crib, nurse her, put her back in her crib, walk back to my own bed and try to go back to sleep. No, thank you. I took the straightest route from A to B, I suppose, and put that baby in my bed and let her nurse at her leisure (and my rest).

That, and the fact that we didn't have another room in which to put the baby.

A friend of mine (and Olivia's doula) related it to me in this way: when you sleep, you don't roll off the bed onto the floor - you are aware of where the edge is. Now just imagine that you have a tiny little person next to you - how much MORE aware of her would you be than the edge of the bed, with your mama (or papa) spidey-senses all a-twitter?

Bedsharing got us through some nasty times - Olivia and her "colic," which turned out to be what I like to call womb-nostalgia*, my post-partum depression, as well as the usual kid illnesses (which can be harder for the parents than the baby sometimes, what with all the worrying). It also got us through two one-bedroom apartments.

And now, here I am, up early after a well-rested sleep (mostly). Olivia is curled up next to me with her teddy bear (Olivia Bear, of course), and Elsie is clinging to her daddy's armpits on the other side of the bed. We all fit, too, in this big ol' bed.

I know my children won't always sleep with us. I fear and relish that fact. I look forward to the time when no one is kicking me in the face (that's why Elsie's next to Nathan) or rolling over on top of me (ha! The tables have turned!). The time when my husband sleeps next to me and not two people over. But we are both aware that these are precious days. Too soon will these little souls venture out into their own room and the wide wide world. Then I will look back to these sweet snuggle times - when a sleeping Elsie reaches her chubby hand to find mine. When Olivia - who is growing more and more into an independent big girl - wakes in the morning light, rolls over and says, "Mama, I'm glad we snuggled."

*womb-nostalgia is a very silly term for the very serious way that many babies miss the womb - some doctors call it colic, but Dr. Harvey Karp describes it as "the missing fourth trimester." Bedsharing helped, but the real hole-in-one was wrapping the baby up like a little burrito, taking her into the bathroom, turning off the lights, turning on the shower and standing in the middle of the floor (not in the shower), holding her on her tummy, and swinging her side-to-side. Worked every time.

Some Links on Co-Sleeping (for those of you who like to read more things):

"Cosleeping: Real Men Sleep with Their Kids" - Mothering Magazine
"Sleep Environment Safety Checklist" (for both family beds and cribs) - Mothering Magazine
"The Latest Research on Co-Sleeping" - Ask Dr. Sears
"Seven Benefits to Sleeping with Your Baby" - Dr. William Sears
"Five Benefits to Cosleeping Past Infancy" - Natural Parent Network
"Fun with Analogies" - PhD in Parenting (this one's a little crass)

My Secret Love

2011-08-10T06:16:00.002-05:00

So, we're moving. Out of state. In two days.

At the end of June, we cleared out our place of four+ years (a one-bedroom apartment in Evanston) and stuck all of our stuff into a 10' x 15' storage space. We then took those few things that we would need over the summer (read: clothes) and moved in with my husband's family, in Rockford, Illinois.

The summer has gone surprisingly fast. Granted, we've squeezed in quite a bit, mostly the usual summer fare: camping trip, swimming pool visits, water play in the backyard, summer camps, and a trip with the entire fam (save two) to the amusement park. We've made lemonade and ice cream sandwiches from scratch, and visited with far-flung friends. The girls have run amok with their cousins, which is of course a requirement for a good summer, and I've managed to come down with a nasty flu-like virus, complete with a sore throat. In the summer.

Well done.

That last bit has really sent me for a loop, and so, with our move looming on the horizon, yesterday I was sent scrambling over the internet to fit the last few logistics into place. You know, things like when and where we will pick up our moving van, and arranging for the gas and electric to be turned on in our new place. Being the daughter of a postal worker, I don't mess around when it comes to change of address forms, either. All of those little things add up to a rather large inconvenience if someone doesn't do them.

Our most sticky bit of logistical work thus far has been figuring out how to tote the few things we have with us (which seem to have multiplied over the summer) to Evanston, where we will try to squeeze them into our 20' truck. Granted, we have a wonderfully cavernous station wagon, but we were hoping to get a new mattress en route, and so we (read: I) have been looking into installing a hitch on our car so that we could tow a trailer, should the need arise.

The trouble is, we've got a very tricky car. You wouldn't think to look at our grey station wagon, but it's got quite a few surprises up its tailpipe. The first being that it's an 8-cylinder. The second being that it has all-wheel-drive (which you can turn on and off). Apparently, those two combined make it virtually impossible to find a trailer hitch that fits. I've found hitches for my '02 VW Passat Wagon W8 (not 4motion) and for my '02 VW Passat Wagon 4motion (not W8), but nothing that meets all the criteria. Even the dealer, that over-priced purveyor of everything Volkswagen, can't find anything to fit.

Well, you may think, if the hitch doesn't fit... it's probably time to downsize, no?

Your response to my answer will tell you foodies from the flock - it's all because of my tomatoes.

I will gladly leave my clothes here to pick up at another time, my bits and bobs, etc. But over the summer, I picked up twelve heirloom tomato plants, which I've been coaxing into fruition in buckets in the backyard. I picked them up at the local farmer's market here in Rockford - they were on sale for $.50 each, which is amazing - and they're organic, to boot. I asked the tomato man what would grow in a pot, and so he and I had a wonderful seek-and-find time, looking through his beautifully-named jungle:

Honeydrop
White Tomasol
Black Plum
Paul Robeson
Gold Medal
Woodle Orange
Blush
Green Zebra
Czech's Bush
Angelic Organics Learning Center Yellow
Cream Sausage

With such enticing names (especially that last one - two of my favorite things!), how could I resist? They've met the challenge boldly, finally getting to the point where there are tiny fruits on most (I did buy them late in the season), and so I am loth to leave them here. But the fact is, even with the capaciousness of our trunk, there is no way that six five-gallon paint buckets full of dirt and plants and cages are going to fit into our car. At least, not if we intend to take the girls with us.

Which we do.

So I am feverishly searching (not the sore throat fever - this is a different one), for someplace that will stick a trailer hitch on the rear of our car. I justify that this is an investment that we can use in the future - even now, we can carry any overflow from the storage unit with us to Bloomington. In the future, we can put a bike rack on the back, or even haul a camper or a boat. We'd have to buy a camper or a boat first, but still...

To those of you who are rolling your eyes at this, all I have to say is that you get it or you don't. For me, there is unmeasured excitement and anticipation in watching a plant come to fruition - it mirrors my growth here in the physical world as well - starting from a tiny seed, enduring the elements of sweltering sun and gusty rain, growing strong from the winds of tests, and finally bearing fruit. The excitement that a ripe tomato evokes must be rooted in my evolutionary heritage - fundamentally, this is the food that feeds us, and here I am: small, paltry me; and I helped it grow.

So wish me luck. I have a few options lined up, but if you know of any place in the Chicagoland area that could install a hitch on my finicky car before Friday, let me know!

UPDATE: We possibly found a match, the only drawback is - $500. Oh, well.

I'll ask my in-laws to send me the seeds.

Sour Grapes

2011-08-04T17:50:00.000-05:00

I'm sick.

I hate being sick.

When I was little, my mother told me that "hate" was a strong word. I've said the same thing to my five year-old, but I can guiltlessly state here that I hate being sick.

Firstly, because it causes me to stop. Everything. Especially right now, in the midst of moving and planning, during the week that I'm supposed to be helping my sister-in-law clear out her house in preparation for a garage sale. And I haven't finished remodeling my in-laws' guest bathroom. It's just sitting there, hooks unhung, tile uncaulked, paint un...painted. And I'm in bed. I hate that.

When I get sick, I get pathetic. Usually because it takes a lot of pain to actually get me to stop. I've had two babies, so I have a good point of reference. So when I'm the kind of sick that makes me stop, I'm really sick. And I've been really sick for five days now, with a grossly sore throat. The kind that you can't help but feel every time you breathe. And I have to breathe. All day.

I also get complain-y. Can you tell?

Of course, I usually get sick when I'm doing too much. I think that my body has an under-the-table agreement with infectious viruses, which states that whenever it doesn't want to keep up with my oft-full mental timetable, it can call on said viruses to make me stop.

Clearly, I got the message.

But that doesn't mean that I have to like it.

I can put some of the blame of genetics, in that my grandmother is the same non-stop way, but I think that my challenge is balancing this way of being with the chaotic style of our times.

For instance, right now, my internal self is having a war-of the-roses style battle - should I take this little burst of feeling-better energy and help my in-laws finish their house? I feel terrible because I helped to make the mess, by leaving things undone, but at the same time, I feel terrible because I'm sick. I think my body wins. At least for now.

I suppose all of this reflection time has helped me become more aware of how I function in the world, too. I am very good at doing things, but it is very difficult for me simply to be. I don't think that either is better than the other, but I think that there must be a balance of the two for sanity's sake. And by balance, I mean that each individual must find what mix of the two is best for her/himself. My husband, for example, is a very good be-er, and thinks through things quite thoroughly. I don't think that he would mind me saying that doing is often his weakness. I am the exact opposite, which is why we are good for one another. Each encourages the other to practice that attribute at which s/he is most deficient.

Anyhow, I haven't gone in to clear up the room, nor have I painted even a wall today. I have sat upon this couch all day, and reflected and distracted and watched Blue's Clues on Netflix with my girls. It has been rather nice, actually. I don't know if I could do it every day (in fact, I know I couldn't), but it is nice to do once in a while.

So, thanks, you nasty virus. I may be sour grapes, but at least I've mulled a bit.

Back to the Earth?

2011-06-02T07:42:00.001-05:00

My brother Emeric thinks I'm a hippie. The other evening, after washing his hands in our kitchen, he asked where the paper towels were. We don't have any. Mid-thought, though, he checked himself, and, drying his hands on the kitchen towel I have hanging by the sink, recalled, "Oh yeah. You're a hippie."

We aren't that weird. At least I don't think so. But then, it tricky to gauge one's level of "hippieness" when most of those folks are my parents' age. The only hippies I've known seem to have missed the boat somewhere and ended up thirty years late in my high school years - they had toothpaste-induced dred locks, wore hemp necklaces and baggy corduroy pants, and played hackey sack, so they looked like hippies, but there seemed to have been some of the philosophy missing. They seemed disestablishmentarianist, but then, they still came to school.

I recall at the time admiring them for their search for open-mindedness, but unfortunately, much of it went up in smoke with their weed. So I picked the lesser of two evils and hung out with the stoners and "alternative" kids, even though it mixed me up in that drug culture by name (thankfully, never by deed). My other choice involved enduring the kids who were looking to impress with clothes and appearance and studying to the test, but spent much of their energy on that, rather than real thought. Unfortunately, it seemed that all the heart- and brain-power of those teenage years was spent in maintaining some sort of image, rather than delving into the mysteries of life. So I was sort of stuck in the middle, not having the money to buy into really any image-group, and not having enough of the peers to really explore anything interesting in mind-land.

Boo, consumerism.

Now, living in the city, I buy organic food and wear old ratty jeans, but I don't really think I'm a hippie. I'm still in between those city-ites who have electronic nail files and those truly granola friends who compost their nail clippings. In the city, it's easy to get caught up in the tide of ease and convenience - I must admit I've eaten out more in these past few years than in all my previous years combined - the pace of life is much faster and it's tricky, even if you choose a slower pace, to actually maintain regular home rhythms. For instance, how can you have a vegetable garden if you live in a third-floor walk-up? There a people who do, through roof-top gardens and potted tomatoes, but then again, most of those people don't have small children and a roof access that involves a potential 40-foot drop. There is no way I'm taking my kids up on the roof of our rickety building.

Which is why I'm excited about our upcoming move. The more I live here, the more I appreciate the potentialities of a "country" life. It's an interesting shift - in high school, I couldn't wait to get out of my little town. So I moved to the city. But, just like those friends in high school, so much energy was being spent on one extreme or the other that there was very little balance to be found in either place. In the "country," there was limited mind, but in the city, there was limited heart. Where can we find the middle way?

After a life-long education in both the rural and urban environments, I'm looking forward to a brief respite in the country. I've had my fill of city life and culture, and need a break and a garden. I think that is where the balance can be struck - through education. Each environment must appreciate the value of the other. The city friends must appreciate the work of the farmers whose lifeblood goes into growing the food conveniently bought at the grocery store - that is, they must understand all of the people and steps that it took to bring that head of lettuce from farm to table. And the country friends must appreciate the value of culture and thought and diversity so vibrantly created in the city - the beauty of art and dance, of a well-formed insight, of a garden rich in world hues, only available where many people of varying backgrounds meet.

Ideally, every apartment will have it's garden plot, and every farm girl will go to college, but that's not for a while yet. We won't find that out until we've maxed out the amount of people we can fit in a high-rise or the amount of water we can waste in the desert. Silly us. We're so enmeshed in trying to perfect our image that we've lost the root of our being - the ability to think and dream and connect to the Divine. We're like little boats without rudders, and sooner or later we're going to hit a rock and spring a leak. Some of us already have. But, fear not - there will be those who are ready, with a life-boat: vegetable gardens full of tomatoes and houses full of love and thought. If you want, stop on by, and we can have a good talk - and a good meal. We won't get back to the earth - we'll realize we're already there.

The Bossy Farmer

2011-05-23T06:59:00.001-05:00

While visiting family in Ohio, I took the girls to my favorite local haunt - Aullwood Audubon Center and Farm. As a child, I had taken summer nature classes there each year with my cousins. We tromped around in marshes and ponds and in pine forests and prairies, and spent time on the working farm there, making egg salad and butter. It was wonderful and memorable, and each time I go home, I try to stop by and let the girls run around!

During this visit, we saw, among other things, a new litter of piglets. Well, not brand new, but new enough to not be full-grown yet. I love piglets, mostly because I love bacon, but I don't tell that to my children. What is mutually apparent is that piglets are cute (being small), and generally cleaner than full-grown pigs, and they have long eyelashes. What's not to love?

Our pigletty friends, from left to right: normal kid, normal kid, bottom of the bully, runt, normal kid, face of the bully
(P.S. That's not a fire - it's a heat lamp)

Among this group of piglets there were some clear-cut characters: the overachiever (being the biggest and a bully), the regular kids (medium-sized ones), and the runt. I have always loved the runt - I think he must be an American icon, as we love to root for the underdogs - and I could identify with this straggly little thing, having once been a straggly little thing myself. He was the cutest and the wiggliest. It was feeding time, and there was a mad dash for lunch, and the bully decided that he needed to not only eat, but exclude everyone else - particularly the runt - from eating.

My mother bear instincts immediately flared up. I didn't object to the bully eating, but when he specifically bothered the little one is when the umbrella came out. My umbrella. I gave that bully a firm poke and hollered at him to leave the little one alone. Twice.

I later remarked to a friend that I would make a bossy farmer. She replied that most of the farmers she knows are pretty bossy.

I suppose they stand in their fields and say, "Grow! I command you!" Maybe not, but I think that there is some level of bossiness when growing things.

Even children.

Snow

2010-12-14T12:58:00.000-06:00

Dear Readers,

First off, let me state that I may just be the only person in the Chicagoland area who likes winter. And my four year-old, Olivia, may be the only one who LOVES it. There is something so delightful about bundling up and trekking out, being able to see where you've been in the crisp snow, and making a general mess of things with ice and twigs and grass and boots when you tromp back into the house, and then cozying up with a blanket and a warm drink. Ideally a fireplace, but I think those are against code in our building...

We've been learning about the year and the equinoxes and solstices, and so every day when Olivia looks out and sees the snow-covered ground she asks, "is it solstice?" A.k.a. Is it winter?

No, it is not officially winter, but I think we should petition that, with negative windchills and blowing snow. My goodness. If snow does not a winter make, what does? I love the softness that a snowfall brings - the thought that the world is still within a snowglobe of flakes - and the pace of life must necessarily slow down. And blizzards aren't that bad, either - they remind us that we are much smaller than Nature, even with all of our lovely technology - and they make us appreciate the warmth of the hearth and the company of friends.

So I suppose my only caveat with winter is that it has to snow. A lot. A Metrodome-roof-collapsing lot. Which it, unfortunately, despite our northerly latitude, does not.

My mother will send me weather bulletins about blizzards and the worst storm of the century and I won't even read them. It is too depressing to me, who loves snow, to read with anticipation the doomsday forecasts of 1 foot of snow to see it tapering off as soon as it hits this lake. "Lake Effect," which to most implies more snow than normal, doesn't apply to us, except in that it usually sucks the moisture right out of the air and then jettisons it across the lake to western Michigan and northern Indiana.

Sometimes I think we live on the wrong side of the lake.

Olivia, however, is too young to be embittered by years of promises broken. She LOVES the snow, and any sign of it is heartening for her. Our first snowfall happened before this so-called "blizzard" that just swept through, right on time immediately after Thanksgiving. Here are some of the fruits of our outside labors.

Brr. I hope you are warm and cosy seeing these!

One of life's big questions

2010-12-11T09:22:00.000-06:00

Where to live, where to live?

It would be wonderful if I could flip through a real estate catalog and take my pick. Or, better yet, close my eyes and plunk my finger down on a part of the globe that would determine our next place of residence.

But, of course, there is much more involved in the decision than a simple guess!

The factors to consider are quite numerous, and, like many big decisions, require the proper alignments of the planets before anything can be decided.

The first factor has pretty much decided itself. We are a family of four living in a one-bedroom apartment. Although, dear reader, I think we've done a pretty fine job of it, and also considering that I'm the one who is here most of the time with the girls, I can certainly see that we will need some more room soon. But, to be honest, I'm not entirely convinced!

Which leads me to the second factor, which is cost. We moved from Chicago to Evanston after Olivia was born for several reasons: Nathan would be closer to work and would have a shorter commute; there were more trees; and the place we found had a bigger kitchen for only a little more of the cost. Also, our apartment was the least expensive of all the ones we saw, even though it was also the most ghastly. When we first came for a showing, the walls were painted bright red and yellow and the bedroom was purple. Not lavender or lilac - purple. And the best part was that the paint only went as high up the wall as the person could reach, and so the roller marks stopped about a foot from the ceiling. Of course, they painted before we moved in, and we further plastered and painted over the cracked walls and had a lot of other work done, so I think the place is in much better shape than when we first began living here. But, the work was a trade-off for the rent, which, even so, has gone incrementally up in the four years we've been here. Even now, it's a bit tight for our non-profit, single income budget. But, then again, the work is a trade-off for the pay - I'm not working for pay on purpose and so subsequently am working much harder at home with my girls.

The trickiest bit is finding a larger place for the same or at least a similar cost. And, the more settled we've become here, the longer my list of house requirements grows. Every scenario I've found online has sacrificed one important "must-have," such as a small kitchen with those ghastly oak cabinets (ours are a cheap white, but I like white - it seems so clean - and is easy to clean, to boot), or carpeting (which won't work with my asthma, even new stuff), or too far from the train line (which Nathan uses for work), or not within walking distance to a grocery store (for the days when Nathan takes the car). Pretty much "not our current place."

I think that, at this point, dear reader, you may sense my reluctance to leave where we are. But I also know that change is necessary - a new place would bring it's own exciting challenges. Not to mention the purging of accumulated junk that happens when one moves. And the next year may bring big changes for our family in terms of income, and so we may end up needing to move more than just within city limits.

Oh, dear.

So, at this point, I really just have to plan several scenarios for the coming year: staying in our current place, staying in Evanston, staying in the Midwest, and staying within the U.S. I suppose I could also plan for international travel, but that is a bit out of my brain range right now. It's hard to plan a garden in Boston, but who knows!? As the year progresses, and our lease comes to an end in April and Olivia's school comes to an end in May, I'm sure we'll have a better grasp on things. But I hate waiting! And not knowing where you're going to live is rough!

This will be a winter for patience, I suppose. And counting my seeds and paring our personal belongings for a more-than-likely move. Wish us luck!

Two things that are amazing...

2010-12-10T08:23:00.000-06:00

...if you are under five. Or 30, like me.

1) Netflix on the television. This one might require a bit of technical explanation. First of all, let me explain that we don't really watch television, because we don't have cable and since our converter box broke, we can't get any local channels even. So our computer is solely for those DVDs that haven't met Elsie and been scratched into oblivion and the occasional video game.

A while ago, a family of generous friends gave us their Wii (woo-hoo!), which is Nintendo's recent family video game console that works with one's television. We can all play it - even Elsie and Olivia - because it relies on gross motor skills to operate, rather than joysticks. Anyhow, we've had it for several years now, and have enjoyed it periodically, but mostly during parties when friends are over. However, Nathan mentioned the other day that the Wii could do more than simply play video games - it could connect to our wireless internet and we could check the news and weather and even watch Netflix - which, for my Gramma, is an online movie service, where you can watch movies and television shows on the computer.

So we labored last night and figured out how to connect everything and - voila! - we are now able to watch those movies and shows on our television, rather than our computer. Which is a bit convoluted, I suppose, but it is really exciting for all involved, because, dear reader, it means that I can write this post, because my little person is watching Wonder Pets on the television rather than this computer!

2) COUCH-BED!! To add to the excitement of Netflix on the television, we've recently had a line of overnight guests, who have been treated to our guest room - read: living room with our couch converted into a bed, courtesy of IKEA.

This lovely little couch folds out into a queen-size bed, and Olivia and Elsie and I all scramble to make it as hotel-y as possible, with clean sheets and wool blankets and feather (and not) pillows. But no mints, which I would really like for the pillows. The funnest part is the folding out, during which both little girls clamber onto the couch part and "ride" while I fold it over and down. Couchbed is the best thing since sliced bread.

We had it ready for a houseguest last night, who ended up delaying his arrival for another day, and so we had the room all tidy and the bed all comfy for - US! And we enjoyed every minute.

(In fact, Olivia and I - the early-risers - are currently enjoying both out couchbed and Netflix on the television right now! ;)

Laundry in the Living Room

2010-11-28T06:35:00.000-06:00

Well, it's not actually that bad.

I think I mentioned in an earlier post that one of the ways in which Nathan and I are trying to "beat the system" of materialism is to save some money by hang-drying our laundry. In the summer, this is a wonderfully fresh and outside-based activity. I can imagine I'm in a back yard somewhere with grass beneath my feet and trees scattered about. Sometimes, even little birds come by and sing sweet songs to me as I hang my perfectly spotless tablecloths, and the woodland friends help to hang the sheets. It's really a sylvan wonderland, you know.

In reality, it's not so different, although I am spared the worry about bird poop from the errant singing sparrow as our back staircase is completely covered. Living on the third (top) floor, we have rigged a little laundry line outside of our back door. Being safe from the rain, with a nice large side opening for the breezes (although no direct sun), we hang our things outside on the line, and place our rickety little folding drying racks on the landing and thus our things dry. Sometimes for days. There is really very little work involved, save the hanging part, but that appeals to my sense of order, and so it's really an exercise in meditation for me.

But the cold weather always makes me wonder how folks did it prior to dryers in the winter. True, freezing temperatures evaporate water quite well, and so one ends up with stiff clothes until that water is gone completely, but - brr! We've taken our drying racks and set them up in the dining room, and then we hang the shirts and things on hangers in the bathroom. But yesterday, the flood of laundry (we hadn't washed clothes in at least two weeks) necessitated more space. So, I stuck a few nails above the door jamb and the window casing and strung our camping drying line to and fro along the length of the bathroom, in a sort of zigzag fashion, until I was out of line. Literally and figuratively, probably, but no one has complained.

The result is quite festive, although instead of banners, socks and aprons wave gaily to and fro in the forced air breeze.

However, unlike the summer season of drying, this fall and winter season is tej'ous! Nathan runs the gauntlet outside and down the stairs, across the back end of our building to the laundry room in the basement. Then, either depositing or unloading or both, he returns around the back and up the stairs laden with two wet loads of laundry. Even in the cold, he is sweating a little from the effort. He leaves the laundry on the back porch so that if I can't get to it quickly enough, it won't molder in the heat (there is no danger of that right now, mind you!). I then pick up that freezing cold laundry and hand the little bits inside on the racks. Olivia's clothes on one, Elsie's on another, and all the socks paired on the line.

There is always a system, you know.

The shirts end up in the bathroom, and the jeans and towels and tablecloths head out to the back line. If there's no room, they end up on the back porch, back in the basket, to await their turn in frozen captivity.

Last night, socks and delicates took a devil-may-care attitude and ended up on the lines in the bathroom. We have a houseguest, and she is dear friend, otherwise I think my husband might have been mortified at his skivvies parading about in such a manner.

I would have honestly liked to have left it at that, but Nathan has need of the shower this morning, and so I am up early to take laundry down. Boy, I hope it's all dry. Otherwise, I'll be stringing line again around our bathroom, like some sort of laundry fairy.

So, all you with dryers out there, rejoice! Even if you do lose the occasional sock or two, the convenience is certainly worth it.

Not that I mind, honestly. There is a bit of romantic heroism in this, I think. We are actually saving money by cutting out laundry bills in half (the fryer here costs as much as the washer), and there is no hauling to a laundromat, so that saves gas. Really, the only thing we are expending is work.

And in this case, string.

Which, dear reader, finally brings me to my point. Hurrah! In these times, where so much is unstable, there is a little bit of peace found in the simple things. Eating good, home-cooked foods. Spending time with friends and loved ones. And, yes, even hanging the laundry. This simple act, done out of love for family and value of work, really makes a difference. At least for the underwear.

The Frugal Game

2010-11-27T06:35:00.000-06:00

So, dear readers, we finally did it.

We cut ourselves off from our credit cards.

This has been REALLY tough, especially in a place where value is measured by purchasing power rather than virtue.

Evanston, where we live, lies on Lake Michigan, right north of the City of Chicago. It is a suburb, but (and I probably say this only because I live here), it's not really that suburby. It's a city in itself, but I imagine it to be really an extension of Chicago, only with more trees and a lot less light pollution. We are right on the El and Metra lines, which shoot straight into the heart of Chicago, so, on a weekday, you can get downtown in less than forty-five minutes. Which is really saying something in traffic here.

The people are chilly, but that's to be expected in the city. After a while, you'll find those gems who remember your name and coo over your babies. Those are the keepers. We have a "local" national grocery store, where the prices are high, but the people are nice and if I don't show up with my daughters in tow, I am asked at least twice where the girls are. We have two Whole Foods (that's a long story), lots of boutiques, and the two houses on our block that went up for sale recently each sold for almost a million dollars.

I don't even want to count that high.

So we decided, after lots of tough battles with our budget, that, aside from making more money, the real exercise we need right now is to stop living beyond our means. Some of you may say, in your smarmiest tones, "Of course! what a silly notion. I never spend more than I make." To which I say, "Bravo for you. What a champion of liberty you are." But for us, and I dare say the majority of Americans, this is a difficult task.

Just look at "Black Friday." I almost felt guilty not spending money when everything was on sale.

But I got over it. And also I digress.

The easiest way we figured we could do this was to stop using our credit cards. We started it as sort of a challenge, really, in self-discipline, and it's become rather fun.

Our largest expenditure of "variable" things (i.e. not a bill) is on food, so we stopped eating out. Hard to do, mind you, in the dining capital of the North Shore. But we did it. That meant getting up earlier and cooking - not prepared food, but from scratch - breakfast and lunch. And actually planning for dinner and starting cooking before 5 PM. We don't have a microwave (that's another long story), so we heat things up with fire. It's more romantic that way, even if it takes longer.

The funnest part of it has been the meal-planning game. It goes like this:

1. Open pantry
2. Take survey of the various types of beans and legumes
3. Figure out what sort of concoction one can brew up with mung beans and a can of corn
4. Find a respectable recipe online (that poor can of corn is still there)
5. Run to the store and pick up $3 worth of extra ingredients
6. Cook dinner
7. Feel pious

Piousness is sometimes better than dessert.

Sometimes.

So, once the bills are paid, we divvy up the remainder into those necessary but somehow the first to be cut categories, like laundry and food. It's reminiscent of the arts in public schools, no? But we manage, and it's been fun. And we've been more regular. Probably all those beans.

So take that, materialism! Pow!

Mrs. Baby

2010-11-20T15:47:00.001-06:00

This was originally published on Nathan's blog:

http://poemsbynathonius.blogspot.com/2010/11/mrs-baby.html

But I had to re-print it here, because I haven't posted in a while and also because it is spot on Elsie.

Mrs. Baby

Fat.
Wearing a dress.
Crying.
Making sounds nobody knows what they mean.
Saying all the words she knows in random order.
Laughing after soiling herself.
Putting food in my water then screaming at me until I scoop it out.
Pretending to be a cow but making a sound like a bird.
Looking for things to throw.
Hoarding items in a secret place that only she knows about for days at a time.
Eating bananas like they're crackers.
Demanding pancakes at any and every hour of the day and night.
Sometimes when she's sleeping I call her Mrs. Despot, as a joke.
She then wakes up, gouges my face and shouts at me for a full minute
Before falling back into a "peaceful" sleep.
And I decide go about my day.

Olivia's Second Day of School

2010-10-03T16:51:00.002-05:00

So, yes, it is a little after-the-fact, but I took pictures of it, and so I wanted to post it for all you dear ones far far away.

Olivia has started school - preschool, that is, as she will readily correct you - at our local Montessori School. She loves it, as far as I can tell. At least, she is excited to go back, and that is a good sign, I suppose. She is only in school for three hours a day, but that is plenty, as far as I'm concerned. I like my babies and want to hang out with them. Most of the time.

Nathan took the first day of school off of work (figure that out, if you can), so he was home with us to drop Olivia off and again to pick her up. Which also means that he was home with Elsie and I to ease the transition from three to two. However, daddy was not there the second day, and so Elsie and I had a harder time of things. Here's how it went:

1. We drop off Olivia at school. Here she is in her new school clothes:

2. Elsie and I try to figure out what to do next. By default, we go to the grocery store. Here's what we pick out to eat:

Elsie chooses "Booty" (a.k.a. Pirate's Booty) and Coconut Juice.

I choose coffee with cream and sugar (I make it decaf to justify the splurge) and a raspberry and cheese danish.

Clearly, we are drowning our sorrows in food.

3. I think we took a nap then. I was too sad to remember.

4. We return to school to pick up Olivia. Elsie waits with anticipation by the door:

and watches...

as the door slowly opens...

...and OLIVIA comes out!! Hooray!

We missed her. But we are getting used to the change. And it is good for all of us. Even if it is a little different.

Stories From the Third Floor

2010-08-26T15:15:00.004-05:00

I found this unposted snippet from several years ago as I was cleaning out files - I think I wrote it probably in December 2008 - before Elsie was even thought about. It's funny to reflect on the same challenges with two kids - Elsie is at the same climbing stage...

***

We live on the top level of a three-story courtyard building. Now, that may not sound so exciting, but when you are a short toddler trying to navigate stairs, that means a lot - notably about 4 minutes, which is 3 minutes and 30 seconds more than your mom sometimes wants to spend on the stairs.

And when you add new boots, which are warm and waterproof and almost engulf your entire leg up to your knee, then increase that time twofold. Sort of like cinder blocks tied to your shoes. I think it is comparable to those dreams where you are trying to run on the train tracks and the engine is bearing down on you and it feels as though your feet are trapped in a soggy mire. Only without the panic. I hope.

It's amazing what sorts of things your child's memory latches on to during your time together. Once, in a local hospital, we peered over the edge of a second-level balcony into the lobby below - this particular area had a wall of water and a tall grove of bamboo indoors. I remarked on the use of bamboo as a greenery choice. Just in passing. No real discussion or thesis or anything of the sort. I probably said it once and was finished.

That evening, however, as we completed our trek from the bottom floor to our apartment door, Olivia seized onto the slats of our wooden balcony and peered through as best she could, pointing a quick finger to the air below and announcing proudly "baboo!" To this day, regardless of our discussions on the nature and/or presence of bamboo, she will occasionally look down through the lofty heights and announce that she, miraculously, has seen a bit of grassy greenery below. Amazing.

Smoothdie Morning

2010-07-31T08:31:00.000-05:00

It was a rough morning - I woke up nice and early and trekked over to my garden plot, only to find my green zebra tomato plant completely dead. It had only been a few days since I had last visited, but I was still racked with tomato killer guilt. Until I noticed that there was standing water at the root level. Too much rain is drowning my tomatoes, and I'm sure harboring perfect conditions for tomato fungi. Great.

Grumpily, I drove by a house we are potentially dreaming about possibly purchasing (we're that sure, you can see) - the main draw is a HUGE yard which would be transformed into an urban farm, courtesy yours truly. Only to find that the "For Sale" sign was completely gone. Again, it had only been a few days since I last visited - there was no "Sale Pending" or even "SOLD" sign. It was all gone.

You just can't do that to a body - first, kill off the colorful tomatoes and then whisk away the dream house. It was all too much for a morning's work.

I purposely listened to every sad love song I could find on the radio in the remainder of my ride home.

I trudged up the stairs in my muddy galoshes and kick open our front door (it has been sticking) to be greeted by the sound of a crying baby, upset at Nathan for not being able to lactate. Dejectedly, I flopped down on the bed and held my cranky baby.

Olivia asked "What's wrong, mama?"

I didn't want to talk about it.

So I did the only thing any one would do when faced with such a bleak day. I made smoothdies with my daughters. And took pictures of it.

The After-Bath

2010-07-07T16:24:00.001-05:00

Since on a roll with these terrible puns:

Olivia in her appropriated butterfly towel

(which used to be Elsie's, officially,
but was commandeered by her older sister).
You can't make her like monsters or make her dislike pink.

Elsie in her sister's cast-away Monster towel,
which she affectionately calls "Kitty, Miao"
probably due to the two orange horns on top (not pictured)
which could resemble ears...
I like the teeth, especially.

Post-Toasties

2010-07-07T15:17:00.004-05:00

Well, not really, but I thought it was a clever title, this being a "post" and all...

I currently have three sleeping babies in my house. Two are from my own stock and the third is a dear friend's child. Sleeping babies = down time. Hence the deluge of posts.

I have been catching up on Facebook with friends from grade school (wow!), when I attended dear E.J. Brown magnet school in Dayton. I entered in the highest grade available in the charter year (3rd grade) and they expanded with our class. My 4th grade year was cut in half by a drive-by shooting which targeted our house for my parents' vocal anti-drug activities in the neighborhood, and so I spent part of that year in Vandalia, where I would eventually attend High School. I returned to E.J. Brown in 5th grade, only to find my senior status supplanted by an older class of new kids (much resented by me, thank you very much).

It's interesting to "catch up" with someone you haven't seen in YEARS - primarily those formative years that involve fleshing out of viewpoints, brain development, and girls + boys. The last time I spoke with many of these folks, things like crushes still carried the hazard of cooties. I remember learning for fun, and having friends whom I loved as only a child can.

My memories of these friends carry snippets:

My first real art teacher, Mrs. Debevec, who had long braided hair and wore jangly bracelets and taught us how to make beads rolled out of paper,
A joint birthday party with Joanna Miller at SkateWorld, complete with party favor bags decorated in puffy paints,
The school-wide lip-sync contest created by Justin McClelland which offered such enticing prizes as Doritos and Pepsi (which may be why I prefer Pepsi to Coke...)
Field Day and winning the hula hoop contest,
Learning about "cute" boys when Chris Brandewie showed up to school with his photo in a local department store ad and all the girls giggled,
Uttering my first swear word (a really bad one), completely by accident, instantly regretting it, but being more mortified that my favorite teacher would find out,
Trick-or-treating with Gina and Didi Cordero in their neighborhood, where one of the "rich" houses gave out entire candy bars,
OM ("Odyssey of the Mind") with Drew Domer-Shank and making up terrible plays about unearthing Roman coins, which we unabashedly performed at Sinclair Community College,
Arriving late to school and finding all my classmates gone (I had missed the field trip), but finding a haven in one of my old classrooms, with a loving teacher who let me read books all day.

All of these reflections hold sweet memories for me, without the awkwardness of high school. When learning was about discovery, not tests, and friendship was about inclusiveness, rather than exclusiveness.

Interestingly, I am entering that phase again with my oldest daughter, Olivia. She is excitedly looking forward to the wonder of school this coming fall. Not yet ready for full-blown kindergarten, she already loves school, and will be entering the 3-6 year program at our local Montessori school.

When asked by these friends what I'm up to, I must admit that, on the outside, it seems not like much. I'm learning about plants and stars and insects and squirrels - all the things that a little child is exploring. It doesn't fit well on a resume, but to me is much more valuable than any degree - I am teaching a little soul about the wonder that is creation. And am hearkening back to the days when I still held that unbridled joy. It is a beautiful time to reflect upon, and I trust my contact with these dear friends will open those portions of their memories that help them revive their joy, too.

P.S. I was eating a toasted English muffin while I wrote this, so that title is justified after all...

The Delicious Jungle

2010-07-07T12:44:00.001-05:00

I have to admit, dear reader - I'm a two-timer. I'm cheating on my community garden plot with a second community garden plot. It's difficult to balance time between the two - if I neglect one for too long, it becomes droopy. But I've managed it thus far pretty well. At least that's what I thought...

My primary garden is the community plot we've rented through the city of Evanston. We were on the waiting list for TWO YEARS before a new garden manager took over and started splitting plots up, so to make more room for the waiters. Like us. So it's no wonder that this one is my favorite! We've taken it from a bed of weeds, to delicious jungle, stalked by pink tomatoes, purple carrots and white eggplants. Yum!

My secondary garden is actually my first - while waiting with no seeming hope in sight for a space to open up at the Evanston gardens, I learned of a friend who was opening up her yard to the Baha'i community to use as a community garden. I jumped at the chance, but it was several months before we were able to plant, and by then I had already begun working with the Evanston garden. So my energy was already taxed by working in my other garden, and I was probably the most lackluster participant. I suppose I just didn't want to share!

Our second garden plot is shared with a friend, and the entire garden is community property of all who plant there. Our little plot is divided into four 4'x4' sections, and we have planted a random assortment of whatever seeds we had available - one "flower" section has larkspur, zinnias, nasturtium, and borage. A second plot holds rows of carrots, parsley, and onions (which never took). The third section is planted with more carrots, spinach, dill, and radishes. The fourth (and my favorite) is reserved for several watermelon plants, which grew from seeds I saved from last year. We shall see if it bears any fruit!

This morning, I woke up early and decided to sneak out of my house before anyone else was stirring. My first inclination was to go to my primary garden, and finish a few odds and ends before I leave town this weekend, but I thought back to that first love of mine, and how sadly neglected it must feel compared to those nearby plots, whose gardeners planted new seeds or seedlings instead of 7 year-old leftovers, and who benefited from regular weeding and watering. So I pointed my nose south and drove over to that garden, to see what portion of the relationship I could patch up.

I entered through the gate as quietly as possible (it only being 5:30 AM), and made my way through our host's lovely backyard to the community area. The neighboring plots looked like the Garden of Eden, and the "blue ribbon" plot, which was thoughtfully and industriously laid out by another family was a cornucopia of vegetable excitement. Blushing, I turned my gaze to our corner plot.

It wasn't so bad as I had thought. The flower section was healthily growing, with lots of tall zinnias and larkspur vying for light. The borage was pouting in a row in the corner, and the nasturtium was valiantly trying to grow beyond those taller and more bossy plants. I weeded a bit there, but left the flowers mostly to work things out themselves.

The carrot/onion/parsley section was rather pathetic looking. The carrots needed some thinning, and were rather saggy. The parsley was trying it's best, but was clearly needing some help, and there were two valiant onions who had sprung from the old seed we had planted. Hooray! I thinned the carrots and cleared the lambs quarters (tasty weeds that they are). Then I planted purple beans (because they are so gratifying to watch grow) where the onions should have been, and added some parsley seeds to complete the sparse rows.

The radishes had completely taken over the third section. We had planted them for the girls (Olivia, Elsie, and our friend's daughter, Kaia) to watch grow, because they are quick to sprout and quick to come to fruition, but we had neglected them, and they had gone insane by sending up huge leaves (akin to beets), and leaving mostly paltry roots below (they had needed thinning a long time ago). The leaves had overshadowed the carrots and dill, so they had to go. I went at it with a vengeance, and was pleased to see that, although long deprived of sun from their ravenous radish neighbors, the dill and carrots were growing as best they could. A little thinning and a good pep talk later, they looked somewhat better. The spinach had one plant which had survived the radish onslaught, and so I weeded around it, and added several neighboring rows of spinach for company.

The watermelon plants were elegantly spreading their vines in their private bed. I admired how pretty they were, and weeded a bit, but such a plant is mostly happy with its own praise.

Upon leaving, and hoping to arrive home in time to sneak in a shower before those other people in my house woke up, I reflected a bit on my garden. I suppose it is alright to have two loves - as long as they are treated equally. I was generally disappointed at the fruits from this garden thus far, but then reminded myself that the garden was not to blame - a negligent gardener was the real culprit. Next year, I will try something different - I will plan a little better and make sure that I have a full and wonderful set of gardens, if possible. This year I would chalk up to experience, and I will eat my humble pie this year with relish (made from the neighbor's cucumbers).

But all was not lost. To assuage my hurt pride, I had planted two pie pumpkin mounds. Although the neighboring plots were verdant with squashes and tomatoes and beans and kale, I soothed my wounded ego by assuring myself that, come fall, my plot would be the most popular.

Post-its

2010-07-06T08:45:00.001-05:00

I am hurriedly typing this, as soon we are taking Olivia to her second week of "Wildflower camp" here in Evanston, at the Ecology Center, where she will be learning about "Hide 'n' Seek Animals" - i.e. how animals hide in nature.

The girls are currently in our front room dancing to our new favorite song from the World Cup 2010 by K'naan.

This past weekend, we hosted a dear friend, Jessica Gaines, who was in the city for a teacher training session. She got to sleep on, as Olivia calls it, our "couch bed," which is essentially a glorified futon from IKEA. We kept the bed down to play on - it is not only a couch and a bed, but also a tent and a stage and a trampoline and an ocean, among other things - but Olivia kept referring to it as "Kutuh's bed" (a little note of explanation - when Olivia was little, pronouncing "Jessica" was out of the question, so "Kutuh," which is pronounced "cut-uh," was the result. And, like most nicknames, it stuck).

Anyhow, Olivia spent yesterday morning writing out "bed name tags," using post-it notes to denote where people slept. After placing "Nat," "Liz," and "Elsie" on our big bed, she put "Ranbom* Baer," "Flower Baer," and "Olivia" on her little bed. Then, finding a seventh blank note, she said:

"I will make one for Kutuh, in case she comes again to visit."

So now, Jessica's nickname, which I only recently learned is actually spelled "C-a-t-a" if you happen to be four, is proudly stuck up in pink post-it note glory on our lovely tan wall for all to see! :)

*her "w" was upside-down, and looked like an "m."

Pony Party

2010-07-05T13:10:00.000-05:00

Marketer's Dream:
Perfectly Popular Product is a smash hit with generation of little girls. Product moves to the background as little girls grow up and into other products. Sad marketers, sad product bide their time and watch as big girls grow up more and become mommies. Mommies with babies, and then children. Children who are little girls. Happy marketers re-launch Perfectly Popular Product with a "new look" to fit in with the new times, and product is consumed completely by new little girls with mothers full of nostalgia. Ecstatic marketers twirl and spin in a field full of light and showers of dollar bills.

***

Olivia is four and loves horses. We can't afford a real one (where would it sleep?), but we CAN afford My Little Ponies. You can even comb and braid their ridiculously long manes. Which is just what we did. The old and the new:

Pony Party!!

Eloise

2010-06-22T19:33:00.003-05:00

"I am Eloise. I am six.

"I am a city child. I live at the Plaza..."

Thus begins one of my favorite children's book of all time. As a child, I have memories of myself, stretched out on my tummy on my grandmother's guest room bed, poring over this beloved book. The language I would later better understand, but the pictures of Eloise by Hilary Knight were perfect for my pre-adolescent imagination. Knight perfectly captures the many facets of emotion of the intelligent and sprightly child, and as a child, I knew exactly what Miss Eloise was thinking without having to read a single word.

Now that I am literate (or at least a little moreso), I love reading it out loud. I have to admit that I am probably the best "out-loud" reader of Eloise. Ever. I secretly judge the inflection and speed of every other adult who gets conned into reading Eloise to Olivia and I think that I am the best by far. But that's probably because I have the entire thing practically memorized. So I challenge you, all adult-like folk who stop by my house, to an Eloise reading throw-down. I will win, but it will be fun to see how you ramble off that bit about the elevator.

That's the adult Eloise in me.

And I am fostering that beautiful sense of self-confidence in my little ones. I love Eloise because she is independent and smart and frank. She is a great hero for little girls and one of the few beloved picture-book heroines. Everyone needs a little bit of Eloise. Especially little girls. Especially now!

So, for your viewing pleasure, here are some shots of Olivia during her weekly Eloise calisthenic routine!

Standing on her head for the longest amount of time:

Eating:

After all, she is only four (six)!

All About Me

2010-06-03T22:05:00.001-05:00

People, for the most part, are never the same after children. The shift from "person" to "parent" is immediate and irreversible (in most cases). In general, with that fat little baby's arrival comes the departure of individual identity - you are no longer "Liz," an autonomous and willful individual, but "Olivia's mother" (well, you may not be, but at least I am), whose every moment is dedicated to the survival and eventual thriving of a new life. It's as though new parents stow away their souls along with anything breakable that baby might be able to reach.

For each parent, the reclamation of individuality comes at a different time. There are many variables - season, personality, employment - that determine the length of time a parent remains in anonymity. Men, it seems, emerge from their new baby shock earlier, having no real biological function in the first year, save to keep mommy sane and well-fed enough to produce milk for that fat baby to grow. Daddy has to go back to work in whatever way he can. And, now with high costs of living and even higher materialistic standards (don't get me started...), mamas are finding that the need to work outweighs other challenges of parenting. It's a tricky balancing act.

For the mother who has chosen to remain "home with the baby," this social non-existence can stretch out for years. Especially, as in our case, if you add another baby to the family mix. The general structure of life, particularly where we live - in the central United States - supports a very individualistic way of life that many people find isolating. And even more so for the young mother, who thrives in social situations but is now home. All day. With a very squirmy, very loud, and VERY helpless tiny person. Gone are the days of going out to discuss life's interesting questions with friends, or quiet dinners for to. Really, going out anywhere at all is, frankly, right out.

And what of the young mother who has trained for years to "earn money?" Does she know about lactation and the right foods and herbs to support healthy nursing? About latches and sleep cycles and all of those all-consuming issues that keep poor new parents up late, even after their little one has fallen asleep? A precious few have taken crash courses right before baby was born, but what about those life lessons that a child-centered community can impart? What about her self worth when she no longer can "contribute" to society through financial gain? Where is the paycheck (because the dollar is how all things are given value anymore) for the unsung labors of the mother, who literally gives herself to the survival of her child? And, to top it off, a this new charge in no way generates income but is more akin to a large and seemingly bottomless pit into which the family's income inexplicably disappears.

Women, who for generations found strength in community, are drowning in the sea of a culture that doesn't value women's work.

This little essay started out with lighthearted intentions, but has clearly taken a turn for more challenging waters. To return to the earlier vein, I am pleased to announce that I have found my soul again (thank goodness)! I had lost it in a tidal wave of baby clothes that plagued our closet for years. And once those clothes were removed and tidily labeled for an impending yard sale, I noticed that there were other things in that closet: portraits I had taken from years back, art supplies and cameras, lovely fabrics and even a shirt that my grandmother had cut and pieced but never finished sewing. It was a real treasure hunt as I pulled out dear items and reflected on creativity long past. I recalled a recent conversation with a trusted friend, who gently reminded me that I was a creative person. Not only that, but I needed creativity - I needed space for it. At the time, I thought she meant "space" in a general sense, i.e. space in my life. But upon further inspection, I realized that I needed literal space. Namely a large desk, and a place to put my sewing machine.

A while back, I transformed a third of our large closet into a writing office for my husband. I even divided the space with a floor-to-ceiling curtain, so that his space felt like a real room. It's lovely and useful for all his writing needs, and I'm proud to say he's brought a large portion of his writing "to paper" in that room. The other portion of the closet was designated space for "things" - baby clothes too small for Olivia but too big yet for Elsie, our shoes and clothes, hampers, suitcases, etc. Enough to literally cram the space full. But no longer. It has been cleared out and tidied - those "things" seen for what they are - impediments to growth and life - and new space found. Enough for a desk for me. And my sewing machine.

DIRT!

2010-04-30T20:38:00.001-05:00

We have a community garden plot! Hooray!!

If you've been reading our admittedly sparse entries recently, you may have guessed that we were in search of a little bit of land in which to plant all manner of exciting things. After two whole years on the waiting list, we were finally offered a plot in Evanston's Community Garden Program this year. It's half a plot (200 sq. ft.) and it's our very own:

So we have started weeding and planning and have even planted a row of sunflowers.

Olivia loves digging and planting and Elsie, it turns out, loves dirt. Eating it, that is. The other evening, we popped over to the garden for a spot of weeding. I had bought a little yellow spade for Elsie, and she seemed really excited about it - in fact, I didn't really hear a peep out of her, and could see out of the corner of my eye (as I was viciously attacking dandelions), that she was playing contentedly.

I redoubled my weeding onslaught and looked up only to see my one year-old with a muddy face. She had been using the spade as a spoon to shovel (literally) dirt into her mouth.

She had also taken a minute to rub her eye, and thus looked a bit raccoonish, with a dirt smudge over her eyebrow.

Olivia thought it was hilarious.

It was. Dirty, but hilarious.

"Glory"

2010-04-08T15:58:00.000-05:00

A friend of ours, Sholeh Loehle, took this photo of Miss Elsie the other day, as I was working on sewing some curtains for Foundation Hall in the Baha'i House of Worship. Elsie & Olivia were amusing themselves and playing with their "Uncle" Henry, who had contracted me to do the work. He played with the girls while I sewed away. It was a nice trade-off.

http://www.nineteenmonths.com/glory/chicago/attachment/img_1497/

This photo was published on the site "Nineteen Months," which is a Baha'i-inspired photo site that each (Baha'i) month, publishes photos that reflect the attribute associated with that month. (In the Baha'i calendar, each month is named after an attribute of God. There are nineteen months in the Baha'i year.) This month's theme is "Glory" (Jalal, in the original Arabic).

Sweet!

Grandpa's Passing

2010-04-07T22:48:00.001-05:00

I never really knew my Grandpa Davis - in fact, I think I spoke to him a total of two times. Do not think me a callous grandchild, dear reader. You must remember that he was my grandfather by marriage - that is, I "inherited" him through my husband. I was very excited about this - I had (and still have) only one remaining blood grandparent, my dear Gramma (my mother's mother), and so to gain not only a husband and another set of parents, but two full sets of grandparents was certainly a deal and a half!

I met Grandpa Davis early in our marriage (i.e. right after we were married) and I was still the new awkward member of the family. I wasn't sure of the family culture and how things worked, so I was silent and watched. I think it was a Thanksgiving, and Grandma Davis had (as usual) thrown down the cooking gauntlet. There were greens and macaroni and cheese and turkey and sweet potatoes and Lord knows what else to eat. Which I did. I never met a food I didn't like, except maybe shrimp, but that's only because I'm allergic. All of the Davis family was there - at least, all that I can remember. It was a crash course in the Davis family tree, and I still don't have it straight. But I do recall real open hospitality, and urges to eat and eat some more. I have no specific memories of Grandpa from that day, save his presence in the house, but he was now a part of my new and exciting family.

There were other times we stopped in to visit, but only few. We were in college far away from Chicago, and rarely got up to the city to say hello. And then Grandma and Grandpa Davis moved with Uncle Carl to Florida, and we never saw them, save when Grandma came up to visit her friends. We heard about them third-hand, from stories passed on by my parents-in-law, who were secretly worried about their health and the distance between them.

So my memories of Grandpa are few, and seem faded like an old photo. I recall bright, twinkling eyes shining from a well-worn face. He seemed to have a constant smile, as though he was secretly keeping a running joke. From the stories I hear, he was!

But the best way to know a soul is to see the fruit of his labors. Both Grandpa and Grandma Davis worked hard to raise three bright and brilliant boys. I know a little of Uncle Carl, and a little more about Uncle Vincent, since we went over for barbecues when he lived in the suburbs, but I know my father-in-law George best.

George, who is the namesake of his father. Who is serious and lighthearted, spiritually-minded and loving, who has journeyed through his own life and met his own challenges, but who is still his father's eldest son. He has worried and worked like only a son can do, and held his concerns close to his heart, sharing them with only a few. I admire him greatly - his tireless work ethic, his love for his family, his commitment to justice. He is at times stoic and seems to be full of lofty ideas, at other times open and easily approachable. I know that his father is there, and I respect Grandpa even more for the gifts he gave to his son. Those gifts were also given to my husband, distilled through trials and bestowed upon the next generation to ease the passage through life.

And now we are honoring the passage from life to the Eternal Realm, the Abhá Kingdom. We are left with the earthly remains, while to soul wings onward. We rally as a family to support those nearest to the grief, and we are brought closer together in the midst of separation.

Journey well, Grandpa Davis. And we'll see you joyful on the other side!

Two Sisters (On the Terrace)

2010-04-07T15:52:00.001-05:00

By Renoir.

This one is for my mama.

Vacation: The Artsy View

2010-04-06T15:48:00.000-05:00

So here are some of my favorite photos from our recent vacation. In no particular order.

My brilliant husband, making us laugh.

Elsie interacts fully with art.

Architectural brilliance & beauty.

There's nothing quite like a fish with a moustache.

This is super-dark, but I love the idea of faded splendor that this old chandelier represents.

Fishes of the Jelly Persuasion.

Mama & Baby Beluga.

Sleepy Baby Face.

Olivia waits with anticipation. And especially long eyelashes.

This is my favorite!!

Vacated

2010-04-05T16:59:00.001-05:00

We're home! Here are some highlights:

We stayed at the Hilton Chicago. Here is our view from the window, overlooking Grant Park and Lake Michigan. That is the Adler Planetarium (with the dome) and the Shedd Aquarium in the distance.

First, we walked to the "Cloud Gate," which most Chicagoans call "the Bean," in Millennium Park (a small corner of Grant Park). It was several blocks north of our hotel, right on Michigan Avenue, and on our "map," which I had drawn for Olivia prior to our trip.

Olivia touched it first, but Elsie wasn't sure what to make of it.

Here we all are, although the balmy weather made for many tourists and therefore many smudges on the reflective surface:

Then we walked over the bridge from Millennium Park to the new Modern Wing of the Art Institute of Chicago. Inside, they have a FREE Family Room, in which children and parents can play and read and work puzzles of some of the works of art from the museum. There was even a great video which morphed images of some of the faces in the museum (portraits and sculptures and masks, etc.) - this was really mesmerizing to watch! Elsie & Olivia loved the soft climbing "waves" along one of the walls:

After much running about, we finally calmed down enough to walk through the Museum.

Here is Nathan enjoying some Impressionist works:

Here are Elsie and I climbing the stairs in front of a Georgia O'Keefe painting, which is the largest in the Museum's collection:

The next day, we woke up and high-tailed it to the Aquarium. In the rain. Halfway there, Nathan reminded me that I had forgotten our tickets. He bravely ran back and got them! Without having to wait in the already long line to purchase tickets, we whisked through the entrance and went to see the new show they have called "Fantasea." We weren't that impressed by all the theatrics, (such as this fellow here in the birdman costume):

but we did love the animals.

Olivia got to play in a "tide pool" with toy sea creatures,

And both girls got to dress up an penguins. Here is Elsie watching the Aquarium volunteer hop like a penguin:

And here is Olivia sliding down the "ice" slide:

After all the Aquarium fun, we were all tuckered out. Elsie napped,

While Olivia snacked on seaweed. She must have gotten some from the fish tanks. Or my backpack. Probably the latter.

Later on, we all snuck into the Grand Ballroom at our hotel (the Chicago Hilton), which was very reminiscent of something Eloise might do. This is what it looks like all lit up:

But this is the mysterious land we traveled through:

After a good night's sleep and some room service, we took the train home early so Nate could get to work.

Hooray!!

PLAYCATION, here we come!

2010-04-01T20:18:00.000-05:00

So we're off! To Chicago, that is. Which is twenty miles away. Only.

If you're walking, that is certainly a long way.

But we are not walking - we are riding on the train - the "L" - to downtown Chicago for a vacation. For two days and two nights. Brilliant!

It all started when Nathan took a week to write in the woods - on a farm, more accurately - so to make more headway on his play, which he did. Hooray! But a week sans husband and plus three children (my two plus the sweet Ma'ani, whom we watch during the day) made my head spin. Where would my beloved and neglected personal time go? What about Family Day (Saturday)? So I bargained. We would completely support this sabbatical if we got a vacation in return. I would have supported it anyway, dear reader, but this felt more just.

Because Nathan couldn't take more time off of work, we decided to go on his weekend, which is Friday & Saturday. And so I began to plan. We had some free tickets to the Aquarium... There is a new Family Room at the Chicago Art Institute... I work in the hotel business, so I could call some favors in there... It all began to take shape, and was helped along by a little "map" I made one night for Olivia, so she would know what to expect. I'll find that and upload it a little later, but here's the shake-down:

Family -->
Early Brekke -->
Train -->
Hotel (early check-in @ 8 AM!) -->
Aquarium -->
Luncheon -->
Hotel (rest time) -->
Supper -->
Hotel again for Sleep -->
Sleep/Wake -->
Room Service! -->
Art Museum -->
Drop-in Class for Olivia (free!) -->
Lunch/Dinner @ Russian Tea Time -->
Play at the park or Rest at Hotel -->
Tea/Supper -->
Hotel again for Sleeping -->
Sleep/Waking -->
Early Train -->
House of Worship for Nathan, Home for We3 girls

I'm ready. No dishes and all family. FUN!

This morning

2010-03-11T09:47:00.008-06:00

4:00 AM Olivia has made her way into our bed yet again. The bed is sheetless, because the sheets are hanging up in the bathroom, because we don't want to spend $1.75 to dry them. It adds up. (Thankfully Liz has the patience, skill and determination to make a laundry line in any space. She's actually what one might call a "Laundry Line McGyver.") For some reason I'm using Olivia's pillow. My pillow is nowhere to be seen. Last night I didn't want to bother to look for it. Too tired. As Rhoda might say. (Rhoda is the one in the wagon.)

Olivia is not at all a morning person. I don't know if anybody really is. But she really isn't. And thankfully she's still little enough that her grumpiness is cute. Not wanting to kick her out of our bed (where the other three members of her family all sleep) and banish her to her own (lonely) bed, I try to adjust my positioning so that we can both share her small pillow comfortably. Morning logic, like morning hands, is almost unbelievably weak. Whatever I was thinking, this was impossible. And so in my attempt to be accommodating, albeit with little hope and heavily compromised motor functions, I inadvertently elbowed Olivia in the head. At least once. I also nearly scooted her off the bed entirely. To all of this, her grumpy reply was "Why are you pushing me?" And then she promptly walked back to her bed. I think mostly just to show her disgust. I was relieved. But she had taken her pillow back with her. I reasoned that I would get better sleep with no pillow and more space than a with a child's pillow AND a child. So I was content. Until Olivia decided a few minutes later to assert her disgust in a more forceful way. She returned to the bed and crawled over me so that she was positioned in the middle and I was the one on the end. Then over the course of what could have been anywhere from 1 to 30 minutes (I was still in haze of tired) she gradually edged me off the bed. Finally I stood up, thinking that I may as well spare some focused effort and reposition her--perhaps even find that big pillow I was too lazy to look for last night. But when I stood up she said, almost cheerfully, "Daddy, you can go do your work now."

I realized then that there wasn't much point in me trying to get back to sleep. I would need to wake up in a few minutes anyway to get breakfast ready since I am fasting. So I let her have her victory. This time.

Ten minutes later I heard the wailing of a banshee. I knew that banshee was Elsie, so I ignored it. It fell back asleep. Elsie is a loud child. I say that purely objectively. I don't know why. One theory may be that she has to fight harder for attention than Olivia did. I think it's just her nature. Some people are loud people. Some people are quieter. I am sure that when Elsie is a grown up she will also be loud. She will sing loudly. She will laugh loudly. She will cry loudly. And she will probably talk loudly.

I have noticed a few interesting things about Elsie's morning routine: She likes to wake up and nurse. If she wakes up to find herself not nursing, she cries. If she cries and that cry is not stopped by a breast full of milk, she screams like a banshee. If she screams like a banshee and she is still not nursed, she either screams louder until it is almost unbearable, or falls back asleep.

This routine is altered slightly if I am in the bed and Liz is up. In this scenario Elsie looks at me as if I have stolen something. Then she says (in sort of a half cry) "Mama. Mama." Then she points. Then she cries. Then I put her on the floor and she walks to Liz while crying.

But the part of her routine that I enjoy the most (and it may only last for a few days--who knows) is that once she is properly awake and properly nursed, she goes all by herself to the bookshelf and takes out her baby books (which Liz has placed right at her level) and she reads. She goes through her books page by page and makes sounds. Which is what people do when they read. So I imagine this is what Elsie is attempting. You can do it Banshee baby! We love you!

There Are Some Silly People In Our House...

2010-03-10T08:01:00.000-06:00

Who's Got the Power?

2010-03-09T06:58:00.003-06:00

The power to dance, that is?

PBS has an animated show called "Super Why," in which four characters with watermelon-shaped heads explore phonetics and the "power to read."

The theme song is rather catchy, and we've molded it to our own desires, using it at times to encourage Olivia to get ready for the day or to make a rather mundane task seem more exciting. The basic lyrics are as follows:

Who's got the power, the power to [insert task]?

Who answers the call of friends in need?

Super Olivia! Super Olivia,

She's [insert some sort of exciting virtue associated with said task],

She's Super Olivia!

The other morning, I caught an impromptu dance session with Olivia performing, accompanied by her father singing a rather interesting version of the Super Why song. First, the performance:

Now, the lyrics:

Olivia Carmel, the power to spin,

Who can really move it and dance it around?

Olivia-a!

She has the ability to make cool spinny moves and spin around!

Ye-eah! Olivia Carmel,

She can do it in all directions!

Go-go! Olivia!

She's our dancing little girl.

Oh, yeah! Olivia!

She's so big and has the ability to dance!

We also had another go at it, with even greater lyrics (if not as much spinning):

Olivia Carmel, the power to dance,

The power to spin, the power to mo-ve.

Olivia! Olivia Carmel!

Many different tempos of beat.

Olivia!

Different levels: low and high

And spinning and not spinning.

All kinds of things Olivia can do:

She can move, and she dances great dancing [indistinct]

Yeah, yeah! Olivia!

Go, Olivia Carmel, do the dance!

I love my husband - he is the master of impromptu fun. I must, however, add a disclaimer - this one is particularly for Gramma, who has a very refined ear in terms of singing - Gramma, this is NOT Nathan's normal singing voice. He is simply copying the style of the Super Why song. Just so you don't worry about voice placement and tone. Love you! : )

Bird Songs

2010-03-07T06:31:00.000-06:00

We love birds. For the past two years, a noisy mourning dove has nested in the branches of the tree outside of our window. Either that, on on the roof, but the tree image is so much more romantic, don't you think? We hear our birds in the spring and summer, and sometimes in the fall, but they move away for the winter, and although we think sometimes about them, we are more interested in warm and cosy inside things.

That being said, I was tickled pink when I heard the mourning dove's familiar coo two mornings ago.

Nathan and I have been getting up early for the Baha'i Fast, which started last Tuesday and ends in about two weeks, because we have to make breakfast and eat it all before the sun rises. Here in Chicago, that's about 6:16 (at least this morning), and it gets about a minute sooner each day. This morning, the sky is a beautiful palette of creamy orange fading into a greyish purple. How orange can fade into purple, only the sky can tell you. I'm staving off this morning's chores of dishes and sweeping and tidying by reflecting on the beauty of the mornings, but soon I will have to dive into the work - we have Baha'i children's classes at our house later this morning, and I will need some physical and mental space to prepare for the rush of pancake-eating, rough-and-tumble children.

Maybe we will talk about birds...

Rice Cake Explosion

2010-03-05T21:34:00.001-06:00

Elsie likes rice cakes.

The other day she found a bag of them
unattended near the edge of the counter.

This is the aftermath.

Being Poor

2010-03-05T01:00:00.001-06:00

I'm posting this on both of my blogs, simply because I think it's important. And cool. And also because I like to take up space.

I am an anthropologist. Not by trade, because no one really pays me to anthropologize, and only a little by training (as I still have yet to fulfill that last foreign language credit to earn my Bachelor's degree...), but by action, as I am constantly studying the habits of people, primarily little people named Olivia and Elsie, and learning about people all over the world, in order to teach my children and (frankly) to eat tastier food. I am not an English major, either, as that last was certainly a run-on sentence.

Nathan is an actor. By trade, which right now is coming in fits and bursts, as auditions come and go, and by training - first at one university where he entered the program which closed the following year, and then another, where he had to start all over again in order to follow the program in sequence - but mostly by action. He loves acting. It moves him in ways I do not quite understand, but can recognise beneath his calm exterior. He is happiest when he is creating, and he creates by acting.

On the surface, we are run-of-the-mill, 9-5 folks, who are maybe peculiar by religion (being members of the Baha'i Faith) or maybe eating habits (see my Sweetgrass blog for more about that). Nathan holds a "regular" job at the Baha'i House of Worship in Wilmette, Illinois, can take down a pint of ice cream in 5 minutes, and has a love/hate relationship with the Chicago Bears that only a tried and true fan can survive. I stay home with our two little ones, make shopping lists, and try to calm the beast that is housekeeping. But scratch a little of the gold paint off, and we are complicated and weird. Probably just like you are.

The main problem is that both of us would rather be doing something else, but in order to work in this world, we are doing what we need to do to feed and clothe and love our families. Having little children is rough work - it's not some "hooray, let's play all day long!" jamboree, but a constant mirror of all of your little personal glitches and a gigantic balancing act of personal time and sacrifice. And for an extremely creative person to be working from nine to five as a bookstore manager, when he'd rather be speaking to the souls of people through the performing arts... well, you can imagine. There are certainly any number of alternate arrangements we could make (I could work part-time or even full-time, Nathan could take care of the girls, we could be nomads...), but this is where we are.

And the end result - we are poor. I'd like to think "poor in all save God," but that sounds a bit too high brow for my taste, and I don't even know if I'm "rich in God." Especially when I am trying with all my might not to lose my temper with a smarty-smart three year old who is right more often than I'd like to admit.

But, griping aside, there are some things that keep us going. For Nathan, it is the dream of fulfilling his calling as an actor. Recently, that dream has been run through the wringer, but he is tenaciously keeping a candle lit for it. It is difficult to watch a spouse suffer in this way - to see his determination when going to an especially important audition - the preparation involved, the sleepless anticipation - and then watch as he waits for the call. And waits. And waits. He is bravefaced about it, and doesn't let on to others, but I know better. And my feeble attempts to cheer him - my wan jokes and paltry distractions - only serve to rub in the fact that we know... we know.

The Baha'i Fast is a time for reflection before the coming New Year on 21 March (Naw Ruz). It is a time when adult Baha'is (except those who are ill, pregnant, and "giving suck"- yours truly) abstain from food and drink from sunup to sundown for nineteen days. It is, as I see it, a time for suffering, albeit mildly - to draw the mind and heart of one closer to the sufferings that those dear Manifestations of God who came to earth to teach us about God's Love for us only to be shunned and chained and imprisoned and killed. This small act of not eating demonstrates our love for and connection to these Blessed Souls.

It is also a time for the stripping away of veils - fasting in many cultures is a process of purification - a time for us to see more clearly our lives and roles for the coming year. The clarification I learn during this fasting time is how I can better serve myself, my family, and humanity. During these past few days, while we have held our breath with Nathan to hear about his audition, I have reflected on my role in the family and especially my role in supporting him. And I've realized that the best way to support both my daughters and my husband is to be strong in who I am.

The dream that keeps me going is one of equity and justice, and it is mightily green. My calling, vague as it is, involves feeding and teaching people about food - about where our food comes from and how it grows. About reinvesting value into that precious nourishment we give our bodies. Food and prayer nourish us in ways we don't even realize - one feeds our body, the other our soul - and they aren't that far apart. I envision a farm - an urban farm, perhaps - where everyone is welcome to come and learn how to live in balance. I suppose before I realize this dream, I've got to figure it out myself.

My goal, then, for this fast, is to develop my own balance. To gracefully grow into my own confidence, and from there, to lovingly encourage those around me to do the same. To develop a systematic way of being in the world that is simple yet profound - one that I can teach to my children with the utmost love and respect - and to move through this precious one life with a loving impact on those I encounter. Not that I'm some amazing Zen nun - I've still got a temper the size of Niagara Falls - but at least I know it, and can channel that passion into other endeavors. This of course does not mean that I'll not ever get off track, but at least I will have a touchstone.

So I suppose being poor has its advantages - primarily, I realise that my dreams will have to have no contingency upon income. Which leaves me the realm of the spirit. That is, of course, infinite.

Hooray!!

Elsie's Words

2010-03-04T09:26:00.003-06:00

I suppose I should post these here, before I forget to post them anywhere!

Elsie has been talking a lot - often, she will pontificate on things we can't quite understand, but sometimes we get it. Here's a list of her favorite words and phrases:

Who-dat: Who is that? Not to be confused with "who-dey," of Cincinnati Bengals fame, this is her favorite phrase to date. Whenever anyone calls on the phone or rings the doorbell, she immediately stares at me and asks "who-dat?" Sometimes, when we hear noises that no one has apparently made, she asks "who-dat?" Recently, she's been making it more of a game, and points at me, asking me, with a gleam in her eye, "who-dat?" To which she promptly replies "Mama!"

Mama: Mama, mother. Me. This phrase is mostly used when someone is hungry.

Dada: Daddy, father. Nathan. The best presentation of this is when Nathan gets home, unannounced, and Elsie hears his voice. She runs top speed (which is rather fast for someone so short in stature) to him and grabs his leg, repeating with glee "Dada! Dada!"

Hi!: Hi, hello. The best game ever when in the grocery store is to try to get people to say hello to you, especially if you are an outgoing baby named Elsie. She will enthusiastically say "HI!" as loud as possible until the unaware passerby figures out that it is she who is being spoken to and returns the greeting. This word is also used whenever Elsie commandeers a phone, which she tucks under her ear, and says "hi!"

Byee!: 'Bye, goodbye. This is used when people are leaving, and sometimes, recently, when Elsie thinks that it's time for people to leave.

Bye-Bye, Baa: 'Bye-bye, bath. A variation of "byee," this is the song we song when leaving the bath, and Elsie sometimes uses this when she longs for a sudsy rinse, but knows that it's not the time.

Eye: Eye. Sometimes this comes out as "hi," but make no mistake, the fact that Elsie is poking you squarely and firmly in the eye while repeating this word makes it clear she is not saying hello. Her Uncle Emeric taught this to her a few days ago and she has been vibrantly repeating it over and over, along with the aforementioned face jab.

Gogo: Totoro, as in "My Neighbor, Totoro." This is Miss Elsie's favorite (and only) video to watch. On especially cold days, or days when I want to clean uninterrupted, we will turn this on.

Uh-oh: Uh-oh, whoops! This is usually coupled with an experiment to test the current working of gravity, i.e. whatever it was in her hand is now on the floor. Yup, gravity is still working.

Mo': More. I would normally count this as a sound rather than a word, except that it is accompanied by a hand sign, the American Sign Language sign for "more." Hooray!

(Just as a side note, both spoken language and signed language are governed by the same area of the brain. The reason that baby sign is so popular is because that part of the brain works quite well, but
long before all of the muscles are coordinated for spoken word. Sign language is more easily expressed for babies than spoken language, at least for a while. It is also a great way to understand your baby, and for her to feel less frustrated because she can communicate with you.)

Olivia demonstrates the sign for "More"

Olivia shows us Elsie's version of "more"

Gen'go: Gentle. This is also accompanied by a sign, although it's not any official ASL sign - a "gentle" (sometimes not) stroking of the face, which evolved out of our demonstrations to her on how to gently interact with others.

Day'doo: Thank you. Admittedly my proudest moment yet was when Elsie said "thank you" as she took a snack from my outstretched hand. Hooray!

P.S. Hi, Damina!! :)

Umbrella Fort

2010-03-02T11:08:00.000-06:00

What else needs to be said?

Light upon light...

2010-03-01T11:05:00.000-06:00

...Sort of.

'Abdu'l-Bahá, the son of Bahá'u'lláh, Founder of the Bahá'í Faith has written:

"A child that is cleanly, agreeable, of good character, well-behaved—even though he be ignorant—is preferable to a child that is rude, unwashed, ill-natured, and yet becoming deeply versed in all the sciences and arts. The reason for this is that the child who conducts himself well, even though he be ignorant, is of benefit to others, while an ill-natured, ill-behaved child is corrupted and harmful to others, even though he be learned."

I will be the first to praise my children, but probably also the first to criticise - I suppose that is the difficulty of the mother, who spends all of her time herding little ones. When we agreed to watch our little friend, Ma'ani, my difficulty became compounded, as here was a soul to whom I was not the mother, nor could I set the guidelines for his upbringing outside of the walls of our home.

That is not to say that his parents aren't doing a wonderful job! But it is always difficult to mesh two cultures, and each family has a different style of parenting (just as each parent does).

With the struggles come the victories, and a third friend has helped to put a little schedule in our day, which would have otherwise been rather vague. Also, it has brought yet another mirror to my parenting styles, and pointed out several issues that I have been addressing, little by little.

One of the things we have been working on as a little group is table manners. I love them, and I know how to use them, but I must admit I've let mine slip a bit since I left my mother's house (don't tell her). And when Olivia started mimicking my poor habits, I knew it was time to break out the old ones. We started simple: sit while you are eating, don't eat with your hands, keep your fingers out of your mouth, etc. And we've been layering other ones. The most recent (and difficult, now that we have another conversationalist in the house) has been "don't talk with food in your mouth."

Here are my three little chicks to show you the ropes:

1. Put food in. That's easy enough to do.

2. Close your mouth and chew.

3. Here's the tricky bit: keep your mouth closed while you are chewing.

4. Once that food has been thoroughly chewed with your mouth closed, swallow it up.

5. Is there any food left in your mouth?

6. No? Good - now you can celebrate!!

" If, however, the child be trained to be both learned and good, the result is light upon light." -'Abdu'l-Bahá

Where's Elsie?

2010-02-17T12:05:00.001-06:00

Can you find her?

Family Portrait

2010-02-11T22:15:00.001-06:00

We haven't had a photo as a couple or a family portrait in a while, so when our AWESOME friend, Kutuh (a.k.a. Jessica Gaines, Health Counselor Extraordinnaire) came over, we played photo shoot.

I'm used to being behind the camera, so catching me was a bit of a chore at first:

Then it was difficult to get me to act seriously:

I eventually settled down for a nice husband/wife shot:

We were even able to add the kids into the mix:

But then we started acting up again:

As you can see by this last shot, Elsie plainly thinks we're crazy. She is probably right now wondering what kind of family she got herself born into...

But at least we're happy! : )

Grumple Groats Gruff

2010-02-10T20:42:00.000-06:00

I took this photo today and I couldn't help but share it:

Shakey Shake

2010-02-07T09:12:00.000-06:00

I'm taking a bellydance class at our local YMCA, with the incomparable Malik Turley, founder of Hip Circle Studio and one of the troupe leaders of Zahara Fusion, a local bellydance troupe. We meet weekly and shimmy and shake and work those core muscles and dance with women of all ages and shapes and feel good. It's brilliant, and I'm happy to have finally found a medium which utilizes my many assets, including my rather shakeable botto! Hooray!!

Just a note about bellydance - it's not what you're thinking. It's not exotic dancing. As Malik says, we may dance exotically to exotic music, but we are not exotic dancers. Bellydance arose out of a culture of women supporting one another - primarily through childbirth, as those are the muscles it strengthens - but throughout life as well. It's a multi-generational celebration of the beauty of women. So there.

Over Christmas, Malik asked if I would join her troupe, and I jumped at the chance. So now I'm bellydancing twice a week, and we will be hosting a hafla at the end of this month, which is a dance recital of sorts - mostly a community-building event where we invite our friends and family to come and appreciate the work that we've accomplished and get other people dancing, too.

Anyway, this is all a long introduction to a short little video that I took of Olivia wearing my coin belt. Without further ado:

Brava!!

Elsie Walks

2010-02-06T08:43:00.000-06:00

Second children have it tough. Not only must they split family time with their siblings, but the amount of photos and videos of them pales in comparison to the number of videos of the first child. While baby #1 benefited from a mom who had two hands solely for her, and a camera always on the ready - and has photo documentation of her first everything, including first potty time - baby #2's photo collection is a compilation of hit or miss "firsts" that a tired mommy has pieced together through the melee of video and photo clips gleaned when she remembers to record them.

Elsie's been walking for weeks. She officially started on her first birthday, but preferred crawling as the safer way to travel. Little by little, however, she's walked through the house, practising at first, and walking more and more as she becomes more assured in her feet. She's even added on carrying things in her fat little fists to Mommy and Daddy and Olivia with pride.

Here is an earlier video of her walking, taken a few weeks ago. As you can see, they aren't her first steps, but we'll say they're close. I can't even tell you the exact date, so I'm glad that my camera records that automatically for me. February 5 - I even checked! Enjoy!!

Trips to IKEA

2010-02-05T08:43:00.001-06:00

We love IKEA. So much so that we went twice in two days last weekend. We were "remodeling" our apartment, which included clearing out part of a huge closet we have to make room for an office for Nathan, and that involved some hit or miss purchases, and things being out of stock at the closer IKEA (in Schaumburg, 30 minutes away). We had gone with Nathan and spent almost six hours in the IKEA labyrinth, but still hadn't gotten exactly what we wanted. Nathan was exhausted. I could have stayed longer, but Elsie and Olivia were a bit tired. So the next day, the girls and I went to the "other" IKEA, in Bolingbrook, which is about 45 minutes away, and was tidy and well-stocked with what we needed. Brava!

Here are some of the things we like about IKEA, which, if you didn't know, is a wonderful family-friendly place that specializes in furniture and household supplies that maximize tight spaces. (Which is all us, what with four folks in a one-bedroom apartment!!):

Online List - the place is a madhouse and a sensory overload, so it's best to shop online first, where you can make a tentative "shopping list" - you can even pick your preferred store, and the list will generate where in the store you will find what you want.

Car Carts - Not all IKEAs have these, but our Schaumburg one does. One could effectively put four children in one of these carts - two in the car, and two in the regular seating basket. But that would involve four small children under five, and I don't want to think about that...

Dining at IKEA - Fun things, like tray carts, Swedish meatballs, and a kid's seating area, make dining fun. Olivia contemplates the mashed potatoes,

while Elsie protests confinement in a high chair.

Smaland - Olivia, who doesn't like to be "lonely," requests to be dropped off at the IKEA playroom every time we go. She eagerly removes her shoes when we sign her in and has no more eyes for us at all as she dashes off to play with the trees or play kitchen or ball pit. And she can even go potty by herself there.

Family Bathrooms - As a nursing mom, I love that they offer a lounge area for other nursing mamas (or bottle feeding mamas, but that's not quite as exposing) within the family bathroom. Elsie loved the sink, which was just her height:

And Olivia loved everything. We were at IKEA, after all. Here is a dance to prove her joy:

We have a few more returns to make and a few more things to purchase for Nathan's office, so we will be going back next week, on our way to visit family in Rockford. Oh, the joys of IKEA. Just don't tell Nathan...

Something About Elsie

2010-02-04T19:55:00.000-06:00

I had a great little anecdote about my one year-old flitting about in my brain last night as I drifted off to sleep. I can't remember it all now, though. Of course. Some things stick in my brain pretty well, but other things just fall out of my ear while I sleep, I suppose.

We have been watching a friend's son recently, as his dad has started a great new job working weekdays. We watch Ma'ani Tuesday through Friday, from about 11 to 5:30 or so, depending on the car situation (i.e. who's got the car and the accompanying car seats?). So now we have three children - a one year-old, a two year-old, and a three year-old going on twenty. Ma'ani has been adjusting pretty well, considering that he is an only child most of the time and has only recently be thrust into middle-child-ness. He absolutely adores Olivia, whom he calls "Eeah," and follows her around and says cute little things like "Be back, Eeah! Be back!" when she gets too far ahead.

But he and Elsie are enemies - arch enemies. At least Ma'ani thinks so. Elsie loves him and follows him around and grabs his hair and tries to roll on him and hold his hand. All of which are sure signs of a one year-old's loving adoration. But that can't be explained in words to a two year-old. Ma'ani is constantly on the defense, and spurns Miss Elsie's advances unflinchingly. His favorite catch phrases in relation to Elsie are "No, no, no!" and "That's Ma'ani's!" Anything Elsie does elicits this response:

Elsie touches Ma'ani's coat
"No, no, no - that's Ma'ani's coat!"
Elsie walks over to the refrigerator (where Ma'ani and Olivia are playing)
"No, Baby Elsie - that's Ma'ani's [refrigerator?]!"
Elsie points at Ma'ani
"No, no, no - that's Ma'ani!"

Poor Ma'ani. I suppose he'll eventually get used to not being the littlest anymore. I'm not quite certain how to acclimate him to the new situation, and remain aware and fair to the needs of the girls as well. It's a tricky balancing act, and I suppose time will help iron things out. If only Ma'ani weren't so afraid of contact with Elsie - which on one hand is cute but on the other is unavoidable!

I mentioned this perplexity to my friend, Corinne, saying that Ma'ani is afraid that Elsie is out to get him.

To which she replied, "because she is."

Oh, well.

Boneless

2010-02-04T19:35:00.000-06:00

Boneless is a great attribute for a chicken breast, but people??

Olivia told us last night about a boneless friend of hers, whom we hadn't met. Here's a brief description, gleaned from the little bits of info that we could extract from a sleepy three year-old:

She was light pink
She was tall as the ceiling
She had no bones (of course)
How old was she? What comes after five? I don't know!

They had met at IKEA's playplace, and Olivia had held her hand when they jumped in the ball pit. But that's all we'll probably ever know about Olivia's boneless friend.

But the best part was the song that Nathan came up with to commemorate the discussion:

"Bone people and no-bone people,
Bone people and no-bone people (people, people...)"

Snowpants

2010-01-19T21:42:00.002-06:00

Olivia loves snowpants. Any time snow is spotted outside, the perfunctory question is "can I wear my snowpants?" When we were in Ohio over the holidays, Olivia had a perfect day, comprised of beautiful snow, sled pulling with Elsie, and, of course, snowpants. Here's how it went:

Morning Snow

Shoveling the Walk

Going for a Ride

The Stream

Great-Gramma Betty's Magical Backyard

Elsie

Snowberries

Sled Time

I love watching snow through the eyes of my children. The grace of its journey to the earth, the way it transforms the drabness of bare branches into a silvery cobweb, the pairing of soft and cold. Really, the only reason grownups don't like it is because they have a harder time going places. Well, maybe we could just stand still. For once!

Panthor and Battlecat Discuss Cookies

2010-01-09T18:50:00.005-06:00

Nathan has developed these two great characters, Panthor & Battlecat, loosely based on the old He-Man figurines, who intercede whenever Olivia (who is three and a half) can't understand or won't do something. This external dialogue helps her to understand her current problem without feeling embarrassed.

One Year Ago...

2010-01-01T23:50:00.005-06:00

...I was in labor.

I've been thinking about it all day, and I've been exhausted, binging on gluten-free Irish Soda Bread I made this morning (which is like a rock in my stomach) and Season Three of "Murder, She Wrote," starring the amazing Angela Lansbury.

Olivia has spent the past several hours at a friend's house on a "play date," which included (I have just been enthusiastically been informed by a three year-old who smells refreshingly of outside) a dance party, cookie-making, and a card which reads "AMiALOVESOLiViA," and is bedecked with brilliant red hearts. Amia, being the aforementioned friend, is an older woman of five, who can not only write her own name, but other words as well, and she can color in the lines. She certainly has earned Olivia's respect and undying love.

I have enjoyed the "one child down" time by wrestling with a particularly fiesty almost-one-year-old in trying to get her to sleep. Elsie, with whose labor I was wrestling 365 days ago, finally knocked out about 30 minutes ago, at 10 PM. But not without a fight. Fortunately, once I had her in a body bind, wrapped in sheets and tucked firmly between a pillow and myself, she calmed down a bit and only required about 30 minutes of nursing (25 of which were in a partially-soporific state) before I was able to extricate myself, emerging with only a few scratches from her ever-sharpened fingernails. Whew!

It has been my experience with children (and, while I don't have many, I at least have two) that the temperament of the child is decidedly determined far in advance of her advent into this world. Even womb-bound, both of my girls demonstrated what I can now firmly call unique character traits - movement or stillness, sleeping or schlopping, reacting to external stimuli or maintaining a zen-like composure - all in a manner which carried on into their personhood in this world.

And their births, I believe, carry the same calling card of character. While Olivia took her own sweet time in deciding she wanted to be born, and no amount of pushing and tugging (literally on the pushing, but not on the tugging) would entice her to move until she was ready, Elsie fairly jumped into the waiting arms of the doctor. Likewise, my three year-old won't budge unless she's all prepared, and Elsie is jumping off of the furniture (again, not literally - don't worry, Momma).

Elsie was due on the first, and she almost made it. She began giving me hints in the early morning, and I decided to go right back to sleep, seeing as I was probably not going to be able to do so again for a very long time. I did, and the contractions stopped. Almost so much that I thought that it would be at least a day or two before she'd make it (Olivia's birth being my yardstick). I felt nothing throughout the day, and decided to not worry anyone by calling (poor Nathan's parents rushed over for Olivia's birth, only to be in waiting rooms for many MANY hours). In the evening, we decided to go to the grocery, and I was grumpy to find that our favorite, Whole Foods, had closed early on account of the holiday. Which, by the way, seemed rather silly, as people had most likely been partying the night before, and would have probably enjoyed New Year's Eve night off, rather than New Year's night, when all they could do would be to go home and recall the impropriety of the night before.

But, I digress - we couldn't go to Whole Foods, so we went across the street to Jewel, and I wandered grumpily, trying to find foods that I like. If there's one thing I dislike, it's being lost, and that confounded grocery store not only had none of the food I particularly wanted (I was still pregnant, you know, and what with all the cravings...), but was laid out in such a silly manner as to be annoying. Also, my contractions had started up, and I get cranky when I'm in pain. And I was in PAIN. Oh, boy. Apparently, Elsie had been working undercover, because when they started up again, they came on full force.

We finally got out of there, and called a friend to come help with Olivia, and then decided to pack the car.

Which took FOREVER.

But, dear reader, you must remember, that I was in pain. And therefore cranky.

Did I mention I was in pain?

When we all piled into the car (after the requisite call to the doctor), we sped down to Chicago. At least, in hindsight it must have been speeding. But it seemed to take, again, FOREVER.

Just ask my husband, who was privy to my lack of courtesy brought on by the contractions. I'm a proper backseat driver when I'm sober, but when I'm in labor... Well, use your imagination.

Needless to say, he was relieved when we arrived. Why we had chosen a downtown Chicago hospital (which was at least a 30-minute drive, sans traffic) rather than one of the local Evanston places is another story (a good one, too). But we got there, and Elsie wasn't delivered in the car, although at that point, I would have done it in a minute. I clomped in to the reception area, wearing my huge impervious-to-water Baffin snowboots, a comfortable brown maternity skirt (which I liked but didn't match anything else), stretchy black pants underneath (the mother's uniform), several layers of shirts & coats, and a silly hat smashed on top of my strubly hair, which was hastily done up in a hair tie bun. I think I had a bag or two. I rushed in, my hair all flyaways, ready to give birth then and there, to be told that I needed to wait until the woman in front of me (who, dear reader, was smartly attired with shiny black boots and a cute plaid coat, and had her lovely little wheeled carry-on right next to her). She was apparently NOT in labor, but at least she was pregnant. At that point, I couldn't think of why in the world she would want to be checking in, but later recalled hearing of women who chose to schedule either labor induction or a planned cesarean section, so as to best fit their busy schedules. All opinions aside, I certainly presented a fair case for the latter as I stomped like a caged bull around that waiting room, snorting through the contractions, which were coming on more rapidly now. If she hadn't been planning a cesarean, she probably saw me and thought better. She probably scheduled hers then and there. Which is why she took SO LONG to finish that stupid paperwork.

The nurse finally called me over and asked me to fill out some paperwork. She timed her request right in the middle of a particularly strong contraction, so I flatly refused, and sent Nathan over to see what she wanted. Seeing as I was in no polite mood (what woman sends her husband to answer delicate questions?), she rushed me into the examination room, where I was told, after a bit of a resented (on my part) delay, that I had progressed to seven centimeters. The nurse was clearly impressed, and I was a bit smug about it, being able to do that all on my own. When I entered the hospital with Olivia, I had only three centimeters to my name. I was determined to beat that this time, and I had. I was rather proud of myself. Now if only people would start taking me seriously and believe that I was ACTUALLY HAVING a baby and stop taking SO LONG to get silly things like paperwork done! If the world were run by women in labor, things would be much more efficient, and there would certainly be less paperwork.

Once we were in the birthing room, I met with the doctor and nurses, who were very supportive and helpful. The doctor asked if I still wanted the labor tub which I had requested as a part of my birthing plan. I immediately said, "NO! Give me an epidural!" To which I added a quick "please," just to show that I did have some manners. In case my mother or God was watching.

There was no anesthesiologist to be found right away, all of them apparently busying themselves with planned cesareans, and I spitefully thought of my anesthesiologist ministering to Miss Plaid Coat from the waiting room, who no doubt had her epidural planned in advance, too... but that is an uncharitable thought. Each woman's birth is different, and not one is better than the other. Again, dear reader, I remind you that I was in pain. And cranky.

I got through some pretty fine contractions while I was waiting and, in hindsight, I may have been able to do the whole thing without drugs. But once that anesthesiologist showed up, I was in no mood to be a hero. She shot me up fast and good, and I had no real contractions for about forty-five minutes, at which point they returned, and again with a vengeance. It was almost as though I hadn't even been drugged. When I mentioned this to the nurse, she upped the dose, and then told the doctor. The doctor looked in on me and decided that it didn't really matter all that much, as I was in the final stage of labor - transition - and it was time to push!

One, two, three, and ta-da!

Guess who was born?

My Fatty Lumpkin.

And she's one!

Holiday Menu

2009-12-21T05:44:00.000-06:00

I'm posting this online so that it actually gets done - I'm rather scatter-brained, as I'm not at home in my own little domain, but visiting family for a fortnight in Ohio.

We're celebrating Christmas at my Gramma's house, which, as it has been the way I've always celebrated Christmas (not observing the holiday in my own immediate family), is the only way to do it. This being so, I've commandeered the reins of the preparations, so that it is "just so." I like things "just so," you know.

Here are some elements that make Christmas more delightful:

1. Real live (or rather, dead) fir/pine/spruce tree. We have a dandy little fir that we bought from A. Brown and Sons Nursery here near Dayton. It was on sale, as it had probably been cut a little while ago, but it was the kind we wanted, and it was "soft," as evergreens go, and had easy to decorate branches.

2. Sweet things. As I'm now pretty much all gluten-free, I can't even bend the rules in that regard. But I do allow myself sweets, so I've been baking. Ginger cake made with maple syrup instead of molasses (which is so bitter!). And on the schedule for today are some Christmas cookines, including gingerbread people and maybe some sugar cookies (which have very little taste but are fun to decorate), and... well, something else small and tasty. And we will be making fruit cakes for my Gramma, and a funny little "uncandied" version for me - I'm not too fond of candied fruit, so I'll try my hand with a dried fruit cake.

3. Appropriate television nonsense. I'm actually surprised that I wasn't able to find in the upcoming television schedule a performance of the Nutcracker Ballet. How am I supposed to get in the holiday spirit without weird mice and Christmas toys battling it out in dance format? And of course "White Christmas" is probably my favorite, and then maybe the Grinch, although he is a bit scary for Olivia.

4. Christmas Eve Church Service. My high school friend's father is the pastor (minister? I'm not too certain of the right word for a Methodist man of the cloth) of a local church which my grandmother likes to attend when she can, and we will be attending the 7 PM family-friendly (hooray!) service this Christmas Eve. And eating ham, per my mother's request. But not at the same time.

5. Yummy Christmas Dinner. Here's what I'm thinking:

Local pasture-raised Beef Roast from Aullwood Audubon Farm
Mashed Potatoes (of course)
Something to do with Squash
Balsamic Roasted Beets
Spinach Salad
Garlic Green Beans
Gluten-free biscuits
Mince Pie
Sweet Potato Pie
Ginger Cake

We will be having dinner around 4 PM on Christmas Day, in hopes that the other portions of my grandmother's family (i.e. my uncle, aunt, and cousins, et. al.) will be able to join us sometime during the day.

6. Snow. Although I can't really do much about that.

Now, after listing all of that food, I'm a bit peckish. And I hear babies - I'm off! Happy Holidays!!

Snippets

2009-12-05T16:02:00.002-06:00

This afternoon, we were walking home from the train when Olivia asks me, "Mommy, how do you get into T.V.?"

I explained that it was a process of someone taking a video recording of you and then someone else playing that recording on the television.

"No," she told me. And this is her explanation:

"You take out the bathroom and cross the street and go into the T.V."

...

This evening, in the bath, in a sing-songy voice:

"And she went to her house
and her daddy's house
and her mommy's house
and her sister's house
and a ducky's house...
a pretend ducky's house (in reference to the rubber ducks in the bath)"
[ending in a chorus of bubbles]

Elizabeth of Brick Apartments

2009-12-05T08:45:00.001-06:00

I've spent the last few days reading my dear old Anne of Green Gables books by L. M. Montgomery. Actually, I've been reading the text online, thanks to the efforts of Project Gutenberg, which posts free texts on the internet. My real books are safely ensconced in my parents' home.

I read these when I was young, when I was more interested in the character of Anne and the romantic plot then. But, of late, I've been thinking more about what happens after Anne gets married, as that's where I am in my life now. Romance aside, I am much more interested in how she composes herself as a mother - particularly a young mother of young children.

Recently, I came across the movies, made in the 1980s by Sullivan Entertainment and was pleased to know that there were not only the first and second episodes, which were based on the Montgomery books, but a third movie as well. The second movie, which I had seen when I was younger, leaves off just at the good part, as I see it now - right before Anne & Gilbert get hitched. Eagerly, I watched the beginning credits of the "Continuing Story," but noticed that the plot seemed unfamiliar. Anne and Gilbert weren't yet married and it had been five years, and there was some nonsense about moving to a large city, which I didn't recall. And then Marilla is already dead, and Gilbert goes off to war, and another character makes advances at Anne and Anne goes to Europe to find Gilbert and there's a mushy love scene and... bleck. It left a nasty Hollywood taste in my mouth - apparently the producers felt that Ms. Montgomery's story was not adequate or exciting enough to snare viewers' attention. But they missed the point entirely. Needless to say, I didn't watch the movie, and promptly disposed of it.

Disappointed, I let the matter lie until the other day, when I came across an online text of Anne of Green Gables. Eagerly, I thirstily read... and read... and read.

If you've not read the books, I shan't repeat them here, but will only say that they are delightful, and encourage you to read them, whether your are a young girl or an older gentleman. There is much about human nature in them, and, being written over 100 years ago (the first book published in 1908), are wonderful historical sketches as well.

I was, as mentioned above, most eager to see how Anne dealt with being a young mother of young children, having two little ones myself. I have been struggling with being too grumpy and "ruley," that is to say, too strict, especially with my three year-old. So I wanted to see how Anne dealt with that time in her life.

I read to the point where her first son is born, and the family then moves into a new home (which is the end of one book, Anne's House of Dreams). I excitedly took up the next book, only to find that it started six years later. Six years!! Those were precisely the years that I wanted!! Nevertheless, I plodded on and finished Anne of Ingleside, and was surprisingly pleased at some of the tidbits of advice that I gleaned.

Most importantly, I appreciated how much God is present in the pages of the story. God is simply a matter of fact, an over-arching theme of everyday life. It was refreshing to see the importance of being an upright person and saying your prayers (without undue stress on what prayers you were saying, exactly). I additionally liked how having a goodly character was lauded over "appearing" to do the right thing - I often think about how in my own life, appearances are most important - that is, what people think often drives my actions rather than what I think is best and right. So this was emboldening to me - I shook off some of the accumulated layers of the ill effects of our current culture to reveal my own wonderful self beneath.

Another interesting point was that Anne had a cook. Who was also a housekeeper. And Anne had a garden and a house. As I struggle with keeping our home clean, small as it may be, I realise that one of my biggest enemies is "stuff" - all of the accumulated things that we are sold every day. But the other enemy is a cultural attitude that as a mother, I must, singly and alone, do all of the "womanly duties" myself - cook, clean, do laundry, go grocery shopping, mop, sweep, dust, diaper babies, sweep some more, read stories, heal hurts, feed the family, sweep again - with no help. Where's my cook? How wonderful to have some companionship and another adult to speak with and share the attention of the children.

*sigh*

But the most salient point that I have decided to incorporate into our daily lives is to spend time outside. LOTS of time. And to read stories. And little to no time watching tv. My poor dears have been inside for the last week, as our car was disabled in an accident and it's been too cold (for me) to get out. But winter hasn't even started yet, and so my goal today is to get out.

At the expense of the dishes.

Oh, well, we can't have it all.

Where's the camera when you need it?

2009-12-04T16:27:00.000-06:00

Murphy's Law is in full force at our house.

Elsie is being a chubby darling, playing at standing up while raising her arms in the air, and I can't find our camera. It has lain idly for the past week on the steamer trunk in our front hallway, with no real cause for use, and now, when I need it, I can't find it.

So, dear reader, you must be content with my description.

Elsie is wearing an apple-green one-piece romper and fuzzy striped socks. Her dark brown hair has lightened a bit after our trip to Jamaica, and lost all of its island humidity-induced waviness, but there are a few sweet inklings of curls around her ears and the back of her neck. Her chubby cheeks seem as though she is storing nuts for the winter, but we know that is only a ruse. Although she still likes to pick up tasty things off of the floor and pop them into her mouth (don't worry, Gramma, all edible things).

She is a prolific crawler and cruiser, ably pulling herself up and moving from couch to chair to leg. Her favorite "leg up" is actually my leg, and I have to make certain my pants are on snugly, lest a too-strong tug should yank them off.

She loves to play games - mostly repetition games, where she will mimic whatever Nathan or I do, within limits. She'll clap her hands or hit her fat fists on the table after we do, or parrot our sounds, such as "Mama" or "Dada" or "Abha." She loves to clap and laugh, and play pat-a-cake and snuggle into my shoulder (which is my favorite).

But this evening, she is playing at standing. She'll start on all fours and shift her weight back into her rather large diapered bottom. They, she'll slowly raise her arms off of the floor, wobbling until she's lifted them over her head (or as much over her head as is possible, considering she is still the possessor of short and chubby baby arms). She then seeks my eyes and proudly quacks at her accomplishment. My favorite part is the "dismount," where she plops onto the aforementioned diapered bottom with a soft "thud."

My sweet chubby, dimpled baby.

Perfunctory Post #1 - Nathan's Birthday

2009-12-04T16:05:00.001-06:00

Well, dear reader, I promised I would write about his, and so I shall, mostly to satisfy the family & friends from afar who take interest in our little family's goings-on.

Nathan celebrated his 30th birthday last week (at least I believe it was last week - things have been in a bit of a tizzy in the Thanksgiving aftermath), in conjunction with Thanksgiving dinner.

To be fair, he actually celebrated his gift from us on the previous Sunday - at the Chicago Bears vs. the Philadelphia Eagles football game held at Soldier Field in Chicago. I had actually remembered this year to procure tickets more than a week prior to his birthday, and therefore didn't have to spend too pretty a penny for seats, although it's shameful the way that tickets are acceptably "scalped." Nevertheless, I am in no was abashed at the gift, as he attended with his father, and neither had ever attended a Bears game.

This, dear reader, may not seem like such a dire wrong. I've never attended a Bears game, or any professional football game, for that matter, and will happily progress to the next world without ever having done so, but for Nathan and his father to have never done so - it is almost akin to a travesty. Almost. I still have a proper sense of proportion.

So I arranged that George should drive in for the evening and meet up with Nathan at work, who had as yet been unaware of the plans. I packed warm "secular" clothes for Nathan - orange and blue, of course - and hid the tickets in a funny little card I made for him. We arrived to "pick him up" and gave him the card. He was very excited, and, after a bit of scrambling to meet up with George, embarked on the train to get to the stadium.

To the outside world, both Mr. George Davis and his son Nathan seem like pleasant, mild-mannered gentlemen. Both are veterans of the stage, and both are soft-spoken and spiritually-minded. Never have I heard either swear or raise his voice, or show aggression or brutishness.

And yet, when cut, both bleed orange and blue.

Our dear friend, Emeric, must be one of the most superstitious football fans ever. He won't watch the game with certain people, as he believes they jinx the outcome of the game. When the Bears are falling behind, he'll call me to see if Olivia is wearing her Bears sweatshirt. If not, I am told to put it on her. And he was pleasantly surprised one day to, in casual conversation, learn that Nathan was a football fan. Not only that, a BEARS fan. And, not only that, but could recite plays and statistics from years past with surprising alacrity. They immediately became friends, and we were honored with an invitation to watch the game with Emeric.

So George & Nathan attended their first Bears game together, with seats at the fifty yard line. The Bears had been faring rather poorly in the season (I overheard the idea that for some reason, perfectly good quarterbacks lose their spark in this team), and this game would be the turning point. If they won, they would still have a fighting chance for the playoffs, but if they lost, the season would be essentially over.

Of course, they lost. But it was a well-played game.

Not being so dedicated to a team myself, and knowing that by saying so here, I may forfeit all future invitations to Emeric's house to watch football, what I do like to see in a game is each team playing its best. I especially like to see players demonstrate courtesy (no personal fouls) and dignity. Just as in politics, there will always be someone upset by the outcome, and, Lord knows, the only thing we can eternally put stock in is the next world. So it is refreshing to see a team play with a good sense of healthy sportsmanship and honor. And a coach who doesn't lose his head or swear (at least not that I can tell) when things go otherwise than perfectly.

Don't worry, Bears fans. There is always next year. Hope springs eternal, even in sports.

What the Heck is Going On?

2009-12-02T10:32:00.001-06:00

Something about this season always brings out the mostest in me - be it the worst or the best, who knows. I just seem to be all in a tizzy with things to do.

Which is, dear reader, why I haven't posted since November 5th.

First, it was our family trip to Jamaica, which I will have to write about separately, as it was really that amazing. We went to celebrate the wedding of Bahiyyih & Malik, and boy, did we ever (celebrate, that is)!

Then, it was right into birthday festivities for Nathan, which (I almost forgot) included a sneaky surprise trip to see the Chicago Bears play the Philadelphia Eagles with his dad. Neither had gone to a game before and it was pretty amazing. Even tho' the Bears lost. But this, also, is another post.

Then it was house-sitting and Thanksgiving prep at said house across the street. Which was a feast for the ages. Complete with fancy china and the "king goblet." Again, another post.

Which leads me, finally, to the point of THIS post:

On Sunday, after cleaning up from Thanksgiving and getting all of my ducks in a row in terms of "moving out" of our neighbor's house, I thought it might be nice to go visiting. So I called up my dear friend, Corinne, piled the girls in our sweet car, picked up Corinne and drove into "the city" to a devotional at a mutual friends' home. It was nice and tasty, and I ran into a friend from college, who it was great to see.

And then, on the drive home, someone ran into me. Not in the cordial sense.

I was in the right lane heading north on the gargantuan Sheridan Road, and coming up onto an intersection with a left turn. As I begin passing the intersection, Corinne suddenly says, "Look out!" and I barely have time to hit the brakes and try to swerve, when a car from the left lane turns into ours and hits my front driver's side wheel, thereby lifting our car into the air slightly before we come to an abrupt stop toward the end of the intersection. This same car then veers back into the left lane and hits a car waiting to turn left, which, in turn, huts the car in from of it, also waiting to turn left. It was a scary, adrenaline-filled jumble.

Stunned, I look behind me and see that traffic has stopped, and grumpy drivers, completely unaware that time is now moving in slow motion (they missed the memo, apparently), begin to filter through the two lanes to continue on their northbound way. I can't think of where they could be going that is so urgent.

I make a mental check to see how the girls are - Elsie has promptly fallen asleep and Olivia is asking questions about what just happened, which Corinne is deftly answering while taking stock of the situation. I get out to look at the car and it appears that there is only some minor damage to the front bumper and the front driver's side wheel well. I somehow see that a police car has driven up, and the officer is asking all the drivers involved to retreat to a driveway nearby. I dutifully try to back the car up, and am presented with a bit of difficulty in doing so - it feels as though I have a flat tire or something.

In the melee that followed, I am so thankful for Corinne's insight. She quickly calls a friend to come and pick up the girls, and then calls Nathan's work and has him paged (he had escaped somewhere away from his office) so that he can come down, too. She bawls me out of my stupor in so that I answer the officer's questions and don't allow the offending driver to label me as the "striking vehicle," when (as we later find out) there was no way that I could have rendered as much damage to my car as was there on my own. She guides me to sit in the car to stay warm, as I aimlessly walk around the car, looking for God knows what. I was so stunned that I didn't know what to do with myself.

Our friend, Bushra arrives and takes Olivia into her car. Nathan arrives, and Corinne and Bushra leave with Olivia, who is excited about reaching the "promised land" of cable television at Corinne's house. Elsie is still asleep. The police officer is busy with paperwork as Nathan and I inspect the car. When we drive it slowly forwards and backwards, it sounds and feels as though we are driving a flat tire over glass. But there is no real visible evidence of any problems, except that the tires don't turn together - one would be parallel with the car's frame while the other would be turned on an angle.

I approach the officer's car and ask to see my insurance card, because we need to call a tow truck for the car. He asks me if that is really necessary, as the damage appears to be very slight. I reply that it is not drivable, and, although he appears to not believe me, he hands me my card.

The first car to leave was the least damaged one - the car at the front of the queue to turn. Then the second car in the turning queue drives off. Only the striking car and I remain with the officer. The offending car soon drives off, with several tickets, and the officer approaches my car. He tells me I need to accompany him to the station.

He may have believed that I was feigning surprise, but I really was taken aback. I wasn't sure why I would need to go to the police station - but he was vehement that I hurry and follow him in my car. When I ask what I should do if the car can't keep up, he told me that I needed to have a better attitude. Fortunately, Nathan was there and asked the words that my brain couldn't manage to form: why does she need to go? It turned out that because I had mislaid my driver's license earlier and did not have it with me, I was getting a ticket. And so they needed my signature at the station so they could release me on bond. I'm still not sure how to explain it, but I ended up riding in the back of the police car, leaving Nathan and Elsie with the car.

There isn't much leg room in the backseat of police cars.

I signed and waited for the officers at the station to finish their paperwork. My officer was in a hurry to get back to the scene and be on his way, and so he started to take me back to his car before the desk officer was finished with the paperwork. At this point, I believe that my officer realised that I wasn't being stupid or playing a part - I was doing the best I could at following his instructions (he had been rather curt up until then) - but was new to this and wasn't sure what was expected of me.

In the car on the way back, he asked for the names of the girls, as he hadn't realised that there had been children in the car. And he asked what we would do in order to get the car home - to which I replied that we would try to drive it. Content that his job was finished, and realising that he had left some paperwork at the station, he dropped me off and rushed away.

I think that police officers should have secretaries. There is certainly enough to think about with the law and all.

At this point, I transferred Elsie's car seat to our neighbor's car (which Nathan was driving at the time), and proceeded to try to drive our poor little car home, with Nathan in the rear with his hazard lights on. I could drive about 5 miles an hour and successfully crossed Sheridan road before I decided that we should actually try to call a tow truck. I called our insurance and started to make a claim, before finding out that we would need to pay for a tow truck (we had no money on us, and our debit cards had been canceled as I had lost mine on our way to Jamaica). So we started out again with my goal to get the car parked on a side street with no parking restrictions. Ten minutes and three blocks later, I found a spot, right near our first apartment.

So we left our little car, content that anyone who tried to steal it wouldn't get very far, and prayed that no street cleaning would occur between then and whenever we could pick it up. We picked up Olivia and went home and went to bed.

I am still trying to sort out insurance things - we have full coverage, but are reluctant to make a claim, as it will put us out $400 (plus we don't have rental coverage).

Our insurance, Allstate, has contacted me twice already to take a statement, and is making arrangements to have the car towed, in the event that we do not have resolution from the other insurance company.

The offending party's insurance company is a small local establishment, who will not accept liability because they have not yet heard from their client nor have they made an assessment of the damage. They are apparently so small that they do not employ appraisers, and have sent out the request for an appraiser on Monday. It is now Wednesday and I have not heard from them. I have called every day, only to be told the same thing. When I ask to see if we can at least have a rental car, they tell me that they cannot do anything until they have finished their investigation.

I think that they should hire me to fill out the paperwork - I'd get that thing taken care of in a jiffy.

Bag Lady

2009-12-01T14:09:00.002-06:00

Erykah Badu has a song called "Bag Lady," which is pretty amazing. In it she describes what you might begin to imagine when you hear the term "bag lady" - a presumably homeless woman who is carrying all of her things around with her in shopping bags of various assortments. However, as the song progresses, you realise that Ms. Badu is singing about ALL women (and probably some men, too) who take on too many things - hold on to what's not good for them or what they think is important, when the reality is much more simple

"Bag Lady, you gonna hurt your back
Dragging all them bags like that.
I guess nobody ever told you
All you must hold onto
Is you, is you, is you.

"One day, all them bags gonna get in your way
One day, all them bags gonna get in your way
I said one day, all them bags gonna get in your way
One day, all them bags gonna get in your way
So...

"Pack Light."

Sound Check

2009-11-05T21:11:00.002-06:00

It's late. Well, not really, but I'm bushed. And I don't even want to think about all of the things I have to do tomorrow.

So I'm sitting at the computer and looking at Facebook pages.

And as I sit here, I hear little noises in the background:

"scrape, scrape"
the sound of Elsie scooting a chair around in the background

"crackle, crackle"
the sound of Elsie pondering a leaf

"thump thump thumpthump thump"
the sound of Elsie crawling at full speed over to pull herself up on my chair

"rustle thump"
the sound of her diapered bottom hitting the ground again

"smack smack smack"
the sound of Elsie pondering something from the floor in her mouth

"plat plat..."
the sound of fat fists slowing meandering into the front room

"clunk"
the sound of those same fat fists pulling a book off of the shelf

"thump thump thump..."
the sound of more crawling

" "
the sound of trouble. I'd better go see what she's up to.

Olivia's Cake

2009-11-04T11:28:00.003-06:00

Olivia loves to crack eggs. And she's pretty good at it, too. I remember an incident with my little brother, Joe(y), when he made pancakes and I was picking shells out of my teeth all morning.

This morning, I come into the kitchen to find Olivia spread-eagle on the floor, with a carton of eggs in front of her. She was "counting" them, which includes a song that goes:

Hickety-pickety my black hen,
She lays eggs for gentlemen
One, two, three,
Four, five, six,
Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten.
Gentlemen come every day
To see the eggs my hen doth lay.*

*What the heck is this rhyme about? In my teen years, I would have ventured to say it contains some sort of sinister sexual undertones... I don't know what that says about me. Any thoughts (about the rhyme, not me)?

When she gets to the part about the counting, she dutifully counts the eggs. It's a fun game, and I've learned to not worry about cracked eggs. There is something really magical about texture for her and for me, and so when she plunges her hand into a bowl of lentils or flour, I can relate.

As counting eggs brings up the desire to crack them, Olivia then suggested that we make something.

Olivia: How about a cake?

Me: What kind of cake?

Olivia: CARROTcake.

Me: You ate all the carrots yesterday.

Olivia (without pause): CHEESEcake!

Me: We don't have any cheese.

I look into the cabinet and realise we don't even have any flour - at least not the gluten-free kind, which is the only kind we can eat. But we DO have almond meal. Hmmm...

Me: How about almond cake?

Olivia: ALMOND cake!

So we proceeded to cook an almond cake. Replete with almond milk, since the only other milk we had was daddy's half-and-half, which is sacred for the morning coffee.

We donned our aprons, and got to work. We measured and dumped and Olivia got to break her eggs. Two of them:

Then she got to mix:

She even got pick the shape of our cake, which was square. Which, I just learned, is her favorite shape. Triangle is runner up.

Here's our final product. We're going to go eat it now and tell you all about it. If you are interested in the recipe, I've posted it on my Sweetgrass Blog. Or at least I will once I've finished eating our cake!

Uh-oh

2009-11-02T13:26:00.000-06:00

This is pretty self-explanatory:

Halloween

2009-11-01T08:25:00.001-06:00

In lieu of a long message today, I'm simply posting photos from Hallowe'en. We had a family theme, one which Olivia chose, of the Big Bad Wolf and the Three Little Pigs.

Can you guess who the wolf is?

Here we are with our dear neighbor, Amy, and her dog Kiko.

Olivia the wolf decided she is cousins with Kiko the Malamute.

Here is Elsie trying on her piggy bonnet, which I had just finished sewing.

Our house was covered in pink fluff yesterday, as well as bits of wolf fur.

HAPPY HALLOWE'EN!!

The Power of Unity Video

2009-10-24T06:00:00.002-05:00

I puppet the Lime Green puppet, my sister puppets the Orange one, and I do the voice-over for the Yellow puppet.

Fluffy Babies

2009-10-23T20:07:00.002-05:00

So I've been sewing the dresses for my sister-in-law, Bahiyyih's, upcoming wedding. She will be married in Jamaica, and we are all going.

Which, of course, means that the three girl cousins absolutely HAVE to match.

Nathan is groaning in disgust at this very moment. He HATES matching.

Here's a problem - wedding dresses are WAY too expensive. So I'm making them from scratch. With the help of the internet and DIY pages.

Here's one of the babies' dresses, not quite finished. It is a most exciting dress for a three year-old, who tried it on:

and spun and spun:

But not so exciting for a baby who can't crawl in it. It was fun to see standing up, but once she sat down, it was all over.

Oh, well. She only has to look fluffy for a little while, then she can be naked. She is only a baby, after all.

Dishy Drama

2009-10-23T08:07:00.001-05:00

It always happens like this - I think that our family is running on an even keel and then... BAM! Something happens that throws us all off course, and we need almost a month to get back together.

Like these past three weeks, for instance.

It all started when I left the house one Friday morning without washing the dishes. I should never do this again, but I probably will at some point. We were leaving for Rockford to visit Nathan's family and celebrate his father, George's, birthday. Nathan writes on Fridays and Olivia has an Ecology class that we three ladies attend (Elsie chews blocks, mostly), so our morning time was pretty hectic. This, coupled with the fact that the house was a bit messy as we had been in Ohio the previous weekend for my brother's wedding... the sum result was a rush to leave while Elsie was asleep and dirty dishes in the sink.

I ended up staying a few extra days in Rockford to work on my sister-in-law's wedding dress, while Nathan came back home to go to work. I returned only to find those same dishes in the sink. I refused to wash them, justifying this with the fact that I had two children to watch and other people had been home without ANY children - plus, I recall that I had cooked the meal that those dishes house which, in our house (ideally), means that someone else gets to wash the dishes.

As if passive resistance ever works in the chore war. They lay there, mouldering, while we again whisked off to Rockford, this time to help Bahiyyih move her belongings into her new house.

We all came back together this time, and returned home to be greeted by those same dirty dishes. Seeing that they were not going to wash themselves (hope as I might), I dug in and violently washed every single one of them. Our counter was full of clean dishes.

Which stayed there for less than a week, at least. I'm going to go put away the last ones right now.

No one eat anything else, please, unless there are no utensils involved.

I think I have a razor somewhere...

2009-10-06T16:01:00.000-05:00

So I've been thinking about body image. My body image, specifically, and how it applies to my dear darling dumpling babies. I know that the way that I feel about myself and the way I feel about my body seeps into the minds of my children - mostly subconsciously - and serves as a foundation for the way that they will view themselves in the future.

Why so deep? Because it's easy to think about food and nutrition (as I've been doing off an on in my Sweetgrass blog) and how they affect the body, but even more difficult to assess how ideas of self-image affect the body and the psyche. These ideas may not cause weight gain, but they do affect the way one interacts with the world and as little girls especially are bombarded with images of "beauty" day in and day out, I want my girls to feel confident with who they are as humans and comfortable in their own skin - regardless of weight or color or acne - all of those things which our society puts so much importance on but which are the most difficult to change.

Which brings me, dear reader, to the point where I reveal some shocking (to some of you) news:

I have hairy armpits [gasp!]

(My mother is probably groaning at my revelation of this to the entire world. Hi, momma!)

It all began when I was fresh out of high school. I had started shaving my legs when I was 12 - at summer music camp, because all of the other girls had bare legs and because my mother wasn't there to say "no" - and I hadn't looked back since. I could never quite master the knee area, and usually left the shower to look for bandaids to cover the little nicks that I had made, thereby dripping water and blood all over the bathroom floor in the process. The armpits were worse - I never really cut myself, but they were always itchy bits and sometimes while trying to remove every trace of my dark (almost black) hair, I would shave several of the topmost layers of my skin raw. It was, dear reader, not as glamorous as the magazines touted, and I could never get my legs to quite forget that hair grew there.

The worst part, though, was that, despite all of my efforts, it always grew back. I would get maybe one good day of hairlessness, but by the second day, I'd be stubbly. It was an exercise in futility.

So there I was, out of high school and embarking on a Baha'i year of service in Minnesota. Exposed to nine other souls who each had different viewpoints and life stories, and we would all impress our ideas and struggles upon each other in some way as we traveled the central states over the course of the next year. I was ripe for change and hungry for new views.

In our travels, I recall stumbling upon the idea that shaving - which at that point was one of my greatest nemeses - originated in Roman times, as a means whereby the wives of pedophilic aristocrats (which may have been almost everyone, according to some accounts) could please their husbands by emulating the nudeness (meaning hairlessness) of young boys. Regardless of the validity of this claim, it certainly made an impression. No way was I going to cater to the fancies of some old fat Roman guy. Ick.

Here was my out - I could turn my dislike of shaving into a political statement, thereby winning "cool points" from all the deep thinkers among my peers. Except in any large social gathering. Then I would have to shave, to save myself the embarrassment of explaining this entire story, or being compared against other girls, which is the prime pursuit of every young person, male and female alike. The boys do it to see which girl they like best, and the girls do it to see which of their compatriots they need to trump to win the favor of the boy they prefer. Good lord, what a complicated mess.

Fast-forward to my almost-married self - confident and hairy, and assured that the affection of my husband was not contingent upon my lack or presence of body hair, which I was very good at growing. Those of you who are entirely fair or entirely dark may not appreciate this, but I was in one of the worst predicaments - pale skin and dark body hair do not a model make! I had embraced my creation, and appreciated this aspect of my nature. However, the night before my wedding, I recall an interaction where I raised an unshorn arm to stretch and the friends in my presence raised eyebrows and exchanges glances. I felt belittled and embarrassed. The next morning, I got up early, pilfered a disposable razor, and shaved.

Thus began my sordid and complicated affair with my razor. If I shave, there are fewer "points off" in the beauty contest. If I don't, I feel better about myself. To a point. I still can't reconcile the ideas of beauty and body hair.

When I began this post, I thought that, by the end, I would reached some epiphany, wherein all would be made clear and I would be able to proudly declare myself either hairy or hairless. But, like all things in life, there's a bit of confusion and compromise.

I suppose it is best summed up by Ms. India Arie in one of my favorite songs, which starts something like this:

"Sometimes I shave my legs and sometimes I don't..."

Watch the Video Here

Hunter-Gatherers

2009-10-06T10:48:00.001-05:00

Our friendly neighbor Kiko, who is an Alaskan Malamute, loves to come over to our house. Not for any real companionship reason - it's just that he always finds tidbits of yesterday's (and sometimes last week's) meal under Olivia and Elsie's chairs.

I think Elsie must be getting back to her roots. DEEP roots, I mean. She's been nipping off at the strangest times, only to be found underneath the dining room table, thoughtfully chewing secret things. I'm not even sure what, since I swept only yesterday, but this is her favorite place to find food. Not in a high chair, or even on my lap. But on the floor. Under the table.

I thought it might be that she likes to eat close to the earth. So I would give her a biscuit or a rice cake and plop her down. I'd glance away for a second and she'd be gone. A scattering of rice cake to throw me off the scent, but I'd soon find her in the usual place. Chomping away.

I recall a study I did in college to determine whether squirrels preferred whole peanuts to "shelled" (i.e. no shell - I'm not sure why they call it that) ones. My findings led me to conclude that they preferred the whole ones, and that it was because it stimulated an ancient response where one had to struggle for food in order to enjoy it. Maybe this is the same thing.

So now I'm debating putting her regular food on the floor for her to find. Or getting a dog.

My Brother's Wedding

2009-10-05T18:20:00.001-05:00

This weekend, we welcomed a new member of the family on my side - my brother was married to Ms. Jessica Greenwalt, of Ohio fame.

Hooray!

The ceremony and reception were held in a beautiful lodge in Oak Openings MetroPark, which was a beautiful, serene setting for such a sacred event.

Here's a photo of Olivia gettin' down with my Gramma, who is in her 90th year. Gramma stayed later than we did at the reception and word is, she got busy on the dance floor. Yay, Gramma!

Elsie, on the other hand, was plumb tuckered out:

I wish I was still small enough to be carried around.

I think Olivia had the most fun with her cousin, Liam, who went for a walk in the woods with her:

One more photo - this time of the bride & groom (along with the mass of our family). Can you find them in the red?

Mama, the television tyrant

2009-09-30T07:09:00.000-05:00

As I was putzing around this morning on the computer (how is it that, even before I get dressed, I am on this thing?), I heard a tiny cry from the bedroom. Mama senses all a-quiver, I rush like a ninja into the bedroom, so as not to wake the other sleeping souls, and to the bed of Olivia, who is crying, fresh from a dream. Here is a brief transcript of the ensuing conversation:

Me: What happened, sweetie?

Olivia: You turned off the T.V.

[crying resumes]

So apparently my three year-old daughter is having nightmares about me turning off the T.V. This is bad.

Or is it? Maybe we are watching too much television in the first place - granted, we limit it to videos that I've deemed "okay" - no violence, well-developed heroines, and just a little "benign peril" (as my friend Gavin as aptly deemed it). We watch mostly Hayao Miyazaki's children's movies: Kiki's Delivery Service, My Neighbor Totoro (about sisters), and Panda Go! Panda, and we watch them in Japanese or Chinese (Olivia has been preferring Chinese these days - go figure), as the English versions say weird things (which are probably also in the other versions, only we can't quite understand them). We also watch Milo & Otis, Winged Migration, and some Little Bill episodes I recorded many years back. But just reading this list gives me cause for pause. That's quite a bit.

I've been figuring out little family projects that we can do each week to improve our family life - so maybe one of them can be a "no T.V." week. Which, honestly, would not be missed if I were up to getting out of the house more. I'm really a couch potato at heart, and I love T.V. - mostly the mindlessness that is required to keep up with popular shows. I suppose I could put a bit more energy into planning daily schedules... But I don't want to over-schedule, either. We just get bored.

So, dear reader, any ideas?

They're called Clementines, not Oranges...

2009-09-27T15:09:00.000-05:00

Our dear friend, Dena (A.K.A. Doda) recently shared a wealth of clementines with us. Olivia loves them. Earlier this morning, she carried them around the house in a tea cozy. This afternoon, she practiced peeling them.

But don't let me tell you about how she loves them. You can see for yourself!

I must admit, if I had had such peel-friendly fruit when I was younger, I may like oranges now.

What time is it again?

2009-09-27T05:07:00.000-05:00

This has to be one of the more annoying aspects of young family life - I am awake at 4:30 AM. Not 2 or 3 AM, at which point I could coax myself back to bed and sleep; nor 5 or 6 AM, when I could simply be awake. No - 4:30, which may be one of the silliest times in existence.

And the weird part is, I can't even figure out why I'm awake. Sometimes, there's a bit of logic - like I had to nurse Elsie. But she's asleep, and I'm wide awake. It could be that the low battery on our smoke detector woke me, but I prefer to adopt a more complex and emotionally satisfying explanation - there must be something wrong with someone. Someone must be sick or injured or near death's door and my strong intuition has wakened me to worry. How kind of it. Or - and here's my current favorite - our house may shortly be attempted to be entered by robbers and I woke up in time to foil their attempt by locking all of the bolts on the rear and front doors. Aha! Of course, if someone really wanted to break into our house, I don't think that a bolt would prevent it. However, I do my part in making sure that it appears as undesirable as possible from the outside. Like hanging up my skivvies on a makeshift laundry line outside the back door.

I am reminded of Anne Shirley, heroine of L. M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables and subsequent books. I practically devoured these when I was younger, and I could certainly appreciate Anne's flair for the dramatic. She would romanticize about nursing her best ("bosom") friend, Diana Barry, back to health from the brink of death, and then dying herself in the process. I wished so much for a bosom friend whom I could nurse back to health... but I wasn't so keen about the dying bit. I still have too much work to do here to kick the bucket!

And it reminds me of another instance of awakeness - which I'm sure my poor Gramma can recall with perfect clarity... I won't go into it now, but it involved a big hairy spider (which I can't stand), a stupid mourning dove, and a proposed trip to Meijer in the middle of the night.

So I'm going to go change the battery in that smoke detector and get back to sleep. Good morning!

Small Victories

2009-09-23T13:46:00.002-05:00

I was looking this afternoon, with more than a few twinges of envy, at the profiles of many of my friends on Facebook - those with no spouses or children and the accompanying early nights, early mornings, and "no longer nice" clothes. Maybe it's a case of "the grass is always greener," because I didn't exactly have a wild lifestyle even sans husband or children, but I couldn't help missing those days - hanging out with dear friends until the wee hours, going out to dinner (because at that point, I could afford it!), wearing pants that fit and being able to brush my hair. You know, the little things.

And maybe it's because those were the times that I could actually update my profile on Facebook (although I must admit, it didn't exist before I was married - it's been that long!) without interruption, or because I could go out with only a wallet and some keys (and no bag full of assorted yet sometimes necessary knick-knacks), and the only accidents I had to worry about involved cars, and not toddler pants.

It's my friends who have the time who keep the fullest profiles, and I imagine that when they've entered parenthood, they'll be focusing on more important pursuits than changing their status every five minutes or touting their most recent photos with gaggles of well-dressed, neatly-pressed friends (can you tell I'm a bit resentful?). Of course, these same friends are also quick to post a photo or video of one of my beautiful and brilliant children, and I can't help but feel a swell of pride. They are wonderful people - I'm just grumpy, I suppose.

Therein, I think, lies an underlying problem - I'm grumpy. There are no videos of me. I've become my children's mother. I am no longer Liz, the witty and brilliant woman, the cute and cool truth-seeker. No. I am mama. Who at this very moment is hiding a cell phone in her bra and edging the computer inch-by-inch away to keep them from the drooley jaws of a ravenously teething 8 month-old. I know that this is a stage, and that all too quickly, I'll be looking at my daughters' Facebook profiles (or whatever new-fangled fad is around in ten years) and seeing comments from boys. Good Lord - bring me back! I understand all of this very logically. But I still miss the attention.

I was talking with my dear Gramma (hi, Gramma!) - who is almost 90, but is a wonderful gutsy woman, who still lives alone in her wonderful magical house, and writes an email to the family every night - yesterday, and we were talking about music lessons and fulfilling potential and things of that nature, and I realised that it isn't really about being the biggest or the best - it's about being YOUR best. I was reminded of a quote from Baha'u'llah:

The whole duty of man in this Day is to attain that share of the flood of grace which God poureth forth for him. Let none, therefore, consider the largeness or smallness of the receptacle. The portion of some might lie in the palm of a man's hand, the portion of others might fill a cup, and of others even a gallon-measure.

Essentially, it doesn't matter that I'm not the best or most famous. My work is to make certain that I'm the best at being me. And of making sure that I fulfill my potential - whatever that is at this time in my life.

So maybe I'm not celebrating the world's most largely-attended party and "going out" means the grocery store, but I'm working at being the best I can be. So there.

And, just to make sure that I'm still the best at something else, I've got the market cornered for cute photos of my kids. Here's a little taste of that. You can even see part of my face.

Stand By Me

2009-09-23T10:38:00.001-05:00

Just a reminder that we are all one amazing chorus of humanity.

Pat-a-Cake

2009-09-22T15:55:00.001-05:00

If you ask Olivia, she will tell you that the name of this game is "Patty Cake." Just so you know.

Elsie loves it. As evidenced below:

Sorry that this is so short, but it's bedtime, and I have an 8 month-old chomping on my leg. Literally.

Zoobilee Zoo

2009-09-20T16:14:00.000-05:00

Do you remember this show? For some reason, the theme song to this PBS kid's show is forever etched in my brain. I can't remember my phone number sometimes, but I can recall this tinny song:

"Zoobilee Zoo, Zoobilee Zoo,
Magic and wonder are waiting for you..."

We actually went to a real zoo yesterday - the Chicago Public Library and neighboring suburban libraries are participating in a Museum Pass program, which allows cardholders to "check out" a free pass for a week to several area museums & parks. We got two free admissions to the Brookfield Zoo - Elsie was free, so we used the passes for the grown-ups (Nathan and me) and paid only $8 for Olivia. What a steal! Right?

Elsie with the goats & later eating pizza with daddy (she washed her hands first, folks).

Olivia the fish & later watching fish.

Unfortunately not. The zoo, like any other theme park, it would seem, found ways to nickel and dime us. We spent over $60 (I haven't had the guts to look at the actual receipts) for food ($15 for three hot dogs and 20 fries - that is, twenty french fries, not twenty orders of french fries - which, by the way, I dropped all over the floor) on two meals, two carousel rides, and admission into the Children's Zoo. And we didn't see the dolphins or go into the Play Zoo (which is different than the Children's Zoo) or ride the tram or go into the butterfly area or see the dinosaur exhibit.

But, nevertheless, it was fun! The weather was perfect, we were all together, I was only grumpy once, and Olivia talked to the animals.

Early to Bed...

2009-09-17T05:43:00.000-05:00

So the girls and I have started taking our Fall classes. This past spring, if you had asked me if Olivia was in preschool (which was, rather to my surprise, one of the first questions asked of Olivia by any grown-up person we met), I would have said, "no!" and thought to myself, in a rather presumptuous and smarmy voice "I am the first educator of my child, thank you very much!"

Now, as preschools are starting up, and Miss Olivia is asking about backpacks and playgrounds and all of that paraphernalia that makes school interesting, I realise that I've got a precocious three year-old and a cold winter coming up, which, in Chicago, means a lot of indoor time. Together. Alone. With a lot of "why" questions... For months.

Our brief but exciting courtship with a "real" preschool ended up with all parties disappointed. Fortunately, Olivia didn't know too much of what was going on, and was sweetly excited when we "investigated" a possible school for her to attend. I went in to inquire as to the availability of space for Olivia and left feeling strangely poor. I left feeling strangely poor - I can't believe how much preschool costs!! We ended up playing on the playground as a reward.

Therefore, dear reader, I have constructed a Fall schedule, which not only encompasses Olivia's budding education, but mine and Elsie's as well. Here is our plan:

Mondays - Spanish Day

Olivia and I are going to learn The Hidden Words of Baha'u'llah in Spanish together, as well as various vocabulary and phrases, and practice throughout the week
As a side note (for which, it seems, I am notorious) living in Chicago with dark hair almost immediately puts me in the "she must speak Spanish" category. To my embarrassment, I don't. But, no longer!!
As another side note, Mondays are also the days that I have a bellydancing class. But that is another post.

Tuesdays - Swim Day

Olivia started her first swim class when she was 6 months. Elsie is starting hers at 8 months. Get 'em young, I say. Baby swim class is primarily a bunch of moms and dads holding their sometimes screaming children in the warm water pool at the YMCA and bobbing around and singing little songs like "the Hokey Pokey" and "Ring Around the Rosie," which are paired with special movements designed to get your baby acclimated to water. Sometimes too acclimated. Elsie ended up with a snout full of water during her first class, but she bore it well.

Wednesdays - Music Day

I disliked piano lessons, mostly because they were 30 minutes during which my lack of practice over the previous week was revealed to my long-suffering teacher. I would often feign sickness, but my mom would send me anyway. Once, however, I was actually sick and vomited all over my teacher's new second piano. I can't imagine how one cleans sick off of piano keys. My poor teacher... My poo mother... Poor me... That being said, Olivia is slated to start her lessons in the next few weeks... We shall see how this goes.

Thursdays - Gymnastics Day

The ad said that jumping on the furniture was just one way to know that your child is ready for gymnastics. My thought is, "will this release that pent-up energy or make more?" I hope the former, but am prepared for the latter. Our poor downstairs neighbors...

Fridays - Ecology Day

This is actually mostly for me. With Elsie tied to my back (or front), I will tromp along with Olivia all over the Lighthouse Landing dunes in Evanston every week to learn about plants and animals. In any weather. There is a snack involved somewhere there, too, but I am mostly excited about the potential to wear galoshes. I love galoshes!

Other bits

These are mostly for me, and include a yoga class, an exercise class and an elliptical machine at the YMCA. At various points in the week, when I get up early enough or can sneak away in the evenings. Which leads me to now, 5:30 AM, and a hurried goodbye, so I can wash last night's dishes and don some stretchy pants for a 7 AM power yoga class. Power yoga? That's another post!

Bonita Applebum

2009-09-16T18:58:00.000-05:00

Okay, so maybe the song by A Tribe Called Quest isn't the most appropriate reference, but I think of Bonita being a beautiful little girl with apple cheeks - on her face. Like my babies.

This past weekend, we had an AMAZING trip to Michigan, where we visited a FANTASTIC ORGANIC FARM (which I will write more about later), and also stopped by to pick apples at a little organic orchard, called Tower Hill Orchard, owned by a couple from Chicago who are moving out to the country.

(our hostess driving away on her John Deere)

While Olivia slept, Elsie played, and Nathan relaxed, I picked six (6) pecks of apples.

(this is a Jonagold)

I think Nathan especially enjoyed the peace.

(can you see his legs?)

And my littlest one ate her first baby apple.

(that's what teeth are for)

She's been rolling in them ever since. Her newest favorite game is to crawl over to wherever I've moved the bags of apples to get them away from her, sit on her bottom, and peer inside one of the bags.

Then, she spies an apple she wants, picks it up with her fat little hand, and tries to chew on it. Regardless of the success of this exercise, the apple almost always ends up rolling away from her. She crawls after it, and rolls it some more until she tires of this game and crawls away somewhere else. I've got apples all over the house now!

But how can I complain?!?

Little By Little

2009-09-12T23:40:00.000-05:00

Our dear friend, Laura Harley, is an AMAZING life coach and musician who lives in the Twin Cities in Minnesota. She came to Chicago earlier this summer to do a little workshop on spiritual growth, in which she shared some of her music. One of the songs, called "Little By Little," Olivia really took to, as it had hand motions that accompanied it (Olivia loves hand motions) (and so do I!). In fact, when I was singing it (out of the blue) this morning, Olivia remembered those same motions, which I myself had forgotten!!

Kismet, I suppose, as this evening I checked my email and found a free download of this same song from Laura. I was able to download the song to our computer and play it for the girls as we ate dinner - Olivia, a grilled cheese sandwich & grapes, and Elsie, bread & 1/2 a grape. Delicious!

Here's a clip of our little music video, complete with the hand motions. Enjoy!

Step In Time

2009-09-07T13:24:00.007-05:00

As a combo birthday present (our birthdays are just shy of a month apart), Olivia and I went on a date to see Mary Poppins at the beautiful Cadillac Palace Theatre in Chicago this past Spring. Daddy got to watch Elsie, and Mommy & Olivia were treated to great seats and a good show. It was really fun, although I must admit I'm not sure how much Olivia actually understood.

One thing I'm sure she got was the song "Step In Time." In the Disney movie, I wasn't too keen on this one, but in the show, it was really amazing. Mostly because I could see the real talent & hard work that was required for it to look good. Live theatre really brings out the magic that is lost in film.

This song was the most memorable, and it wasn't long before we had incorporated it into our daily litany. Most often to encourage Olivia to move. She moves at her own pace, which is much slower than mine, and instead of repeating "come on, Olivia" we discovered that "Olivia Carmel, step in time" was much more effective at inducing her to move it. It was more fun, too, for everyone.

Once we had Olivia Carmel stepping in time, we moved onto other friends and family: Elsie Shirazih, Kilam Hassani & Nasir Amir (Olivia's two older cousins), Mommy mommy & Daddy daddy (apparently we don't have middle names?). We also switched out the verb (to step) with other exciting ones, like "clap" or "stomp." We were really excited to sing "Elsie Shirazih, crawl in time!"

Like all new fads, our "Step in Time" routine slowly faded out. Olivia learned to run (hooray!) and Elsie has been pulling up on the couch and our bed - we've been teasing her that she'll be walking soon. In fact, I hadn't thought about stepping in time until the other day when I overheard Olivia playing with her sister. Most politely, she asked her sister in a sweet sing-song voice:

"Elsie Shirazih, will you please step in time?"

Catching Water

2009-09-03T07:33:00.004-05:00

When Elsie was tinier than she is now (I almost typed "When Elsie was little..."), she did not like water. It was a rather strange phenomenon that she could, very simply, do without.

Hooray, no longer! This past weekend (or was it last weekend? I forget!), while at the 50th Annual Green Lake Bahá'í Conference in Wisconsin, we had some down time while Olivia was playing with cousins. I was cleaning the kitchen of our cabin, and Elsie was patiently waiting for me to attend to her. As I was doing dishes, and she seemed interested, I simply plopped her into the empty sink next to mine.

She loved it, as evidenced below. Particularly interesting was the game of trying to catch the water as it came out of the faucet: