Little Junk Bird

The girls are playing a game they've named "Little Junk Bird." It's a cross between playing crow and playing Oscar the Grouch. They've gathered all the things they like into their new Dora Hut (thank you for the Dora Hut, Grandma!). The game has a dress-up component (thanks for the new dress-up clothes, Nana and Grandma!): they have different sets of "wings" (skirts) that they take on and off depending on the circumstance.

Yesterday we went to the Virginia Living Museum for the day. Last time we went, the girls got really wound up and the visit ended in tears. Yesterday, though, we had a fantastic time. I think we hit every exhibit, including the outdoor animals (which we skipped last visit), and there were NO tears.

Favorite animals? Mazie: red wolves. Vivian: red and gray foxes. I wish I had photos to share. But I did learn that Red Foxes and Gray Foxes can be many different colors, but the Red Fox has a white-tipped tail and the Gray fox has a black-tipped tail. The museum does a great job of explaining why certain animals are there. They put up plaques explaining that the eagles have wing injuries or that the loggerhead sea turtle has a missing flipper.

My favorite animals were the bobcat - so slinky and purposeful in its movement with such an amazing face, and the loggerhead turtle. The loggerhead won me over with its gaze. It seemed to acknowledge people outside the tank. That could be my imagination - I have no idea what they can see and what they're aware of, but I'm sure it looked right at me.

Today I'm going to try to Get A Lot Done.

First She Said Some Hurtful Things...

...And then she pushed me down the stairs.

This is quote from a comic routine that my stepdad likes to quote. It's funny when he says it, but it wasn't funny when it happened today at our house.

Mazie had used some of Vivian's stickers that went to her December calendar. Mazie applied them to their desktop. Vivian felt upset and angry when she found out. I heard a fray developing - no injuries, and then Vivian started down the stairs exactly as she should if they can't work it out on their own.

Well, Mazie was in hot pursuit and shoved Vivian down the last two steps. Vivian rolled right into the boom box and landed funny on her left foot.

Now, what would you do? I really want to know because I am a little lost. I was so mad at Mazie I knew I couldn't do anything yet besides sweep her up and put her in solitary confinement, which I did. Then I returned downstairs to check out Vivian, who was totally fine despite her awkward landing.

Here's what I thought: People can get seriously injured - even killed - by being pushed down steps. Heck, Mazie herself had an ER visit after rolling down half a flight of stairs. Mazie absolutely has to know that this is one of the most dire offenses ever. But, she's never done it before. She's only pushed Vivian a few times that I know of, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't beat up on anyone else. So she may have been unaware of the effect her pushing on the stairs would have.

Mazie had just told me that her favorite Christmas gift had been the Barbie (whose influence we have fastidiously kept out of our house until now) that Aunt Melinda gave her. Plus, she was anticipating a big dessert of leftover Christmas candy. So I went upstairs and explained to Mazie how dangerous a push down the stairs could be, that she may NEVER EVER do that and that to remind her, she was going to lose Barbie for a while and dessert for tonight.

Surprisingly, it was the dessert part that really smarted. She forgot about Barbie in short order but when dinner time rolled around, Mazie asked about dessert with big cow eyes and a soft voice. "What are we having for dessert tonight?" "Mazie, you lost your dessert privilege when you pushed Vivian down the stairs." Commence sobbing. She sobbed through most of dinner. We made her leave the table because she was interfering with conversation and digestion, so she wailed on the couch.

Finally, the fuss was over. I guess we'll watch to see if she pushes somebody else down the stairs. I'm lost on this one. But we're discussing stair etiquette again tomorrow. It'll be an in-service that nobody can get out of.

Anatomy and Predator

I'm starting to study anatomy. I'm just getting familiar with the basics and exposing myself to the vocabulary - saving the memorization for later. A first year med student I know recommended the anatomy book I've started with.

The book has sidebars that relate anatomy topics to clinical issues. So far it's covered atherosclerosis, nerve damage, and lymphadenopathy. I find it hard to explain how rewarding I find these brief straightforward explanations. I spent a year scribing. For the entire year, I made loose conjectures about the why of what I was writing down. Some things should have been easy for me to figure out, but weren't. For instance, while scribing, I observed and even assisted with (held vials for) several lumbar punctures. I always wanted to know how the doctor knew where to stop the needle insertion. There's little opportunity to ask questions - particularly when someone needs a lumbar puncture because that's time-consuming to begin with. So the best answer I got was that the doctor could feel the right place.

Well, tonight I found out that one of the maters, the dura mater, is strong - presumably strong enough to provide the resistance that the physician "feels" as she inserts the needle. I can't wait to find out! Suddenly, I have a handful of answers. I'm just beginning to wrap my brain around the possibility of having a credible bundle of medical knowledge I can eventually use to help actual real live people.

I loved scribing most of the time. Sometimes quirks of the physicians' personalities made the job difficult...but that happens anywhere. The biggest frustration was what I described above: not yet fully understanding much of what I observed. I'd love to know exactly when physicians need to don gloves because sometimes they would feel a skin malady barehanded and sometimes they used gloves. I'd love to know how to execute the different types of suture stitch (that one can't be too hard). I'd love to know all the steps of running a code and why they all happen. I can't wait to read X-rays or CT scans and have an idea what I'm looking at. Right now the only abnormalities I can identify with certainty are: lung consolidation (these come in many varieties, the distinctions between which I'm ignorant of), kidney stone (this one's super easy), and a blowout fracture. I got a chance to ask a few questions, but not that many.

Anyway, I'm excited right now. And I'd better go to bed.

Quick Playfulness Update: The girls and I went outside to the grassy section outside our apartment and were delighted to find that most of the dogpoop that once dotted the grass had dissappeared! Yay! We played king and queen for fifteen minutes and "predator" for half an hour. Predator is basically like chase only the predator has to wear a Ukrop's bag. This particular bag has a giant friendly vampire face printed on it (for Halloween). The girls can fit the handles over their heads so when they run they look like giant vampire faces on legs. The other cool part of predator is that you get to name the type of predator you are. Red-tailed hawk? Tiger? Shark? It's all good. Then the prey animals get to announce what they are. We were mostly bunnies and mice.

Finally, Vivian is FAST.

Christmas eve shenanagins

The next order of business was Doing Christmas Eve with Richie's mom's sister's family in Chamblee.

We all got dolled up. I wore rollers for the first time since early childhood. Mazie and Vivian were all dolled up in the lovely dresses their Nana helped them pick out. Richie and Poppy were freshly shaven and smelled nice.

Aunt Faye and Uncle Billy's house was packed with her kids and their kids and their kids until you couldn't turn around without bumping into a Hood or a Gunn. Our girls immediately sensed the party atmosphere and proceeded to go haywire. There were other haywire kids present, so we didn't feel as bad as we ordinarily would have.

About ten minutes after we arrived the other little girls changed into their new leotards. We didn't have a leotard for Mazie or Vivian, who desperately wanted to be wearing something black and skintight, but we had providentially put them in black tights. We thought it best to let them do as the Romans do and strip down to their undershirts and black tights. (Not that the Romans did that particular thing.) That explains why Mazie is dressed like a homeless elf in the picture where she's hugging the indoor blowup Santa.

We got back to Nana and Poppy's around 9:45 and hastily performed the pre-Santa rituals. We hung our stockings and put out cookies and milk for Santa and some celery for the reindeer. Do reindeer eat celery? Of course they do; they're vegetarians. Besides, we're out of carrots.

It was a sweet Christmas Eve.

Scoping Files

Okay, so Richie and I took Tuesday the 23rd to go peek around the Emory area to see what it was all about. On the way we encountered Darth Building, pictured here. Can you find it?


Next we looked very cool. Can you find the pictures of us looking very cool?

Then we swung by Emory's campus and peeked around the inside of the deserted School of Medicine. Almost deserted, that is. There was one solitary student studying in one of the lounges, sipping soup as he pored over a book. I felt a little badly for him, but I was a little bit jealous also.

The SOM is absolutely beautiful inside and out. I couldn't believe how nicely the school has catered to the needs of students: lockers with names on them, two fridges and a full kitchen...there are amazing labs and facilities I couldn't go into, but I know they didn't play when they built that building.

Then we went on foot to the apartment complex we found online. It's about a 20-minute walk from the med school. It's called Emory Woods and the online reviews say it's great for the money (cheap!) but it has roaches (blech!). So we decided to take a look. The fact that EW was built in the fifties means that they didn't skimp on windows. The place had a homey, run-down feel. It's surrounded by some of the nicest neighborhoods in Atlanta and is populated mainly by Emory students.

Foremost, it feeds to an excellent school, Fernbank Elementary School . We stopped by and gave its playground a test drive. The girls loved it. There are no photos because it was so stinking cold the day we went we practically froze to death so we didn't think of preserving the moment in pictures.

That's all! Over and out!

Heavy Post Regret

I've been stewing on some heavy posts, but I keep remembering how stupid and negative I feel after I publish something half-baked about the world's problems.

So I'll just tell you all about our trip to the Atlanta area for the holidays.

These photos depict:

1. the floorboard where my feet should fit but which seems chronically filled up with junk that I think I may need on the trip. Any other mommies have this problem? Solutions?
   
2. Anna (the doll) on the dashboard. This cracked me up for some reason. But now that I upload it I can see it's a tiny bit disturbing.
3. Mazie with Gigi
4. Vivian with Blue blue

...safe in Georgia. This trip was mainly to spend Christmas with family and to check out the area around Emory. We were able to do both!

Vehicles Whizzing By

I composed the following post while in the ATL area over the holidays:

ZWAM! ZWISH! ZWOWWW!

Anybody familiar with the Atlanta area can immediately recognize these onomatopoeias as the collective sound of cars whizzing by at speeds that don't care for pedestrians. I mean, I admit that we're on their turf just by virtue of being within a thirty - no, fifty - mile radius of ATL. We seem to have been on foot but near fast cars a lot this trip.

That's probably because we spent a lot of time exploring Decatur and Druid Hills on foot. Now I have enough familiarity to see a location on a map and relate it to my sparse Atlanta knowledge. The area right around Emory is amazing. For those unfamiliar with Druid Hills, Candler Park, Inman Park, and Decatur - they're full of immaculately-maintained homes that are as well proportioned and often as well maintained now as they were in their heyday. The scale seems intentional as opposed to slap-dash. It's close to the culture centers in Atlanta. The Emory area seems like a great place to live if you can afford it.

We attended church in Druid Hills and went to lunch afterward with friends. We Did Christmas Eve with Richie's extended family, which was A Hoot. What a sweet crowd! Highlights include seeing that Richie's Uncle Billy, who has recently begun chemo for lung cancer, remains spunky and sweet as ever and seeing Cousin ("Uncle" according to Mazie and Vivian) Randy who visited from Indiana.

Additionally, Richie and I got to celebrate the 8th anniversary of our first date at a Waffle House (American Hibachi) near the one we actually ate at on that first date. And, wouldn't you know it, Waffle House seems to be exempt from GA's smoking ordinance! No patrons were smoking, but copious smoke wafted from the "bunker" (since the food prep area is right out front, there's no other explanation for the enclave in back). Some institutions will never change. It's slightly comforting in a persistence-of-culture-over-ordinance sort of way. But I hate smoke and I happened to welcome the ordinance.

Today we went to Pigeon Hill to visit with some old friends and get into the outdoors. On the way back we got turned around and ended up at the infamous Barrett Parkway exit, home to every chain restaurant and mega store imaginable. When I moved to Kennesaw in 1991, Town Center Mall had just been built. Now it's grimy and gray and has had to be terraced to accomodate the explosion of Chili's and Jared Galleria and grownup playgrounds that has mushroomed since then. At first it was amazing, then it got irritating. Now it's dirty and difficult to navigate. One of the difficult things about Metro Atlanta is that its economy is retail-based. I realize that Atlanta proper is a seat of government, of media, and of commerce. However, it seems the chief product of this place is the amalgam of retail cornucopias that devastate a landscape and, I would argue, add little lasting value to the people who patronize them. Then people need houses with extra space for stuff that people got at Jared and Haverty's and Bed Bath & Beyond (and, in my case, REI and Barnes and Noble and (most embarrassing and I'm really biting the bullet and being honest here) J.Crew)).

Now I want to go ahead and confess that there are things I want - embarrassing things like new lip gloss and a certain cut of jeans. I'd love one of those Kitchen Aid mixers that come in rockin' colors and mix your stuff while you scurry around the kitchen doing other things. I have to wage inner battles with myself to snap back to awareness that stuff doesn't matter and my good old mixer and same old jeans will be fine. Having had these conversations with myself, having protected myself from many types of advertising, I feel wary about shopping. Nevertheless, I totally swung by KB Toys and got some sweet deals on plastic horse sets and plush dinosaurs this week. Heck, Richie and I got as close as we get to a spending spree at Hobby Lobby - so in ecstasy were we over the types of paints, yarns, fabrics, and doo dads - all 30% off.

I forget what it's like here until I come back. There's more shaking here than in Williamsburg. Anybody surprised?

More importantly, I can't afford to wag my finger at retail culture when I participate. However, I would welcome and would gladly participate in a shift in America's economy toward lasting products that create lasting value. A widespread public rail system, initiatives to relocalize food production, and old-fashioned American manufacturing come to mind. Green energy production and infrastucture also seem like excellent places to spend our effort.

I have been devoutly, if not vocally, anti-consumer for a long time. This has meant trying to squeeze the most ethical purchasing choices possible out of a modest income. So we do the green cleaning product thing, we buy in bulk, we try to make Christmas gifts, we used cloth diapers, and we buy 80% of our clothing from the thrift stores in town. (BTW, If you don't do these things, that's okay; I point no fingers. The choices we've made against the mainstream have been difficult to varying degrees. Conversely, if there's something you'd like to see on that little list, then I'm sorry, but we may get to it later. Please don't judge us and we won't judge you). Unfortunately, my anti-consumerism has manifested primarily as feeling guilty. And for a long time I've wished that we Americans would suddenly realize that spending more than we earn on non-durable goods doesn't make much sense for anyone.

It has only been since the economy has turned south that I realized that the vast momentum of the economy requires massive restructuring in order to turn any corners at all, let alone execute the U-turn I imagine. Furthermore, I hadn't realized the economic spasm financial institutions, retailers, and chains of support would be thrown into by such profound shifts. I'm not suggesting that curtailed shopping is responsible for the economic downturn; I know it's only a symptom of the larger mess. I'm only saying that even a healthy economy would have a difficult time shifting from producing a million apparel choices to producing state-of-the-art grain mills.

I am well aware that practically everyone else on earth besides me would prefer apparel over grain mills. Consumer choice is the blindfolded mechanic that's built the colicky juggernaut that is our economy. That's way too much awkward metaphor for one sentence, so I'll quit before I commit any more crimes of composition. Just know that these things are on my mind. I consider purchases carefully (partly in thanks to the ever-honest PearBudget.com). Finally, one challenge of Atlanta culture is its half-crazed embrace of the consumer economy.

This parent needs to get with it.

We're spending the week of Christmas with Richie's family in Georgia this year. We got in Saturday night and we'll be here until the following Saturday. So far, I have been sort of grumpy.

I'm trying to relax, but not doing a great job. I have a sense of impending doom about my inability to get up early and exercise, like I've planned to do practically forever. I was so impressed with a dear friend (who will go unnamed because I would embarrass her) last time I visited her because she woke up before dawn and worked out before going to work that morning. I have never gotten into a routine like this because I am immovable in the morning. I don't sleep forever, just for 8 hours. So if I don't get to bed until 10:45, that means I'm not getting up until 6:45 unless I have to. And, to date, exercise hasn't qualified as sufficiently pressing. So my friend seemed to me to have mystical powers of determination and self-respect.

But it's go time for me. I feel urgent about changing my ways all of a sudden. So I'm agitated. And grumpy.

Another thing- I borrowed a book called Playful Parenting that has been wonderful so far. I am someone who generally feels parents work hard if their kids are clean and well-fed and have no obvious snot on their faces. This book has shown me gaping holes in my parenting skill - namely, the infrequency with which I just get down on the floor and play with Mazie and Vivian. The book does a great job of explaining why this is psychologically crucial for kids and ends up saving distress for parent and child in the long run, so I won't try to do it justice here. I am convinced and convicted that I absolutely need to drink deeply as a parent and savor building the relationship between my daughters and me on their terms. On the floor. With puppets. Faking injury. Being silly. I have been the stodgy enforcer WAY too often. I still think consistency and love are the two most important pillars of parenting, but it's clear that play is the language of kids. As such, we need to engage with them in that language.

One thing that makes me sure of this is that my stepdad, Pete, won my affection and devotion through play. He played fantastically well. I would have sooner walked on a bed of coals than disappoint Pete because he had developed such a fantastic rapport with me. It was based on consistency and love, but also on play. I think the effectiveness of his discipline came from the affection developed in play.

Thanks, Pete. Now I know that one must stop doing other things and take time to build a relationship with a child. If it wasn't easy, you sure made it look easy.

Although I tend to be skeptical of resolutions, I have two very important and simple resolutions that I'm starting tomorrow:

1) Get up and go exercise. Tomorrow, 6:30. It'll be cold, but that's okay.
2) Play for a while with my kids each day.

Vivian's artwork

Here's Vivian with some art she did recently.

They are, in order:

1. "A swimming diver with a lot of fingers and three legs and three eyes and no face. So it lives underwater."
2. "This one goes to a part with the chimping alligators where they live." I double-checked the verb, "chimping," but that's what she said.
3. "Silly crab with no face that can see underwater with its body."

Wow, Vivi! Keep up the good work!

Vivian also drew her first person-looking person the other day. It's exciting when your kids start drawing representations of actual things. Most of Vivi's work is still abstract. It's fun to see when she tackles an actual subject.

Vivian and Mazie

Hubcap Diamond Star Halo

I was a high-schooler. The radio was at top volume. I was jamming out to this immortal T.Rex song, careening around a curve on the way to Town Center Mall in Kennesaw, Georgia, when I nearly had a head-on collision with a truck. Anyone who has traveled the route between greater Harrison High School district and the Mall remembers that curvy road - pre-Barrett Parkway Connector, of course. I had no business going that fast or paying 90% of my attention to T.Rex while driving - around the tightest curve known to man.

One point to draw from this is that teenagers have patchy judgement and should not have licenses. We as a society should do anything to make ourselves think more about the fact that we're behind the wheel of a huge fast machine that can and does take lives. Sorry to be shrill, but I have occasion to be shrill.

Mazie, Vivian, and I were midway across the street between the bus stop and our house the other day when a car appeared at the foot of the incline leading up to where we were crossing. The car was headed straight for us and, to my horror, did not slow down. We stopped, I pulled back the girls, and as the car came closer, I started shouting at the driver. She was a young girl with dark hair - cute in a dirty sweet sort of way. A boy was in the passenger seat. She would have hit us if I hadn't pulled the girls away and she hadn't swerved. She had to see us. She just plain came barreling up the hill towards us. She had to slow down right beside us to turn the corner. I was still hollering for her to slow down and mind her manners, so she had to know we were there by then, but she ignored us. Car bubble.

Oh, many, many retributions occur to me. The problem is, I couldn't levy them if I planned to because adrenaline has blocked all memory of her car except that it was silver and newish. If I wanted to issue a citizen's arrest Barney Fife style, I'd have a pretty hard time.

Those of you who know my mother know I come by rage honestly. (Mom, if you're reading, sorry to expose you.) My mom is the most road-rage prone person I know. I don't want to embarrass her, but I'll just recommend that no others of you cut her off in traffic or you may see or hear things you didn't think you'd EVER hear from a person as lovely as my mother. She can really let fly. It seems I've inherited this tendency in pedestrian form.

Ironically, isn't it the tendency toward hotheadedness that leads to both crappy driving and wrath at crappy drivers? Hmm....

I don't think I ever did anything as egregious as endangering small children, but I certainly did some stupid things when I was a hotheaded young driver. Peeling through intersections on bald tires. Cramming way too many people into the car. Seriously - I think that people under, say, 21 as well as people who commit driving crimes should have to drive "starter cars" that stand out like sore thumbs, can't accelerate very quickly, and have cushion all around them. And they should lose their license if they do anything wrong. No tickets, just revoked license for varying lengths of time depending on the infraction. I know, I know; that's not practical. It would hinder their ability to work reliably, etc. But I am in mother bear mode.

On a lighter note, I'd like to consider the advice contained in pop songs. Some have good advice, but more have bad advice. I was just listening to someone sing,

1. "If it makes you happy, then it can't be that bad." Umm, hello-oo. Have you never heard of crack cocaine? Unchecked power? Shopping addiction? The list goes on. In fact, that's probably the worst advice I've ever heard.
   
2. "Listen to your heart" is another piece of advice that has limited worth. My heart wants cookies. What does your heart want?
   
3. How about, "Go on, take the money and run." Woo hoo. Yeah, boy. I think there's a guy in big trouble for that and it's all over the news.

Some stand-out's on the good advice side include:

1. "Don't throw your hand." That's Michael Stipe's way of saying "Don't give up." I think that's good advice.
   
2. The Beastie Boys share this bit of encouragement: "Don't worry about it when you give it your best." That's a balanced statement.
3. I'm also a personal fan of "No parking on the dance floor." It has so many non-dancing applications: Someone's stalled out with their cart in the middle of the aisle, gazing at Newman's Own varieties. No parking on the dance floor. Someone's trying to decide which gas pump to approach, blocking the way. No parking on the dance floor.
4. Then there's a song that's chock full of good advice. You probably already guessed it. If you didn't, I'll just say the bit of advice it starts with is, "Read a Book." If you don't already know this song, then I encourage you NOT to look it up.

Ahh, I already feel better. But if I see that chick on the street without her big fast car bubble to keep her insulated, she might just lose her diamond star halo. I haven't heard a pop song advise mothers to read somebody the riot act, but I'm sure there is one in a genre I'm less familiar with.

Over and out!

Cold Finger, cold feet, warm shins

I have cold finger. Not now, exactly, but a couple days ago I got really cold waiting for Mazie to arrive home on the bus. I thought, "I should've worn more clothing," but that's it. By the time Mazie had arrived and we got back inside, my middle finger was dead white above the middle knuckle and getting numb.

Now, people, this was not frostbite weather. I quickly searched "middle finger white and numb," and - can you believe it - I got results! Word for word! It turns out that my symptoms match something called Raynaud's Syndrome - a mild malady that "attacks" when provoked either by cold or emotional stress. The bus has been reason for emotional stress in the past, but I daresay the onset of this kooky quirk of physiology was due to cold.

Raynaud's Syndrome is rarely serious and usually just requires taking some preventive measures so that you don't get cold extremities. There's no firm consensus on what ultimately makes it happen, but the proximate explanation is that our bodies naturally shunt some blood away from our skin when we're cold so that we conserve heat. In people with Raynaud's, the vessels occasionally collapse when this happens, leaving fingers, toes, ears, and nose without circulation or oxygen. You should warm up aggressively when it happens, and when you do the symptoms disappear.

My sole bout with White Finger, as I'm calling it, was no emergency. It lasted only about four minutes and it hasn't happened since that first time. But it sure was weird...and interesting!

Now for cold feet. I am letting people know that I started a blog because it seems the more the merrier. But the more people who check what I'm writing, the more opportunity I have to offend somebody. So...in advance...if I offend you, I'm so sorry. The best I can do is tell the truth in love. But if you have something you want to add or even if you want to say "Hey!," I welcome your comments.

Finally, I made these purple things for my nieces. They were intended to play on the Warrior Princess vernacular, but I can't think of what to call them. Obviously, they're more than just leg warmers. Fur legs? Warrior warmers? Go-go fluffs? A good name would really help these, but I can't think of one.

All the best!

Toilet bowl redeemed!

We hadn't discussed it, but as I was posting, Richie was striding down the stairs and now I hear him cleaning the toilet bowl.

Isn't he awesome? But now I am in a state of TRIPLE DOG GUILT.

Christmas exhaustion.

If you think you MAY be getting a box from me, read no further.

I am so so glad to give gifts, even gladder to give the handmade kind, but I am suffering from the twin guilts of

• not having quite enough time to finish what I'd planned
• and feeling like my plans were inadequate to begin with.

Ick. I know other people feel this way, also.

Richie has actually complained about the state of affairs in our townhouse. That means it's bad. You don't want to see our toilet bowl and you don't want me to upload a photo. Instead, I think I'll model the...er...items I made for my nieces. And upload the photos tomorrow because Richie is aggressively turning out lights all around me.

And to all a good night.

Hi, Everybody!

And thanks for reading.

I can't type for long because my husband is breathing down my neck about finishing the many Christmas projects I've begun. And I don't blame him. The apartment has sunk into dishevelment over the past several days. Whoops.

But today I found mistletoe! I love mistletoe. I remember my mom climbing to obscene heights in pursuit of mistletoe. I always admired her willingness to get r done when it came to mistletoe. I had never heard of anyone shooting mistletoe down until I was a grown-up because my mom always took the climbing upon herself.

I wish I'd had the camera with me, but I didn't. I'll just have to explain today's mistletoe experience.

All year long I note the mistletoe trees I pass. This year the most likely crops were in the yard of the Jewish Temple on Jamestown Road right across from the college and the trees surrounding a swampy area near Ukrop's. But all were too high and, in the case of the Temple, too - er - sacred? So imagine my elation when I found lots of low mistletoe in a friend's apartment complex!

Luckily, the hydraulics on our trunk are busted so we've been using a stalk of bamboo to hold open our trunk for the past four months. So I had a long bamboo pole at the ready for whacking down some mistletoe. It turned out that by jumping and whacking I could barely reach the edge of the generous bounty of mistletoe, so I took it to the next level. I parked the car as close to the tree as I could and I climbed on top with my bamboo and whacked down all the mistletoe I could. I got a fair amount even though I could only reach about 5% of the available mistletoe. Somebody with a ladder is going to rack up. Vivian got to watch all this through the sunroof. From her reaction, you'd think we climbed on the car with bamboo and whacked at trees all the time. She only asked, "Mommy, did you get some mistletoe?"

I love mistletoe because it means KISSES! If you're not with me on this, then I understand. But I think it's one of the sweetest holiday traditions there is.

I keep meaning to write about:

Mazie and Betty and the pencil sharpener.
Vivian's interpretation of childrens' church.
Tutoring

But not tonight, 'cause I'm about to get into production mode!
Take care, all!

I've recently realized the photos I post have no bearing on the order in which I load them or anything else, for that matter.

These photos are, in no particular order because that makes it a game:

1. me (smiling because every article of clothing I'm wearing was given to me by a different girlfriend) making the nativities you see
2. proudly laid out but not glued together
3. Mazie as a skating fairy
4. and some Heavenly Hosties with wings.

So...This post is mainly meant to confess that this weekend has turned out poorly because I have fussed at willing helpers who will go unnamed, gotten completely overwhelmed by the tedium of my Christmas plans, and also not accomplished nearly as much as I had intended.

But I also have good news! The girls have been playing with each other so nicely that neither Richie nor I can believe it. Our friend, Forrest, said his wife got to the point where she'd just watch TV during the day because her kids played together contentedly. We couldn't believe it, but now it may actually be happening. Not the TV part, though. Still, Richie and I have been pinching ourselves after sustained play times when they both seem winsomely occupied and amenable to one another. It's pretty cool.

Of course, Vivian threw a fit for about fifty percent of this day. She was really overheated about wardrobing most of the time. She wanted to change into jammies at naptime but hated the jammies I chose. She didn't want to wear layers before walking to the grocery store in 40-ish degree weather. She wanted to make a nest instead of go to sleep. She didn't want chicken in a little pile; she wanted a drumstick. It's been a mildly exhausting day of intense minutiae.

I wish I had a picture of her throwing a fit to provide visual backup but I don't. Taking her picture when she's mad only makes her madder (I've tried). But with Vivian, that's just the point: you don't feel wrapped up in it. With Mazie, I'm usually too worked up to have a sense of humor about her tantrum. Of course it's been a very long time since Mazie's thrown a tantrum. She fusses in her own way now. She throws something akin to guilt tantrums.

Last night, for instance, she asked Richie for a cup of water after lights out. Richie wanted to not contribute to bed wetting, so he said no. She cried for the next half hour - sometimes hard, sometimes whimpering. We couldn't figure out if she was just that thirsty or if she had just found a great way to make us feel guilty and stay up a little later. We knew she had one glass of herbal tea (they like it) and one glass of water at dinner. So that info plus Mazie's timing made us think she was probably bluffing.

After arguing with Richie about what to do for a moment or two on the front porch so as not to be heard by the kids, I went upstairs and said in a level tone: "Mazie, we know you're upset, but we also know you're okay. Daddy said you could not have water, and no amount of fussing will change that. We believe you do not NEED water right now and that it's in your best interest to wait until the morning. I love you. Goodnight."

Sounds okay, right? Well, Mazie didn't think so much of it. She finally fussed herself out. It seems like a small thing, and I desperately wanted to give her water in a way, but it was super important to stick to what we said for the sole purpose of being consistent - with what we said and with each other. On our behalf, I'd like to mention that Mazie did not drink anything for an hour after waking up and didn't complain about thirst one bit.

Anyway, I feel better after writing that out because that's the very exhausting sort of thing that gets in the way of my true desire to just make my kids happy. But it's important. And you can't be emotionally embroiled to pull it off the right way.

I remember my mom and Pete saying, "You may not like it and I'm sorry about that, but this is the way it's going to be." Pete let me know why they had decided such and such, and listened to my side, but that didn't change the absolute nature of their decisions. I think about the way my friend Hannah describes her dad's discipline philosophy: My girls don't need a friend; they need a father. And then he was both, but was rock solid on the parent part and let the friend part wax and wane. Sound parenting has served me very well when I've chosen to let it...but I think that you can never really make another person grow up. You can give them tools that they choose to use or not use. Life grows you up.

I guess I have to keep this in mind with my kids. You can control your own actions, but you can't control others' reactions to them. Put another way, you can't make your kids turn out any certain way. And you could very well screw up worse by trying to make them match your expectations. Yet, having high expectations is important, isn't it? But you can't shove. Parenting is more art than science, for sure.

I don't always get it. I know to not control, to be okay with it when my kids act like kids, but it's harder than it sounds. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have friends who can commisserate. I like what one of them said: you're going to mess up. There's no avoiding it. You'll try and you'll fail. There's some mystery in that and also a lot of room for forgiveness and redemption, which are the mainstays of my religion.

Speaking of which, our elder pastor delivered a beautiful homily about mystery and faith today. The basic point was, who needs faith if there's not mystery? If it were all neat and perfect, if you could prove it, where's the free will? That doesn't require faith, just intellect. And intellect isn't at the heart of God, although intelligence certainly is a part of divinity. The heart of God is love, compassion, weakness, strength, creativity, life, and everything else. It's mysterious and immense.

I had an alternate ending for this post - one that dragged on and on (in my opinion). I didn't like it, so I think I'll end near here. I don't have any business waxing on about the nature of God and art, which is what I attempted to do in the alternate ending. They're related - and that's as far as I'll go right now.

For now, please be patient with me as I figure out the tone of these posts, what's helpful and edifying and honest versus what's half-baked.

I also wanted to say that Mr. Smee is welcome in our house. I kind of respect his attitude. Christopher insists we've spoiled him by not being firm enough with him. That's probably the case, since the high-pitched squeal and "No!" is really all I've done when he nips or bites. That's at least in part because I couldn't catch him if I wanted to pop him, as Christopher suggests.

Richie and I were discussing what Mr. Smee's first name might be and we settled on Smeeky. Smeeky Smee hangs out in the box springs. Smeeky Smee is good at getting away. Mr. Smee bites the stew out of my finger when I reach into his cage.

Mr. Smee is a Punk.

Mr. Smee is a rabbit we've been given. We were going to get a rabbit for the girls because it's a mammal that doesn't take up much space - great for apartment-dwellers. Our 17-yr-old friend said he'd be willing to part with his rabbit, Mr. Smee. Mr. Smee is absolutely adorable. He's a Mini Rex- tiny, even for a bunny. He has fat little cheeks, as shown, and he's an earthy brown color that's very pretty and modest.

I lobbied hard to change his name because it's sort of a mouthful, but Richie said it fit him and the girls insisted he'd be confused if we change it. They don't know that his brain is even more parts instinct than the ordinary housepet.

But this fact has caught up to me with a vengeance.

When I first thought of getting a rabbit, I had seen the family to whom this one belongs put out newspapers for the rabbits to "go" on while in the house. They said it sort of worked. I read online that rabbits can be litter trained fairly easily and can have supervised run of the house - or of some rooms. The article online said rabbits are naturally prey animals and must be respected even though it's tempting to just pick them up all the time. It said that by respecting the rabbit, it would learn to trust us and come to us of its own free will. But the article also emphasized the prey nature of the rabbit's instincts. They like to burrow and hide. It mentioned that sometimes the rabbit will vie for top rabbit status, occasionally nipping a human caretaker. If this happens, you're supposed to make a high-pitched squealing noise and say "NO" loudly. Finally, it said rabbits won't usually mind your cage-cleaning because rabbits like to have a fresh, clean home. Oh, and you should "gently herd" the rabbit back to its cage at the end of its foray into the larger home.

Mr. Smee came to us in his familiar hutch, but wouldn't come out of his little wooden house for the first week. I respected him by keeping my distance and changing his food. We practically didn't see the little guy that entire first week. Then he started coming out. Then we opened his door, which prompted him to hide in his little house again. Gradually, he started venturing out of his cage, but would run back inside if he saw one of us come near. Now, however, Mr. Smee has really come out of his shell and there are parts of him I'd like to put back in - like the biting and attacking. In other ways, he's just as shy as ever - not letting us come very near him (unless he's lunging in for a bite), for instance. You can only pet him if you can catch him first.

On litter training: a gradual and tenuous success story. Mr. Smee had been kept outside in his hutch with three other bunnies in their own hutches. His accustomed bedding was hay, which the kids would change periodically. I'm guessing based the condition of his hutch pan that the frequency of total clean-out was low. As I mentioned, he "went" on paper when the kids brought him inside. I couldn't keep him in hay because it's an incredibly messy medium and nearly impossible to clean without scrapping the whole load and starting over. Not to mention we don't have a convenient source of hay (Mr. Smee's family of origin has horses, so they practically have hay coming out of their ears).

Since Mr. Smee had been pooping and peeing mainly on hay, I first tried restricting his hay to a litter box (casserole pan) in the spot he likes to "go" on an overall covering of newspaper. Well, smart little bunny hunkered in the hay box (which I'm sure felt like home) and pooped and peed all over the paper - usually near the water bottle. So that didn't work. I tried several combinations of store-bought litters and and store-bought nesting materials, chasing his flavor-of-the-week latrine site with the litter box. All the while I changed the entire kit and caboodle weekly because Mr. Smee resisted the idea of using the box.

That was LOTS of work.

Finally, after six weeks and as many complete litter changes, Mr. Smee began to live on paper and poop in a casserole of aspen pellets. He finally got it! Hallelujia! Songs of rejoicing!

Now he loves to roam in the open upstairs and has all sorts of nooks he calls home. We know he calls them home because he attacks intruders. No kidding. This (literally) pint-sized prey animal is an attack bunny. I have to wear gloves or use one of Mazie's Sponge Bob slippers as protection when I try to "gently herd" him back to his cage. By the way, that "gently herding" stuff is a load. Mr. Smee is hellbent on exploring the world and hiding out in one of his various forts and NOT going into the cage when herded. This means that we resort to chasing him down in teams, as it's next to impossible to catch him one-on-one. In this respect, he acts like a finely tuned prey animal. He even wriggles free (his fur is so soft and silky) when you think you've caught him.

Once I was trying to catch him with the girls and he vanished. One moment he was under the bed, evading capture, and the next, he was gone. It turns out he was IN the bed. I mean inside the box springs. He had made a hole in the flimsy box springs cover and had discovered an unbeatable hideout.

In the silliest chase to date, Mr. Smee was darting around trying to get away from Mazie and me. He darted "under" a pair of Richie's pants. But he actually darted inside of them. I said, "Look, Mazie, he wants to wear pants!" Mazie and I both thought that was hilarious. He was wiggling around in Richie's pants leg, thinking he was getting away. Plus, Mr. Smee was trapped, so mission accomplished. All in all, a good chase.

Finally, Mr. Smee has begun biting me when I try to clean his cage. He's territorial and all, so I'm down with that. It's his cage. I usually use protection. But yesterday he bit the stew out of me while I was lifting his litter box out of his cage. It was the hardest bite he'd ever given - not a nip at all. It drew blood from my middle finger and it hurt! That's why Mr. Smee is a punk. He doesn't let you catch him, he doesn't let you pet him, he bites if you're in what he perceives as his territory (which we hope he doesn't expand). He doesn't come up to you and ask for affection. He pees on the paper whenever his litterbox goes for a little cleanout.

He still has a home here because of three things:

1. His submission to the ways of the litterbox.
   
2. He doesn't hurt the kids because they basically leave him alone.
3. His undeniable, manifest cuteness. (as shown)

But he's still a punk.

So, I bet you thought you were looking at an innocent bunny in these photos. Not the case. I'll add commentary so you can see them through my lens:

Prisoner begging to get out. Note the cute, innocent face.
The wary escape
Fleeing to the comfort of a nook (bunny bottoms are possibly even cuter than their faces)
I peek under Vivi's bed to capture This Face: the face you see just before you get popped, sucka.

Bus Confusion

Mazie is a good kindergartener. She stays on green. She does her homework. Each month her skills improve. Kindergarten has gone very smoothly so far.

The bus has gone...mostly well.

This morning, Mazie, Vivian and I did our morning trek out to the bus stop. We took our wet weather route that involves less slogging than the fastest way. We got to the bus stop and stood there for a few minutes while I lectured Mazie on the importance of keeping her backpack closed and taking out the hand lens I sent her to school with ONLY when the teacher asked her to share. Mazie's class is learning about the five senses and so had to bring one thing today that relates to one sense. She had already planned to take the hand lens and I agreed because it is small, not a toy, and a great fit for the assignment.

One moment I was lecturing and the next Mazie was saying emphatically, "We can't stay here; we have to go to the other bus stop!" She was pulling my hand in yonder direction and her voice had that rising quality that accompanies imminent distress. My brain lit up with confusion. Surely not. Surely the transportation system or the bus driver (that's Miss Lois with whom I exchange a kind greeting twice a day) would have told me if there was a bus stop change. The bus stops are sanctified, democratically arranged locations of meeting. No way is there a change without the parents being notified.

But Mazie was DISTRAUGHT. I thought: Okay, there's no harm in going up to the other bus stop which we can sort of almost see from here; it would be a four-minute walk for a three-year-old. I can just ask Miss Lois as Mazie boards. Plus, there's a slight chance Mazie's right; stranger things have happened in the world of school communications. So we started up the street to Mazie's obvious relief. We had barely set out when the bus swung into view, meaning our only option was to just go back to our curb and stay put. Mazie started crying hysterically.

There we were: Vivian, an innocent bystander clad in a fuzzy pink hat with glitter sparkles. Mazie, in the middle of a nervous breakdown sputtering about how she'll get a referral if she gets picked up at her own bus stop (poor thing). Me speaking in tones way too loud to be comforting, saying "Trust Mommy; we'll get it worked out. This is probably a misunderstanding. You will not get a referral! Has Mommy led you wrong in the past?"

To which Mazie answered through her tears, "Yes..."

Now, I'd like to know when. This is the sort of blythe accusation you just sort of plow on through as a parent. So I abandoned reasoning, and not a moment too soon, for the bus had arrived. The bus door squeaked open. Miss Lois, who has been the most awesome bus driver ever, including giving Mazie a note praising her for her bus behavior and giving Mazie and Vivian each a premie-sized Halloween onesie for their premie-sized baby dolls, picked up on Mazie's terror right away.

"What's wrong with Mazie?"
"She's concerned that if she doesn't go to the other bus stop she'll get a referral."
"Oh, Noooooo. I was talking about them (gestures to the kids sitting behind her). Mazie's perfect!" Miss Lois grabbed Mazie in a bear hug, Mazie stopped crying, and all was right with the world again.

It feels good for anybody to call your kid perfect in any context. I remember the pediatrician using "perfect" to describe Mazie when she was an infant. For the next half-hour I was like ET with a visibly glowing heart. I hope all parents feel this way about their kids and I'm not unusually proud about my kids.

Miss Lois saved the day for Mazie. Furthermore, it appears I did not lead Mazie wrong, at least in this instance.

And She Was

Richie took this picture of me trying to get some fuzz out of my eye while modeling a...what is that, anyway?

Then I was looking for some old Talking Heads music and found this picture of Tina Weymouth. I couldn't help noticing a resemblance. I have loved the Talking Heads since I first laid ears on them, so I'm flattering myself for sure.

But, really, I want to bury the last post I did as deeply as I can. So I figured anything merited a blog post.

Anyone who shares the Eastern Seaboard with me will be able to commiserate with the ridiculous raininess of this week. I actually heard thunder a few minutes ago! Thunder in winter gives me the willies. I associate it with winter storms I've heard about but never experienced. In "On the Banks of Plum Creek," Laura and Mary and Ma and Jack are stuck inside their house for days on end while Pa hides out in a cave because he can't quite make it all the way home. I confess, I don't like those chapters. Pa makes it home okay in the end, but I sympathize way too much with the characters and hate the idea of Richie being stuck in a blizzard with no food except some Christmas Candy and sardines.

The main reason our family enjoys all the Little House books is that they put your imagination to work in a time when life required much more direct effort than it does now. I went to the grocery store yesterday and bought little cubes of frozen fresh basil. I bought a bag of frozen chicken breasts. I bought a bag of oranges. I have started thanking my lucky stars for every easy grocery store trip. Don't get me wrong; I'm also looking forward to the inevitable time when food production becomes more local. But I'm willing to bet that time will have little occasion for looking like a rock star, even a modest down-to-earth one like Tina Weymouth.

In studying news, there's little progress to note, as I've devoted most of my free time to manufacturing Christmas stuff. Or, to be more truthful, PLANNING to manufacture Christmas stuff.

This morning I voluteered at Olde Towne Medical Center - a clinic here in town that works on a sliding scale - and I got a chance to talk with the medical director there.

First of all, this guy is awesome. He's short in stature, as kind as he is loud. He talks about everything intently and in a voice that shows he's got nothing to hide. Last month, he specifically encouraged me NOT to go to medical school, since I'd have almost the same purvey in a local clinic as an NP or a PA. I don't know what to say to him, except that I am praying for strength and humility. I've thought about it a TON, and I still think MD is the best fit for me. It's actually a little painful to hear him say that because I deliberated over the career path decision for so long precisely because of the challenges he cites. Even though I'm not taking his advice about that, he hasn't ceased his outpouring of encourgament and instruction.

Today Dr. Norman brought up the necessity of having Richie talk to the spouses of medical students and residents. His point is that the better Richie understands the demands that I'll encounter, the better he'll be able to cope with them when they come up. His advice comes from a place of experience; he actually was a stay-at-home dad with infant twins while his wife completed her OB commitment with the Air Force - a very demanding four-year commitment.

All told, I need his advice and the advice of people like him. I just feel lucky to have him rooting for me and my family.

On Gifts

I'm so excited about all the stuff I want to make this week! This is the honeymoon phase. I'll report back in four days and let you know how it's going.

I just deleted a super long post about gift-giving on the holidays. It started to sound preachy and began to bore me so I figured it didn't have a shot at a good reception from an outside audience. You would have rolled your eyes at me.

Basically, I have a conscience about gift giving and I feel guilty - both for succumbing to the Great American Gift Cycle and for resisting it. The angel on one shoulder is telling me not to give in to the momentum of the gift bonanza and the angel on my other shoulder is telling me to splurge on my kids and on everyone else. I think I know the sort of deal I'm going to broker between these angels, but that's a very personal decision that I alone have the pleasure of feeling guilty about. My one consolation for any readership is that if anyone else is caught between the horses of piety and spendthriftiness (Google apparently does not care for this word), you have my company.

Meanwhile, I think I'll compile each angel's top five arguments, complete with the opposing angel's commentary:

Top five reasons to give like it's 1999:

1. The retailers need us to stay afloat. (They've done fine without me so far)
   
2. The sales are good this year. (So that more people can work for nothing)
   
3. Kids love it, and kids should be indulged on occasion. (But our kids have WAY more than they need and forget all but one or two of the gifts in short order)
   
4. You can show your love with gifts. (I suggest ordinary words, preferrably neatly written for rereadability.)
5. You know you like to get gifts. (Is Christmas really the time? I mean, shouldn't we just save for the things we need throughout the year instead of splurging without a glance at the budget once a year and calling it "Christmas"?)

Top five reasons to tone it down a lot:

1. The environment likes it. (You can buy green for a little more money.)
2. You can stick to your pearbudget more easily. (Aww, who needs a budget? Christmas is about generosity, not pinching pennies.)
3. Handmade gifts are more meaningful. (Handmade is a lot of work for a questionable product. Why not let someone else do the labor and save your time for something else?)
4. Instead of buying like it's 1999, you could get together with some other folks and agree to support a charity. (But that's not as much fun.)
5. Jesus's birth is about mercy, redemption, profound sacrifice, generous love. These have little to do with stuff. (Buying angel is silent on this point.)

Anyone feeling guilty yet? I know I am. So I'll be quiet. Believe it or not, the previous post was even worse.

Heavenly Hosties

Okay, if anyone's reading they're probably sick of hearing about Christmas prep. There's more at work here than meets the eye. I'm fully enjoying this Christmas because I know it'll be the last for a while without a significant outside commitment.

Pictured here: my desktop covered with Christmas cards in various stages of completion. Plus, a sneak peak at some prototypes for teeny pinecone angels. They don't have wings; only one has a halo, but they're ascending to angelic status over the course of the next few days. Friend who gave me the glue gun, thank you!

Happy wintry Sunday.

This morning before church the girls were playing a game they called "Choo choo teradactyl." Mazie was apparently shooting "lava ingredients" at Vivian. At one point she described a "lava-shooting, poison-shooting, blood-shooting" apparatus. The teradactyl "taught [Mazie] how to decorate with lava!"

Okay, so the imagery is violent. That's partly my fault for playing gross-out games with them. I usually limit the grossest of the gross to goo and cobwebs. But the ingredients and decorating talk is decidedly domestic. I think Mazie is working out some stuff.

Some photos I should've put with other posts.

Please forgive my poor tech skills. I'm learning how to do this stuff. Here are some pictures:

See if you can find:

The photo of the girls picking out our tree.

The photo of some proud tree decorators.

The photo of reading The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by treelight.

The photo taken during dress-up just before the parade.

The photo at the parade with dress-up leopard suit sticking out of sleeve. And random elderly couple, oddly framed and in focus.

I'll try to do a better job of putting photos with their subject matter.

"I'm a Magic Pink-Wing Black/White Bird"

Vivi said it. She and Mazie are playing a game they call "Firebird." Firebird apparently involves - most importantly - wearing skirts around your neck and trading off Mommy/Baby roles. There is a disjointed narrative involved, as well as some nesting and (increasingly) some jumping.

It's noon and we have just finished second breakfast. First breakfast was cut short at 9 a.m. when we realized after producing just one pancake man per kid that our town's Christmas parade was about to start a few streets over. So we bundled up with hoods protruding from jackets like homeless people and went out to see the procession of animal rescue organizations, local businesses, high school bands, auto enthusiasts, and various community services parade down the street. Vivian, Richie, and I waved and called "Merry Christmas" to everybody. Mazie mainly hid. I felt like a doof after calling "Merry Christmas" to the one person with a Channukkah Dog (draped in a blue felt blanket emblazoned with an enormous Star of David). As soon as she passed, I thought "Doh!" with my own hearty words still ringing in my ears. I felt very rude. The lady was nice enough to reply with "Merry Christmas to you, too."

One of the first parade entrants was a navy medic van bedecked with wreaths and merry wishes. When it went past, I thought of the profound privilege it is to care for someone's health, how I have an opportunity to learn the skills and have the privilege, and I promptly started crying. It's still hitting me in waves that I have a very good shot at becoming a doctor. I see this role as fairly sacred. Ordinary, yes, but intensely personal. There's a staggering amount of responsibility in this role. I feel honored and humbled by its prospect. Undoubtedly, the next four years will see my perspective shift from that of a patient - outside the system - to that of the caregiver - inside the system. In some ways I look forward to that shift; in other ways I don't think I'll ever fully reside in the medical world. I'm too many portions Mommy for that to happen.

So we came back home and finished an expanded version of breakfast, complete with orange juice, eggs and bacon (yum!). And now the game of Firebird has expanded to include dragging a baby doll by a ribbon attached to her neck on one end and a magic wand on the other. Mazie just declared, "Vivi, now you have to be the Gozzle-ing and this is the part when I have to teach you to follow me. When I call, 'Come on! Fuzzy! Follow!' (in falsetto) you have to follow me." And Vivi's following as instructed. Fun times.

Sleeping Children are the Best Kind of Children

And nobody can deny it. I don't care who you are, how much you appreciate the liveliness of your child; there's nothing sweeter than when they're curled up, nestling sweetly, clothing askew.

I just went upstairs to give Vivi her stack of books. To give some back story, we're in transitional phase right now. Nap starts out with a 15-minute resting "primer" during which she has to cuddle up with some loveys and try out a nap. Every so often she actually falls asleep; otherwise, we give her books after 15 minutes are up.

Today she got in trouble during "nap primer" for getting into the toothpaste. She's become a toothpaste fiend. After almost four years of ignoring toothpaste, she is suddenly fixated. One night I came upstairs to find all seven toothbrushes, including the electrics, laid neatly in a row and festooned with way too much toothpaste for any ordinary tooth cleansing ritual. It was cute and she was already asleep, so we just cleaned up and let it slide.

Mistake. Several nights later, Richie caught Vivian making a cupful of slurry out of toothpaste and water. That time she got in trouble. We explained that toothpaste is not to play with and definitely not to eat because it has chemicals (fluoride) that can make you sick (how, exactly, would flouride o.d. present?).

So when I heard her mousing around upstairs at nap time, it was already a touchy issue. I caught her scrambling back into bed, but there was a baited toothbrush and she had fresh minty breath, so she was busted. Duly punished, she whimpered herself down from her post-punishment tizzy and got silent.

So when I went up to dole out books, she had cuddled up with Blue-blue and Flau-flau and she appeared to be sleeping a little fitfully. I am conflicted about letting her sleep because, these days, a lengthy afternoon nap often keeps her up til 10pm. But she looked so dreamy, I just sort of stood there and watched her. She rolled over, fluttering her eyes enough to register my presence. She said, "Can I have books now?" and then immediately fell back into deeper sleep.

The truth is, I'd give her anything. It's weird how I want to give my kids so much, but that requires a delicate balance. The balance requires withholding as much as it requires giving. No, you can't have a popsicle at 5:45, just before dinner. No, you may not try out your skates in the parking lot. No, you may not get behind the Christmas tree. My good judgement wears me out sometimes because all I really want to do is cuddle and share.

Our pastor (yes, the same one whose touch bubble I breached) once described the conflict of this desire for peace and the prerogative to parent something like this: "Why do I have to parent? Why can't you just go ahead and be grown up?" A lot happens on the way to adulthood. It's our (Richie's and mine) job to allow the girls to cope with age-appropriate challenges. Providing clear limits. Being warm, playful, and present enough to foster the strong bond the above rest on.

Sometimes I pretend that I'm a parent whose balance of consistency and grace I admire in order to cope with the day. It's my coping strategy just before it all falls apart.

Today the living is easy. Resting child upstairs means I can set up our family's Commander Notebook, a tool I intend to use when Richie and I are co-Commanders next year. I'll let you know how it goes.

Christmas soundz

So I'm having a hard time putting together this year's Christmas compilation CD.

Reason 1: I can't find any previous years' CD's, so repeats are inevitable. Maybe everybody else lost theirs also.

Reason 2: We love the Folk Songs for Christmas compilation we recently got so much that it will dominate the CD. And it doesn't go well with either James Brown or the Muppets. And it's very religious, which doesn't offend us, but which is definitely not PC. It's so folksy and playful (at times) and sweet that it cancels out all of the above but I'm having a hard time fitting it into the rest of the schema.

I ordered Monopoly, Mastermind, and Set on Amazon and they denied me free shipping at the end. SAD. What to do?

Tonight we will finally decorate the tree.

Vivi is resting, so I need to get to work in earnest.
Over & out.

O Christmas Tree

We bought a Christmas tree! Yay! Every year we go through the "Should we; shouldn't we" ritual wherein I feel guilty but beg beg beg for my husband to cave to waste of money and natural resources and buy a sweet-smelling, pert-fronded, ideally-sized Fraser Fir. Redolent of Christmas. It's busy RIGHT THIS MINUTE, making our house smell delicately of northern forest. I'm in love with Richie and the tree he let us buy.

We had a hard time finding a place for the tree in our house. In anticipation of our upcoming tree bid, I had the furniture rearranged into what I thought was an acceptable layout when Richie arrived home. He could not accept my layout, complaining that there was no cut-through from the front door to the kitchen. He had to walk a whole five extra feet around a cloistered sitting area devoted to the tree.

I tutored Tim. I came back into the living room to find it completely rearranged such that the couch occludes the tree. Richie admits his arrangement isn't great. We'll see what happens...

Mazie's frieking out about her nose hurting (??) Did you pick it? Did you sneeze? Did you bump it? Did anything happen to your nose? No to all. And now Vivi, having been disturbed by Mazie, is telegraphing down the stairs about something. Sorry nothing coherent or meaningful occurs to me tonight.

Over and out. I've been meaning to write about what I think is appropriate for Christmas, but I'm out of gas tonight.

To Think: I've Slapped a Bear!

Our family was given a copy of Cherry Jones reading "Little House in the Big Woods" by Laura Ingalls Wilder exactly one year ago. We love the tapes so much we've all listened to them at least forty times. I know. That's bizarre. But we all love the world of Laura, Mary, Ma, and Pa, Jack the Bulldog, and Sooky the Cow.

There's one scene in particular where Laura and Ma go out to milk Sooky in the snowy dark. They find the gate is blocked by a dark form, and Ma, thinking it's Sooky reaches over and slaps the animal. Just then, Laura and Ma realize it's not Sooky at all; it's a bear that's blocking the gate!

Well, today at church, I thought I slapped my husband on the behind. Only, it wasn't Richie; it was my pastor. Thankfully, we're good (not that good) friends with our pastor and he's a very cool guy. I felt just like Ma only I couldn't pick up Laura and run away. Since one of my common greetings for Richie is slapping his behind, I've had close calls in the past. But I think now I need to reserve my most familiarest greeting for home life - I clearly cannot trust my man-shape intuition if I mistook a six-foot, two-inch man for a five-foot, ten-inch one. Both were wearing orange outerwear, but no matter...bottom-slapping will have to stop.

This morning during the time when we have an all-call edification time for the congregation, a dear friend leaned toward me and gestured for me to get up - presumably to share the news that I had been accepted to medical school. I've been accepted to two schools so far - Emory and EVMS. It had crossed my mind to share the news, and I had fully intended to, but I hadn't yet formulated what, exactly, I wanted to say.

First, I knew I wanted to thank my church for all their support and love in big ways and in small. For instance, a group of people from our church helped us last time we moved...all day. Our church has helped us in every way imaginable. Practically, emotionally, spiritually, and maritally. We have just gotten to a point where I think we may be able to give back - and to a point where I suddenly see how integral stable families are to a church. Moreover, our church in particular has experienced a difficult contraction. I think we're healthier but more beat-up now than ever. The last year has been hard on the church leadership, yet I personally (am I the only one?) see that the church has enormous stability and potential right now.

So, since we are leaning towards Emory, and since neither EVMS nor Emory would let us really stay part of this church body, church is the only place I feel conflicted about acceptance. It's not out of guilt, just out of genuine sadness that if we go, church will take a hit. So I, personally, am praying about this conflict. I'm praying for church to thrive, for new people to come, for church to get sturdier. I'm praying to be humble and led by God. I wanted to ask church to pray, too. Not for advice, necessarily, but just to pray.

Instead, I stood up and said in a mousy tone that I'd been accepted, and thank you all for your support. Like Wilfred Brimley. None of the nuance of what I'd been thinking or feeling made it out. None of the joy, nor of the conflict. Just neutrality. That seems a shame to me. I'll have to give it some thought this week and return with a bulleted series of things NOT to forget.

And then I whacked my pastor's behind. Overall, not an outstanding performance.