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?
30 September 2009
27 September 2009
They're called Clementines, not Oranges...
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.
But don't let me tell you about how she loves them. You can see for yourself!
What time is it again?
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 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!
23 September 2009
Small Victories
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.
:)
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.
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