My night (double posted from Sycamore)

I use pseudonyms over there on Between the Sycamores, for my neighbors' benefit. Not too hard to decipher though:


I was asleep. I come out of sleep, still with an increasingly miserable head cold, and see Jake standing at the Jeffersonian door. Then it clicks what that awful sound is. The sirens are going off. It was unseasonably warm Sunday, with a cold front coming in. Perfect tornado breeding ground.

We listen to the Charlie Brown's teacher voice after the siren: "a....murrfurllo...awning...has...been..fissue...for the...seeveeah...St. Louis....may...felper...reeevallally."

Quiet follows. No rain or wind. I debate going back to sleep, but I tell Jake I'll go look at the radar on the computer.

It's coming, but mostly north, it seems. Our sirens go off if a surrounding county has a tornado warning. St. Louis County is shaped like a horseshoe around the city. The tornado could be many miles away and our sirens would go off. Better safe than sorry, but our siren is 50 yards from my bed so it's a little loud.

"Do you want to get the kids?" he asks.

"Not yet," I hedge. I lie back down. My mind drifts to a newspaper report on the 50th anniversary (I think it was 50) of the big tornado that hit St. Louis city and wiped out whole blocks of Delmar and took roofs off historical buildings in Lafayette Square. That one didn't hit in the spring--it was January or February and I can't get it out of my mind.

My daughters sleep under the eaves. In the attic. Below the roof.

The sirens go off again with the same incomprehensible message. I take a deep breath.

"Go get the girls," I tell Jake. "I'll meet you downstairs. At least to the living room."

We head down. I turn on NOAA weather radio in my kitchen, holding Billy who is still asleep. Jake is watching channel 5 with the perky blond meteorologist filling the dead air space with color commentary. The NOAA voice is clear and spooky and cuts through the nonsense. Take shelter now.

I look out the kitchen window at the lightning.

I walk to the front hall, look out the storm door at the street trees. Nothing yet.

And then it hits, from nowhere, here it is. Fiona's eyes are big and scared, but Daisy is asleep on top of Jake. They huddle on the couch and I come into the room to look at the radar. The storm is moving at 70 miles an hour. As fast as it arrives, it is gone. Rain, but the momentary hail and straight line wind is over. I point at our location on the radar screen. It's yellow now, not red. Time for bed.

Fifteen minutes later the siren goes off again. "The...oratio...awning...for the...ceeveeah...St. Louis...haba...canceled." I catch the last word just fine. I take a deep breath and go back to sleep.

Old School Night On The Phone

The phone rings. It's my friend Ron, with whom I share a birthday. Yes, I'm moving to a pseudonym-rich environment here. You know Ron if you know him. I haven't talked to Ron in a while. He got busy getting married and moving and all that. I like Ron. I like him because he is a constant, like e or pi, a quantity that does not change. I might learn a few more decimal points but he does not change. As someone who changes a lot, well, this is refreshing.

If there ever was any proof against astrology it would be me and Ron.

As things go in this small town, he lives nearby and his new wife's daughter (I suppose his step-daughter, although that reminds me more of Cinderella and her evil stepmother and while Ron may be many things, he will never be evil). The girl goes to the school frequented by many families I know, including two that live on my block. And so suddenly he's a dad and he's thinking about throwing his hat in the ring for school board there and has lots of opinions, which of course are mostly like mine when it comes to education.

I tell him how I'd been on his street, his new street, just recently, but couldn't remember his address if I ever knew it. I told him how I said to Sophia that we should look for a mezuzah, that I thought maybe he might have one, since his wife recently converted to Judaism (he is a, do they call them cradle Jews like they do cradle Catholics?). But that I didn't notice one from the sidewalk. He confirms that yes, they do have one, and I regret, for real, that I didn't look more closely.

"But I got to explain what a mezuzah was to Sophia, so it wasn't a total loss. And of course there was the pastrami on rye," I add. They live on the same block as one of my favorite delis.

We talk just a bit more. He tells me how they've just laid new carpet upstairs but it didn't seem to have an odor and he knew Maeve was a requested entity at his house. Maeve and Sophia both. I told him of course, and that I'd check out the carpet before I sent Maeve in. I was touched that he picked up on the detail and remembered again, not that I'd forgotten, that he was a mensch.

His wife buzzed in on the other line and we hung up. Moments later the phone rings again and I assume he's calling back. But no--it's another friend from college, Jesse, who is the one who often calls and derails my evening. Or afternoon. Or nap. Or whatever. He's a bit of a sticky personality and even though I french-kissed him at his wedding, I will defend myself by saying I was drunk. I really like Jesse but I'm glad we didn't date. I'm glad Mike asked me first because I was at this pliable moment when I'd broken up with the boy from high school (who needs a pseudonym desperately) and could have dated Mike or Jesse or Ron. Not that I would have married Jesse or Ron. Just saying they were in a certain category at a certain moment.

But I take a deep breath and decide I'm going to talk to Jesse. And you know what? The first thing he asks is if I have a moment, and I tell him I have about 15 moments before dinner. "That's plenty," he declares, and then there's about a 10 minute tangent about See 'N Says and how one might hack into such a toy and make it See 'N Say what you want it to. I don't know how one might accomplish such a feat, but he has me get online because someone at a tollbooth (yes, Jesse is the kind of guy who strikes up conversations at tollbooths) told him he'd seen just that sort of thing on this or that website. I look on this-or-that.com and don't find anything like that. Speak and Spell. Ah. He's seen lots on Speak and Spell hacks. Ah well.

He's going to let me go, but I stop him. I ask him if he'll keep my brother and his family in his prayers. I tell him the story, at first thinking to myself that I don't really need to do this, but as the words "Down Syndrome" come out of my mouth I realize why I'm saying this, what in the back of my brain made me say anything. Jesse is the youngest of five, and number 3 or 4 in that family tree was a girl with DS who died before Jesse was born. He tells me of course he will. And I know he will because he's not the sort who says one thing and does another. To the point of complete and total aggravation he's not that sort. There are no white lies there are no reassurances there are no rewordings. And so I know it is so and I get off the phone feeling ok and glad he called.

It's like having two weird older brothers who call when they think to. One is Jewish and the other is Cuban but I think we're related by college (kind of like being related by marriage). And I think I'm happy about that.

Better/504 Plans

I've pushed through to the other side. The dishwasher is still broken (it isn't the weekend yet). There are new tires on the car, which my mother is borrowing so I can borrow the truck to go pick up girl scout cookies with Zelda. There's a dusting of snow on the ground and it's 33 degrees. So there is still room for improvement.

But a decent night's sleep helped. And the kitchen is clean now.

I had the preliminary 504 planning meeting last night with Sophia's two teachers and the principal. I like all of them. In different ways, of course, and I have some serious misgivings about the future but I probably shouldn't say anything more until I know more and have more ammunition for this gun.

It is so frustrating that words can drip off my fingers onto a keyboard and appear on the screen, but in person I'm lousy at making an argument, terrible at making myself clear. I wonder if the time it takes to get to my fingers helps to edit out the stuff I don't need to say? But when I speak, it all comes out and gets muddled? I don't know. I just felt like it took me a long time to make my point at this meeting and while I know two of the people got it, I'm pretty sure the one in charge of language arts did not. Maybe it's a female communication thing. Meaning, I don't do that well and the one I was trying to get on my side (since I don't think she is, as opposed to the other two) is a woman just a bit younger than me and more of a feeler than a thinker on the meyers briggs. Or maybe I was a little more invested emotionally in the topic than I should be at this sort of meeting and had a hard time making myself calmly clear?

But I know there are tons of school people who read this blog, at least intermittently, so I'll leave it at that. Just to say that for the most part I got what I wanted. What Sophia needed.

I came home with a splitting headache, though, which says something, I think, about the process and the mental energy required.

This morning it was ok. I sent the big binder of spelling work to school for the teachers to look at. Last year's binder, of course, but still, hopefully it will give them an idea of what to do. Our program stems from the same program the teachers were trained in over the summer (orton-gillingham) although mine is more specifically for dyslexic children to be tutored one-on-one.

I am beginning to wonder if that teacher doesn't understand what dyslexia is. That it isn't just "I am a bad reader" and in fact is a difference in brain structure. That more remedial work does not make it better, that it doesn't earn a child an IEP for a reason because while some things can be alleviated and improved, for the most part it doesn't get better. There aren't goals and benchmarks for dyslexia. There are accommodations. And for some reason I think she just doesn't get that. Perhaps she's never had a student with true dyslexia. Perhaps her struggling readers just needed lots of intense remedial work. But I really think she believes that more short spelling words and Sophia will improve. Let me tell you: she won't. Yes, she will be able to spell more words as her visual memory eats them up and remembers them. But she will never be able to stand in front of the room and spell ennui. It won't happen. She'll be able to read a word like ennui, yes, she does now, in context, but it won't mean anything about her spelling tomorrow. And I have a growing suspicion that this teacher thinks there are gaps in Sophia's education that she can fill in. Or that she's stupid. One or the other. I know friends on the block think Sophia's stupid because she isn't reading Harry Potter books. I know this. I know what it means to be a good reader and look down on everyone else. But guess what. That's not what's going on here.

And they have to--actually literally have to, legally--find a way to make this work.

Because I'm not going away.

Occasionally I Must Complain

Just a few things that are driving me crazy.

1. We need 2 new tires for the mazda. Expensive. Ridiculously. And I'm driving on the spare now for 2 days and can't get new tires until tomorrow. Bah.

2. The dishwasher is no longer spraying water. It is simply steaming dishes. This doesn't work, in case you were wondering. So I spent 2 hours washing the dishes in the sink and the dishes in the dishwasher, which were now steam-dirtied. When I say 2 hours, I mean I got home at 10:20 and stopped washing dishes and cleaning up from that mess at 12:30.

3. The cats tipped over the seed starting pots. I hate them. I hate all three of them now. I cleaned that up and hoped for the best--we'd only planted them the day before. My fault for trusting the homemade shelving.

4. In addition to the broken dishwasher, the sink is broken. Yes! We have a double sink and the left side, if you pour water down it in too much volume, comes unhinged. Someone did this recently. I noticed a few days ago and mentioned it to Mike. I made the mistake of assuming, yes, that he had fixed it. Yup. Fun!

5. It is cold again. It was so cold last night it was like camping. I could not sleep. Plus Leo is teething and was up every hour after not falling asleep until 11.

6. I keep getting urgent UPS deliveries for a person named Idress Tate. He or she does not live here. I have called the people sending the stuff twice now. Today I caught the UPS guy (not our regular guy who knows I'm not Idress) and gave it back. Maybe it will change. Maybe I will wake up blond and thin.

7. Head lice at school. Holding my breath that it is in some other classroom and not anywhere near my kids' heads. I have been lucky thus far. Maybe this is where all my luck is pouring into this week.

8. I hurt my ankle at the post office just walking. Not turning it, not on a step, nothing. It hurts to put weight on it and turn at the same time now. I was going to come home and put my feet up, have Leo watch a movie, do nothing, but, well, see every other fragging number on this list.

So I guess that is it. Here's hoping Leo will nap so I can too. The girls, assuming they don't have lice, have a ton of work to do in their rooms and pretty much everywhere else when they get home. I'll name them Cindermaeve and Cindersophia and make them wear tattered aprons all afternoon. And not care. Not today. Not too much.

Ten on Tuesday: 10 favorite cocktails

Heh. I'm not much of a drinker. No, scratch that. I come from a family of very much drinkers. And I'm a lightweight with them. But I can drink and often do, to my detriment. So this year I've decided it's a year of never mix, never worry, it's a year of "no, I'll stay at one tonight." Small children and too much responsibility.

But when I say I'm not much of a drinker, I mean I 'm not much of a mixed drinker. If someone makes me something interesting, great, but when I go to a bar, it's always the same few: bourbon and water on the rocks, whiskey and seven, or amaretto sour.

But I change my mind. I can come up with a list of ten. Note that while I loved my one night of White Russians, I will never drink them again and so they don't make this list.

1. Amaretto sours. Like koolaid for grown ups. Seriously. Way too easy to drink. Amaretto all by itself doesn't taste like alcohol and adding some orangey lemony sour sweet stuff, well, slurp it down and order another.

2. Bourbon slush. Family favorite, and while #1 is koolaid for grownups, this is snow cone for grown ups. Oh my goodness I like bourbon slush. It is part of all sorts of celebrations. I had it first when I was 10. It is a perfect way for me to lose at mah jongg all night long. But for some reason, I do not get sick on it like I do other things (like white russians, for instance). I guess I just can't drink enough of it--way too much sugar and water and juice--to really get stupid.

3. The cranberry vodka concoction my neighbor (aka Gretchen) makes. But only have one. Even if you aren't trying to only have one. Seriously. Only have one.

4. Irish coffee. Drunk and awake? That's my motto. Buena Vista, San Francisco. Mmm.

5. Sangria. But only with paella and/or tapas. Something about the combo is a good one. I can't imagine just sitting down and drinking it without food, without amazing rich tiny bits of food.

6. How could I forget...margarita. I prefer them on the rocks but I'll drink them frozen, too. Don't care if they are fru fru flavors or just the straight margarita. I used to hoover these up and drive home. From after school meet-ups. Yeah.

7. Gringo Honeymoon (lager and lime). Lime just makes beer better.

8. Manhattan. I don't drink Manhattans. But as a child, I ate a lot of maraschino cherries taken directly from Manhattans. I COULD drink Manhattans. It's just that they're my father's drink.

9. Whiskey Sour, Scotch Sour, Frisco Sour, basically, anything sweet and sour.

10. If I'm really not acting my age, I'm a fan of chocolate cake shots. My sister Bevin introduced me. I love things that are not what they are.

Is it bad that this 10 on Tuesday made me very happy?

One Feis, Two Feis, Red Feis, Blue Feis

There were two feiseanna in St. Louis this weekend. We only attended one, because the other one is, well, not my favorite (trying to be diplomatic). But Sophia went today, getting up at 7:00 and doing hair for the first time since the feis back in September. Wow. It has been a long time we've been out of commission.

"You're doing this because you're a good mom," Mike reminded me as he turned off my 6:20 alarm clock beeping and rolled over. I snuck out of bed to keep Leo asleep and made my way downstairs to get everything ready. We were out the door with everything remembered at 7:40. Headed downtown, we arrived at the registration desk before 8. Glided to our ballroom stage where we'd be spending the whole day. Bought socks (eh, hers were no longer white) and bobby pins (I had a total of 8 bobby pins this morning). And I took out my knitting and waited.

Sophia dances in two different categories. She is an advanced beginner in reel, hornpipe, and slip jig. This means she hasn't placed first, second, or third in any of these dances yet. In all her other dances (jig, treble jig, single jig, traditional set) she is a novice, which means she's placed out of advanced beginner and is now...stuck forever. No. Just a long time. You have to place first in a novice dance to move on from there.

Her goal was to place in "some dance" today, meaning the three she still hasn't moved up in. I thought this was a good goal--being in the "under 10" category, the competition in advanced beginner has thinned a bit. There were 8 registered in her reel, 11 in her hornpipe, and 15 in her slip jig.

She dances reel first, almost every feis starts with reels, and I think this is why she hasn't placed yet. I know why she hasn't placed in hornpipe--she's rough around the edges there (she has placed 4th and 5th before, but never in the top 3). And she HATES slip jig. So there you go. But reel was really frustrating her. Really.

When her group came on stage to dance the reel, I noted there were only 5 girls instead of 8. Surely she'll place, I thought to myself. Five was the minimum number of competitors required for the top three dancers to move up (you can't be 3rd out of 3 dancers and magically move out of advanced beginner--which is why she took two years to place out of traditional set/St. Patrick's Day--so few schools dance it, that even though she placed first and second on two different occasions, there were never at least 5 competitors--finally she got 3rd out of 9 and whew).

It looked good. I don't watch her as much as I watch the other girls who dance in the same competition. It's often a mystery why one girl does better than another. But one of the 5 could not keep her arms still. Could not. So I thought, well, odds look good.

We wandered the hotel between dances, looked at sparkly tiaras and got me a coffee. Between the hornpipe and the single jig, she asked if she could go down to the results room. I try to have her wait, because I don't want to ruin her whole day if she doesn't place...but I gave in.

She got first in her reel. First. She had that satisfied "yes, of course" look on her face when she read her name on the board. Didn't freak, didn't jump up and down. Just was pleased. No other results were in and she went back up to dance single jig. That was the only one I thought maybe she had a shot at something in--her hornpipe was iffy and her slip jig was all wonky arms all over the place. But when she sat back down, not upset or anything, she said, "I don't know why, but I messed up on the first part of the second step for my left foot. I just kind of faked it." Well, the judge must have noted that as well, because at the lunch break we went back down to results and she hadn't placed in anything else.

And she didn't really care.

She wasn't going to dance her treble jig today because she doesn't feel ready (moving up to novice means new steps and she's shaky on the second step). And I asked her what she wanted. Did she want to stay through the lunch break and wait until the very last dance on her stage for her traditional set...or did she want to get the medal engraved, go get our stuff, and head out?

"Let's just be done," she said without hesitation. So we ended on the high note of walking out of the results room with her medal instead of what probably would have happened--waiting and waiting and then going down to results and waiting and waiting and then Lauren getting 3rd place and nobody else from our school placing in the top 5 and leaving disappointed. This may sound like sour grapes but with the reel under her belt like that, I didn't want to drag unnecessary disappointment into the fray.

So we were home at noon. She put stuff away, pretended to clean her room, had lunch, and went outside with her sister to play. "I feel like this was practice for Little Rock," she told me on the way home. "And An Samhra and Gateway. I feel like I'm ready now."

So there we go.

Neighborhood Kerfuffle

Ann's hip-deep in a controversy over her daughter's high school, St. Elizabeth's Academy, which is in a three-way tie to be Sophia's high school (maybe two-way tie, actually). Seems that the order of sisters that run the place, well, let me back up.

The school is three blocks from me. It is made up of an historic convent, beautiful, red brick like everything else here; an ancient gymnasium; a wooded campus (mostly parking lot); and a 1950-something building that is the high school for the most part. The school spills over into the old convent somewhat, but most of the academics and daily life seems to be occurring in the 1950s building.

The nuns know they aren't long for this world, individually or as a community. The hard reality is that most, almost all, orders of nuns in this country are on the decline number-wise. The sisters see this coming, and they are trying to prepare for the future with a capital campaign.

Phase one involves setting up an endowment. They want to be able to offer more scholarships to girls who wouldn't have other good options (read: anyone who lives in the city and can't afford or couldn't get into the more elite Catholic and private schools). They want to set up a legacy so that when they are gone, there will be something to draw from.

Phase two involves building a huge new arts center--their main focus is the arts (that's where Sophia was in the play last December). Since they are landlocked, part of this phase is the demolition of the convent building, which is, well, a convent.

My monastery out of Clyde, Missouri, is in the process of tearing down part of their huge complex and rehabbing what is left. So I know, at least second-hand, what is entailed. I also know what the inside of a monastery looks like, and it isn't the kind of building that is easily transformed into something new. I live in the city and I live in an old building myself. It is exhausting, but I love my house. I do not, however, blame them in the least for looking at that albatross and envisioning what they could do instead.

The neighborhood is mad.

Not that the neighborhood has done much to lift up SEA in the past...now, like the Little Red Hen's friends, they want a place at the table. The people up in arms aren't school parents, for instance. They live nearby or they are rabid preservationists and they're mad. They want to somehow influence SEA to take the demolition off the table, a demolition that is years away and not even yet set in stone. They offer ideas that would be totally SEA's burden--rehabbing it to be condos, for instance (eh, where have we heard that before?) or changing it to be classroom space. Having been inside only briefly to pick up Sophia after play practice, I can tell how make-shift that would be. It would be expensive and would maybe maintain the facade of the building but would not do anything they want to do.

I don't have a dog in this fight, although I do, because I live 3 blocks away AND my daughters are potential future students. But these are my few thoughts.

1. I go to a parish that is burdened with an old building. I don't mean the church--I mean the school. We have failed to sell it. No one wants to buy it. It sits waiting to fall over burn down and sink into the swamp. It is a gorgeous school building with polished granite hallway floors and the cozy utility that school buildings of a certain age have. I love that building, but no one can take it on. It is just not feasible or cost effective. So we are stuck. As a parish we support a building we do not, cannot, use.

2. I graduated from a high school in Houston that is no more. It was a Carmelite high school in a beat up part of town whose students were not especially financially or academically gifted. Yes, I could have gone to the ritzy shiny girls school on the west side of town. But this one was closer and it was an easy fit for me and later for my brother. It was an old building by Houston (hurricane) standards--built in the late 50s or early 60s. It was run down. Sagging. In bad shape. When the Carmelites turned it over to the diocese, they did so after receiving the promise from the bishop that he would not close it. He didn't. His successor did. The reason? The building. It cost too much to maintain and it cost too much to build new and there you go. The nuns at SEA don't want this to happen--they want to leave a school in good shape, with money in the bank. My high school didn't do that. And now there's no high school in that part of town serving that population of folks.

I wonder how the neighbors will feel if the school closed entirely and they were left with even more crumbling shells out their front doors. I think they should be more careful.

It is not that the school wants more surface parking. It's a wise and well-considered decision. And when it comes down to it, it's private property. They're not putting in a 7-Eleven. They're a high school and are changing their property to continue being a high school. It's ridiculous to think they should even consider these arguments.

So that's what I think about it...

Canaveral National Seashore

This is a place I will go back to. I love hauntingly beautiful empty places. The air temperature was 75, the water was 62. Not a beach to play on in early February but a beach to savor. Like a single glass of good red wine vs chugging down foamy keg beer. This was the wine beach.

The fog hid all the people except this surfer who kept coming in and out of view. There really wasn't anyone out there, anyway, just a fisherman and a couple of folks walking along. No condos, no trash, no boomboxes, no nothing.

It wasn't as stunning as Andrew Molera State Beach in California, but it was exactly what it was. Nothing fussy or fake or done up to be more. Nothing to detract or add or change. We walked a bit, the girls froze a bit. Leo tried to yell at the surf to keep back the waves. We saw a few dead jellyfish (used to see them all the time in Texas, but not blue ones), a few shells, and that was it. Perfect.

A few more from Florida

Last day? Sure. Get your face painted.
Yes, all my children were groomed at Disney World. I am so weird. It was time for the big boy hair cut and this was too fun to not do. Penny was great and he got a pair of ears out of the deal. So cute.




Memorial at the Kennedy Space Center:
Done with the Kennedy Space Center:

Teacher Gifts

It's not Christmas but a facebook post by Dona (always inspiring somehow) about Valentines and school parties reminded me of something. One of the comments on her post was about receiving perfume from a student when she was a teacher's aide, "in a big bottle", she added, so you can imagine the quality vs. quantity graph.

I never received perfume, but I do have enough #1 Teacher ornaments to fill their own tree at Christmastime. Most teachers do. Sometimes I received cash or a gift certificate to somewhere I went a lot (like to one of the restaurants on South Grand). Those were always great. Sometimes things missed the mark but the thought still counted, like the variety of mismatched Christmas plates and decorative pillows I now own. But Christmas isn't a fixed thing, a decorator comes in to do my tree kind of thing at my house. So it's all just part of hodge podge around here.

My birthday is near Halloween, and therefore, once known, my homeroom two years in a row threw me surprise parties and always produced some sort of Halloween doodad--my sister Bevin's birthday is near Christmas and she gets Christmas stuff all the danged time. But somehow, skulls and black cats and pumpkins for my birthday has always amused me.

And little things and big things not on holidays: a classroom bunny from a family that owned a pet store; a daffodil picked out of someone's yard on the way to school from the child I would have quit my job and become a foster parent for if I lived in a novel instead of the real world; a month's worth of daily homemade eggrolls ("Bao, what is in these, they're wonderful!" "Mrs. Wissinger, you don't want to know.")

Each year I received something from a child that described that year and summed it up in one wrapped package.

The first year I taught, in an inner city public school with a first grade classroom that wound up with 100% turnover by the end of the year, I didn't receive or expect any gifts. But Sophia gave me a handwritten note (yes, her name was Sophia and she was the first child I'd met with that name and you'd better believe it stayed with me) that said, "I will be good. I will try to be good. Sophia Mad Face."

The second year was out in the county at a private school where one child's tuition paid my salary. That year I received from one family a gift certificate for a day spa, for a massage. Nowadays I would totally have snatched that up and gone there. But back then, it was a shining bright example of how little those parents really knew me.

After that I taught at a city Catholic school, one where everyone was white and everyone was Catholic and most families were scared to live in the city but did so because they were city employees. Not a cool part of town, not fashionable, but safe. I got the bunny that year, but I also received a rosary from the vatican given by one of the traveling companions of the pope when he visited St. Louis that year, to the bishop's gardener, who gave it to his brother, who was the dad of the boy who broke his hip on the playground that year, which turned out to be a tumor--and a scary sarcoma at that--but then a second look at the test results made them change their minds. Still 6 weeks in a body cast but not a death sentence. And I went after school every day to that kid's house to tutor him when my principal told me not to, to not bother because "repeating first grade isn't the end of the world." Rosaries from the vatican may be a dime a dozen but I love the hands mine passed through to reach mine.

I taught at my parish school after that, for two years. I can't remember anything remarkable from the first, but the second year (the year of egg rolls), I started to open a package from Quan. "My mom got it at work," he said as a kind of explanation. Ok, I thought, having never met his mother and only talked to his father through an interpreter (Quan). I got the wrapping paper off and found inside a box about the size of a pringles can but rectangular, with the words written down the side in a gloomy industrial font, "URINAL CAKES". Please, God, I thought to myself, let him mean his mother recycled the box from work. Because then I knew--his mother along with hundreds of Vietnamese immigrants in town, worked at the "place that makes the blue water"--an industrial soap factory in the city. I opened the box with a smile fixed on my face. Inside was a very pretty little statue of Mary. The symbolic layers I read into this gift are many. Too many. I don't have the statue anymore--I left it in my classroom when I stopped working there. It had sat on my desk all year and it felt more like a part of that place than something that belonged to me. As did everything there.

I give my kids' teachers gift certificates to bars and restaurants because I know it's a safe choice and I know they use them (one teacher texted me from the bar to tell me how much they were enjoying themselves, sigh). Maybe I should branch out sometime. There's a risk of failure, but an opportunity to sum up a whole year.

Yup, more Florida photos

It's supposed to be 39 today. I want it to be. Please, please melt. So here are some sunny Florida photos!IT's all about transportation options for Leo. And I think he's convinced we're all crazy.Sundae as big as your head? Check. We shared it. Finished maybe half? This was on Sophia's pampering day. Too "grown up" for the boutique, she got a manicure at an adult salon. Pretty cool! And we got ice cream while we waited.
Alice. In Epcot, not Wonderland.
Pure unadulterated exhaustion....

Your Call May Be Monitored

The washing machine is on the fritz again. Same thing, too, when it spins it thumps around violently. It's a front loader, so it's not that I've put clothes in out of balance like a top loader. It's the machine.

Last time, it was $1000 in parts and labor--all covered because we, for one time in my entire life, got the extended warranty. It took two weeks' worth of appointments.

It's doing the very same thing. And so it resulted in another call to Sears. Phone calls to Sears start with this patronizing male voice giving you suggestions of what to say to answer his questions. He acts like he's actually having a conversation. Well, I said:

Repair

New Repair

And he heard me just fine. His next question was regarding what appliance. I said

Washing Machine

He then asked me, "is the fax machine under warranty or do you have a protection plan?"

I said

Washing Machine.

He repeated his question.

I pressed 0. On hold for 5 minutes, I then got to talk to a person who was perfectly nice...and she transferred me to a repair technician who really wasn't and assumed my machine was out of balance because I hadn't adjusted the feet.

No, I told him. I can't move the washing machine when it's off. It isn't able to be rocked at all. But when it spins....it moves across the floor. He then suggested maybe I wasn't strong enough.

I said, "Do you think it might have something to do with the same problem that resulted in $1000 in parts and labor just a month ago?"

Pause.

"Oh, I see that there, yes. Let me put you on hold and I'll get a repairman out to see you right away."

Oh, you bet. Thanks.

He's coming Tuesday. Bah.

More photos: Maeve gets done up

Yes, we went all the way at DW. Maeve went to Bippity Boppity Boutique and got all done up.
Like her shoes? She's a sensible princess. Those are even wool hiking socks.

Maeve loved the double stroller. Leo hated sharing.

But Leo LOVED the people mover. His very favorite ride.

The first photo post

Yes, our first day was this early:
Sophia's favorite, Dumbo:
Meeting the characters. Such a strange custom...

And Now, For Something Completely Different

For Miss Bridget, who is a fan.

My Evening

Maybe I just won't call. I told Mom I would but maybe I'll just not call. Maybe I'll wait--of course I'm kidding myself if I say I'll do it later if I don't do it tonight.

Maybe I'll buy that bag of M&Ms. That is always helpful.

I walk through the craft store looking for doilies for valentines--I have my girls make them. Better that way. White cardstock. No. Look, all that paper is on clearance. 6 sheets for a dollar. I could get 4 cards out of a sheet. 12 sheets. Count. Not the pink ribbons. Or the baby handprints. There are babies all over this damned store.

Hearts and flowers. It's never all hearts and flowers.

I find the doilies. I go to the check out line after testing 15 different colors of jelly roll pens. I used to use them to mark papers when I taught at the parish school. They were popular then. All the 7th grade girls had them. Now I have a 4th grade girl.

I check out. The boy behind the counter I suppose has to be 16 but I don't think he shaves yet.

"Do you want these in your purse?" he asks. He waves the M&Ms at me.

"Oh sure," I take them. And I stick them in my coat pocket. My German army parka I bought at Colonel Bubbie's down in Galveston. Wonder if he's still there after Ike. So much water.

I take the bag of valentine craft supplies and head out to the car. My car isn't even white anymore, it's been winter so long. Done with winter.

I know if I don't call now I never will. I rip open the bag of M&Ms and dial his number. Maybe he won't answer. Maybe he'll see my number and not want to answer. I can think of a voicemail. I know what I'd say to a machine.

"Hello?" he answers. He has that double voice of my uncles now. Sort of a smoker's gravel, sort of just plain Waylon Jennings. Good hearted woman in love with a good timin man. Glennon sounds like it the most. Cardinal Glennon.

"Hey, it's Bridgett," I explain.

"Hey, how you doing?"

I realize I'm driving and I shouldn't be and I'm on Manchester and I have to pull over before I wreck my car and I pull into the parking lot of the Hijab Boutique because it's closed and there are plenty of spaces and I glance back and forth between mannequins dressed as Muslims and the Christian bookstore slogans next door.

He's silent. And I don't fill the silence. I ask only one question and then reiterate my main point. "Mom wanted me to call and I didn't know what to say but I knew I couldn't let this pass me by without a word and you're my brother and I'm so so sorry." I feel like I'm reading it in a novel instead of saying it. I wonder what he's thinking.

I waited to see if he had anything else to add. Silence, but not angry silence. He doesn't cut me off, he doesn't get off the line. We just sit. I stare at the hijabs.

"I'll let you go," I try to be more calm. "I'll send you an email or maybe a more coherent phone call in a few days," we both laugh mirthlessly. My tears burn on my winter chapped dry cheeks.

And I get off the phone.

I pull back onto Manchester heading east. I have to go to the grocery store. We have nothing fresh in the house since the trip. I realize the M&Ms are still clutched in my hand. My plan there, was, what? Snack and chat with him? I eat them in two big handfuls waiting at one of the stoplights.

I go into the grocery store, knowing I look suspiciously distressed. I don't even keep track of what I put in the cart. It isn't until I get my sister Bevin on a text conversation that I come back down to earth. By then I have a bag of chocolate covered peanut butter filled pretzels and Sophia is due out from the dance studio any minute. Then I'm ok.

I'll try my best to stay that way.

And so.

What a winter.

My mother just called me. My brother and his wife found out today at a regular OB appointment that the baby, due at the end of May, died in utero. They already knew the baby, a boy, had down syndrome, but recent ultrasounds were very positive (no heart or GI defects, for instance).

If this had happened at, say, 13 weeks, I might be thinking that it was sad, but kind of a relief (I miscarried early before I got pregnant with Sophia and it's awful but you make it through--that baby's due date was this week, in fact, about February 10, 2001).

But at 24 weeks I can't even wrap my head around it. She's going to deliver tomorrow. So I hope that works and I hope, well, I hope for a lot of things but I think that's all I'll say about that.

It's such a long road to here and a long road ahead. I'm not sure what the lesson is in all this. There probably isn't one.

Oh very young
What will you leave us this time
There'll never be a better chance
To change your mind
And if you want this world
To see (a better day)
Will you carry
The words of love with you
Will you ride
The great white bird into heaven
And though you want to last.
Forever you know you never will
(You know you never will)
And the goodbye
Makes the journey harder still.

A book I'm Not Going to Read

Just read this in the Washington Post when I was looking for references to the Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I was trying to find which winter she was writing about (1880/1881) and stumbled on an article about a horrifying 1888 blizzard in which hundreds of schoolchildren, sent home early for the snow, of course before it got that bad, were lost and died of hypothermia or suffocation on the prairie. It's called the Children's Blizzard, the 5th worst snowstorm on record in the world. The world. And now there's a book about it.

Which I will never read, although I'm sure it is gripping and engaging and somewhat in the genre of books I like (popular history). But my drab St. Louis winter is bad enough. I don't need to read about this.

Thanks to Bad Mansard

Above the door of Ettal Abbey, a Benedictine monastary in Germany. Makes me happy.

The Last Place I'd Go

Texan Mama just posted a comment, that she thought Disney World would be the last place I'd vacation. And...she's right.

But it all sort of converged.

Mike attends Lotusphere at Disney World each January (well, he goes every other year, or every third). I knew this in the back of my mind and last May we decided that, yeah, maybe it was time to take the trip as a family. Trust me: it is miserable when he goes to Florida in January and I stay in St. Louis. The last time, Maeve got cat scratch fever, it iced, I'm pretty sure some appliance broke. It's cold and dark. So I knew eventually we'd be on our way.

Because he was going to the conference, his way was paid, as well as accommodations for a single room. So all we had to make up was the difference between the room his employer would have given him and the room we needed. We had a condo/villa style room on the property. We had a kitchen and cooked every day.

He had a client who had just started a disney travel agency with his wife, and Amy got me all set with tickets and events (which I have decided you can't do on your own, really, and I've planned every vacation we've ever taken).

My mother-in-law was available, loves Disneyworld, was excited to go, and provided transportation in her minivan (our mazda 5 would have been a tight squeeze without the third adult, but with her it would have been impossible).

I found a double stroller on Craigslist for way way less than a rental would have cost us (and I will probably resell it once I clean it up this week).

I brought the crockpot.

My parents gave us cash for Christmas. Instant treat and souvenir money.

And it was January.

So it all sort of converged. We told the girls at Christmas. We made it very clear that this would be the first of two trips to Disney (two and no more)--we would go again when Leo was 6 or 7, old enough to remember! We set down some very clear expectations and rules.

And we had a wonderful time. The lack of cynicism there is, well, refreshing in a way I didn't expect. And we stayed way beyond our means due to the fact Mike was at the conference. The on-property condo was amazing (full kitchen, washer and dryer, two bathrooms, etc). It was so nice to be gone from St. Louis in January. The girls missed 7 days of school, but really they only missed 5 because we had TWO snow days while we were gone. Neighbor children and my parents looked in on the cats. We didn't lose power. And I walked my butt off and pushed the stroller and did it all. Even went to Kennedy Space Center afterward, and Canaveral National Seashore, which ROCKED even in February.

We had a wonderful time--good enough that it is hard to be here in St. Louis again. We got home yesterday and my house is so cold. There is snow everywhere. Our street is a sheet of ice. Plus all the normal stuff I left behind: scouts, the bra that still hasn't arrived from England, the sewer bill I am late on, again. The kitchen floor required a hands-and-knees scrubdown, although the rest of the house was ok. There was nothing to feed the girls for lunch today--they took a random assortment of odds and ends from the trip and the pantry. They'll survive. Piano today, Irish Dance tomorrow (and navigating the mysteries of getting Sophia sized for a new dress). Cold, cold, cold.

Now, I must iron and clean the guest room. Probably do a load of laundry (we did most of it at my inlaws and as we went along during the week). Make a peach cobbler for dessert and figure out what should come first...I think have the makings for spaghetti. Tomorrow night during dance, I'm going to the grocery store. Can't be bothered today.

Yeah...

I went away.

I'm back now.

I went to Florida. To Disney World. Mike had a conference, Lotusphere, and we went with him this year. We went with Mike's mom (in order to make it work, since I would have been alone in the parks with 3 kids, one of whom is non-verbal and often belligerent). That was a good choice.

It was absolutely perfect.

I loved it.

The girls had a great time. Leo survived well.

We were gone from St. Louis during a sleet and snow storm and more snow and frigid temperatures. Two snow days were involved, meaning the girls only missed 5 days instead of 7. The house didn't lose power (my big worry with ice) and so I sat on the porch of our little condo and breathed in the 79 degree air and counted all my blessings.

I also walked 9 miles a day. At least. We did it all. 6 days in the parks. Done. All of it.

Pictures to come. First, I must climb Mount Laundry and get things put where they belong.