Poor Kitty.

There is a meme in my family of origin called: "Poor kitty. Pooooor, poor kitty." We usually had a cat around the house. The cat was well-loved but also known to exist in a state of mutual tolerance. Cats invariably take themselves too seriously, and in so doing, set themselves up for good-natured taunting. This is how "Poor kitty" works: the cat pines away for some small luxury ("Meowwwwww!"). We reply: "Pooooor kitty. Pooor, poor kitty" with tragic expressions on our faces. It's fun! The fun comes from the fact that we feed this animal, give it the best spot in the house to sleep, let it in and out pretty much whenever it wants, and take it to the vet periodically, adore it liberally - and it has NO idea how good its life is. We know it has limited perspective because it's irritated about being in when it wants to be out or vice versa.

I can't help adding that the reason this is satisfying is that I, myself, AM a Poor Kitty. What's the matter, kitty? You can't fit in a jog? You're having car trouble? You don't get to vegetate tonight? Poor kitty. Poooor, poor kitty.

Working on renal today...

Today is blustery and sunny. Well, it was sunny while the sun was still out. It's dark now and I can hear the wind all around our apartment and feel it whooshing through the windows. The pictures I put up are, in mysterious order (I can never tell based on the code) are: Nephron art of which I am particularly proud. Richie listening to Vivian read. Mazie reading. Vivian with her Playmobil setup - the gift that keeps on giving :). I hope everyone on the Eastern Seaboard and parts northward is staying warm. Brrrrr!!!! BTW, Goljan = my BFF.

Biking

So...biking. It's something most Americans learn to do at some point, and some of us love to go really really fast. Richie and I share a love of speed that I hope our kids don't share because it's dangerous. Just kidding - I want to ride roller coasters with them. Mazie has been a proficient cyclist for about a year now. She has recently taken to riding down the hill in "back" (we use that side of the apartment almost exclusively, so I think of it as the front) of our apartment building. She goes peeling down the hill at an angle, then makes the quick right-hand turn to just miss crashing into some concrete steps at the bottom. The first time I saw her do it, I almost peed my pants with fright. I realized she'd been doing it for a while; I had been out of sight range of where she'd been finishing her descent. (Bad mom; I know). She always wears a helmet and seemed to be pretty good at her maneuver. Plus, "Hill" is a generous term for the area in question. It's more of a "grade." Mostly, she LOVES going down the hill. So I let her continue to do it.

I remember last year when she was learning to ride. Mazie attacked the task of learning to ride a bike with the intensity of a fighter pilot. She was somewhere between "I-can't-do-this" and "Mama-I-can-do-this-myself" for about three months. We had a long run behind our last apartment, so I'd run beside her, steadying her bike and calling, "steer, steer, pedal, pedal!" She sort of loved it and sort of hated it. She was absolutely focused on the goal, but incredibly frustrated with the slowness of achieving it. Every session ended in tears of frustration. I finally learned to limit the sessions to about 7 minutes (both for emotional preservation and for the health of my lower back). Mazie would scarcely let me quit the session unless she had gotten to the crying point, and even then she'd want to keep going. Oh, man, was she tough. She was committed but sensitive, 100% focus. Eventually she graduated to a hand on her back, then to just a push-off. At last it was time to learn to start herself, which she accomplished entirely on her own when left by herself one afternoon.

And now she's careening down hills and biking ALL THE WAY around the lake with me.

Enter Vivian, stage left. She is learning to ride this year. Vivian, predictably, could not be more different than her sister. If Mazie is a fighter-pilot, Vivian is a surfer. Today she waited a full 45 minutes to receive help while I finished making chili and cleaning up the kitchen (Richie is at a computer class for his job)...no pushing. When I went out to help her this afternoon, her attitude is just the same as it's always been about biking: avid but relaxed. She'd bike along, wobbling her front tire crazily so that it almost went off the sidewalk on one side, then on the other, and then the bike peeled out and I caught her as she tipped to the right. She exclaimed, as she let out a deep breath, "Huh! That was fun!" And, yes, she wanted to try again. We looped around the apartment building. On the opposite side a family with little kids had left out at least 70% of their toys for the neighborhood to take a gander at. They're all spattered with mud and I think some haven't changed positions since we moved in last July. As Vivian rode past, she rubber-necked like crazy at their toys and veered off the road completely gawking at them. She does this a lot. When we went to the lake, we could barely keep her on task because she kept gazing: at the lake, at the birds, at dogs, and at other people. She'd gaze to one side and then veer off in that direction. Then she'd crash and laugh a sweet goober-ish laugh. But she's getting it...I think as fast or faster than Mazie did. She's at the needing a push-off, accompaniment, and occasional stabilization phase. I don't remember her ever crying about the process unless she falls and hurts herself. She is just a completely different person than Mazie.

I love them both so much! I really think I would not know who one is without the other and vice versa! They each make me a better parent to the other. Amazing.

Poetry Month

This has been the first year that Poetry Month has taken up space in my mind. Justin and Mel Moore, Randy Crump, NPR, my church services, and Mazie's kindergarten class all took notice this year.

I just want to say, I love poetry a lot more now that I no longer try to produce any. For me, the production of poetry involved an embarrassing mix of angst and self-consciousness. I hope one day I'll be able to write something worth reading, poetry or prose. But for now I'm content to read others' work. Some of my favorite poems were introduced to me by others who linked to them or who took the time to type them out or cut-and-paste them into their web logs. So, here's my contribution. It's one I first read about ten years ago and haven't read recently at all because I lent out my Mary Oliver book and never got it back.

Cold Poem
By Mary Oliver

(for Brandi's parents, who have successfully survived another honest-making winter)

Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.
_______________

Then there's Wendell Berry, slightly more hopeful:

Mad Farmer Liberation Front, 1972

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
  vacation with pay. Want more
  of everything ready-made. Be afraid
  to know your neighbors and to die.
  And you will have a window in your head.
  Not even your future will be a mystery
  any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
  and shut away in a little drawer.
  When they want you to buy something
  they will call you. When they want you
  to die for profit they will let you know.
  

So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

I guess you can talk about poetry all you like. But you just know when someone has expressed something - a thought, conviction, emotion, complaint, restlessness, truth, or a love that you know.

Spring Break '09

This isn't the coldest spring break ever (college breaks were in early March), but I expected warmer weather from April.

The girls and I went to Yorktown beach today for some sand play. Today's high is...(lemme check) 58 F, so it must've been about 50 when we arrived. Wind whipped little choppy waves onto the sand. Yorktown beach is man-made, and I'm a sand snob, so I'm a tiny bit snobby that the sand there is that man-moved gravelly quartzy stuff with heavy dust. The girls loved it regardless of the type of sand, and that was the goal. We brought Pots of Fun (thanks again, Grandma) and lots of tea sets. I packed some assorted animals (turtle, sheep, 2 ponies, 2 dinosaurs). The girls had strict instructions not to get wet or play in the wet sand. They more or less avoided both. We had a glorious, if chilly, morning playing tea party, chase, and "Oh, no, I have a huge growth on my leg!"

We took the Colonial Parkway back home, a wide scenic thoroughfare that connects the "Historic Triangle." We were listening to W-Bach and remarking that the particular piece was perfect for the day. A car just in front of me veered off to exit; I veered a little, too, as one would in a game of follow-the-leader...and I hit the curb a little. I know this is awful - but I did it.

It became clear within 10 seconds that we had a flat. Luckily, there are more scenic pull-offs on the Colonial Parkway than there are Exits on I-95, and we happened to be passing one at that very moment with our woppy tire. So, I pulled in, popped the trunk and began deciphering the myriad roadside emergency tools therein. The donut was easy to find. But, I swear, that car lacks nothing but flares. There may actually be flares hidden beneath the assortment of reflectored blockades (no kidding) and emergency lights. Anyway, I finally had to put in a call to Richie because in all the assortment of oily, mouldering roadside thingz, I had failed to find the jack. In the side compartment, said Richie.

So, with jack, donut, and L-shaped lugnut loosener in hand, I began to decide on the positioning and connectivity of the apparatus. I had just realized I lacked the jack handle, consulted Richie about the shape of the handle, found the jack handle, and was connecting the jack handle, when a red pickup pulled into the pulloff behind me. A stout, kindly man got out of the truck and asked if I needed help. Yes, thank you.

But I just have to say: I didn't REALLY need help. I just thought it stupid to refuse when this man (Hank) appeared to have lots of experience. After all, I was still monkeying with which way to loop on the jack handle. Hank was super nice and changed the tire in about four minutes. He cautioned me to go easy on the donut and get some air in it first thing. When I thanked Hank, he replied he hoped someone would stop to help his daughter if she had a flat. I suspect that Hank's daughter may not need help if she has a flat. Pete, if you're reading this, I didn't really NEED help, honest. I just looked like I did. My real problem is daydreaming on the Colonial Parkway.

Anyway, I couldn't have had a nicer flat tire. The weather was perfect, the girls were patient, and I had expert help. But I can't help but wonder, what do I need to do to look capable of handling a flat tire? Maybe not have a cell phone on my ear? Maybe wear jeans and button-down shirts instead of work-out pants and Hello Kitty hoodies? Maybe practice changing tires more than once a decade? So much for breaking stereotypes.

Nervous System

jittery social servants?
worried computer processor?
uncertain cladistics?
A band?

No! It's the system of nerves, ganglia, axa, myelinated sheaths, gray and white matter that lets your body communicate with itself! It does the quick control and leaves the slow-acting, long-lasting control to hormones. I read through the nervous system section of the anatomy book and so far it seems that I have a shot at remembering all the details if only I can get the groupings straight:

• central nervous system versus peripheral nervous system
• Somatic (roughly conscious control) nervous system vs. Autonomic nervous system
• Sympathetic nervous system vs. parasympathetic nervous system
• preganglionic nerves vs. postganglionic nerves...etc.

The structure of the nervous system is like a road that keeps forking. My goal with pre-studying is simply to expose myself to the vocabulary and broad concepts. I'm trying to cover ground on my first pass, not memorize.

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.

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.

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.

Poseur

The title of this post is referring to the fact that this blog is all, "Mommy's headed to med school," but, really, Mommy's just Mommy for now. Mommy's headed to the laundry pile. Mommy's headed upstairs to enforce a rule. Mommy's headed to the grocery because she forgot a crucial ingredient.

Today we began Christmas prep in earnest: taking Christmas photos for Christmas cards. Maybe next year we'll institute a virtual card policy, but for this year we're still in eco trouble. As usual, about 20% of those pictures we took could be useful. I'll take this opportunity to upload one of the photos we won't be using this year.

Mazie and Vivian were initially glad to be on a photo shoot, but quickly tired of the relentless flow of instructions emanating from both parents simultaneously: "Mazie, stand still. Vivian, look at the camera - and keep your tongue in. Mazie, smile. Smile, Mazie. Both girls, stand still. Move back one step. One step. Move back one step. Not forward - good, now hold still." Between this barrage of instructions and the day that was colder than we thought, sourness soon set in.

But all is well. "Polar Express" is rolling and I have actually reached the bottom of the stack of papers on my desk. I am super stoked about this latter point, as the papers occupy approximately 30% of my brain even when I'm not actually thinking about them. I've got a day or so respite before some stray notes or Xeroxes from someone's school coalesce into a stack and then I forget exactly what's there and I neglect it for another several weeks. Alas...I have read Getting Things Done and Sink Reflections, yet this cycle persists. Any ideas?

Catch-as-catch-can night tonight (a lovely staccato way of saying "leftover night" that I absorbed from my stepdad's family). So soon the detritus will have cleared from my fridge as well, including the two-week-old jell-o unwittingly concocted in Raspberry in anticipation of the Tonsillectomy. Apparently, raspberry is unpalettable to my five-year-old, so there it rests. Lidless. Drying. Still as red and jewel-like as the night I made it. I almost want some, but I know better. It will have absorbed every free odor floating around the fridge by now.

By the way, "Polar Express" is weird, is it not? Anyone else think the imagery is a little edgy for a three-year-old? Unfortunately, I'm just noticing this.

Here's to parenting mistakes, small and large.

"If you fuss at me, all my hair will fall out."

Richie said it. To Mazie. Because ever since her tonsillectomy, Mazie's been whining like her voice is permanently caught in the top of her throat. She CAN talk normally; we just weren't sure at first, so we didn't crack down until it was (apparently) too late. She shocked me today by admitting, "I like it when I don't whine, too." WHAT?

A huge portion of my energy goes towards trying in vain to parent wisely. I frequently feel inadequate as a parent. Mazie and I sort of feed off of each others' frenzies sometimes - even when I'm trying desperately not to join in. I find it easier to keep my emotional insulation from Vivian's ups and downs, perhaps because she's a second child, and perhaps because she's wired differently. Either way, I love my children for who they are. I see that Mazie will be well-served by her sensitivity, tenacity, and energy. I admire her gumption, and I can't wait to be her friend when she's an adult.

One thing that freaks me out is when I help Vivian go pee, which only happens in public because she's relatively bathroom-independent (thorough wiping notwithstanding), she starts tinkling IMMEDIATELY after she mounts the toilet. No waiting period whatsoever. I find myself thanking my lucky stars that she made it on board fast enough because one false move would surely result in urine-soaked clothing. I think I'll resume carrying spares.

The Girls

I just realized I've managed to fart away about a zillion words without one about the loves of my life: Mazie and Vivian.

Mazie just had her tonsils out six days ago. She recovered remarkably well. She was back to herself within a day, if somewhat subdued. She does have the "dragon breath" Dr. Jacobson warned us about. It's a little bit pitiful for a five year old cutie pie to have the halitosis of an Irish Wolfhound, but it does seem markedly better today.

Mazie is sensitive, smart, moody, and persistent. When she gets into something, she doesn't want to quit until she's finished. If she doesn't get a word right away when reading, she flies into a minor panic. She remembers events more clearly than I do, which explains why lots of times she appears to be just observing. She is observing, and she's saving it all up for later. Mazie has a highly developed sense of justice - she'll remember the precedent set at an earlier instance and then invoke that precedent if she feels she's been treated unfairly. I'll try to give concrete examples; they happen all the time. I just can't remember any right this minute.

Vivian is a little sunbeam...except when she's not. And then the storm doesn't last long and her bushy bushy blond hairdo makes it kind of cute and forgettable. She flits through life. Vivian drops pearls of wisdom constantly and I hope this blog can catch some of them. She also absorbs the facial expressions, even the postures, of others until you can trace things she does back to a particular person. It's super hilarious to see Miss Maggie's scrunched-up nose or Skylar's (a girl at the bus stop) shoulder shrug get sucked up and used by Vivian.

Another thing about Vivian: she's a professional cuddler. She requests cuddling at least once a day, sometimes twice. We could farm her out to those in need of the human touch for a princely sum (but of course we wouldn't dream of it). Every evening I join her on her baby bed for a minute or two. First I accidentally lie on her trailing hair and she says, "Ow!" Once we have that worked out she asks me about the following day's plans, and I tell her. Then we rest a minute and I almost fall asleep. She tells me she's not going to eat her boogers tonight and that she doesn't want a blanket. Then we're done.

Mazie, on the other hand, has to be seriously compromised to cuddle ( I confess I snuck in some illicit cuddle time in the brief space between when she had taken Versed and before she went for surgery). But Mazie is a story hound. She loves stories: The one about the first time I did research, the one about the chipmunk trap, the one about when she was born, the one about how she bit Daddy's toe (when she was very very little). I'll try to save some of those here for her to see later.

Over and out, gotta go get Mazie.