Ex libris

The other night Michael and I decided to be productive with our time and spend the evening going through boxes in the bonus room. These are random boxes stashed away there from various events, some left there since the move and some shoved up there to get them out of the way when guests have descended. We opened the first box and started unloading books. In the process of trying to determine whether these were books destined for giveaway or simply looking for space on the overflowing bookshelves, we started paging through the books. And, hang it all, rather than make any progress whatsoever toward de-cluttering our lives, we spent the whole evening on the floor of the bonus room reading our respective books.

I read Miss Manners' Complete Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior, giggling repeatedly at the witticisms and reading occasional extracts aloud to Michael, who had heard of her but never read her writing ('She's kind of like a modern-day Jane Austen, without the British spelling'). Michael read a book on some particular WWII battle, occasionally pausing to show me interesting pictures or read some commentary. All in all, a thoroughly delightful evening. But not nearly as productive as intended.

You learn something new every day

Please tell me I'm not the last person on earth to discover that you are not supposed to put certain garments in the dryer, because the heat will damage the elastic. Hence the laughter in the scene from The Parent Trap (the original) when the dad discovers certain garments hanging over the shower rail, which I thought was simply due to the fact that dryers hadn't been invented yet.

Today is the most medium day of the year in terms of length, tying with spring equinox.

Music hath charms

To make room in the living room for the growing array of free Jane pictures which we haven't hung on the wall yet, I cleared off the top of the entertainment center, which necessitated moving the CD boombox elsewhere. What better place to put it than in Jane's room, where it can play Mozart music to her every night and nap time? The beauty of this plan is that the baby monitor sits on the dresser, too, which means that Mozart music is piped to us free and clear and we have the advantage of falling asleep to its soothing strains every night. Good for our intellects? You would think so.

The other night I made this delicious chicken and broccoli casserole, which someone brought to us after Jane was born and which I was eager to replicate. Michael took the first bite, as usual, and I waited anxiously for his good opinion.

Michael: The broccoli tastes a little crunchy. Did you cook it long enough?
Me: I should say so! The recipe said to cook it for four minutes, and I cooked it for ten!
Michael: Hmmm. Let me see the recipe. (Looks at recipe.) This is a microwave recipe! Didn't you take that casserole out of the oven?
Me: Yes, that made more sense.
Michael: It says to cook the broccoli four minutes in the microwave, which means that ten minutes in the oven wouldn't be enough. Why didn't you just follow the recipe?
Me: I didn't know you could bake things in the microwave. That seems too easy. I mean, if you really could bake things in the microwave, then why wouldn't we cook everything in the microwave? Why waste the electricity of a conventional oven at all?
Michael: Microwaves are a shortcut. Some things don't turn out the same way, but a lot of things do, and in a lot less time. Hence the recipe.
Me: Honestly, all I ever thought microwaves were good for was reheating leftovers and melting butter.
Michael: How about next time you want to not follow the recipe, you check with me first?

Apparently Mozart's music is not making me smart enough.

An afternoon at the mall

Yesterday Jane and I had the most delightful outing, making me realise all over again how glad I am to have a little girl and how much fun we shall have together. First we went to get her portrait taken at Picture People. Now I highly recommend, to everyone who has a child or two, signing up on Picture People's mailing list, because they are constantly coming out with free picture promotionals. At this point we have on display about four or five pictures of Jane, absolutely free. The disadvantage, of course, is that we have only the one copy on display, and had to exercise tremendous sales resistance not to spend a lot of money to buy the complete package, but at least one professional quality portrait is better than nothing! And I love dressing her up and taking her in to get her picture taken.

After the adorable little child smiled and laughed at the camera, we walked across the street and had lunch at Chik-fil-A. (Another place I highly recommend signing up on the mailing list for - we had a coupon for a free sandwich with purchase of drink.) While there I noticed a promotional on the cup for the Million Nugget Giveaway (www.millionnuggets.com), which has a lot of incomprehensible rules and prizes involving football, but which ends up giving away a coupon for a free Dr. Pepper if you enter to win. Not having a watch, I had no idea how quickly the time passed but I knew I had an hour to spend before the pictures were ready, so we wandered back through the mall, stopping at various stores to admire ourselves in the mirrors (Jane loves looking in the mirror, although I don't think it's dawned on her yet who that baby in the mirror actually is). It was such fun wandering through the mall with a happy little girl, who was cheerfully chewing away on her thumb and making soft gurgling noises while passers-by admired and complimented her, and contemplating all the bargains we were getting. Of course the pictures turned out beautifully, and it was sheer agony to choose just one for the free 10x13, but we made up our minds at last and came home well satisfied with our day.

I felt exactly like Merry and Pippin, having enjoyed a taste of the high and adventurous life but reveling in the simple pleasures of Old Toby and Stout. We don't last long on the heights, bless my buttons!

Diary of a good little girl, continued

Remind me again why I'm sitting in this roasting pan...













Why? Because Mama left it outside for two weeks in hopes that the rain would wash out the chicken grease and then she forgot about it and so you had to scrub it out and while you were drying it off you thought you would show her why roasting pans are useful to keep indoors? Oh, Papa, you are so funny! Did you hear that, Mama?








Very well, then, if you won't let me have my thumbs I shall suck on my lower lip.












Mmmmm...leather...

Diary of a good little girl

Look, Mama, no hands!













Let's pretend I'm pretending to talk on the telephone, instead of trying to eat it.












I like it when Papa makes funny faces at me!















Mama's funny faces aren't too bad, either.

Three is company

Recently we borrowed the complete LOTR DVD collection, the extended version with all the extras, from Benjamin and Amanda. I had seen Fellowship five times, Towers thrice, and Return once, which pretty much sums up my respective opinion of the deteriorating quality of the films, and had only seen the theatre cuts of them all. Michael had seen each one only once, also only the theatre cut. So we settled in for a long and enjoyable Fellowship spree last weekend.

Fellowship, it must be noted, is by far the best of the three and is a really good movie in its own right, being extremely well made as well as pretty faithful to the story overall. The extended version was even better than the original (unlike the new and updated Star Wars trilogy, re-released in 1997), and the only drawback to watching it was the mild distraction of constantly saying, 'That's new - that wasn't in the original, was it? No, wait, maybe it was...well, it was definitely in the book.' VERY well done and quite worth watching. The extras, of which there were hours and hours, were fascinating, and I am amazed by how much attention was given to every last little detail. No wonder the movie turned out so well - it simply reeks of quality. No cheap shots and shortcuts here. Or, as Aragorn himself would have said, 'My cuts, short or long, don't go wrong.'

Fast forward one weekend. So last night we watched Towers, which I didn't remember nearly as much of. In its defense, the extended version is much better than the original. And that's about all I can say for it. It is still much worse a movie than Fellowship, still diverges annoyingly from the plot, still casts Faramir as weak and Treebeard as unhelpful and Aragorn as having broken up with Arwen and being actually interested in Eowyn, and still has all the lame moments such as the horse-kissing scene, the indecent orc shot, and Gandalf's 'Hi-yo Silver!' moment at the end. Still, much of the stuff they cut out of the original version did clarify a lot of the plot and should have been left (even if it did make the movie exceed four hours), especially all the Merry and Pippin stuff, which was truly delightful. We have yet to watch any of the extras on this one, and I must say I want to see what the director has to say for himself, going off and making changes pell-mell to the story after spending so much time in the extras of Fellowship casting himself as this devoted Tolkien fan who holds the stories in such reverence and all that.

Where the sidewalk ends

With the price of gasoline so horrifically high these days and the burning holes in my pockets so notoriously absent, I have instituted a moratorium on frivolous gasoline burning, with car trips now being relegated to the strictly necessary. Thus my regular grocery run has been put off for more than a week as I've managed to make do with supplies from the pantry. There are two things we are constantly running out of, however, and that's bread and milk. I packed the last two slices of bread in Michael's lunch today and drank the last drop of milk this morning, leaving us potentially stranded, nutritionally speaking, for the weekend. Rather than break down and heigh-ho the car keys for anything less than an emergency would not be showing the proper Spartan spirit. So I decided that the friendly neighbourhood Kroger can't be more than a mile away, and hauled out the stroller. Jane and I set off on foot (and wheel).

It was a balmy sunny morning and the walk promised well. We headed merrily off toward the bend in the road and had gotten far enough away from home as to render any notion of turning back unthinkable when we ran up against a vintage Shel Silverstein situation. I mean to say that the sidewalk really ended, suddenly and abruptly, without any warning and no alternatives but the rugged grass or the side of the road. The street's not a highway by any means, but the speed limit must be all of 45, and the way cars - and even the occasional truck - whiz on past convinced me that this was no place for peds. There was virtually no shoulder, with maybe a foot of street between white stripe and gravel that fell off steeply toward the ditch, which certainly was not welcoming to strollers. I tried walking very quickly on the edge of the road, but the way oncoming traffic veered madly into the opposing lane convinced me that I was being a dashed nuisance to them. I eventually crossed the ditch and finished my journey to the store by cutting across front lawns (whose rough and rugged mountainous terrain should not be dignified by the term lawn), very likely trespassing but at least maintaining a steady distance of at least twenty feet from the road.

Shopping concluded, I embarked upon the return journey, only to notice that a gallon of milk and various other comestibles weighting down the storage space underneath the stroller (which was, quite literally, a strolling stroller, not a jogging or cross-country stroller) rendered the notion of traversing rough terrain laughable. Accordingly I laughed, but that did not address the issue at hand, so off we set on a spine-tingling sprint for home base. We started on the opposing side of the road, of course, looked both ways, and at the next lull in traffic hightailed it along the narrow strip of safety to the harbour of the next driveway, where we pulled off and paused, gasping for breath while cars whizzed past at dangerous speeds. And so it continued. Every time there was a momentary lull in traffic, we made a mad dash for the next driveway up, which in some cases were farther apart than you would expect from such a rapidly-developing area. At one point the next driveway seemed to recede like the fabled oasis in the desert while a huge truck loomed up over the brow of the next hill, and I felt exactly like the kid in the lame movie scene when the locomotive is steaming full tilt toward him as he runs in peril of his life to get off the railroad bridge in time. At last we got back to the place where the sidewalk inexplicably started up again, and it was all safe and happy from there.

That's our exercise for the day. Shall I be making the trip again? I think if I were a carefree young college student or something, short on money but high on dash and recklessness, I wouldn't even think twice before doing it again. But considering I have a baby to look out for--well, to quote Dr. Seuss,

By the light of the moon, by the light of a star
They walked all night, from near to far.
I would never walk. I would take a car.

Never say never

There are a lot of things I intended ('swore' is too strong a word) never to do, yet in the throes of parenting find myself doing after all. However, so far I have been able to document verifiably logical reasons for so doing:

-Talking to Baby in falsetto baby talk. I have always scoffed at this language as sounding patently silly, childish, and uneducated. Why set out to raise a person to talk like a baby?? No son por me! Yet when one has such a cute, cuddly, adorable wittle baby to play with and talk to, one finds out how absolutely irresistable speaking this language can be. The comfort, however, is an article I read recently that explains how infants have a highly developed sense of sound that is keenly attuned to the higher frequencies, such that speaking in a high register appeals very strongly to their senses. Aha! So we as mothers are only acting on the impulses God placed in our brains in order to wire us more securely to our babies!

-Writing or talking as if on behalf of my baby. Although this has been carried off with great success for Ben, Stuart, et al, I always assumed that if I tried it the effect would fall flat and sound far too kitschy and kutesy, like someone who (no offense to Barbara Bush, who is a fine and gracious lady) writes a memoir from the perspective of a dog! And yet, now that I actually have a baby of such demonstrable and obvious cleverness, it is imperative that her profound and wonderful thoughts be written down, as I'm sure she would do for herself if she could only reach the keyboard. Besides, it's really fun to imagine what she would say or think and try to project what her personality might be like.

-Taking nude pictures of my children. Disgraceful and tasteless, not to say causing great embarrassment in later life! However, I have discovered that with such a cute baby it was almost impossible not to take a couple of topless shots of her in her bath, and then from there it was a slippery slope as I rationalised away any potential angst by deciding that with a digital camera, I could always blur away any indiscreet angles later. See, as long as we don't print any immodest pictures, it doesn't count.

Good intentions and all that rot. But I beg you, stop me cold if you ever overhear me saying to my child, 'Because I'm the mother, that's why!' or 'You don't need to worry about it.'

Fan mail

Jane has gotten several pieces of mail in her lifetime, but despite all the attention remains calm and dignified in the midst of the frenzy. The first item was from the government acknowledging her existence, which was helpful. She got a couple of personal letters along with baby gifts from close friends, who despite their concern for her spiritual welfare chose not to go through her parents but bestow the loot directly on her. But by far the most overwhelming response has been from abroad, all from people who never met her and who simply can't stop showering her with tokens of their affection.

Today she received yet another package from Holland friends we met while over there in March, and it is so touching to see how excited they all are for her! Dutch little girl styles are distinctly different from American styles, but so very cute! And the sizing tags are hilarious and totally non-helpful - they consist of random numbers that have no relation to age, weight, or English sizes. It's pretty funny to get a package from Holland, because customs dictates that the identity and value of the item be declared on the postage, so of course we already know what's in the package and how much it cost before we even open it. So fun!

We are so blessed

I'm on the winning edge of a fight with a bad cold, feeling much better now that the worst is over and I can breathe lying down again. I spent much of last week feeling wretched, being glad that Jane was so easy to take care of and non-requiring of much energy/chasing down, trying not to sneeze or cough on her lest I transmit some deadly pneumococcal infection to her, and happily filling Michael in on the long-term life expectancies of cold virus germs trapped in moisture globules. ('So if I sneeze on the keyboard and you touch it any time within the next five weeks, you could still catch my cold, long after I've ceased being contagious!' Hence lots of warm soapy water.)

The long weekend has given us a bit of time to mull over the aftermath of the hurricane. At first we were concerned and solicitous. I remember last Wednesday talking very seriously about what we could do to help, and Michael stated that if he owned a boat, he'd take off work and go down there and pitch in. We talked about Dunkirk and the ability of the average citizen to pitch in and make things better, and how good deeds do not require an immediate organisation, even though massive-scale rescue endeavours like this really demand it: the first step is the good will and the industry of the participants. This is, or should be, the natural reaction to great human disasters like this.

After that I was just mad at the attitudes of the survivors and felt like, if all they were going to do was to hurl invectives and reproach at their would-be rescuers, then I'd gladly wash my hands of the whole sympathy business. Can you imagine treating a convoy of National Guardsmen - who are showing up to save your life - with contempt because they didn't get there sooner?? If that's how they respond to genuine and sincere attempts at help, then I'd just as soon leave the desperate people to their fate.

But, of course, that's not how God deals with us. He does not lightly declare that we've burned our bridges when we fail to show sufficient gratitude for His goodness. Plus there are a lot of innocent people trapped with the bad apples. Plus a bit more time of reflection convinces me that what I hear from New Orleans survivors is not vox populi, but the desperate attempts of the liberal media to manufacture a story where there is none. Apparently not so many people as they would like us to think are blaming Bush for the crisis.

Anyway we spent yesterday going through our closets and drawers and collecting all the extra clothes that we've been meaning to take to Goodwill eventually. We now have several bags to take to a local disaster relief center, which will distribute items directly to hurricane victims, many of whom have already begun arriving in our county. Somehow it's so much more motivating to give something that I know is going directly to help a basic need, like putting clothes on the back of someone who has lost everything, rather than to donate to a generic charity that will help raise money for a good cause.

And I can't help thinking how very blessed we are. We can easily spare so much stuff! Giving these bags away is a very small step toward helping those in need, and won't even feel painful, because we're not even going to miss this. How great of a sacrifice can this be? We could do so much more! But right now, on the very face of it, we have the opportunity to help people out through such a no-brainer as just giving away excess stuff, which was just cluttering up our lives anyway. (Note: a lot of it consisted of hand-me-downs that were given to us in the first place, and it's all nice, albeit used, stuff. I am not advocating giving away junk to charities just to feel good about yourself and to get rid of it.)

I don't think anyone would consider that we live a fancy lifestyle. I certainly don't feel that our living standard is by any means opulent or luxurious, and yet at times like these, when confronted with the image of destitute people who have literally nothing but the clothes on their backs, I realise just how good we really have it. Knowing that I have the ability to give from my abundance makes me feel wealthy. I always tend to be wary of giving money away, just because of the whole stewardship issue and the concern that the recipient may not use the money in the most prudent fashion; we make our charitable donations very cautiously and well-advisedly and only to organisations that we believe in and trust. But there is no reason not to give to basic needs. (Okay, I suppose someone could conceivably pawn or sell some of the clothing that we give and use it to buy drugs, but that's a long shot.) Food and clothing we all have, probably to spare, and these will always be needed and (I hope) appreciated.

Panic and pandemonium

As the news filters slowly back from New Orleans of the rampant devastation and danger, I am growing both more concerned for the innocent people caught up in the thick of all this and more irritated than ever at the people blaming President Bush for the disaster and his response to it, as if they expect him to wave a magic wand and make things better.

I've been reading the headlines all week, and it's still dawning on me just how bad the situation really is. First of all, we all breathed a sigh of relief on Monday when it appeared that the hurricane turned away and dropped to a Category 4, as it seemed that predictions of massive destruction were well overblown. It wasn't until the levees gave way that things got this dangerous, and the situation has been deteriorating since then. Again, it's been a gradual process, with the SOS's getting more and more desperate as the week wears on; it's understandably hard to absorb the scope of the aftermath if you're not there in the thick of things.

Second, since when is it the federal government's job to bail people out of bad situations? It's nice for disaster-stricken countries/communities that we have a generous federal government so willing to adopt the role of charitable organisation and divert billions of dollars in fixing problems, but that is not its job. It's a bonus - it's a gift - and the people of New Orleans should appreciate that instead of complaining that the federal and local governments are letting them down. The city had back-up plans - the Superdome and other relief shelters - which were touted up-front as being last resort contingencies, because of course the first order of business would have been for people to take responsibility for themselves and get out of there instead of expecting the city to make all their travel plans for them. Now conditions are worsening and it's somehow the government's fault for not coordinating these massive relief endeavors on a grander scale?

We saw this hurricane coming good and well. People were warned and then ordered all last week to evacuate, and I do recall reading articles over the weekend interviewing inhabitants sitting on their front porches who had decided to simply weather things out and take their chances. That's their prerogative, but are these the people now roaming the streets with guns, cracking open with forklifts the buildings left by responsible people who had the judgment to leave when the leaving was good? I know this sounds harsh, and I'm sure it takes guts to pack up what you can in a car and drive off, leaving everything behind and not knowing whether you'll have anything to return to or even if you'll be coming back next week when it's all blown over, the laughingstock of the neighborhood because it wasn't so bad as predicted. (I can only assume that's why people didn't leave last week, well before the interstates clogged up - because they refused to believe it would really get this bad.)

What's alarming to me is how easily the bad side of human nature is taking over. Crises like these always call out the best and the worst in people, but it seems as if usually the good tends to prevail with a bit more victory. On the Titanic, you had your occasional cads trying to squeeze onto a lifeboat with the women and children, but the decent men in the crowd were always plentiful enough to keep them in line. Now utter and complete anarchy prevails, and the mobs seems to have no good influences from any quarter. Is this a reflection on our times or simply on the character of the city?

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Michael called me on Wednesday to let me know that rumours of gas shortages had hit the airwaves and to advise me to get gas if I were low. So I ran out to the nearest gas station, figuring it could never hurt to take precautions. On the way there I noted a high volume of traffic, and thought to myself, 'Ha, ha, wouldn't it be funny if all these people were headed to the gas station in a panic to buy gas?' Ha, ha, indeed. The lines were incredible and the parking lot was overflowing; the price was ridiculously higher than it had been the day before, and the radio stations were all blaring the news of the gas shortages as if it were a real live crisis. I still had half a tank, so I turned right around and came home. The governor is assuring us that the pipelines will be back up by the weekend, so I shall simply conserve gasoline, as he admonishes us all to do, and not hoard.

When I visited Atlanta three years ago, Catherine told me how it was practically a state pastime to panic every time there was a winter storm brewing; so much as hint at possible snowfall and the news channels all carried reports on the lines forming in grocery stores to get bread and milk. Apparently it's a Georgia tradition to panic, lemming-like, early and often. To my knowledge a few individual gas stations have run out, but I'm sure that's due to the panic and not to any actual shortage. It's exactly like a run on the bank - and I, for one, refuse to participate in it. I may find myself stranded at home next week, but at least I'm not wasting any money on high-priced gasoline this week!

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I've been playing 'Down At The Twist And Shout' for Jane several times this week. It's our first attempt at unit studies.

Post-baby pinks

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.

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!

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.

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!

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.

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:

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.

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!

Who, me? Cute?

Little pink riding hood

Family portrait

Pretty in pink

Me Jane, you camera.

Here, Papa, let me help.

Ballerina-to-be

Bright eyes

Happy anniversary!

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!

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?

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

Marriage Q&A

So last Sunday in class we all answered a questionnaire in anticipation of a marriage panel of experienced married couples who will give advice and answer questions in a couple of weeks. We were supposed to fill them out anonymously, and I decided that we needed at least four sheets between the two of us: one for me to fill out secretly, one for him to fill out secretly, one for us to fill out together and mull over, and one for me to fill out flippantly with goofy answers. I didn't mean to peek at his sheet, but in handing the baby over I couldn't help noticing that on the first section, where we had to rate our marriage on a scale, Michael had filled in B for the first line, Communication.

Now, this shouldn't be surprising, since Michael is a perfectionist and his reasoning includes the fact that if C is considered average, B is better than average and therefore to be desired, as well as the fact that answering A is dangerous because it implies that there is no possible room for improvement. Plus his temperament calls for thoughtful, well-reasoned accuracy rather than grand sweeping bombastical eloquence. Now I would put down an A as an expression of my overwhelming enthusiasm, since you can't possibly apply the bell curve to relationships, as you do in scoring ice skating. In fact, in this context I would probably prefer a much broader scale of measurement, such as a scale of 1 to 10, so I could go off the charts with an unexpected 15 here and there, or even a million (and you would think that, with my math/verbal dichotomy, I'd prefer the traditional letter grade system!) So I understand completely why Michael might put down a B, and in all seriousness and sincerity mean it as a genuinely pleased account of the state of our marriage. To him, there is nothing ho-hum about a B. Nevertheless, this came up later in the day (yes, at the end of that awful day, when the guests had left, the baby was asleep, the dishes were done, and all was well with the world once again).

Me: So, I noticed that you gave me a B in Communication.
Michael: I wasn't grading you. The question asked me to rate our marriage. I was evaluating myself as well.
Me: Oh. (Pause.) So what's wrong with our Communication?
Michael: Rose, you know that saying we have an A in Communication means that there is no further room for improvement. Now I am prepared to state that our level of communication is better now than it has ever been yet, but that doesn't mean that I want it to stagnate right here.
Me: Oh. (Pause.) It was the song this morning, wasn't it?

(Explanatory note: On the drive to church that morning, Michael had quietly begun to hum a tune. It seemed rather aimless, as I continued to point out billboards and make words out of license plates right through the humming, but at one point it almost sounded familiar so I asked him what it was. He didn't answer but continued to hum, so I assumed he 1) didn't know 2) didn't care 3) wanted to fiendishly torment me. So I started loudly singing my own song. Attempts at conversation after that rather fell flat. It turned out it was a tune that he played for me on our honeymoon, and while he hadn't noticed he was humming it at first, once I pointed it out he wanted to see whether I would recognise it. And I, instead of picking up on the romantic and sentimental mood, went off on a short-attention-span I-can-be-independent-and-tough-like-Dr.-Dobson-says raucous singing jag, which was rather laughable once we sorted it all out, which we always do because misunderstandings in our marriage always stem from just that - misunderstandings, premised on different ways of expressing ourselves - and not from malice aforethought. Problem solved before it can begin to simmer and erode our marriage. Or so I thought. I never thought problems would simmer and pop up to haunt us on marriage questionnaires.)

Michael: What? Oh, no, that had nothing to do with it. I just thought that, to be completely honest, we should always allow for room for improvement.
Me: Is there something I should be doing to listen better? I wish you would tell me these things instead of letting them fester and putting them down on marriage questionnaires.
Michael: Oh, boy. Guess who just dropped to a B- on Openness to Criticism.

Proving once again that he is my match - nay, my superior - in arguments, in character, and in deftness of humour. What did I ever do to deserve such a man?

Glasses half full

I've never been one for pricey sunglasses, since the risk of losing them in my purse, inadvertently sitting on them, or otherwise scratching them is too great. So for the past two years I've worn the same pair that Michael bought for me at a cute little (but inexpensive) boutique right before our wedding. I blithely ignored the increased rattle, the buildup of scratches on the lenses, and the habit of the metal nose rests to snag my hair whenever I coolly pushed the sunglasses up on my head. But when the sidepiece finally snapped off, I knew the time had come to take drastic measures. Right before our Oregon trip over the 4th of July, I went to the Dollar Store to buy new sunglasses.

They were sleek, black, and almost Matrix-like - to their credit. To their discredit, they gripped my head too tightly and tried to slide up too far on my nose, thus impeding my blinking mechanism. But I stoically bore with it because they looked so cool and because I had spent good money on them. I went off to Oregon, had a great time not getting blinded by the sun, and enjoyed pushing them up on my head whenever I went indoors because I had cleverly purchased an all-plastic pair, with nothing to snag in my hair.

Then I managed to lose them the week after we got back. I went to the County Courthouse to pick up Jane's birth certificate, and somehow in the process of unloading my purse for security and traipsing through the building in search of wrong departments I misplaced the things (or thing. Plurals are such fun! Like, is a two-pack of underwear a pair or not?) This did not distress me as much as one would suppose, because it gave me an excuse to go back to the Dollar Store and buy another pair, this time devoting greater attention to fit. My new pair doesn't look nearly so Matrix-like, but they do look sleek and black. More importantly, the hue of the shade is on the lines of the warm spectrum, infinitely preferable to the cool tones of blue or green. I like the view very much. In fact, as I announced to Michael with great delight when he came home that night:

'I now see the world through rose-coloured glasses!'

THAT sort of day

So yesterday was supposed to be a day of rest. And, in the end, it really was a nice day. But there was a point at which, had I had the time, I would have dashed in here to blog about it, simply because it was so unbelievably awful, and ended it up with

'I simply MUST scream.

'AAAAUUUGHHH!

'There. I feel much better.'

That post did not have time to get written, but I will chronicle it in all its gory details, glossed over and brushed up by the light of day.

The backdrop involves the cheap diapers we've been using for Jane, about which we can't complain because they were a gift, but which are so bad at - ahem - containment as to be virtually worthless. It's gotten to the point where feedings are interrupted at the first indication of a grunt on Jane's part, while I whisk her off to the changing tabe in an attempt to catch whatever there may be before it gets onto her clothes and then, in quick progression, onto me, the chair, the boppy, the carpet, etc. At night it's simply a - well, a nightmare. I will inevitably awaken her for her middle-of-the-night feeding to find yellow goo overflowing through her clothes and usually spreading itself through the blankets, which involves a trek to the bathroom to start the water running (and the hot water takes a lo-o-o-o-ong time to reach the second bathroom), peeling off her clothes gingerly in an attempt to minimise smear over any of the rest of her body which may not yet be affected, hoping I remembered to turn off the baby monitor so Michael won't be awakened by the din, having to turn on all the lights to clean things up so it ends up that she's good and awake and has to be put down altogether again...all in all, it turns into a grueling ordeal on a much more regular occurrence than it should. For all this, I might as well be using cloth diapers.

And that's only setting the stage. Saturday night had been such a night. I awoke with one count against me. Off we dashed to church, after which went out to eat at a nice Thai place that we just discovered, which has excellent prices and delicious food. Unfortunately my goal of talking all about the marriage questionnaire we completed in our Young Marrieds Sunday school class was thwarted by Jane getting fussy in the restaurant, of all places. For such a perfect baby to suddenly go weepy on me in public (and I don't even believe in taking young children to nice restaurants unless they can behave themselves properly) made me feel all Ugly-American-ish and apologetic and flustered. We dashed out of there, lunch wrapped to go, which meant, of course, on such a hot day, that I mustn't linger along the way. Back to church to drop Michael off for Fiddler rehearsal. Last week's rehearsal, a complete run-through of Act I, lasted over six hours. The director informed us that this one would be much shorter. I dreamily contemplated a nice long afternoon nap and a pleasant dinner with friends who offered to bring Michael home after practise. But it was not to be.

Traffic to get to the highway was backed up, so I took what should have been a shortcut and ended up spending nearly half an hour just getting to the highway, fighting idiot drivers who couldn't make lane changes or run green lights in crummy neighbourhoods while Baby whimpered and then cried for her long-overdue lunch from the backseat. Car still hot. Food probably spoiling rapidly. Back home at long last, where I spotted the glass of chocolate milk I'd poured before leaving for church sitting on the counter, of course rotten by now. At least managed not to spill it on the carpet while dumping it down the drain before headed to Baby's room to take her out of car seat, only to trip over pile of messy blankets left in doorway to be dealt with later. Suddenly remembered baby outfit soaking in yellow goo in guest bath sink, messy diaper left unfolded and thrown away on changing table, and lack of clean onesies to change Baby into as said onesies were all in the laundry basket in laundry room, some washed, some not. Off to the laundry room to dig through laundry basket. Did I remember to take ground beef out of freezer this morning to make casserole with which to feed guests tonight? Oh, and must pack Michael's lunch before said guests arrive, as no telling how late they may stay. Message machine blinking, which reminds me suddenly that yesterday I told someone to call me today at one, completely forgetting that it would be Sunday, which means that I now have to return a phone call which would NOT stress me out under normal circumstances but, dash it all, can't things have the goodness not to all happen at once?? Back to the nursery again, only to trip over the rocker which has no business being there. The boppy falls to the floor, meaning I must bend over to pick it up, and I still haven't changed out of my Sunday clothes yet or kicked off the uncomfortable sandals....It was at this point that the camel's back broke. It wasn't the day itself that got to me so much as the thought that I might have days and days on end like this, and the thought that the doorbell might ring in the midst of it all instead of Fate leaving me to wallow in my misery in private. So that's why I wanted to scream, to banish all that nervous tension so that I might get on with feeling better all the sooner. Instead I simply toiled away at the grindstone until all the fires were put out, and had to content myself with feeling better by degrees. There was no nap. But there was sparkling cider and a game of Clue at the end of the day, so it was a happy ending after all.

And, by the philosophical light of day, I must remind myself that if that sort of day is so unbelievably bad and out of the ordinary as to merit notice, then I really must have it all right. Trifles, trifles!

How much fear is safe?

Recently I was reading an article about the dangers of posting pictures of your children online, and how, regardless of whether strange people actually track them down and molest them, it's still a danger to their souls to have it out there. Certainly it's a valid concern, and I always find it sobering to be seriously confronting the dangers of the evil world out there. Generally I tend to be laid-back about risks, and until I met Michael I never locked my car, my front door, or shredded my personal papers. He has a very admirable sense of safety and caution, due I think in part to his perfectionistic personality and in part to his military training. As far as regards myself, I think I'd tend to dismiss most concerns as mere paranoia and conclude that it's better to take a few risks than live a life of fear and trembling. But when you start bringing my child into it!!!

This all came up right in the throes of the capture of the Wichita killer, about whom I'd never heard before but read with fascination how a generation of Wichita women grew up checking the phone line whenever they entered their home...just in case....Suddenly I began to wonder whether our home was safe enough, and for several days my mind has been processing worst-case scenarios of how to react if I discovered someone in our house. At what point do I decide to make a run for it or to call 911? How desperate must it be for me to elect to go through a window? How should I shield my face from the glass while providing maximum protection to Jane? (I even asked Michael what I should do if I found someone bending over the crib, threatening to kill Jane unless I dropped the gun. Michael's response: 'You shoot him. He's going to kill you both otherwise.')

It has been awhile since I shot off a gun, so Michael gave me a refresher course on loading and checking the safety lock. I have my concealed carry permit now, so this would be the ideal time to get a small firearm to carry with me, but I'm still thinking through the practical ramifications of what that actually means. For someone who's always losing her car keys in her very own purse, I'm not sure I want to accept the responsibility of carrying a loaded gun around with me, especially while manhandling a car seat and diaper bag.

So the article did give me pause to consider. I know it wouldn't be too hard for some determined creep (in the II Timothy 3:6 sense, leaving off the part about the silly women) to track us down, considering the clues I've carelessly dropped throughout the past year+. One thing I did do promptly was to edit my profile, cutting down on personal info and no longer allowing my blog to be accessible to the public. I had only just added this feature because I just noticed it, not being one to tinker much with the behind-the-scenes stuff; but I had added it after noticing that when someone posts a comment on someone else's blog and the name appeared to be a link, I could click on it and discover a whole new chain of events! In fact, it was under just such circumstances that I discovered this sobering article in the first place.

But I've decided to swear it off: much as I could enjoy expanding my horizons, the temptation would be to spend way too much time reading blogs while I should be devoting my energies to the duties I signed up for when I embarked upon marriage and parenthood. (NOT to sound bleak! At different times I have had to curtail my IM time-wasting or email time-wasting when I had a job, too. One can get carried away to excess in practically anything.) And furthermore, I don't care if my profile leads (even would-be friendly) strangers to a dead end when they try to discover my identity from some comment left on someone else's blog. The people who need to read my blog know how to find me. It's an interactive conversation for a tightly-knit group of friends, not an ego prop for a statistics junkie who agonises over the number of hits on his meter and the number of 'mentions' his blog elicits from other, famous-er blogs. (There are people who actually do this! I read a whole article on it last week in my blog perambulations...but no more.) (And, my friends, if any of you check a statistics meter, seriously, no offense! Of course it's normal to wonder if anyone's reading your creative genius. This article bordered on obsession, I swear.)

Back to the safety dilemma. Ultimately I have to remind myself that our lives are in God's hands. We can take the necessary precautions (and I'm still stuck over what precisely that means in this scenario) and must trust Him to carry out the heartening promise in II Timothy 1:7- For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. I SO need that power and sound mind!

Tummy time

By Jane (Baby) Victoria

Almost every day now, Mama brings me into her room and sets me down while she collects a pile of my clothes from that big white machine that makes that funny noise. She must really enjoy this, because she keeps telling me how fun it is. 'Soon, Jane, you will be able to do this all on your own!' But then, she says that about a lot of things, too. 'Look, Baby, I'm unloading the dishwasher. Pay attention because you will be doing this yourself very soon!' 'See, Jane, Mama is putting muffin liners in the muffin pans. This will be your job one day.' 'Baby, watch Mama vacuum. Isn't this fun?'

Anyway, I can always tell when she is about to start playing with my clothes, because she brings one of my blankets first and says, 'Now we are going to have some Tummy Time.' Then she goes on to explain that she calls it Tummy Time only because she likes the alliteration, and not because it's called a Tummy. 'It is very important that you use the correct names for things, Baby. See, this is your Chest and this is your Abdomen. Or you could just say Front for the whole thing. Tummy and Belly are not specific enough to use. No, a Stomach is an organ.' Ha! She means so well, but obviously it must be a Tummy, since that's what Papa calls it. I like Tummy Time, since I can lift my head up and I get to look around, although often my Tummy makes embarrassing noises when I lie on it. Oops. But Mama doesn't seem to mind. She just says, 'Good girl, Jane! I was hoping you would say that!' and goes right on playing with my clothes. But if she's trying to make origami, I think it's really boring - always the same old shapes!

I am NOT yelling

Which, according to modern-day online parlance etiquette, consists of using all-caps. I find, however, that using caps is a convenient way of expressing emphasis when the traditional underline, italics, and bold are not available. As far as I am concerned, the recommended practise of setting off type for emphasis by using *asterisks* is not effective. Asterisks imply ethereal and dreamy thoughts that drifted into the paragraph almost by mistake, and then settled down for a wistful and somewhat noncommittal visit. *sigh* I mean, the very sight of them implies stars or wispy clouds, not a multi-purpose cross between bold and underlining augmentation. In my opinion, there is NOTHING wrong with using all caps as long as one's tone is held firmly in check. If I had any thoughts of yelling I would indicate that by using an exclamation point, preferably several! And even then, my intention would not be express anger or impatience, but merely exuberance!! The more punctuation, the greater the exuberance!!!

That's all??

I just found out that port is simply wine from Portugal. How very boring! Here I thought it was some classy drink that all proper English gentlemen had on their side-tables, and it's merely another variation on alcohol.

We just finished the bottle of Mountain Rose wine that we bought on our honeymoon. It was a very sweet wine as wines go (and as wines go, it went), although I still cannot drink alcohol in any form without cringing from the aftertaste. I'm still working (all work still being in the theoretical sense, and not the practical sense) on patenting a splendid invention, a cross between sparkling apple cider and champagne: the exciting taste of the former with the happy after-effect of the latter.

Things that go bump in the night

Sometimes I can be very easily creeped out by things. Especially when the house is dark and I am home alone, it can be hard to repress the lurking suspicion that a dead body or a skeleton may fall out of a closet onto me when I open the door, or that a cold hand may reach out and grab my ankle when I walk past a bed or dresser. I was explaining all this to Michael last night, and he, kind man, wanted to be sure I had as little cause for alarm as possible. He even offered to go through the house with me right then and there, opening doors and proving there were no corpses behind them, but I hardly felt that necessary. After all, the creepy things wouldn't be foolish enough to be caught lurking about when he was there.

This morning I was changing Jane's diaper when I heard a loud shuffling sound approaching. I peered down the hallway and saw Michael, who should have been asleep in bed.

Michael: Just letting you know I'm coming so you won't be alarmed.
Me: Yes, but that's also the sound mummies make.
Michael: Silly! Everyone knows that mummies can't be seen by day. In the daylight they turn into sand.

I did not know this, as it happens, but it's a great relief to hear. I feel a whole lot safer now.

Triskadeckaphobia, anyone?

Recently Michael taught me the phonetic alphabet used by the Marines. (I suppose it's also used by the airline industry, the rest of the military, and anyone else who has to communicate over airborne soundwaves.) It begins Alpha, Bravo, Charlie...and has interesting words like Foxtrot and Tango in it. Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway) I like it very much. In the Marine Corps, various groups (I still haven't sorted out all the designations, so I don't know the hierarchy governing what constitutes a battalion, troop, or division) are assigned different letters for purposes of distinction, and they are therefore nicknamed their corresponding phonetic letter: Easy Company, Delta Company, etc.

Now I find this next point very interesting. J is Juliet, and R is Romeo. However, when assigning letters to groups of soldiers, J is inevitably passed over, like the thirteenth floor on every elevator. Fascinating, eh? I asked Michael why this would be. Duh! No guy's gonna want to belong to Juliet Company!!! Straight from India to Kilo it goes.

I suppose this does prevent various difficulties that might arise if, say, Romeo Company and Juliet Company got sent off to perform maneuvers together:

'Romeo! Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo?'

'Idiot! We're supposed to be sneaking up on them!'

Can you tell that I really, really, really missed my computer?

I just noticed, from typing an email too fast, that if I accidentally move my hands over one space, signing my name sounds like I'm suppressing a bloodcurdling yelp: EIAW!

~Eiaw

Speak not of hurricanes from the midst of the whirlwind

On Saturday I had the delight of attending Catherine's baby shower, which felt a bit like deja vu since she hosted one for me a few short months ago - at which point we had no idea about Jane - which in turn felt like deja vu since it was the exact repeat of Jenna's baby shower a year and a half before, which I attended directly after moving down to Georgia - and it was Jenna co-hosting this shower - which just goes to show you that running around in conversational circles only works if you talk very fast, as I explained to Michael recently. Before eating Jenna had us all hold hands while she prayed for the food. At one point she prayed, 'And we thank you, Lord, for inventing such a wonderful way of starting people.' A subdued snicker ran around the room. She went on to say, in the most reverent tone, 'How special that we all start out as precious babies - and please help us to welcome this little Garner baby into the world.' It was a lovely thought, but the damage had been (quite innocently) done, and we were all smiling still as we filed in to eat.

Full house

So we had barely gotten our toes back under us from the trip to Oregon when Oma came to visit us for the weekend. We had a wonderful time with her, during which she got us a baby monitor, a bath mat, and a napkin holder. Oma's not keen on surprises, so the advantage of shopping with her for presents is that you always get exactly what you want and need. She duly admired Jane, and was sorry to go on Sunday evening. Michael attended Fiddler rehearsal while I took her to the airport, and then we came home at last, intending to finally recuperate this week.

Then yesterday morning I got a call from a VA friend, saying that her daughter's connecting flight to FL had been cancelled and she was stranded at the airport. Could I rescue her? Of course! Down went Jane and I to the airport, and we had the nicest impromptu visit, during which we taught our guest how to play Clue.

Michael: Well, I'm going to make a real shot in the dark here...
Me: Ah, ha, ha! Let me guess. It was the revolver!

Fortunately the flight was rescheduled. So this morning I drove to the airport for the fourth time in five days. It has been lovely, but the computer's residing in the guest room means that I've been going through severe email and blog withdrawal for many a day, with only hurried snatches here and there to admire Meredith. I'm looking forward to having Life return to normal.

Saviour, like a shepherd lead me (and give me a man who will sing me to sleep)

Last night I found out that one night, during our engagement, after I fell asleep while riding back from a date, Michael sang to me all the way home. This came up while we were reading Isaiah, and something reminded him of a song, which he sang to me in full. 'Remember this one?' 'Nope, never heard it before,' I told him. 'Yes, you have, but you may not remember it,' he said, and then proceeded to enlighten me. We had gone to Shepardstown (sp?) to listen to the mountain music, and while I fell asleep Michael drove on and sang. I don't remember any of this, but it was so sweet to know. 'I am so glad I married you!' I told him.

Speaking of Isaiah, we just read about Sennacharib and Hezekiah (to whom the Lord said, 'Set your house in order, for you are about to die,' at which he turned his face to the wall. What lovely turns of phrase!), and I was reminded of Lord Byron's poem beginning 'The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,' which of course leads directly to Ogden Nash's delightfully funny spoof Very Like A Whale: 'In the first place, George Gordon Byron had enough experience To know that it probably wasn't just one Assyrian, it was a lot of Assyrians.' Very clever man, Ogden Nash!

So, after I had got through admiring Michael for singing to me without my knowing it all those months ago, I remarked, 'Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.' He gave me the blankest look. 'Where did that come from?' Usually he knows that when I'm quiet for more than five seconds in the middle of a conversation, I'll be miles away by the time I speak again.

Thicker than water

This past weekend has been an absolute whirlwind in terms of time zones and social activities, but a total breeze in the way of childcare. Jane never lacked for loving arms clamouring to hold her.

The premise of the trip was to surprise Grandpa (Daddy's father) for his 75th birthday. Out of his seven children, he thought five would be there (four live more or less locally and one had already planned to fly out over the 4th). Little did he know that his son and family from Washington would drive down and that his other son and co. - including great-grandchild - would also be there. It was a masterpiece of a surprise and a complete coup d'etat.

Michael and I flew out Friday night - or Saturday morning, rather, as our 9:00 flight didn't actually leave the ground until after midnight. Jane was mainly angelic, although an annoying flight attendant with a droning voice somehow got hold of the overcom rather more than was necessary and kept startling her awake. I swear, he must have skipped the elocution lessons at flight school. I think the only line he got right the entire flight was, 'Flight attendants, prepare for cross-check and arrival.' But all was well that ended well, and as what goes up must come down, we landed at last and none the worse for wear.

All the out-of-town contingent assembled in Dallas, and then we descended en masse upon the park, where the others were staging a party for Grandpa in the park. Somehow they distracted him, and while his back was turned we piled out of various cars, dashed across the grass, and broke into 'Happy Birthday' behind him. His expression alone was worth the whole trip - it truly was the best birthday present anyone could have given him!

The rest of the weekend was far too short, of course, and consisted of the classic Garber pastimes of eating, talking, and talking about food. I love being with family, and miss all the relatives so much. It was so wonderful for Michael to get a taste of what it was like growing up in the thick of all that. Garber family gatherings are sort of like My Big Fat Greek Wedding, except nobody's big, fat, or Greek. All weekend long we kept quoting the exchange: 'Are you hungry?' 'No.' 'Okay - I make you a sandwich.'

There were too many witticisms and special moments to recount, but one comes readily to mind from Tuesday morning at breakfast. Michael and I came to Aunt Rosanne's to pick up Leah, where she had stayed the night before, and had breakfast with Rosanne, Aunt Amy, and Leah. Just before our arrival, Rosanne walked into the living room and announced, 'Here are the choices for your dining pleasure this morning: a flop, and a probable flop.' And then, as she explained it to us when we arrived: 'The biscuit batter was all mixed up when I discovered I'd left out the egg. Now, a slimy egg is not something you can mix into a preconceived notion like that, so I just made another batch.' We tried several biscuits and couldn't even tell them apart.

Jane was the toast of the town, of course, and received widespread acclaim from all her uncles and first-cousins-once-removed, some of whom are barely eight years old. I only wish we could visit more often.

Bon voyage!

And we're off on Jane's first plane trip...well, the first one on which she has to deal with ear pressure, anyway. It's going to be a splendid weekend, albeit much too short.

Some fun facts about Oregon:

- Michael and I were both born in the town of Dallas. Only, for him it was Dallas, TX, whereas for me it was Dallas, OR.

- The flight from Atlanta to Portland is five hours long. From Atlanta to Amsterdam was nine hours, meaning it takes more than half as long just to fly across the country as it does to fly across the Atlantic. (Years ago, when we lived in Oregon, relatives from Holland came to visit my grandparents in Maryland. One day, while they were planning their itinerary, they said, 'Oh, let's go over to Oregon and see Jon and Olga.' What a surprise it was to them to realise that not all distances in the US are as easily drivable as in the Netherlands.)

- Oregon was admitted to the Union on February 14th, 1849. So this day always has special significance to me as Oregon's birthday, and not as some romantic holiday. (As I've told Michael, however: I'll still take the chocolates.)