So far the post-baby blues have not set in. (I did have a case of the blahs recently, but that was unrelated and requires its own post.) Which means that my mind is free for philosophy - of the sort that can be compressed into ten-second intervals, of course, since that is the new unit of measurement by which my spare time comes in.
-Diapers: paper v. cloth. It's not the thought of washing the things out that keeps me spending horrendous amounts of money on the disposable convenience; it's the horror of the diaper pins and the drag of inventing a System. I hate the thought of sticking my baby with the nasty pins, and I detest the thought of leaving rust stains in diapers from inevitably rusty and constantly dulling diaper pins. And while I don't blanch from the thought of washing out a cloth diaper by hand - at least not during this nice pre-solids phase - I don't have the means or the wherewithal to deal with it nicely, since I can't drop everything mid-change to scrub out the diaper, don't like the thought of leaving diapers soaking in sinks around the house, don't want the nastiness of a diaper pail to collect smells and mosquito larva, and can't run individual loads of laundry spiked with high amounts of bleach to keep the diapers in a pristine enough condition to use again and again. Hence the terrific waste of money on paper diapers. It's a quality-of-life issue, and I gnash my teeth at it, but there's no better solution, so I gnash away.
-Double chin: Baby is very cute, but when her head lolls downward on her chest it almost looks like she has a double chin. Since this is something that only fat people have, like the giantess queen in The Silver Chair, and my baby is patently not fat, this double chin requires constant denial, a rather tricky proposition since Baby's Papa has discovered Baby's Mama's Achilles Heel and incessantly teases Baby about her supposed double chin in Baby's Mama's hearing. Baby's head is constantly coaxed upward to mitigate the effect of this optical illusion, but as her laugh involves a sustained cackle, averting the eyes, and ducking the head, and as she grows increasingly jollier, the regimen becomes difficult to maintain.
-Trivial songs: Recently someone sang 'Jesus Loves Me' to Jane, and then added, 'But I'm sure your Mommy sings that to you all the time.' And then it dawned on me that actually, no, I have not been singing Christian baby songs to Jane, and I started questioning whether that made me a bad mother. And I decided that it didn't: it merely reflects my subconscious take on my thinking about music. I still sing Christian songs in front of her, as I did before she was born, just as I always do when I'm in the car and feel like singing. Usually these are hymns or choruses or sacred songs I remember from Chamber Choir and like to sing. When I'm specifically singing to her, though, I either sing secular lullabyes or else fun, frivolous folk songs like 'Oh, Susannah,' 'I've Been Working On The Railroad,' 'Clementine,' 'I Love You (A Bushel And A Peck),' etc. So then I thought it through more thoroughly and decided that I actually didn't really like trite Christian children's songs like 'Jesus Loves The Little Children.' I still haven't thought it through very thoroughly at all, though, so there may well indeed be deep depths of doctrine lurking in some of these songs. But for the moment, I think I still think they're shallow.
-Noah's ark: Along the same lines, I was surprised to hear Michael's take on this recently when he asked me how I felt about letting our kids play with Noah's ark toys. Never really thought about it, why? Because he feels that the rendition of Noah's ark as a cute little cartoon boat full of fluffy animals renders the image of God's wrath and judgment as harmless and obsolete, like some quaint folk tale that is now child's play. Whether this is a direct plot from Satan to make us forget the evils of mankind that called down God's wrath in the first place is not at issue here. Do we really want to teach our children to play with and laugh about and treat as a cute little fable something that is an actual historical fact of worldwide destruction? Would we let our kids play with Twin Towers action figures so they can giggle and let their imaginations soar as they re-enact that quaint little occurrence when terrorists launched a major attack on a great nation? (That last bit is my hyperbole as I warmed to the argument, not Michael's contribution.) Anyway, until he pointed this out to me I had never questioned the almost universal presentation of Noah's ark as a cute little children's story, but I thought it bore considering. I'm not going to launch into a great crusade against Noah's ark wall-paper for nurseries or anything, but it does make me stop and consider some of the cultural icons we tend to take for granted.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
You say to-MAY-toe...
Due to a recent whirlwind weekend visit from family, we are now abounding in luscious, garden-fresh, ripe tomatoes. I love fresh tomatoes. So much to do with them. After the guests left on Sunday I drew up my to-do list for the week, my to-do list consisting of a dry-erase board magnetically attached to the side of the fridge. Of primary importance was 'Deal with tomatoes.'
Yesterday afternoon I dealt with the tomatoes. A few were very ripe and were therefore ground up in the blender and frozen for future sauce needs. Some were sliced up and put in Tupperware for lunches this week. All were rinsed off carefully and the ones not being immediately processed were laid out on paper towels to dry. Several were cut up for a dinner of Broiled Tomatoes and the stems were left lying on the cutting board. Before retiring to bed last night we gave the house our nightly once-over and the following conversation ensued:
Michael: What happened to these tomatoes over 'ere? They've lost their 'eads!
Me: I guess there are a few tomatoes running around this house like chickens with their heads cut off.
Michael: So this is how you deal with tomatoes, is it? Boy, did those ones get a bad deal. Did the other ones plea bargain or something and that's why they're still sitting there?
It's amazing how hilarious some things can be when it's late enough at night. But really, it was funny!
Yesterday afternoon I dealt with the tomatoes. A few were very ripe and were therefore ground up in the blender and frozen for future sauce needs. Some were sliced up and put in Tupperware for lunches this week. All were rinsed off carefully and the ones not being immediately processed were laid out on paper towels to dry. Several were cut up for a dinner of Broiled Tomatoes and the stems were left lying on the cutting board. Before retiring to bed last night we gave the house our nightly once-over and the following conversation ensued:
Michael: What happened to these tomatoes over 'ere? They've lost their 'eads!
Me: I guess there are a few tomatoes running around this house like chickens with their heads cut off.
Michael: So this is how you deal with tomatoes, is it? Boy, did those ones get a bad deal. Did the other ones plea bargain or something and that's why they're still sitting there?
It's amazing how hilarious some things can be when it's late enough at night. But really, it was funny!
Friday, August 26, 2005
It figures
So finally this week I have officially accepted the fact that the pregnancy has left its calling card and isn't going away on its own, and it is up to me to sever the acquaintance. Up through week twelve I blithely accepted the fact that we were 'working on it,' and optimistically chose to see progress in the fact that I was back in most of my pre-pregnancy clothes, a terribly irrelevant point since most of my pre-pregnancy clothes were a little loose around the waist anyway.
At week twelve I got Serious. 'You see,' I explained to Michael, demonstrating in front of the mirror, 'it's not that there's any extra material there, actually. I can suck it in (like this) and look perfectly normal. But if I let it go (like this), then, well, it bulges a tiny bit. And I can't remember to walk around sucking it in all the time.' What irritated me the most, I think, was the way that if I so much as drank a full 8 oz. glass of water, it sprawled. It's as if my abdominal muscles, tired of carrying Baby for all those months, don't realise that the job's already been taken over elsewhere, and are going on strike, refusing to do even their old job in a satisfactory manner. So the next couple of weeks were spent in severe chidings to the recalcitrant muscles and threats of grueling exercises to be imposed if they did not step up to the plate.
They did not. Apparently we had reached a stalemate, despite my loud conversations to Michael about how, if this was how it was going to be, we might as well just START OUT with pouches, like kangaroos, and leave off the pleasant fiction that we're supposed to have hourglass waists at all. 'If I'd known how it would turn out,' I intoned to my very patient and loving husband, who has insisted repeatedly that he likes me just the way I am and that I am making a mountain out of a molehill (whereas my problem is that the molehill is there in the first place), 'I would have started wearing a post-partum support belt right away! But NO, I thought I'd give my body a chance to recover on its OWN! And HAS it? No, indeed! Ha! I'll show those muscles! If they know what's good for them, they'll get back to doing their job posthaste!' All fell on deaf muscles.
Not to obsess about appearances, of course. If this is really and truly the inevitable effect of bearing a child courtesy of the Curse, then I'll accept it for what it is, learn to embrace my new shape, and move on with my life. But until I have proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt, then I refuse to resign myself to complacency.
So this week I set out to disprove that point. I have gasped and floundered through 25 sit-ups every night, and found, to my great delight and everlasting joy, that my blue jeans fit once again! This is perhaps the most accurate measure of all, since the scales can say all they want to on the topic and I will happily ignore them. Never mind that they were low-rise jeans and we are still spilling out a little over the top of them when we drink a full cup of water. We are IN them again!! And they zip up PROPERLY!
There. That's a very shallow post of surprisingly tremendous import.
At week twelve I got Serious. 'You see,' I explained to Michael, demonstrating in front of the mirror, 'it's not that there's any extra material there, actually. I can suck it in (like this) and look perfectly normal. But if I let it go (like this), then, well, it bulges a tiny bit. And I can't remember to walk around sucking it in all the time.' What irritated me the most, I think, was the way that if I so much as drank a full 8 oz. glass of water, it sprawled. It's as if my abdominal muscles, tired of carrying Baby for all those months, don't realise that the job's already been taken over elsewhere, and are going on strike, refusing to do even their old job in a satisfactory manner. So the next couple of weeks were spent in severe chidings to the recalcitrant muscles and threats of grueling exercises to be imposed if they did not step up to the plate.
They did not. Apparently we had reached a stalemate, despite my loud conversations to Michael about how, if this was how it was going to be, we might as well just START OUT with pouches, like kangaroos, and leave off the pleasant fiction that we're supposed to have hourglass waists at all. 'If I'd known how it would turn out,' I intoned to my very patient and loving husband, who has insisted repeatedly that he likes me just the way I am and that I am making a mountain out of a molehill (whereas my problem is that the molehill is there in the first place), 'I would have started wearing a post-partum support belt right away! But NO, I thought I'd give my body a chance to recover on its OWN! And HAS it? No, indeed! Ha! I'll show those muscles! If they know what's good for them, they'll get back to doing their job posthaste!' All fell on deaf muscles.
Not to obsess about appearances, of course. If this is really and truly the inevitable effect of bearing a child courtesy of the Curse, then I'll accept it for what it is, learn to embrace my new shape, and move on with my life. But until I have proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt, then I refuse to resign myself to complacency.
So this week I set out to disprove that point. I have gasped and floundered through 25 sit-ups every night, and found, to my great delight and everlasting joy, that my blue jeans fit once again! This is perhaps the most accurate measure of all, since the scales can say all they want to on the topic and I will happily ignore them. Never mind that they were low-rise jeans and we are still spilling out a little over the top of them when we drink a full cup of water. We are IN them again!! And they zip up PROPERLY!
There. That's a very shallow post of surprisingly tremendous import.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Arms and the woman
Some time ago my family gave me the gift of several video productions from the PHC drama team. There was The Importance of Being Earnest, which I had seen live and which I much enjoyed showing to Michael; there was Our Town, which I had also seen live, which I had been impressed with, but which I have not watched with Michael yet because it is such a decidedly non-upbeat play and I just haven't wanted to make myself feel in that blue of a mood recently ('Most people manage to crawl into the grave married'); and there was Arms and the Man, which I have never read and which I know nothing about.
On Sunday I felt distinctly uncultured and wanted to watch a play to make up for it. Two minutes into the first scene Michael exclaimed, 'Hey, that's Janice!' Sure enough, the lady of the house was none other than JRP herself, turning in a remarkable and impressive performance with inimitable wit and priceless expressions. Well done, Janice, and well worth watching!
On Sunday I felt distinctly uncultured and wanted to watch a play to make up for it. Two minutes into the first scene Michael exclaimed, 'Hey, that's Janice!' Sure enough, the lady of the house was none other than JRP herself, turning in a remarkable and impressive performance with inimitable wit and priceless expressions. Well done, Janice, and well worth watching!
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Short on time, not material
I have so many ideas for blog topics to post and little or no time to actually type them out. But just the other day, while hunting through my old files to look up an address for a thank-you note, I stumbled across our collection of old IM chats, circa February-April 2003. Some of the dialogue was so priceless that, even now, it causes me to laugh aloud. HOW did we manage to function at such a fever pitch of energy, staying up past midnight routinely to chat? WHAT did we find to talk about for hours on end, I've sometimes asked myself since then, since covering our convictions and life histories surely couldn't have taken that long? Apparently we spent quite a good bit of time on frivolous small talk:
MarquisLeFocht: I actually caught myself skipping down the hallway in anticipation of tonight's chat. Am I in love, or what?
KatyLaCastafiore: Let's ponder this.
KatyLaCastafiore: You would know best.
KatyLaCastafiore: Which do you think?
KatyLaCastafiore: Did you bang your head on the ceiling?
MarquisLeFocht: Nope.
KatyLaCastafiore: Well, that's good
MarquisLeFocht: Just very, very happy.
KatyLaCastafiore: Even the great goblins, the great orcs of the mountains, ran stooping with their heads almost to their knees.
KatyLaCastafiore: What's for supper tonight?
MarquisLeFocht: Do you have to ask? My specialty, of course.
KatyLaCastafiore: Dead ground-up cow and boiled processed white flour product?
MarquisLeFocht: That sounds about right. What about you?
KatyLaCastafiore: Cold leftover grey sludge.
MarquisLeFocht: Oatmeal, gruel?
KatyLaCastafiore: I think it was potato soup in another life.
Or:
MarquisLeFocht: Just you wait and see!
KatyLaCastafiore: I will, at that.
KatyLaCastafiore: At least the waiting part.
MarquisLeFocht: You will too.
KatyLaCastafiore: Waiting and waiting and waiting...
KatyLaCastafiore: Growing really bored...
MarquisLeFocht: I'm sorry.
KatyLaCastafiore: Growing really old...
MarquisLeFocht: No, you're not.
MarquisLeFocht: You're not even 23 yet!
KatyLaCastafiore: Oh, yes, I am. Every day I grow older.
KatyLaCastafiore: Well, I will be soon.
KatyLaCastafiore: Twenty-Three, that is.
MarquisLeFocht: You didn't say older; you said really old.
KatyLaCastafiore: I'm not afraid of admitting my age.
MarquisLeFocht: You were when we met!
MarquisLeFocht: Ha!
KatyLaCastafiore: No, I wasn't afraid of that!
KatyLaCastafiore: Ha!
MarquisLeFocht: I won!
KatyLaCastafiore: No, I did!
MarquisLeFocht: Did not!
KatyLaCastafiore: Did too!
MarquisLeFocht: Not, and I said it first!
KatyLaCastafiore: I said it second!
MarquisLeFocht: So you lose!
KatyLaCastafiore: No, I win. I was playing Aces are highest.
MarquisLeFocht: Oh bother.
KatyLaCastafiore: Ha, ha!
KatyLaCastafiore: (Just laughing, NOT starting another round!)
Or:
KatyLaCastafiore: I think it will be very important to kiss you every morning before you leave.
MarquisLeFocht: I figured.
MarquisLeFocht: That would be nice.
KatyLaCastafiore: Studies show that men who kiss their wives in the mornings have a lower incidence of heart failure and accidents.
MarquisLeFocht: You're just saying that!
KatyLaCastafiore: (Although if you're going out of the door dazed or something I'd think you'd be MORE likely to step in front of a truck)
KatyLaCastafiore: No, I'm sure I read it somewhere!
MarquisLeFocht: Yes, I'm sure you're sure you did.
MarquisLeFocht: I actually caught myself skipping down the hallway in anticipation of tonight's chat. Am I in love, or what?
KatyLaCastafiore: Let's ponder this.
KatyLaCastafiore: You would know best.
KatyLaCastafiore: Which do you think?
KatyLaCastafiore: Did you bang your head on the ceiling?
MarquisLeFocht: Nope.
KatyLaCastafiore: Well, that's good
MarquisLeFocht: Just very, very happy.
KatyLaCastafiore: Even the great goblins, the great orcs of the mountains, ran stooping with their heads almost to their knees.
KatyLaCastafiore: What's for supper tonight?
MarquisLeFocht: Do you have to ask? My specialty, of course.
KatyLaCastafiore: Dead ground-up cow and boiled processed white flour product?
MarquisLeFocht: That sounds about right. What about you?
KatyLaCastafiore: Cold leftover grey sludge.
MarquisLeFocht: Oatmeal, gruel?
KatyLaCastafiore: I think it was potato soup in another life.
Or:
MarquisLeFocht: Just you wait and see!
KatyLaCastafiore: I will, at that.
KatyLaCastafiore: At least the waiting part.
MarquisLeFocht: You will too.
KatyLaCastafiore: Waiting and waiting and waiting...
KatyLaCastafiore: Growing really bored...
MarquisLeFocht: I'm sorry.
KatyLaCastafiore: Growing really old...
MarquisLeFocht: No, you're not.
MarquisLeFocht: You're not even 23 yet!
KatyLaCastafiore: Oh, yes, I am. Every day I grow older.
KatyLaCastafiore: Well, I will be soon.
KatyLaCastafiore: Twenty-Three, that is.
MarquisLeFocht: You didn't say older; you said really old.
KatyLaCastafiore: I'm not afraid of admitting my age.
MarquisLeFocht: You were when we met!
MarquisLeFocht: Ha!
KatyLaCastafiore: No, I wasn't afraid of that!
KatyLaCastafiore: Ha!
MarquisLeFocht: I won!
KatyLaCastafiore: No, I did!
MarquisLeFocht: Did not!
KatyLaCastafiore: Did too!
MarquisLeFocht: Not, and I said it first!
KatyLaCastafiore: I said it second!
MarquisLeFocht: So you lose!
KatyLaCastafiore: No, I win. I was playing Aces are highest.
MarquisLeFocht: Oh bother.
KatyLaCastafiore: Ha, ha!
KatyLaCastafiore: (Just laughing, NOT starting another round!)
Or:
KatyLaCastafiore: I think it will be very important to kiss you every morning before you leave.
MarquisLeFocht: I figured.
MarquisLeFocht: That would be nice.
KatyLaCastafiore: Studies show that men who kiss their wives in the mornings have a lower incidence of heart failure and accidents.
MarquisLeFocht: You're just saying that!
KatyLaCastafiore: (Although if you're going out of the door dazed or something I'd think you'd be MORE likely to step in front of a truck)
KatyLaCastafiore: No, I'm sure I read it somewhere!
MarquisLeFocht: Yes, I'm sure you're sure you did.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Happy birthday Catherine!
This is a little late, but it has taken me this long to gather the photos and the time to post the photos (which I am delighted to report that I have finally learned how to do! Although I still think it is much simpler to save the photos I want to the desktop, and leave them in a temp folder for Michael to post). Congratulations to Ron and Catherine on the birth of little Catherine Elizabeth, born two weeks ago today! (That was where we dashed out so quickly between performances a week ago Saturday: to visit the newcomer and congratulate the proud parents.)
The following Thursday we dropped off some food, and took a whole series of pictures of Baby Jane admiring Baby Cate.
And then this past Monday was Catherine's birthday. I went over for lunch on Tuesday (incidentally their two-year anniversary - coincidentally exactly a week after ours, not to mention the fact that their one-year anniversary was exactly a week after ours, their wedding was exactly a week after ours, and their engagement came a week after ours. Ooh, spooky. At least we have a healthy three-month lead on the first baby - although, as Michael pointed out, we're going to have to scramble to stay ahead - they could easily beat us on the second child front) and we had a delightful time admiring our respective babies:
and reminiscing about her 21st birthday party so many years ago:
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
What's in a word?
On Sunday we were attending the cast party for Fiddler. Twice it became necessary to excuse myself in order to attend to Jane's diaper situation. Both times a mess was involved. Both times the diaper actually contained the mess and we didn't have to call in reinforcements for back-up outfits.
But here, a little background. Part of the problem with the diaper containment issue we have isolated as having to do with size. Apparently the next size up of the cheap diaper, while not perfect, is much better at containing messes, even though Jane is still well within the 8-14 lbs. recommended for Size 1. So by switching to Cheap Diapers Size 2 for most of the diaper use, and then using Huggies Size 2 at night, we think we've managed to solve the problem with a maximum of convenience and a minimum of expense.
Back to Sunday. After I returned from the second disappearance, the following conversation ensued:
Me: We need to replenish the diaper bag.
Michael: Did you run out of diapers?
Me: No, but all we had were the old diapers, so I had to use a #1 both times.
Michael: How did that work?
Me: Seemed to work, even though she messed the second time. (Pause.) (With studied nonchalance) She did a #2 in a #1.
Michael: Okay, who are you and what did you do with my wife?
Me: Hey, at least I didn't make eye contact while I said it.
Without a doubt the old Rose would never have said such a thing out loud. Somehow my delicacy threshold has been eroded. There is no way to ascertain whether marriage or parenthood has done this to me.
Someday very soon we're going to have to decide what to teach Jane to say about all this. Sigh.
But here, a little background. Part of the problem with the diaper containment issue we have isolated as having to do with size. Apparently the next size up of the cheap diaper, while not perfect, is much better at containing messes, even though Jane is still well within the 8-14 lbs. recommended for Size 1. So by switching to Cheap Diapers Size 2 for most of the diaper use, and then using Huggies Size 2 at night, we think we've managed to solve the problem with a maximum of convenience and a minimum of expense.
Back to Sunday. After I returned from the second disappearance, the following conversation ensued:
Me: We need to replenish the diaper bag.
Michael: Did you run out of diapers?
Me: No, but all we had were the old diapers, so I had to use a #1 both times.
Michael: How did that work?
Me: Seemed to work, even though she messed the second time. (Pause.) (With studied nonchalance) She did a #2 in a #1.
Michael: Okay, who are you and what did you do with my wife?
Me: Hey, at least I didn't make eye contact while I said it.
Without a doubt the old Rose would never have said such a thing out loud. Somehow my delicacy threshold has been eroded. There is no way to ascertain whether marriage or parenthood has done this to me.
Someday very soon we're going to have to decide what to teach Jane to say about all this. Sigh.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Ms. vs. Mrs., viz. Rose Focht
As I filled out an online order recently and paused before selecting a title to go with my name, it dawned on me that I no longer have to shrug away a slight sense of guilt as I click decidedly on Ms. Somehow over the past few years, my tastes have gradually changed, and although I'm sorry for all the politics behind the title, I can't help the reasons other people may have for liking or disliking something. I never thought I'd say this, but I actually like the title.
Of course my first preference for address will always be Miss, just as it's far better to be a princess than a queen, but granted that that's no longer an option for me (other than the charming southern salutation of Miss Rose, which I still get from little children and absolutely adore), far and away my second pick is Ms. Why do I feel this way? Am I not happy and fulfilled to be claimed at last, to be set apart and duly noted as someone's wife?
Of course I love being married, but I also love accuracy, and as such it is grammatically imperative that I not call myself 'Mrs. Rose Focht,' which technically means 'The wife of Rose Focht,' Mrs. being an abbreviation for Mistress. That leaves 'Mrs. Michael Focht,' not only a difficulty when one is buying a plane ticket or other item where it is imperative that the names match the driver's license, but also a check to my personal sensibilities.
I don't like the thought of being someone's mistress, even in the proper old-fashioned sense (just as I'm always trepidatious about reading aloud that passage in The Prisoner of Zenda where Sapt tells Rudolph to go in and make love to the princess - in the charming, old-fashioned sense, of course, meaning to woo and win her affections). And I'm not even sure I like the idea of being described simply as someone's wife. (I know, I know, I need to go out and read a marriage book about how being a wife and helpmeet IS a calling and there is nothing 'simply' about it.)
Seriously, I love being Michael's wife and I embrace the thought that our fates and fortunes are irrevocably linked; I am glad to have taken on his last name and there was never any question about retaining my maiden name; and I fully accept my destiny and my role as his companion and helper. But that doesn't mean that my married name has to imply the lack of a complete personal identity and an existence only in his shadow. I like my name, which already reflects my new identity as a wife, since it is a combination of my Christian name and his surname, and I'm proud to use it. Indeed it was a bit of a sacrifice to take on his name, both of my names now being so very monosyllabic, but I did it gladly as a symbol of the uniting of our two lives and the creation of a new household wherein we function as one unit. But within that union are two very different people, not just Mr. Michael Focht and Mrs. Michael Focht, which sounds a little bit like Michael Focht 1 and Michael Focht 2, like Thing One and Thing Two from The Cat In The Hat.
Besides, Mrs. just sounds so matronly and...stout. Or backwoodsy. ('The Missus is in them thar kitchen fixin' up vittles while I smoke this here pipe. Want a chaw?') It used to be that someone whose name started with Mrs. was just grown-up. Now that I'm on the other side (and indeed the grass is green), I would feel like such an impostor pretending to be a Mrs. Like I'm grown up already! Just because I have a baby and a husband!
Friday, August 12, 2005
Back in business
It's been wonderful to have family in town to visit, but it's so nice to have the house to ourselves again! Kind of like the Awana calendar - I love it when the Awana year starts afresh, and I sure do love it when it ends! We had a fabulous visit with Michael's mom and sister, and they think Jane is just the cat's pyjamas, of course. (I may be paraphrasing for them a bit, but that was the gist of it.)
The first week of the performance was spectacular. I was able to attend the Saturday matinee, and while I expected a good show and intended to be impressed by virtue of my husband having a starring role in the wedding scene, I was far and away captivated by the splendidness of the show. It was SO well done! Seldom have I been so entertained and impressed by a play (although, of course, I haven't been to enough live plays in my life). Between performances we dashed out for a quick visit upon which I will elaborate in a future post when I have pictures to accompany. Then Michael's mom and sister brought Jane down, where we traded off and they stayed for the evening performance. A grand time was had by all.
Tuesday was our second wedding anniversary. Amazing to think that it's been two years already! Michael's mom watched Jane for us again while we went out for dinner, drove around in search of chocolates and cotton robes (under the traditional system, the 2nd anniversary is cotton; under modern, it's china; but best to play it safe and fall back on the Focht Anniversary List of chocolate. Works every time, and that way we won't have to keep on keeping track of years), stopped by the library, and took a walk in the balmy air. It was a perfect evening and a fine conclusion to two superb years of marriage. And they say it just gets better and better? Bring it on!
The first week of the performance was spectacular. I was able to attend the Saturday matinee, and while I expected a good show and intended to be impressed by virtue of my husband having a starring role in the wedding scene, I was far and away captivated by the splendidness of the show. It was SO well done! Seldom have I been so entertained and impressed by a play (although, of course, I haven't been to enough live plays in my life). Between performances we dashed out for a quick visit upon which I will elaborate in a future post when I have pictures to accompany. Then Michael's mom and sister brought Jane down, where we traded off and they stayed for the evening performance. A grand time was had by all.
Tuesday was our second wedding anniversary. Amazing to think that it's been two years already! Michael's mom watched Jane for us again while we went out for dinner, drove around in search of chocolates and cotton robes (under the traditional system, the 2nd anniversary is cotton; under modern, it's china; but best to play it safe and fall back on the Focht Anniversary List of chocolate. Works every time, and that way we won't have to keep on keeping track of years), stopped by the library, and took a walk in the balmy air. It was a perfect evening and a fine conclusion to two superb years of marriage. And they say it just gets better and better? Bring it on!
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Drama, drama, drama
Upon learning that his mother and sister had never seen P&P and didn't know the story, Michael insisted upon showing it to them over the course of the past two nights. (Yet another thing I love about this man - contrary to stereotypes, Michael isn't afraid to be honest about his tastes, and if he likes something he will want to share his enthusiasm with others without worrying about image or machismo.) Afterwards the following conversation ensued:
Me: So would you call this a chick flick?
Stephanie: Absolutely. It has romance, drama, and costumes.
Michael: Most period piece costume dramas would probably be classified as chick flicks.
Me: Oh, you mean like Braveheart? Where they dress up in Scottish costumes of a different period and talk with foreign accents?
Me: So would you call this a chick flick?
Stephanie: Absolutely. It has romance, drama, and costumes.
Michael: Most period piece costume dramas would probably be classified as chick flicks.
Me: Oh, you mean like Braveheart? Where they dress up in Scottish costumes of a different period and talk with foreign accents?
Saturday, August 06, 2005
This day in history
Three years ago today was the day of Elena's baby shower. I went to PHC, played with her dollhouse, and afterwards begged myself off on Courtney (or she begged me to come, I forget which) and we slipped in to the premiere showing of LOTR, the private screening to which Ryan had been counting down for I don't know how many weeks. It was the most hilarious fun in the world to stay up late and watch Fellowship with a roomful of teenage guys, who made the movie all the more funny by their goofy commentary. When the avalanche falls on the Company at Caradhras: 'Hate it when that happens.' When the orcs come charging out of the woods at the end with all that weird face paint: 'Freedom!!!' When Boromir dies and Aragorn makes that strange gesture over his body that looks like he's crossing himself but left off the cross bar: 'Ah, he's Catholic.' Absolutely priceless, and utterly worth losing sleep over.
I wouldn't mention it and probably wouldn't even remember it except that, the next morning, I was questioning my prudence in having gone for the adventure, as I dragged myself reluctantly out of bed and faced the prospect of flying down to Atlanta for the GA conference. It's not good to be burning the midnight oil on the front end of a conference, and I regretted putting anything less than my best foot forward. However, the weekend obviously ended on a high enough note to make all second-guessing moot. The obvious moral is that people should watch LOTR more often.
I wouldn't mention it and probably wouldn't even remember it except that, the next morning, I was questioning my prudence in having gone for the adventure, as I dragged myself reluctantly out of bed and faced the prospect of flying down to Atlanta for the GA conference. It's not good to be burning the midnight oil on the front end of a conference, and I regretted putting anything less than my best foot forward. However, the weekend obviously ended on a high enough note to make all second-guessing moot. The obvious moral is that people should watch LOTR more often.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Curtains
Opening night came off splendidly, and I am SO proud of Michael, whose bottle they changed of sand at the last minute and who STILL turned in a stellar performance. He's the star of my show every day, so no surprise there.
The wretched lawn, which I had put off mowing for two weeks in anticipation of brother Benjamin being down last weekend and able to do it for me only to have it rain torrentially when he got here and thus render him unable to do it while the grass grew like crazy and I stared out the window and fumed (well, actually, we were out shopping a good bit of the time, it being Georgia's back-to-school tax-free weekend, so I wasn't THAT inconsolable, but still), is at long last shorn. It took the last three nights to do and looks like a hatchet job - if it were a person it would demand a refund and go elsewhere for haircuts from now on - but at least it's done. For now. Sometimes I don't even bother crossing 'Mow lawn' off my to-do list.
Houseguests arrive tomorrow and settle in for the next week+, so access to the computer may be sketchy. Which reminds me that I must go off and do all those little last-minutes things. Here's to life!
The wretched lawn, which I had put off mowing for two weeks in anticipation of brother Benjamin being down last weekend and able to do it for me only to have it rain torrentially when he got here and thus render him unable to do it while the grass grew like crazy and I stared out the window and fumed (well, actually, we were out shopping a good bit of the time, it being Georgia's back-to-school tax-free weekend, so I wasn't THAT inconsolable, but still), is at long last shorn. It took the last three nights to do and looks like a hatchet job - if it were a person it would demand a refund and go elsewhere for haircuts from now on - but at least it's done. For now. Sometimes I don't even bother crossing 'Mow lawn' off my to-do list.
Houseguests arrive tomorrow and settle in for the next week+, so access to the computer may be sketchy. Which reminds me that I must go off and do all those little last-minutes things. Here's to life!
Love is...
Often I am minded to quote John's epistle, beginning 'That...which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, ...declare we unto you.' I love his introduction to what follows, the confirmation that this is an eyewitness account. I believe every word of it, have complete faith in the gospel account, and know without a doubt that God loves me. Yes, but.
Up until three years ago this week, when I was still happily single and Michael and I had never even met, I knew all about God's love in a theoretical sense. I believed in it, knew I was the recipient of it, and tried to show it in my daily walk. But God, in His infinite wisdom, knew what a tangible learner I was and went one step farther. He gave me a hands-on experience of it.
I think one of the most incredible things about marriage and parenting is what an amazing image each one is, in its own way, of God's perfect love for us, using imperfect humans in the most profound object lesson.
There is simply no better way I could see Christ's love for me brought to life in a more tangible way than to see it acted out before my very eyes in the way that Michael loves me. I did not choose him; he chose me, he pursued me, he expended time and resources just to build a relationship with me because he wanted to know me better. While I was still uncertain of my feelings toward him, he risked the consequences and without giving thought to the cost to himself he committed himself to going out on a limb in the hopes that I would accept his love. I didn't even know at the time what a great guy he was, yet now the more time I spend with him, the more I marvel that he chose me and the more humbled I am at how much he put forth just to win me so we could be together the rest of our lives.
Sometimes if I am tempted to think that my life is too perfect and our marriage, fairy-tale as it seems, is too good to be true, I stop and wonder in awe (and what a tragedy, by the way, that 'awe' doesn't come in active verb form!) at the fact that, yes, it is too good to be true, but that's only because God is so good! If I think marriage is great, just how much better can the Real Thing be?
Parenting brings in a whole new dimension. This helpless child, who did nothing to win my affections through works of her own, who requires constant care and vigilance just to stay alive and who is utterly dependent on me for her every need and yet is entirely devoid of gratitude as if unaware of the huge debt she owes me, has nonetheless captured my heart. I love her as I never thought possible, and I want nothing less than to protect her from all ill. To that end I am willing to sacrifice my comfort, my convenience, my possessions, and, if it came down to it, my life for her. I know she will disappoint me. I know she will let me down. And yet, I know without a doubt that it will not shake my love for her and that I cannot, no matter what happens, ever stop loving her. When I think this through, and realise what an incredible gift God gives me in allowing me the ability to experience such depths of emotion, I want to cry, because it's exactly as if He's tapping me on the shoulder and pointing out, 'You see that? You know how much you love Jane? That's how much I love you. That's the way I feel toward you. That is exactly why I sent My Son to die for you...because I will never stop loving you, My child.' Wow. I still can't believe it.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
My all-time favourite joke
Q: What's brown and sticky?
(See end of post for answer. And no, that's not my all-time favourite; I just had to start it here so the punchline wouldn't be given away accidentally.) Here's my favourite:
So Rene Descartes is sitting at a bar. He finishes off his drink, and the bartender asks him, 'You want one for the road?' 'I think not,' he replies, setting the empty glass down regretfully. And with that - poof! - he disappears.
Ha, ha, ha! To this day I can never hear the phrase 'I think not' (so much more elegant and refined, by the way, than 'I don't think so') without my mind silently chiming in 'Poof!'
On the other eyebrow (if that was too high-brow humour, then try this for 'igh-brow - or low-brow, whatever) is the also-very-funny joke starting off this post. For punchline, scroll down to the end.
I think of this because today is Jane's three-month-old birthday, and recently I was catching up a bit in her Baby Book. There were lines for everything, and there was one section on 'The World You Were Born In.' I was delighted to find that the pop culture questions didn't stump me, and happily filled in answers until Michael laughed to see that, under Popular Music Bands, I had put down U2.
Michael: U2 is an 80s band, love.
Me: Well, Rachelle recently posted about going to one of their concerts! If that's not current, then I don't know what is!
Anyway, in another section there was a line for Funny Stories. Since the line didn't specify whether the Story in question had to feature Baby, I gleefully put down the one about Rene Descartes.
A: A stick.
(See end of post for answer. And no, that's not my all-time favourite; I just had to start it here so the punchline wouldn't be given away accidentally.) Here's my favourite:
So Rene Descartes is sitting at a bar. He finishes off his drink, and the bartender asks him, 'You want one for the road?' 'I think not,' he replies, setting the empty glass down regretfully. And with that - poof! - he disappears.
Ha, ha, ha! To this day I can never hear the phrase 'I think not' (so much more elegant and refined, by the way, than 'I don't think so') without my mind silently chiming in 'Poof!'
On the other eyebrow (if that was too high-brow humour, then try this for 'igh-brow - or low-brow, whatever) is the also-very-funny joke starting off this post. For punchline, scroll down to the end.
I think of this because today is Jane's three-month-old birthday, and recently I was catching up a bit in her Baby Book. There were lines for everything, and there was one section on 'The World You Were Born In.' I was delighted to find that the pop culture questions didn't stump me, and happily filled in answers until Michael laughed to see that, under Popular Music Bands, I had put down U2.
Michael: U2 is an 80s band, love.
Me: Well, Rachelle recently posted about going to one of their concerts! If that's not current, then I don't know what is!
Anyway, in another section there was a line for Funny Stories. Since the line didn't specify whether the Story in question had to feature Baby, I gleefully put down the one about Rene Descartes.
A: A stick.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Alaskan winter
We have entered that long dark period of dreariness where the sun of Michael's face will barely shine upon us for the next two weeks. It is officially playtime.
Rehearsals have been stepping up the pace for some time now, but so gradually that one hardly noticed them coming, except on Thursdays, which were very long days since Michael rarely made it home between work and rehearsal, and Sundays, when he'd be gone most of the afternoon and evening. But it started in earnest last week, with Wednesday and Thursday blocked off, and Friday evening being his last free evening before the end. Saturday was an all-day affair, Sunday was longer than ever, and there are dress rehearsals and run-throughs every night this week until Wednesday, which is Opening Night, also the day Jane turns three months old. Performances are every night this week and weekend, twice on Saturday, and then next week as well (though I think not every single night). It's been such fun, and a great time is being had by all (I do love it when I can stay for a rehearsal, and enjoy watching the practise and watching everyone else watch Jane), but it will be a relief when it is over. Yesterday was dress rehearsal run-through, and I stayed all afternoon at the church to watch. It was a very long day, but it went by much faster than it would have if I'd gone on home and pined away.
On the drive back Michael asked me if I could write a poem using the words Motel, Hodel, and bottle. 'They sound so similar, they're just begging to be written into a poem,' he explained. So I packed the following in his lunch box today:
Down at the wedding of Tzeitel and Motel
Perchik broke rank and was dancing with Hodel.
I had no date, so I danced with a bottle.
Rehearsals have been stepping up the pace for some time now, but so gradually that one hardly noticed them coming, except on Thursdays, which were very long days since Michael rarely made it home between work and rehearsal, and Sundays, when he'd be gone most of the afternoon and evening. But it started in earnest last week, with Wednesday and Thursday blocked off, and Friday evening being his last free evening before the end. Saturday was an all-day affair, Sunday was longer than ever, and there are dress rehearsals and run-throughs every night this week until Wednesday, which is Opening Night, also the day Jane turns three months old. Performances are every night this week and weekend, twice on Saturday, and then next week as well (though I think not every single night). It's been such fun, and a great time is being had by all (I do love it when I can stay for a rehearsal, and enjoy watching the practise and watching everyone else watch Jane), but it will be a relief when it is over. Yesterday was dress rehearsal run-through, and I stayed all afternoon at the church to watch. It was a very long day, but it went by much faster than it would have if I'd gone on home and pined away.
On the drive back Michael asked me if I could write a poem using the words Motel, Hodel, and bottle. 'They sound so similar, they're just begging to be written into a poem,' he explained. So I packed the following in his lunch box today:
Down at the wedding of Tzeitel and Motel
Perchik broke rank and was dancing with Hodel.
I had no date, so I danced with a bottle.
Language barrier
Jane has started to talk in earnest now, beyond the occasional inarticulate coo and murmur. It started rather suddenly on Saturday, when out of the blue she started talking up a storm in some obscure Scottish dialect:
'Oo 'aw? Aye, oo 'aw i' oo eh 'aw ee ewe 'aw (hiccup). Wi' eh 'aw ewe - aye, 'aw ewe.'
Hitherto our daily conversations have been either all on one side, or else very slow paced, with me making a clicking sound or a syllable and her taking ten seconds to screw up her face in an attempt to replicate the sound before giving up and falling back on the all-purpose charming smile. Now, having got the hang of it, she prattles on merrily without much regard to punctuation or even pausing to let the conversational ball be thrown back. Try to slip a word in edgewise and she keeps shooting, like one of those tennis instruction machines.
Michael: Now that she's started, she will never stop. She'll be talking constantly for the rest of her life!
Me: No, I think she'll take after me.
Michael: Ha!
'Oo 'aw? Aye, oo 'aw i' oo eh 'aw ee ewe 'aw (hiccup). Wi' eh 'aw ewe - aye, 'aw ewe.'
Hitherto our daily conversations have been either all on one side, or else very slow paced, with me making a clicking sound or a syllable and her taking ten seconds to screw up her face in an attempt to replicate the sound before giving up and falling back on the all-purpose charming smile. Now, having got the hang of it, she prattles on merrily without much regard to punctuation or even pausing to let the conversational ball be thrown back. Try to slip a word in edgewise and she keeps shooting, like one of those tennis instruction machines.
Michael: Now that she's started, she will never stop. She'll be talking constantly for the rest of her life!
Me: No, I think she'll take after me.
Michael: Ha!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
