Junco. Brown Creeper. Mike and I saw the brown creeper a couple of weeks ago, spiraling up the dead ash tree in front of Trisha’s house . It’s not Trisha’s fault—the city owns the tree but won’t take it down, cause, you know, it’s the city.
Saw the juncos yesterday. Juncos are the reason I am a birdwatcher. We lived in this house for several years and every winter, a bunch of little “sparrows” would eat grass seed in Steve’s yard next door. They were dark and cute and I wanted to know what they really were. I asked for a field guide for Christmas, and after the holiday hubbub was over, I stood in my kitchen, peering out my window, looking at them. Junco, slate-backed. Junco. Never even heard of it before then.
Over the next two or three years, I have checked birds off my “life list” one at a time. This year was especially prolific, and I’ve got a couple of western birds thrown in there for good measure now too. Juncos are not rare, by any means, but they are migratory, and arrive after Thanksgiving, departing, I’m not sure—St. Pat’s Day? Which I suppose is why our curriculum has us keep a calendar of what we see in the world. We wrote down the day we saw the first leaf fall, for instance. And yesterday’s box will have a little dark gray bird with white underneath. The juncos arrived on November 27. Next year we can look back and compare.
It all comes back to sense of place. I remember living in Columbia, Missouri, when I was 12, and my parents put out a bird feeder—a plastic milk jug full of seed. They didn’t have the squirrel wars like I do. We got bluebirds that year, and the next. Gorgeous. And then we moved. I have no idea if they still get bluebirds there in that yard. I don’t know if they’d always had them, or if the feeder attracted them to the area for the first time. I don’t know any of that, because I don’t live there. It took me longer than 2 years to get my bearings here in this house, yard, neighborhood—and 2 years was the average time my family lived anywhere growing up. I know I write about this a lot, but I find this fact resonating through my whole life experience and the way I do things, the way I want to do things, the way, oh my goodness, am I smart now. I don’t think my brain has grown. It’s just not so busy learning the halls of a new school or adjusting to the taste of the water or the flow of the seasons. It can start to discern the little differences in the environment. They aren’t all sparrows, after all. They are juncos and creepers, chickadees, white-throated sparrows and house finches.
In other news, my fabulous husband installed a new door in the kitchen, replacing one more vestige of Mary Chapman, the former owner. So much of what we do now…is because we know we won’t live here forever (we will die or move), and we don’t want the new owners cursing our names as often as we have done with the Chapman family.
Well, I have stalled long enough this morning—I need to engage someone downstairs.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Happy Thanksgiving
On Thanksgiving morning, St. Pius V makes 110 meals for homebound & elderly folks in the parish. Sr. Dorothy Ann heads this up, but Mary Faszholz is really in charge. They do this at Easter and Christmas as well. I participated on Easter this spring, and I came back to help out this morning.
Which is kind of crazy because it’s a 4 hour commitment, 4 hours that I could be spending packing, cleaning, and cooking. But it’s kind of like a miniature working retreat—I give time and I get time back. The morning goes quickly and during that time, Mike gets things done at home, Sophia’s room gets clean, the German potato salad gets made. I’m not home to interfere with progress by doing it my way, and instead I’m serving someone else. Wonderful.
According to the folks who have done this for many years, each year something odd happens at one of the meal-making events. Bread doesn’t get delivered on time. We run out of ham and have to improvise. One Christmas, the kitchen caught on fire and Ann saved everyone with quick thinking. Things like that. This year, the stuffing was missing.
To begin with, we couldn’t make mashed potatoes because the mixer attachment for the gigantic floor mixer is missing. It’s a mistake; someone put it in the wrong spot—we’ll eventually find it and laugh about it then. But this is not something you would steal. So we already had to break out the yams, minus the pecans or marshmallows that would make them, umm, palatable. But at least we had homemade stuffing and gorgeous turkey and green beans the way you expect—with ham and onion in them. And there’s pumpkin pie and Bibi’s rolls, jello, and cranberry from a can. So it’s great stuff. Except there’s no stuff.
The best we could figure out, there was a meal for immigrant women, or something like that, the night before. The stuffing was marked with a sign that read “for Thanksgiving dinners” but I guess that was a little fuzzy. And the person who was in charge of those meals ran to Foodland and bought 21 boxes of Stovetop. She was mortified that it had happened. It was all good.
I was in charge of math this year. 31 ½ cups of water and 11 sticks of butter for the stuffing. Two slices of small pie or 1 slice of large pie. Quarter cup scoop of stuffing liberally applied. We were nervous that the stuffing would run out. The people assembling the cold packs (pie, jello, cranberries) were starting to panic about the pie situation. I did the math, though. I kept telling them, “We’ll have 13 slices of large pie left over when it’s done.” We had 13 slices of large pie left over. I just had a piece. Pretty good stuff. And the stuffing? The last scoop of stuffing went into the 110th tray. Perfect rationing. It all worked out. And I made it to Mass, to boot.
Came home, the screen door was replaced with the glass storm door. The bikes were in the basement. Sophia was dressed and doing some homeschool stuff. Maeve was in a diaper—typical Maeve for noon, she’s been dressed at least once and has rejected the idea—but happy. Potatoes and eggs were boiling and the green onions were chopped. Ah. And since I packed last night, I really could be taking a nap right now. Hmm. Nap.
Last note for the day. This morning I stood in front of the mirror with 10 minutes to spare to get to the church on time, and thought about the phrase “burning the candle at both ends.” I’ve decided, with no etymology to back me up, that this has nothing to do with pulling the wick out of the bottom of the candle and holding it sideways. I think it means burning the candle at both ends of the day—you can’t both wake up early (while it’s still dark, having to light a candle) and stay up late (while it’s dark, having to light a candle). What do you think? I think I need more sleep.
Happy Thanksgiving, I hope it was tradition-filled but not overbearing, that you saw friends or relatives or both but not unfriendly relatives, and that you filled up on turkey and pie but not over-filled. Peace!
Which is kind of crazy because it’s a 4 hour commitment, 4 hours that I could be spending packing, cleaning, and cooking. But it’s kind of like a miniature working retreat—I give time and I get time back. The morning goes quickly and during that time, Mike gets things done at home, Sophia’s room gets clean, the German potato salad gets made. I’m not home to interfere with progress by doing it my way, and instead I’m serving someone else. Wonderful.
According to the folks who have done this for many years, each year something odd happens at one of the meal-making events. Bread doesn’t get delivered on time. We run out of ham and have to improvise. One Christmas, the kitchen caught on fire and Ann saved everyone with quick thinking. Things like that. This year, the stuffing was missing.
To begin with, we couldn’t make mashed potatoes because the mixer attachment for the gigantic floor mixer is missing. It’s a mistake; someone put it in the wrong spot—we’ll eventually find it and laugh about it then. But this is not something you would steal. So we already had to break out the yams, minus the pecans or marshmallows that would make them, umm, palatable. But at least we had homemade stuffing and gorgeous turkey and green beans the way you expect—with ham and onion in them. And there’s pumpkin pie and Bibi’s rolls, jello, and cranberry from a can. So it’s great stuff. Except there’s no stuff.
The best we could figure out, there was a meal for immigrant women, or something like that, the night before. The stuffing was marked with a sign that read “for Thanksgiving dinners” but I guess that was a little fuzzy. And the person who was in charge of those meals ran to Foodland and bought 21 boxes of Stovetop. She was mortified that it had happened. It was all good.
I was in charge of math this year. 31 ½ cups of water and 11 sticks of butter for the stuffing. Two slices of small pie or 1 slice of large pie. Quarter cup scoop of stuffing liberally applied. We were nervous that the stuffing would run out. The people assembling the cold packs (pie, jello, cranberries) were starting to panic about the pie situation. I did the math, though. I kept telling them, “We’ll have 13 slices of large pie left over when it’s done.” We had 13 slices of large pie left over. I just had a piece. Pretty good stuff. And the stuffing? The last scoop of stuffing went into the 110th tray. Perfect rationing. It all worked out. And I made it to Mass, to boot.
Came home, the screen door was replaced with the glass storm door. The bikes were in the basement. Sophia was dressed and doing some homeschool stuff. Maeve was in a diaper—typical Maeve for noon, she’s been dressed at least once and has rejected the idea—but happy. Potatoes and eggs were boiling and the green onions were chopped. Ah. And since I packed last night, I really could be taking a nap right now. Hmm. Nap.
Last note for the day. This morning I stood in front of the mirror with 10 minutes to spare to get to the church on time, and thought about the phrase “burning the candle at both ends.” I’ve decided, with no etymology to back me up, that this has nothing to do with pulling the wick out of the bottom of the candle and holding it sideways. I think it means burning the candle at both ends of the day—you can’t both wake up early (while it’s still dark, having to light a candle) and stay up late (while it’s dark, having to light a candle). What do you think? I think I need more sleep.
Happy Thanksgiving, I hope it was tradition-filled but not overbearing, that you saw friends or relatives or both but not unfriendly relatives, and that you filled up on turkey and pie but not over-filled. Peace!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
I'm just talking about crazy....I can dig it!
I just had to write this. Today I pulled up in St. Pius’ lot, to talk with Sr. Mary and to check on the plants in church. Our boy scout troop sells Christmas trees, and while the lot isn’t open yet, the trees have been delivered and are behind fencing. This decreases optimum parking space at church, but, sigh, it’s only one month. Plus we order our church trees from them.
But anyway, I pull up, and there’s an older man with a jeans jacket on, bearded, with a gold cross earring, waving at me and gesturing towards the tree lot. Now, being a church, St. Pius attracts a certain element of crazy. And con. There’s always somebody knocking on the door looking for “cashmoney.” If you live in an urban area, you’ve heard them all. Pregnant wife is sick. Pregnant wife is giving birth. Baby has asthma. Babies have nothin to eat. No gas money. Whatever. And Pius is not an unfeeling church—we do a great deal for the poor. Which is probably why we get people knocking on the door.
I approach in the van and roll down the passenger side window.
“You know when the lot opens?”
“No, I’m not in charge of that, it’s a boy scout thing.”
“I need to get a tree for my mother. I’ve got money…how old do you think I am?”
At the “I need to get a tree,” he gained a tad bit of legitimacy. The money comment helped too. But then the guess my age/win a prize?
“I don’t know, late fifties?”
“I’m 82 years old! Can you believe that? And my momma needs a Christmas tree.”
He starts to continue, this well-preserved octagenarian. He’s a Catholic, he informs me, showing me his gold cross earring. Yes, I noticed. How about I go into the rectory and find out when the lot opens? Oh, that would be great.
He then tells me about his cars. The 57 Chevy whatever, the Harley—“I could take that tree home on my Harley!”
I park. I get Maeve out of the back seat. I thank God that it’s broad daylight. I see Steve, our maintenance man, walking out the back door of the rectory. His back is to me, but I can call his name. And there’s Joe, our janitor, who is an older retarded man, but faithful and knows right from wrong and has access to Steve, Fr. John, the nuns in the rectory, and so on. So I feel like I have my bases covered. I move around my van and there is Old Man Crazy.
“You picking up food here?”
“No, I’m meeting with someone who works in the rectory.”
“Cause I can get you food. I own a house down on Utah and, you know, my daughter, my baby, she’s 26—no, wait, that’s my grand-daughter. But my daughter and sons they’re all the same, you know. And I bought 7 houses on Utah all at the same time.” He’s gesturing to the east side of Grand, which could actually be feasible if he wasn’t crazy—I would estimate that property was pretty durned cheap 20 years back along 3500 and 3400 Utah.
“My woman who lived with me then, the momma of my girls, not my four sons, that’s another woman, but they’re all related and live together like they’re sisters and brothers. How much money I look like I’ve got in the bank?”
Here it comes, I think. “I don’t like to guess those sorts of things, sir, I wasn’t any good at your age, and money is even harder to estimate.”
“When I bought those houses, I had near, but not quite, 9 million in the bank! You believe that?”
“If you say so, I mean, I don’t have any reason not to.” I start walking to the rectory. “How about I ask the secretary when the lot opens?”
“Oh, I’d sure appreciate that.”
I walk up to the rectory, ring the bell. I’m around the corner and I can’t see him. Sr. Mary answers the door, the person I’d come to see anyway, and she lets me in. I ask her when the lot opens. “Friday.” I ask her to watch Maeve for just a moment while I go inform Mr. Inconsistencies. I step out to where I can see the whole parking lot, and he’s gone. Completely gone. He would have had to have slipped between the garage and the school to be that gone.
So I go in and talk with Mary and think about the crazy stuff in my life lately. I can’t blog about most of it, since a couple of you know one of the crazies involved, and plus, while this story is weird and a bit amusing, my other crazy stories are skirting the edge of unkind, combined with pious kvetching and patting myself on my less-crazy back. So I’m going to skip it (unless you invite me over for coffee) and leave it at this. My life the past week has been a witness to crazy people. I don’t know why, I don’t know what it means about me, about them, about the world, but it’s not the full moon (it’s almost a new moon tonight), it’s not the heat—it’s just me.
But anyway, I pull up, and there’s an older man with a jeans jacket on, bearded, with a gold cross earring, waving at me and gesturing towards the tree lot. Now, being a church, St. Pius attracts a certain element of crazy. And con. There’s always somebody knocking on the door looking for “cashmoney.” If you live in an urban area, you’ve heard them all. Pregnant wife is sick. Pregnant wife is giving birth. Baby has asthma. Babies have nothin to eat. No gas money. Whatever. And Pius is not an unfeeling church—we do a great deal for the poor. Which is probably why we get people knocking on the door.
I approach in the van and roll down the passenger side window.
“You know when the lot opens?”
“No, I’m not in charge of that, it’s a boy scout thing.”
“I need to get a tree for my mother. I’ve got money…how old do you think I am?”
At the “I need to get a tree,” he gained a tad bit of legitimacy. The money comment helped too. But then the guess my age/win a prize?
“I don’t know, late fifties?”
“I’m 82 years old! Can you believe that? And my momma needs a Christmas tree.”
He starts to continue, this well-preserved octagenarian. He’s a Catholic, he informs me, showing me his gold cross earring. Yes, I noticed. How about I go into the rectory and find out when the lot opens? Oh, that would be great.
He then tells me about his cars. The 57 Chevy whatever, the Harley—“I could take that tree home on my Harley!”
I park. I get Maeve out of the back seat. I thank God that it’s broad daylight. I see Steve, our maintenance man, walking out the back door of the rectory. His back is to me, but I can call his name. And there’s Joe, our janitor, who is an older retarded man, but faithful and knows right from wrong and has access to Steve, Fr. John, the nuns in the rectory, and so on. So I feel like I have my bases covered. I move around my van and there is Old Man Crazy.
“You picking up food here?”
“No, I’m meeting with someone who works in the rectory.”
“Cause I can get you food. I own a house down on Utah and, you know, my daughter, my baby, she’s 26—no, wait, that’s my grand-daughter. But my daughter and sons they’re all the same, you know. And I bought 7 houses on Utah all at the same time.” He’s gesturing to the east side of Grand, which could actually be feasible if he wasn’t crazy—I would estimate that property was pretty durned cheap 20 years back along 3500 and 3400 Utah.
“My woman who lived with me then, the momma of my girls, not my four sons, that’s another woman, but they’re all related and live together like they’re sisters and brothers. How much money I look like I’ve got in the bank?”
Here it comes, I think. “I don’t like to guess those sorts of things, sir, I wasn’t any good at your age, and money is even harder to estimate.”
“When I bought those houses, I had near, but not quite, 9 million in the bank! You believe that?”
“If you say so, I mean, I don’t have any reason not to.” I start walking to the rectory. “How about I ask the secretary when the lot opens?”
“Oh, I’d sure appreciate that.”
I walk up to the rectory, ring the bell. I’m around the corner and I can’t see him. Sr. Mary answers the door, the person I’d come to see anyway, and she lets me in. I ask her when the lot opens. “Friday.” I ask her to watch Maeve for just a moment while I go inform Mr. Inconsistencies. I step out to where I can see the whole parking lot, and he’s gone. Completely gone. He would have had to have slipped between the garage and the school to be that gone.
So I go in and talk with Mary and think about the crazy stuff in my life lately. I can’t blog about most of it, since a couple of you know one of the crazies involved, and plus, while this story is weird and a bit amusing, my other crazy stories are skirting the edge of unkind, combined with pious kvetching and patting myself on my less-crazy back. So I’m going to skip it (unless you invite me over for coffee) and leave it at this. My life the past week has been a witness to crazy people. I don’t know why, I don’t know what it means about me, about them, about the world, but it’s not the full moon (it’s almost a new moon tonight), it’s not the heat—it’s just me.
Trying Again...Sourdough
I'm sitting at my mom's house waiting for Sanja, our piano teacher to arrive. She's from Bosnia, 3 years ago. I don't know much about piano, but she's really good with Sophia, and lo, she says things like "Sophia's attention span is so long!" Reminds me that I need to tell Miss Linda of St. Stephens to yet again bite me. If you don't recall, Miss Linda was the one who told me Sophia was ADD and suggested talking to our pediatrician about this "fact." Yeah. ADD.
Anyway, that's not why I'm writing. I'm writing because the other night, we had Rumsfeld Pasta (you go to dinner with the noodles you have, not the noodles you might wish you had or might have in the future) and I had Mike save the water. Remember back in August, one of the casualties of the National Night Out Incident was that my sourdough starter starved to death. Just couldn't be bothered to feed it. I'm surprised the cats survived. It was kind of an intense time. And I vowed to restart a sourdough bowl of gunk in my kitchen, just as soon as we were home from California. Well, life once again intervened and here it is, November.
So I put some milk and flour into the pasta water and set it on top of my stove. I had heard that this was unlikely--that November is just too dry, not to mention cold, and it wasn't going to happen. But three days later, I had bubbles. Nasty sour grody gunk is ALIVE!
I split the bowl's contents between two bowls, setting one back on top of the stove with more food (sugar and flour), and the other on the counter with a heavier concentration of flour. I will not mince words: it stank. More than the first one, but I kept that one safe under a plastic lid. This one only has a towel over it. I left it out, though, overnight, and it doubled in size. So plop it went into the bread machine, I measured out the precise amount of salt (a satisfying lump in the center of my palm), the butter leftover from waffles this morning (not like scraped from the waffles--the 2 tablespoons or so left in the butter paper), and enough flour to make it a shiny but unsticky dough. Put the machine on "Dough" setting. Walked away. I'll see what it does this afternoon.
But right now I need to go whip somebody into piano shape. She wants to watch my mom's cable TV...OH WELL!
Anyway, that's not why I'm writing. I'm writing because the other night, we had Rumsfeld Pasta (you go to dinner with the noodles you have, not the noodles you might wish you had or might have in the future) and I had Mike save the water. Remember back in August, one of the casualties of the National Night Out Incident was that my sourdough starter starved to death. Just couldn't be bothered to feed it. I'm surprised the cats survived. It was kind of an intense time. And I vowed to restart a sourdough bowl of gunk in my kitchen, just as soon as we were home from California. Well, life once again intervened and here it is, November.
So I put some milk and flour into the pasta water and set it on top of my stove. I had heard that this was unlikely--that November is just too dry, not to mention cold, and it wasn't going to happen. But three days later, I had bubbles. Nasty sour grody gunk is ALIVE!
I split the bowl's contents between two bowls, setting one back on top of the stove with more food (sugar and flour), and the other on the counter with a heavier concentration of flour. I will not mince words: it stank. More than the first one, but I kept that one safe under a plastic lid. This one only has a towel over it. I left it out, though, overnight, and it doubled in size. So plop it went into the bread machine, I measured out the precise amount of salt (a satisfying lump in the center of my palm), the butter leftover from waffles this morning (not like scraped from the waffles--the 2 tablespoons or so left in the butter paper), and enough flour to make it a shiny but unsticky dough. Put the machine on "Dough" setting. Walked away. I'll see what it does this afternoon.
But right now I need to go whip somebody into piano shape. She wants to watch my mom's cable TV...OH WELL!
Monday, November 20, 2006
Bullet Points About Life Right Now
*St. Bede’s Abbey was very nice but I’m a total outlyer—the furthest any oblate comes from is 30 minutes away. So I came home and wrung my hands a little bit. I emailed St. Louis Abbey. Short story: not what I’m looking for. So I turned to the Clyde Monastery of Semi-cloistered nuns out near Maryville, MO (not Maryville University). Their oblates come from several states, St. Louis, Montgomery City, Iowa—all over. Sr. Jean Frances was very nice via email. Their formation process is rigorous, and there are 3 meetings a year, that take the form of retreats. If I do it, which it looks like I will, I will be accepted into the process next October and make my oblation in October 2008. I’m going up to look around and get started this January. Keep on walking.
*Maeve started the night last night in her own bed. She came back to our bed around 4 in the morning, but that’s still awesome.
*Sophia’s school stuff is going well. This week we take it easy—lots of review, some workbooks (those Kumon workbooks are really nice for self-paced kind of work—I feel like they really are teaching her something, not just filling her time). We’re about to go downstairs and eat waffles and get the day started—lazy girls, it’s 9:20 right now.
*Due to Maeve’s going to bed thing more often, I’m getting some sewing and knitting done and I feel less like Mary Poppins meets scullery maid.
*Speaking of scullery maid, the kitchen sink drain broke yesterday. Lots of water went straight down to the basement. Kind of gross—the under the sink area in my kitchen is one of my sources of deep denial. So I cleaned all that out while Mike went to Home Depot to buy a new joint for the totally naughtily built drain system that cannot be according to code. Thank you Mary Chapman and your idiot brother. It’s fixed, and I cleaned up most of the gross in the basement too.
*The attic is fabulous. We have ourselves some walls and electricity. We’re at the point that it’s time to borrow my dad’s truck and haul crap away.
*I’m making those lists and checking them twice. On Thursday I find out what relatives’ names in the extended-extended family we “drew” (Mary Helen will draw for us). We’re talking Mike’s first cousins. It’s a crazy big list—29 this year—but I’m trying to smile and not freak out. This is why I tutor. Well, this and the intravenous coffee habit.
*We went to Trivia Night at Cabrini with a new table, since we’ve been ostensibly kicked off our old table, with some coffee friends and book-club/church folks. It was fun. We came in 4th, and I felt good about that. We’d have come in second if it wasn’t for that durned sports category. The visual category was famous people’s mug shots. Hilarious.
*Going to my mom’s for Thanksgiving this year, a block away, not over the river and through the woods. But we’ll be spending the weekend in Cairo, definitely over the river and through the paper mill grove. Bevin’ll be staying with the dawg. She has a new tattoo. My mother is exhibiting new levels of patience…she thanked me for not having any tattoos. All her other progeny do. Maybe I should invest in some of those fake tattoos and tease her with them. Alas, I don’t like pain, no matter how long I was in labor, and I’m just not sure the tattoo I get today will be the body art I will still appreciate 20 years from now.
*Time for waffles and workbooks. Have a good Thanksgiving and I hope you don’t have to travel far.
*Maeve started the night last night in her own bed. She came back to our bed around 4 in the morning, but that’s still awesome.
*Sophia’s school stuff is going well. This week we take it easy—lots of review, some workbooks (those Kumon workbooks are really nice for self-paced kind of work—I feel like they really are teaching her something, not just filling her time). We’re about to go downstairs and eat waffles and get the day started—lazy girls, it’s 9:20 right now.
*Due to Maeve’s going to bed thing more often, I’m getting some sewing and knitting done and I feel less like Mary Poppins meets scullery maid.
*Speaking of scullery maid, the kitchen sink drain broke yesterday. Lots of water went straight down to the basement. Kind of gross—the under the sink area in my kitchen is one of my sources of deep denial. So I cleaned all that out while Mike went to Home Depot to buy a new joint for the totally naughtily built drain system that cannot be according to code. Thank you Mary Chapman and your idiot brother. It’s fixed, and I cleaned up most of the gross in the basement too.
*The attic is fabulous. We have ourselves some walls and electricity. We’re at the point that it’s time to borrow my dad’s truck and haul crap away.
*I’m making those lists and checking them twice. On Thursday I find out what relatives’ names in the extended-extended family we “drew” (Mary Helen will draw for us). We’re talking Mike’s first cousins. It’s a crazy big list—29 this year—but I’m trying to smile and not freak out. This is why I tutor. Well, this and the intravenous coffee habit.
*We went to Trivia Night at Cabrini with a new table, since we’ve been ostensibly kicked off our old table, with some coffee friends and book-club/church folks. It was fun. We came in 4th, and I felt good about that. We’d have come in second if it wasn’t for that durned sports category. The visual category was famous people’s mug shots. Hilarious.
*Going to my mom’s for Thanksgiving this year, a block away, not over the river and through the woods. But we’ll be spending the weekend in Cairo, definitely over the river and through the paper mill grove. Bevin’ll be staying with the dawg. She has a new tattoo. My mother is exhibiting new levels of patience…she thanked me for not having any tattoos. All her other progeny do. Maybe I should invest in some of those fake tattoos and tease her with them. Alas, I don’t like pain, no matter how long I was in labor, and I’m just not sure the tattoo I get today will be the body art I will still appreciate 20 years from now.
*Time for waffles and workbooks. Have a good Thanksgiving and I hope you don’t have to travel far.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Cold Stone Killers
Yesterday as I came back upstairs from changing laundry in and out—which is an endless, thankless job, my least favorite of all my jobs, and that includes changing poop and cleaning up vomit, unless of course I was cleaning up vomit every day, and that would make it worse. But balancing the rarity of vomit with the constant inundation of laundry—vomit wins.
Anyway, as I came up my steps, which terminate in my kitchen, I note a tiny whip-like tail disappearing behind the counter near the sink. Mouse in the house. I kind of figured we had one, since Hickory and Bleys, my 10 year old cats who are usually fond of the electric heater on the bed upstairs, were sitting at odd angles in the kitchen lately, staring at cabinets and between the fridge and wall, things like that. It’s finally a tad chilly outside, and we tend to get a mouse every few years. A dumb mouse who has never heard the epic tales sung around the mouse hearths over flagons of mouse ale regarding my hunter kitties.
I don’t freak out about mice. Possums, check. Rats, check. Spiders, check. Creepy fuzzy centipedey things that weave up the walls in the basement sometimes, oh you bet check. But mice, while potentially vermin-carrying, are small and not very smart in the grand scheme of things. When we moved in, I cleaned up more than my share of mouse droppings in the old pantry before we spackled the walls, painted, tiled, and put in new shelving. That plus kitties took care of the mouse problem, and so they don’t faze me. They’re after food—not likely to crawl into my ear at night or accidentally get swallowed by my daughters. They are not wily, and in the wild, they are friggin adorable. Possums are never adorable. They grin with those pointy teeth under those pointy noses and whip their bare tails around the branches. Ick.
I called Mike at work and told him we had a mouse. Our plan was this: vacuum really good in the living room (popcorn gets spilled at an alarming rate here), scrub down the kitchen, lock up the chocolate, and let the cats handle it.
But it had been 3 years since we’d seen a mouse, and in that time, Bleys has gotten a bit crotchety, needing a second litter box upstairs so he doesn’t have to go to the basement anymore. And he has always been the Killer. Hickory is the Taunter and Waster of Mouse Energy, but Bleys comes in and makes the kill. The first summer we owned them, Mike gets out of the shower one morning and finds kitten Bleys on the bathroom floor, a mouse bone caught in his teeth and blood all over him. And I’ve heard it said that you don’t really train a housecat to be a mouser—barn cats do it to survive, feral cats do too, but a housecat either is a mouser or is a Catcher of Moths. Hickory is a Mothcatcher. Bleys is a Mouser.
So all day yesterday I was encouraging—go get the mouse, Hickory, kill the little mouse. They became intensely interested in the kitchen, perching at perpendicular angles to each other to watch the most space possible. And then I was in the living room reading to Sophia this afternoon and in ran both cats, scampering along like they were chasing a mouse. For indeed, they were. I sent Sophia up to her room so that she wouldn’t distract them, and I kept Maeve at bay with inane errands: go get me the blue train…now put the blue train back and find your shoes. The cats ran around the dining room, Bleys on zone defense, Hickory man-to-man, and the mouse was wearing down. What I didn’t want to have happen was the mouse to get fatally injured and then crawl behind a dresser in the dining room—that happened in my classroom at Pius V and it was a stench like none other. So I kept close watch, and eventually, Hickory backed off, and Bleys came in to take care of business.
He bit across the neck, threw the mouse on the ground, and squished it with one paw. I covered it with a bowl, slipped a piece over cardboard under it, and took it outside, where, once exposed to the air, its nose twitched and that was all. I left Dara there to sniff it, but she was like, “what am I supposed to do with this?” I came back into the kitchen, sang the cat treat song, and distributed treats to my kitties. My stone cold killer kitties.
Anyway, as I came up my steps, which terminate in my kitchen, I note a tiny whip-like tail disappearing behind the counter near the sink. Mouse in the house. I kind of figured we had one, since Hickory and Bleys, my 10 year old cats who are usually fond of the electric heater on the bed upstairs, were sitting at odd angles in the kitchen lately, staring at cabinets and between the fridge and wall, things like that. It’s finally a tad chilly outside, and we tend to get a mouse every few years. A dumb mouse who has never heard the epic tales sung around the mouse hearths over flagons of mouse ale regarding my hunter kitties.
I don’t freak out about mice. Possums, check. Rats, check. Spiders, check. Creepy fuzzy centipedey things that weave up the walls in the basement sometimes, oh you bet check. But mice, while potentially vermin-carrying, are small and not very smart in the grand scheme of things. When we moved in, I cleaned up more than my share of mouse droppings in the old pantry before we spackled the walls, painted, tiled, and put in new shelving. That plus kitties took care of the mouse problem, and so they don’t faze me. They’re after food—not likely to crawl into my ear at night or accidentally get swallowed by my daughters. They are not wily, and in the wild, they are friggin adorable. Possums are never adorable. They grin with those pointy teeth under those pointy noses and whip their bare tails around the branches. Ick.
I called Mike at work and told him we had a mouse. Our plan was this: vacuum really good in the living room (popcorn gets spilled at an alarming rate here), scrub down the kitchen, lock up the chocolate, and let the cats handle it.
But it had been 3 years since we’d seen a mouse, and in that time, Bleys has gotten a bit crotchety, needing a second litter box upstairs so he doesn’t have to go to the basement anymore. And he has always been the Killer. Hickory is the Taunter and Waster of Mouse Energy, but Bleys comes in and makes the kill. The first summer we owned them, Mike gets out of the shower one morning and finds kitten Bleys on the bathroom floor, a mouse bone caught in his teeth and blood all over him. And I’ve heard it said that you don’t really train a housecat to be a mouser—barn cats do it to survive, feral cats do too, but a housecat either is a mouser or is a Catcher of Moths. Hickory is a Mothcatcher. Bleys is a Mouser.
So all day yesterday I was encouraging—go get the mouse, Hickory, kill the little mouse. They became intensely interested in the kitchen, perching at perpendicular angles to each other to watch the most space possible. And then I was in the living room reading to Sophia this afternoon and in ran both cats, scampering along like they were chasing a mouse. For indeed, they were. I sent Sophia up to her room so that she wouldn’t distract them, and I kept Maeve at bay with inane errands: go get me the blue train…now put the blue train back and find your shoes. The cats ran around the dining room, Bleys on zone defense, Hickory man-to-man, and the mouse was wearing down. What I didn’t want to have happen was the mouse to get fatally injured and then crawl behind a dresser in the dining room—that happened in my classroom at Pius V and it was a stench like none other. So I kept close watch, and eventually, Hickory backed off, and Bleys came in to take care of business.
He bit across the neck, threw the mouse on the ground, and squished it with one paw. I covered it with a bowl, slipped a piece over cardboard under it, and took it outside, where, once exposed to the air, its nose twitched and that was all. I left Dara there to sniff it, but she was like, “what am I supposed to do with this?” I came back into the kitchen, sang the cat treat song, and distributed treats to my kitties. My stone cold killer kitties.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
St. Virginia Apgar, Pray For Us
My friend Rachel sent me a letter containing an article about childbirth that she tore out of the New Yorker. The article, that is. Unclear antecedents are my specialty. I sat and read it today in a much-needed pause and found myself sobbing as I read the story of Virginia Apgar. Ok, sobbing is too strong a word. But still. I had no idea who this person was or even that she was a she. You know—the apgar score. She named it for herself and it’s brilliant. A trained nurse can call out in moments your newborn child’s score, and this score has all sorts of statistics and chances associated with it.
Virginia Apgar, ironically, is probably a good part of the reason why I had my first c-section. This is a good thing, I realize now—I think that I’m in the “legitimate” 5-12% of c-sections that exist for good cause. I didn’t schedule it so that I wouldn’t miss the superbowl, for instance. I didn’t do it because I feared pain. I did it because everything had gone wrong—and my second section was because even though everything had gone right, come on, 52 hours is too long to do ANYTHING.
But back to Virginia. She was a surgical resident in the 1950s, and was pulled aside after she was finished with her residency and was told that she wasn’t going to draw patients as a female surgeon. She was urged to go into anesthesiology at a teaching hospital, and she did. She anesthetized numerous c-section patients and medicated, but otherwise normal, births, and saw that if babies were born blue (lack of oxygen), or small, or somehow malformed, they were written down as a stillbirth and put aside to die. She had a hunch that many of these babies could be saved, but she was also wise enough not to simply start a big whiny crusade—she devised a very left-brained way of determining the potential of a new baby: the Apgar score. Her ideas were published and soon every hospital in the nation gave a newborn a score at 1 minute after birth and at 5 minutes after birth. The score itself is 5 qualities, between zero and two points apiece, with APGAR as a mnemonic device--activity, pulse, grimace, appearance, and respiration.
They soon figured out that babies with lousy scores at one minute often could be resuscitated and their numbers improved. This, of course, was eye opening, and the obstetrical world grabbed onto it. Everyone wanted better scores, and so they determined things like that spinal/epidural anesthesia gave better scores than general anesthesia. They also saw that emergency c-sections sometimes did better than waiting…this of course has taken us to a 30% c-section rate in this country. I’m not anti-section, duh, and my next baby will be a surgical birth. I do worry that there are unnecessary surgeries, but I don’t think we should all feel so durned guilty about them.
Sophia had a 6 at birth and an 8 at five minutes. Maeve at an 8 at birth and a 9 at five minutes. I think the difference had a lot to do with induced labor and illness with Sophia and a nice lazy natural labor with Maeve. Less anesthesia with her as well. I mean in length of time.
But all this Apgar stuff made me go into the kitchen, get more coffee, and think about babies. Mike and I always wanted, before Sophia was born, between 3 and 5 kids. The weeks and months post-Sophia, I wanted my tubes tied. I think that’s a natural reaction…anyhow, Maeve has not made me change my mind about future children, believe it or not, and we’d like to have our third at the beginning of 2008 or so (space those kids 3 years and 3 months like the first two—it seems like a good distance to us). But I think that’s going to have to be it, and sometimes I get this sinking feeling when I think that. I just don’t know if I can, as a relatively intelligent, educated person, go ahead and say yes to another abdominal surgery. I have a superb surgeon already lined up, I am confident that things will go well, but I can’t do a fourth. Mike and I are both from families of 4, and I like that size—I don’t want to have to buy a conversion van to haul my 6 kids around, but on the other hand, 2 just doesn’t seem like we’re done.
Of course, we could always be efficient like our neighbors across the street, and like Mike’s mom, and have twins. But somehow I don’t think that’s in the cards for us. Plus I would probably shoot someone—Mike, myself, probably a long list, actually—because with my luck, one would be a baby like Sophia and the other would be a toddler like Maeve.
Just now Maeve walked into the library and handed me her poopy diaper. “My potty.” Yeah, gee, thanks. By the way, night times are going well.
Up soon: my trip to St. Bede’s. Short story: I’m going to visit the Clyde convent in the upcoming year. I liked St. Bede’s, but it’s a long way every month. So much for the short story.
Virginia Apgar, ironically, is probably a good part of the reason why I had my first c-section. This is a good thing, I realize now—I think that I’m in the “legitimate” 5-12% of c-sections that exist for good cause. I didn’t schedule it so that I wouldn’t miss the superbowl, for instance. I didn’t do it because I feared pain. I did it because everything had gone wrong—and my second section was because even though everything had gone right, come on, 52 hours is too long to do ANYTHING.
But back to Virginia. She was a surgical resident in the 1950s, and was pulled aside after she was finished with her residency and was told that she wasn’t going to draw patients as a female surgeon. She was urged to go into anesthesiology at a teaching hospital, and she did. She anesthetized numerous c-section patients and medicated, but otherwise normal, births, and saw that if babies were born blue (lack of oxygen), or small, or somehow malformed, they were written down as a stillbirth and put aside to die. She had a hunch that many of these babies could be saved, but she was also wise enough not to simply start a big whiny crusade—she devised a very left-brained way of determining the potential of a new baby: the Apgar score. Her ideas were published and soon every hospital in the nation gave a newborn a score at 1 minute after birth and at 5 minutes after birth. The score itself is 5 qualities, between zero and two points apiece, with APGAR as a mnemonic device--activity, pulse, grimace, appearance, and respiration.
They soon figured out that babies with lousy scores at one minute often could be resuscitated and their numbers improved. This, of course, was eye opening, and the obstetrical world grabbed onto it. Everyone wanted better scores, and so they determined things like that spinal/epidural anesthesia gave better scores than general anesthesia. They also saw that emergency c-sections sometimes did better than waiting…this of course has taken us to a 30% c-section rate in this country. I’m not anti-section, duh, and my next baby will be a surgical birth. I do worry that there are unnecessary surgeries, but I don’t think we should all feel so durned guilty about them.
Sophia had a 6 at birth and an 8 at five minutes. Maeve at an 8 at birth and a 9 at five minutes. I think the difference had a lot to do with induced labor and illness with Sophia and a nice lazy natural labor with Maeve. Less anesthesia with her as well. I mean in length of time.
But all this Apgar stuff made me go into the kitchen, get more coffee, and think about babies. Mike and I always wanted, before Sophia was born, between 3 and 5 kids. The weeks and months post-Sophia, I wanted my tubes tied. I think that’s a natural reaction…anyhow, Maeve has not made me change my mind about future children, believe it or not, and we’d like to have our third at the beginning of 2008 or so (space those kids 3 years and 3 months like the first two—it seems like a good distance to us). But I think that’s going to have to be it, and sometimes I get this sinking feeling when I think that. I just don’t know if I can, as a relatively intelligent, educated person, go ahead and say yes to another abdominal surgery. I have a superb surgeon already lined up, I am confident that things will go well, but I can’t do a fourth. Mike and I are both from families of 4, and I like that size—I don’t want to have to buy a conversion van to haul my 6 kids around, but on the other hand, 2 just doesn’t seem like we’re done.
Of course, we could always be efficient like our neighbors across the street, and like Mike’s mom, and have twins. But somehow I don’t think that’s in the cards for us. Plus I would probably shoot someone—Mike, myself, probably a long list, actually—because with my luck, one would be a baby like Sophia and the other would be a toddler like Maeve.
Just now Maeve walked into the library and handed me her poopy diaper. “My potty.” Yeah, gee, thanks. By the way, night times are going well.
Up soon: my trip to St. Bede’s. Short story: I’m going to visit the Clyde convent in the upcoming year. I liked St. Bede’s, but it’s a long way every month. So much for the short story.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Is it over yet?
So that was quite a day.
It started this morning, checking my email, when I saw that Ann had chosen my name from her random name generator (salad spinner plus son) as one of her winners of this lovely gorgeous fall colored sock yarn, simply for posting a comment on her blog that said I voted. So that was great.
Then Maeve acted up at Hartford Coffee and a new mom there, young, irritated, got shrill with me because I wasn’t monitoring Maeve. “Is she being bad?” “No, she’s not bad, she just REALLY NEEDS TO BE MONITORED!” I live my life fearing these sorts of confrontations, and it made me feel guilty and shamed. I HATE that. So I took Maeve and put her on my lap (she hadn’t hurt anyone—she’s just big into “Mine!” and was taking toys. Very frustrating but tends to be low on my list of triggers when it happens to my children, so I never really thought about it in the other direction). So I left Hartford at 9:05 feeling kind of sheepish and guilty and irritated.
I had borrowed Bevin’s car, because mine was getting new tires and, oh, $500 in other repairs. I was supposed to drive the girls to Mt. Vernon, Illinois, to meet my mother-in-law and drop them with her for the weekend (Mike and I are going to St. Bede’s Abbey in Peru, Illinois, and no, Ann, I will not start wearing a cowl and hair shirt or have to move to a monastery). So we run by the house to pick up my phone, and when I come back out to the car, I hear hissing. The front tire is actively losing air, and unlike the van, Bevin’s car doesn’t have an air compressor in the back to help limp me to the mechanic’s.
I’ve changed a tire before. Once. In high school in Houston when I got a blowout on my way to the boyfriend’s house in a scary neighborhood. In the dark. Today was much better. I was in front of my house, for instance. It was day. I got the girls out, had them run around for a minute, and then I sent them over to the neighbor’s while I attempted to change the tire. A really really nice guy, Allen of Three Amigos Contracting, drove by in his truck and asked me if I needed help. I admitted it. I did. He stopped and got it changed quickly. Unfortunately, he found the leak on the flat, and it was on the sidewall. So no patch and get on the road. Also unfortunately, the spare was also flat. This is when my already lowish mood fell into the basement.
I go over and ask Paul if I can borrow his car. My thought is take the spare tire to Quik Trip, put air in it, and bring it back to put it on. While I was kvetching, it was made clear to me by my older daughter that the younger daughter had bitten Paul’s 13 month old. GREAT. But nobody could find bite marks (and the last time Maeve bit someone, he bled) and nobody seemed worried. But that “I’m a bad parent and a crappy disciplinarian” cloud got darker. Paul graciously let me borrow the car, and I drove it and the spare over to Quik Trip after thanking Allen and taking his card and noting in my head that, yeah, I’ll call for a bid on something. Sometime. Really nice guy. Really.
I get to Quik Trip. Their air pump doesn’t have a gauge. I call Bevin. She tells me there’s one in her car—which is in front of my house. So I take the tire and drive over to my mom’s house, where my dad is packing for a camping trip. He has a gauge and an air compressor, and the spare holds air (thank God). So I drop off Paul’s car, take my demonic children back, and drive over to Advanced Auto. I wave at the van as we walk into the office. They can have the tires replaced in an hour. I tell the girls we’ll go to lunch. For some reason, I thought the McDonald’s down the street was about 5 blocks away instead of about a mile away. So we got in quite a little walk there and back (Maeve in the stroller--I'm not that crazy). The tires were on when we got back, I put the girls in the car, and went to my parents’ house. Bevin was there—we had an hour or so to kill, and so we ran errands and stopped by Pius to dispose of some dead flowers. Got on the road and it was 70 degrees. Got out of the car an hour and a half later and it was 50? Maybe? It was cold.
Kissed girls goodbye for the weekend and drove home through yucky cold November rain. I gave Bevin her early birthday present—yarn for leg warmers (not the new sock yarn; a beautiful blue malabrigo merino and a mohair thread to knit with it, in the round). Mike was still at work, and therefore nobody had paid for the van, Bevin’s tires, or picked up the van. I decided I just couldn’t care anymore, and I ate 3 waffles from the freezer and came upstairs. I’m now dressed in plaid flannel and thinking about cracking open a bottle of wine. Maybe not. Maybe a nice cup of cocoa instead.
So here’s to the hope that your day was less, well, interesting.
It started this morning, checking my email, when I saw that Ann had chosen my name from her random name generator (salad spinner plus son) as one of her winners of this lovely gorgeous fall colored sock yarn, simply for posting a comment on her blog that said I voted. So that was great.
Then Maeve acted up at Hartford Coffee and a new mom there, young, irritated, got shrill with me because I wasn’t monitoring Maeve. “Is she being bad?” “No, she’s not bad, she just REALLY NEEDS TO BE MONITORED!” I live my life fearing these sorts of confrontations, and it made me feel guilty and shamed. I HATE that. So I took Maeve and put her on my lap (she hadn’t hurt anyone—she’s just big into “Mine!” and was taking toys. Very frustrating but tends to be low on my list of triggers when it happens to my children, so I never really thought about it in the other direction). So I left Hartford at 9:05 feeling kind of sheepish and guilty and irritated.
I had borrowed Bevin’s car, because mine was getting new tires and, oh, $500 in other repairs. I was supposed to drive the girls to Mt. Vernon, Illinois, to meet my mother-in-law and drop them with her for the weekend (Mike and I are going to St. Bede’s Abbey in Peru, Illinois, and no, Ann, I will not start wearing a cowl and hair shirt or have to move to a monastery). So we run by the house to pick up my phone, and when I come back out to the car, I hear hissing. The front tire is actively losing air, and unlike the van, Bevin’s car doesn’t have an air compressor in the back to help limp me to the mechanic’s.
I’ve changed a tire before. Once. In high school in Houston when I got a blowout on my way to the boyfriend’s house in a scary neighborhood. In the dark. Today was much better. I was in front of my house, for instance. It was day. I got the girls out, had them run around for a minute, and then I sent them over to the neighbor’s while I attempted to change the tire. A really really nice guy, Allen of Three Amigos Contracting, drove by in his truck and asked me if I needed help. I admitted it. I did. He stopped and got it changed quickly. Unfortunately, he found the leak on the flat, and it was on the sidewall. So no patch and get on the road. Also unfortunately, the spare was also flat. This is when my already lowish mood fell into the basement.
I go over and ask Paul if I can borrow his car. My thought is take the spare tire to Quik Trip, put air in it, and bring it back to put it on. While I was kvetching, it was made clear to me by my older daughter that the younger daughter had bitten Paul’s 13 month old. GREAT. But nobody could find bite marks (and the last time Maeve bit someone, he bled) and nobody seemed worried. But that “I’m a bad parent and a crappy disciplinarian” cloud got darker. Paul graciously let me borrow the car, and I drove it and the spare over to Quik Trip after thanking Allen and taking his card and noting in my head that, yeah, I’ll call for a bid on something. Sometime. Really nice guy. Really.
I get to Quik Trip. Their air pump doesn’t have a gauge. I call Bevin. She tells me there’s one in her car—which is in front of my house. So I take the tire and drive over to my mom’s house, where my dad is packing for a camping trip. He has a gauge and an air compressor, and the spare holds air (thank God). So I drop off Paul’s car, take my demonic children back, and drive over to Advanced Auto. I wave at the van as we walk into the office. They can have the tires replaced in an hour. I tell the girls we’ll go to lunch. For some reason, I thought the McDonald’s down the street was about 5 blocks away instead of about a mile away. So we got in quite a little walk there and back (Maeve in the stroller--I'm not that crazy). The tires were on when we got back, I put the girls in the car, and went to my parents’ house. Bevin was there—we had an hour or so to kill, and so we ran errands and stopped by Pius to dispose of some dead flowers. Got on the road and it was 70 degrees. Got out of the car an hour and a half later and it was 50? Maybe? It was cold.
Kissed girls goodbye for the weekend and drove home through yucky cold November rain. I gave Bevin her early birthday present—yarn for leg warmers (not the new sock yarn; a beautiful blue malabrigo merino and a mohair thread to knit with it, in the round). Mike was still at work, and therefore nobody had paid for the van, Bevin’s tires, or picked up the van. I decided I just couldn’t care anymore, and I ate 3 waffles from the freezer and came upstairs. I’m now dressed in plaid flannel and thinking about cracking open a bottle of wine. Maybe not. Maybe a nice cup of cocoa instead.
So here’s to the hope that your day was less, well, interesting.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Sophia Success
In the end, I guess, surrounding children with books and providing a scaffolding of skills they can rely upon produces reading. Of course, it probably doesn’t hurt that I’ve got a four year degree and three years working with first graders—I have taught, just as an estimate, 65 people the fundamentals of reading. Ok, most of the first graders at Andrews Academy came to me reading, and I didn’t have to teach Matt and Caroline at St. Joan’s…and I suppose I failed to teach the other St. Joan’s Matt, or Jamika at Henry. Of course, she was only 4 ½ when I got her. Funny how easy it is to forge a birth certificate.
Anyway, we use a Waldorf curriculum here at home. Waldorf focuses on math in the early years and does not expect fluent reading until the end of second grade, perhaps even as late as 3rd. But they introduce all four math processes right now—and written division happens by second grade. The idea is that math is natural and reading is not—kids count, measure, determine fairness, etc., early on, but reading is artificial. Reading is not bad—it is simply a greater leap for young children than math.
I love math. Wait, I hate math. I love teaching math. I don’t like math. But I find teaching math to be an elegant process, and it is always clear when things are finally understood. Reading is fuzzier. I don’t do fuzzy so well.
Plus, I was an early reader. Early reading got me into a split kindergarten situation where I went to reading with the first grade and did the rest of the class with my kindergarten pals. Same thing in first grade—I spent a stressful half year splitting my day. And then we moved to St. Louis and they just skipped me up to second grade to finish the year. So anyway, math sort of took a back seat for me and I suffered for it later. I caught up, but still. Not my strong suit.
I was determined not to have this happen for Sophia and Maeve, and so Waldorf appealed to me, especially when, at 3 ½, there was no desire in Sophia to read. She liked being read to, but wasn’t at all curious about letters and sounds. So we took it slow. First attempts were disastrous. New parent syndrome. Anyway, Waldorf is more easy-going about it all, and I thought it was a good fit.
[We’re actually doing the first grade curriculum, because we did the kindergarten last year. I debated doing it over, but Mike thought we should give first grade a try. So Sophia is in kindergarten, except that at Oak Meadow (our curriculum supplier), she’s in first grade.]
First grade reading for Oak Meadow/Waldorf is capital and lower case letters, and then word families. Pretty traditional stuff, not like the whole language program I worked with at Andrews, for instance, or what I was taught in college. But I held on, thinking that if it didn’t work well, I could always switch trains.
All through capital and lower case letters, she did the work and ignored the information. Like when I took French in high school. Blah blah blah, whatever, what do I need to do to get out of this desk. But then this week we introduced three word families—AG, AB, and AN. Suddenly, ah-ha, letters combine to make sounds to make words. Phonemic awareness.
My mother-in-law, out of nostalgia, gave us a copy of Dick and Jane Treasury, which has the first 15 or so Dick and Jane stories. I didn’t learn with Dick and Jane…like I said, I read before school. Mary Helen did (or from the Catholic version). I mean, this is old stuff—I laugh at it from an educator’s point of view. I actually have a small collection of primers that I have essentially to laugh at. But guess what happened tonight. Sophia, stalling for more time, asks to read a book. I tell her, sure, get one off the shelf. She grabs this Dick and Jane.
She then sits down, and after being given the sight words Dick, Jane, Puff, Spot, and Baby, reads the first 6 stories. It’s a lot of Oh, oh, look Jane. Look at Puff. Funny Puff. But still. Keeping vocabulary in her head, sounding out some new things, guessing from context.
Lo, she has climbed up to the next level.
I sent her to bed after telling her how proud I was that she’d read those stories to me. And she asked if she’d be getting a reward tomorrow. I told her we’d talk later.
Anyway, we use a Waldorf curriculum here at home. Waldorf focuses on math in the early years and does not expect fluent reading until the end of second grade, perhaps even as late as 3rd. But they introduce all four math processes right now—and written division happens by second grade. The idea is that math is natural and reading is not—kids count, measure, determine fairness, etc., early on, but reading is artificial. Reading is not bad—it is simply a greater leap for young children than math.
I love math. Wait, I hate math. I love teaching math. I don’t like math. But I find teaching math to be an elegant process, and it is always clear when things are finally understood. Reading is fuzzier. I don’t do fuzzy so well.
Plus, I was an early reader. Early reading got me into a split kindergarten situation where I went to reading with the first grade and did the rest of the class with my kindergarten pals. Same thing in first grade—I spent a stressful half year splitting my day. And then we moved to St. Louis and they just skipped me up to second grade to finish the year. So anyway, math sort of took a back seat for me and I suffered for it later. I caught up, but still. Not my strong suit.
I was determined not to have this happen for Sophia and Maeve, and so Waldorf appealed to me, especially when, at 3 ½, there was no desire in Sophia to read. She liked being read to, but wasn’t at all curious about letters and sounds. So we took it slow. First attempts were disastrous. New parent syndrome. Anyway, Waldorf is more easy-going about it all, and I thought it was a good fit.
[We’re actually doing the first grade curriculum, because we did the kindergarten last year. I debated doing it over, but Mike thought we should give first grade a try. So Sophia is in kindergarten, except that at Oak Meadow (our curriculum supplier), she’s in first grade.]
First grade reading for Oak Meadow/Waldorf is capital and lower case letters, and then word families. Pretty traditional stuff, not like the whole language program I worked with at Andrews, for instance, or what I was taught in college. But I held on, thinking that if it didn’t work well, I could always switch trains.
All through capital and lower case letters, she did the work and ignored the information. Like when I took French in high school. Blah blah blah, whatever, what do I need to do to get out of this desk. But then this week we introduced three word families—AG, AB, and AN. Suddenly, ah-ha, letters combine to make sounds to make words. Phonemic awareness.
My mother-in-law, out of nostalgia, gave us a copy of Dick and Jane Treasury, which has the first 15 or so Dick and Jane stories. I didn’t learn with Dick and Jane…like I said, I read before school. Mary Helen did (or from the Catholic version). I mean, this is old stuff—I laugh at it from an educator’s point of view. I actually have a small collection of primers that I have essentially to laugh at. But guess what happened tonight. Sophia, stalling for more time, asks to read a book. I tell her, sure, get one off the shelf. She grabs this Dick and Jane.
She then sits down, and after being given the sight words Dick, Jane, Puff, Spot, and Baby, reads the first 6 stories. It’s a lot of Oh, oh, look Jane. Look at Puff. Funny Puff. But still. Keeping vocabulary in her head, sounding out some new things, guessing from context.
Lo, she has climbed up to the next level.
I sent her to bed after telling her how proud I was that she’d read those stories to me. And she asked if she’d be getting a reward tomorrow. I told her we’d talk later.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
All Hallows Eve
So I’ve done it. I survived Halloween. Not the trick or treating, not the costumes (although Maeve must have dressed and undressed herself 5 times while we walked 
around the block). The trick or treating did take what seemed like hours, and we only touched two blocks. A healthy bucket of candy for both girls, And it was a neighborhood event—the moms on the block walked with us. All the dads got to sit on the porches and plan trips to the neighborhood bar…hmm…must’ve drawn the short straw. Here are the girls—don’t they look excited—just before we headed out.
No, what I survived was the All Hallows Eve—today is All Saints Day on the Catholic calendar, a high feast, a holy day of obligation, and we needed flowers in the sanctuary.
I’ve been subtly paring down our worship space. Our church is gorgeous. Truly. The mosaic, the marble, the stained glass—oh, there is one stained glass window that just takes my breath away every time I look at it (and therefore I sit further away from it lest it distract me all through mass). Our altar is white marble with a depiction of Christ and the apostles—our side altars to Joseph and Mary are similarly intricate. Mosaics abound. And there are ways to decorate a church like this, but our former pastor, whom I loved, did not have the inclination to spend time or money in this area. And that’s fine, although I like what’s been happening.
The banners came down—I’ve been looking at other churches of our era and they don’t hang them behind the altar. The altar cloth with the depictions of loaves and fishes came down and was replaced with white. The side altars had matching white cloths, and then two weeks ago, I took them off (they were made by a parishioner and are lovely, but they are not quite the right size and Mary’s keeps slipping further down). How we store our holy oils has changed, too. We (the committee) are subtly making the church more ordinary, for Ordinary Time, after all. This is in preparation for Advent. Awake from your slumber/arise from your sleep. The idea is to make it as ordinary as possible, and then to bam, hit them with Advent.
But first, there’s this tricky November. All Saints, followed by the Mass of Remembrance on Saturday. White flowers, oranges and browns, the Book of the Dead displayed in the back with the Easter Candle, etc. Trick is, this is the first time I have to arrange flowers. Maura has been doing this for years and I have no clue.
She took me to Flower Row yesterday, down on LaSalle Street. Walked through room-sized coolers of flowers and greens and let the flowers speak to me. Well, actually I picked out flowers I thought went together ok—focus on the white and the colors of the season (lower case season—you know, autumn?). Took this huge load of flowers back to the church and she helped walk me through the process of getting them into buckets of water and Floral-Life to soak. Showed me how to use Oasis foam (you know, that groovy green foam you stick the flowers into). Then SHE LEFT. SHE LEFT ME THERE WITH ALL THOSE FLOWERS. ALONE.
So I picked up Sophia at City Garden, dropped the girls at Amanda’s (thank you thank you again), and rushed back to church. I got it all arranged, and no fewer than 5 times did I freak out and get tempted to chuck it all and pretend we’d never gone. Go to Schnucks and buy something chintzy. But I persevered. I put the two on pedestals and the third in front of the ambo (pulpit, for all you non-Catholics). As I put down the one in front of the ambo, the weight of it combined with my making it too circular (and not flat on one side to rest against the ambo), it then tumbled down the two steps. Many non-printable words flashed through my mind. I cleaned up the water, rearranged a few broken stems, employed the use of some nasty looking bricks in a basket, and held my breath.
I stopped by this morning—about an hour ago—and everything was still alive-looking. I watered them, rearranged a couple of carnations that bugged me, and walked away. We’ll see how they’re doing come 7 pm mass (they’ll already have survived 8 am mass). And then I have to figure out what to do about Saturday. But that’s tomorrow’s concern. Today is homeschool…umm…all the stuff I need to catch up on from my total church freak out yesterday…ah, and here’s Jack Buck with a nice tall cup of coffee for me (sorry—a few of you will understand that, and the rest of you will think I’m out of my mind).
around the block). The trick or treating did take what seemed like hours, and we only touched two blocks. A healthy bucket of candy for both girls, And it was a neighborhood event—the moms on the block walked with us. All the dads got to sit on the porches and plan trips to the neighborhood bar…hmm…must’ve drawn the short straw. Here are the girls—don’t they look excited—just before we headed out.No, what I survived was the All Hallows Eve—today is All Saints Day on the Catholic calendar, a high feast, a holy day of obligation, and we needed flowers in the sanctuary.
I’ve been subtly paring down our worship space. Our church is gorgeous. Truly. The mosaic, the marble, the stained glass—oh, there is one stained glass window that just takes my breath away every time I look at it (and therefore I sit further away from it lest it distract me all through mass). Our altar is white marble with a depiction of Christ and the apostles—our side altars to Joseph and Mary are similarly intricate. Mosaics abound. And there are ways to decorate a church like this, but our former pastor, whom I loved, did not have the inclination to spend time or money in this area. And that’s fine, although I like what’s been happening.
The banners came down—I’ve been looking at other churches of our era and they don’t hang them behind the altar. The altar cloth with the depictions of loaves and fishes came down and was replaced with white. The side altars had matching white cloths, and then two weeks ago, I took them off (they were made by a parishioner and are lovely, but they are not quite the right size and Mary’s keeps slipping further down). How we store our holy oils has changed, too. We (the committee) are subtly making the church more ordinary, for Ordinary Time, after all. This is in preparation for Advent. Awake from your slumber/arise from your sleep. The idea is to make it as ordinary as possible, and then to bam, hit them with Advent.
But first, there’s this tricky November. All Saints, followed by the Mass of Remembrance on Saturday. White flowers, oranges and browns, the Book of the Dead displayed in the back with the Easter Candle, etc. Trick is, this is the first time I have to arrange flowers. Maura has been doing this for years and I have no clue.
She took me to Flower Row yesterday, down on LaSalle Street. Walked through room-sized coolers of flowers and greens and let the flowers speak to me. Well, actually I picked out flowers I thought went together ok—focus on the white and the colors of the season (lower case season—you know, autumn?). Took this huge load of flowers back to the church and she helped walk me through the process of getting them into buckets of water and Floral-Life to soak. Showed me how to use Oasis foam (you know, that groovy green foam you stick the flowers into). Then SHE LEFT. SHE LEFT ME THERE WITH ALL THOSE FLOWERS. ALONE.
So I picked up Sophia at City Garden, dropped the girls at Amanda’s (thank you thank you again), and rushed back to church. I got it all arranged, and no fewer than 5 times did I freak out and get tempted to chuck it all and pretend we’d never gone. Go to Schnucks and buy something chintzy. But I persevered. I put the two on pedestals and the third in front of the ambo (pulpit, for all you non-Catholics). As I put down the one in front of the ambo, the weight of it combined with my making it too circular (and not flat on one side to rest against the ambo), it then tumbled down the two steps. Many non-printable words flashed through my mind. I cleaned up the water, rearranged a few broken stems, employed the use of some nasty looking bricks in a basket, and held my breath.
I stopped by this morning—about an hour ago—and everything was still alive-looking. I watered them, rearranged a couple of carnations that bugged me, and walked away. We’ll see how they’re doing come 7 pm mass (they’ll already have survived 8 am mass). And then I have to figure out what to do about Saturday. But that’s tomorrow’s concern. Today is homeschool…umm…all the stuff I need to catch up on from my total church freak out yesterday…ah, and here’s Jack Buck with a nice tall cup of coffee for me (sorry—a few of you will understand that, and the rest of you will think I’m out of my mind).
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