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?
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
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!'
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!'
Monday, July 25, 2005
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!
'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!
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
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!
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!
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!
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
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!!!
Monday, July 18, 2005
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.
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.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
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!'
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!'
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
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
~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.
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.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, July 01, 2005
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.)
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.)
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Churches and anecdotes
As we drive to church each Sunday, we pass a huge billboard for a large and popular church in our area. The picture is a close-up of an electric guitar, and the tagline is 'For people who don't do church.' I've received flyers for this church in the mail, all of them touting its coolness, acceptance, and non-traditionalism. If you think church should be fun, without the hassle of conscience-pricks or pleas for money, then this is the place for you!
It occurred to me that part of the problem with watered-down theology and worldliness in the modern American church can be traced to personal laziness. We keep hearing, as churches push the limits and leave the sacred and the traditional for the cool and hip, that it's all in the cause of reaching the lost.
But is this a proper application for the church? Or shouldn't the church be sending out disciples and ambassadors into the world for that very purpose? After all, the church is defined as the Body of Christ. Throughout the New Testament, the church is described as consisting of the gathering of the Believers. Church, therefore, in the corporate sense, should be concerned with feeding the flock and edifying the saints.
I'm not saying that evangelism shouldn't be on our plate - it should be. So much so that nourished and edified saints should be so full of love and enthusiasm that they cannot help but tell others of Jesus Christ and bring these new converts in droves to church with them. We are supposed to go find them and convert them, not lure them to us by pretending to be like them and then - surprise! - trick them with a bait-and-switch.
I don't think the church is an appropriate place for unrepentant sinners. After all, we're actually commanded to excommunicate unrepentant back-slidden Christians and have no fellowship with them. That doesn't mean that we shouldn't be loving and accepting toward those who are searching - just that our mission to them should be outside the church, not in.
Making church a fun place to hang out, proffering the excuse that it's a great evangelistic ploy, is an easy cop-out from true evangelism. After all, it's so much easier to invite someone to church (a hit-and-run seed-sowing, if you will, as contrasted with the years of one-on-one discipling Jesus modeled) than to actually bare one's soul and talk about the Gospel. 'Hey, you want to come to church with me this weekend? Don't worry - it's really cool. You won't feel out of place. It's so fun you won't even know you're at church!'
***************************************************
I'm moving more and more away from the model of using anecdotal evidence from Scripture to justify doctrine. Perhaps this caution comes from an overdose of this kind of Biblical interpretation when I was younger, when I accepted all these theories as principles at face value. I'm not suggesting that we can't learn from others' examples. We should do exactly that. That's why so many of those stories were written: as an example for us, as Scripture itself says, not as common law precedent. We are supposed to learn from them, not copy them.
The most misguided example of this kind of extrapolation, in my opinion, involves the teaching that dancing is wrong because, among many other things, we read of Miriam leading the women of Israel in a dance after the defeat of Pharaoh's armies and the very next time we hear of her, she is teaming up with Aaron to challenge Moses' authority. Clearly, dancing gave her the uppity spirit of independence, so it was wrong for her, and it is wrong for us to dance. Now that's a real stretch. Are you going to argue that since Aaron got off the hook with a mere slap on the wrist, we should all join the priesthood to enable us to get away with sinning, because it worked for him? Nonsense! You can extract all kinds of morals from any given fable, which is why you can't rely on stories for building a creed.
The specific application of this particular train of thought came to me when I was pondering the best kind of tax system, and had just about concluded that a poll tax was really the best. 'And it's even Biblical!' I thought with triumph. Then it dawned on me to question whether, just because it was how God assigned taxation for the children of Israel in the Old Testament, it was necessarily the best system for America today. I think it has a lot going for it. But such a system should stand on its own merits, not be our first choice just because It's In The Bible.
It occurred to me that part of the problem with watered-down theology and worldliness in the modern American church can be traced to personal laziness. We keep hearing, as churches push the limits and leave the sacred and the traditional for the cool and hip, that it's all in the cause of reaching the lost.
But is this a proper application for the church? Or shouldn't the church be sending out disciples and ambassadors into the world for that very purpose? After all, the church is defined as the Body of Christ. Throughout the New Testament, the church is described as consisting of the gathering of the Believers. Church, therefore, in the corporate sense, should be concerned with feeding the flock and edifying the saints.
I'm not saying that evangelism shouldn't be on our plate - it should be. So much so that nourished and edified saints should be so full of love and enthusiasm that they cannot help but tell others of Jesus Christ and bring these new converts in droves to church with them. We are supposed to go find them and convert them, not lure them to us by pretending to be like them and then - surprise! - trick them with a bait-and-switch.
I don't think the church is an appropriate place for unrepentant sinners. After all, we're actually commanded to excommunicate unrepentant back-slidden Christians and have no fellowship with them. That doesn't mean that we shouldn't be loving and accepting toward those who are searching - just that our mission to them should be outside the church, not in.
Making church a fun place to hang out, proffering the excuse that it's a great evangelistic ploy, is an easy cop-out from true evangelism. After all, it's so much easier to invite someone to church (a hit-and-run seed-sowing, if you will, as contrasted with the years of one-on-one discipling Jesus modeled) than to actually bare one's soul and talk about the Gospel. 'Hey, you want to come to church with me this weekend? Don't worry - it's really cool. You won't feel out of place. It's so fun you won't even know you're at church!'
***************************************************
I'm moving more and more away from the model of using anecdotal evidence from Scripture to justify doctrine. Perhaps this caution comes from an overdose of this kind of Biblical interpretation when I was younger, when I accepted all these theories as principles at face value. I'm not suggesting that we can't learn from others' examples. We should do exactly that. That's why so many of those stories were written: as an example for us, as Scripture itself says, not as common law precedent. We are supposed to learn from them, not copy them.
The most misguided example of this kind of extrapolation, in my opinion, involves the teaching that dancing is wrong because, among many other things, we read of Miriam leading the women of Israel in a dance after the defeat of Pharaoh's armies and the very next time we hear of her, she is teaming up with Aaron to challenge Moses' authority. Clearly, dancing gave her the uppity spirit of independence, so it was wrong for her, and it is wrong for us to dance. Now that's a real stretch. Are you going to argue that since Aaron got off the hook with a mere slap on the wrist, we should all join the priesthood to enable us to get away with sinning, because it worked for him? Nonsense! You can extract all kinds of morals from any given fable, which is why you can't rely on stories for building a creed.
The specific application of this particular train of thought came to me when I was pondering the best kind of tax system, and had just about concluded that a poll tax was really the best. 'And it's even Biblical!' I thought with triumph. Then it dawned on me to question whether, just because it was how God assigned taxation for the children of Israel in the Old Testament, it was necessarily the best system for America today. I think it has a lot going for it. But such a system should stand on its own merits, not be our first choice just because It's In The Bible.
What I really need...
I was always inventing things when younger which, if they had come off, would have been an enormous boon to the world. Actually I didn't really invent them, merely conceive the ideas and wish that someone else would come up with the specs for such things as magic wands, individual flying machines, shrinking/enlarging machines, invisibility bubbles, and the like. No one has stepped up to the task, however, so I submit a revised list of helpful things to invent:
- 'Polite' setting for car horns. The fear of being thought rude all but renders the horn useless, since its original intent as warning device has been so abused as a mouthpiece for frustration. What I want is something the equivalent of a car clearing the throat, so I could tap on it when the car in front of me has sat at the same light for five seconds together.
- A reverse dictionary. It's all very well and good to look something up if you know what you're looking for, but if you can't remember the word, or don't even know what it is, then you're left seeking both the dream and the interpretation thereof. It's no use looking it up, because online dictionaries may not use the same words to describe it that you do.
Gripe of the day: I dislike this new trend to describe all babies as 'she,' simply as a cheap refuge from having to use the generic male pronoun or the grammatically correct but rather cumbersome he or she. Parenting Magazine does it all the time, but it's everywhere these days. Ugh. How is that not sexist in the opposite direction?
- 'Polite' setting for car horns. The fear of being thought rude all but renders the horn useless, since its original intent as warning device has been so abused as a mouthpiece for frustration. What I want is something the equivalent of a car clearing the throat, so I could tap on it when the car in front of me has sat at the same light for five seconds together.
- A reverse dictionary. It's all very well and good to look something up if you know what you're looking for, but if you can't remember the word, or don't even know what it is, then you're left seeking both the dream and the interpretation thereof. It's no use looking it up, because online dictionaries may not use the same words to describe it that you do.
Gripe of the day: I dislike this new trend to describe all babies as 'she,' simply as a cheap refuge from having to use the generic male pronoun or the grammatically correct but rather cumbersome he or she. Parenting Magazine does it all the time, but it's everywhere these days. Ugh. How is that not sexist in the opposite direction?
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Oh, I remember now
The other thing I was thinking about (that was my rant, and now this is my rave) was a question of income and choices. Now, I don't want to judge others for the choices they make in life. But I do want accuracy in conversation, and that's why it irritates me so much when people mistakenly make the assumption that it has to be a certain way. I've heard this repeated many times in my life, but I've gotten it especially within this last year, when people heard that I intended to quit my job to raise my child: 'Oh, you're so lucky to be able to stay home. I wish I could, but I have to work.' And I smile politely and think, Not so!
Please don't get me wrong. I am not criticising these families' decisions. I am simply pointing out that it is, in fact, a decision they are making. With very few exceptions in today's world, there is probably no reason why any family could not live on one income. Of course it would require certain sacrifices. What these ladies really mean is that they are not willing to make those sacrifices to live on one income. Sometimes it could mean really drastic sacrifices. But it is, ultimately, a matter of priority. Basically, what they mean to say is that they cannot afford to stay home and support the lifestyle to which they are accustomed, or even one which they would prefer. I know it's not always easy, and I'm not implying that everyone two-income family has a plush and extravagant lifestyle. But I do wish to insist that it can be done.
Please don't get me wrong. I am not criticising these families' decisions. I am simply pointing out that it is, in fact, a decision they are making. With very few exceptions in today's world, there is probably no reason why any family could not live on one income. Of course it would require certain sacrifices. What these ladies really mean is that they are not willing to make those sacrifices to live on one income. Sometimes it could mean really drastic sacrifices. But it is, ultimately, a matter of priority. Basically, what they mean to say is that they cannot afford to stay home and support the lifestyle to which they are accustomed, or even one which they would prefer. I know it's not always easy, and I'm not implying that everyone two-income family has a plush and extravagant lifestyle. But I do wish to insist that it can be done.
Thursday (but it's really Wednesday)
On Saturday we trotted off to the portrait studio to get our picture taken, because I'd a coupon for a free sitting and free 8x10. This one had the advantage of applying to any number of persons, so we made it a family portrait, which meant, of course, that I wanted Michael to shave. Which threw his schedule off for the whole rest of the week, because instead of Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday, he skipped Sunday, shaved Monday, and shaved this morning. All of this to say that when I smell aftershave during our good-bye kiss in the morning, I know it's a Tuesday or Thursday, so I'm off this entire week also. And this explanation really only makes sense if you base your life on trivialities and habits, like Miss Bates in Emma. 'Remember, Mother? Not Jane's Day. Oh, sorry - napkin.'
Hard to believe we'll be flying to Oregon in just two days!
Hard to believe we'll be flying to Oregon in just two days!
Thursday, June 23, 2005
While the sun does not stand still
First, I've been mulling over the issue of abortion. It saddens me in a general sense that so many people are making the common-enough mistake of the Right, that of allowing their opponents to define the terms and arguments and trying to argue back. We shouldn't have let them set up the premise that it's us v. them, the baby-lovers v. the women-supporters, because then all we can do is lamely try to argue that, well, a baby's life should be more important than a woman's convenience, the matter of life having been sufficiently drawn into question as to muddy the waters on that score. But more importantly, we have failed as Christians to communicate God's love effectively. Yes, it's true that God loves all His creatures, and that we should protect the innocent by championing the cause of the babies. But that stops far short of agape love. Shouldn't we express the love that God surely feels by pointing out that we love women too, and that's why we want to protect them? Making them the enemy ('baby-killers') is wrong, as is any wholesale condemnation of fellow sinners who could also be saved by grace, but it's also politically stupid. What we need to do as policy-makers and conservatives is to redefine the playing field to extend our championship to the women in these situations, as Christians should surely be doing. Actually, you can see this in the private sector in the form of pregnancy care centers, but that attitude needs to be pursued in the realm of public policy. So when the charge comes up that we are just agitating about the fetus and don't care about the woman, we need to be able to reply, 'No, we do care about women, which is why we are calling you accountable for this terrible exploitation of women and the incredible cover-up. You are not interested in helping women, you are interested in prolonging policies that will enrich your cause, and you know that there's big money in the abortion industry. You know that abortions do not help women, and it's because we care about them and want to protect them from the proven physical and emotional consequences of this terrible experience that we want to help them.' Then we should call their bluff. If all they really care about is helping women, then turn the abortion industry into a non-profit and see how long these passionate doctors and policy-makers will cling to their chosen charity if there's no money in it. Are they really doing it out of the goodness of their heart? Of course not.
Second....oh, bother, I've forgotten the second thing. I know there were two things I was mulling about...can't remember it now.
Well, anyway, it's been a busy week. Last night I was on the way to bed when I noticed Michael studying a spider which had built a web between two stalks of gladioli I had brought inside. It was pretty neat, actually, to see how quickly the spider had constructed his parlour, even though I detest spiders. Michael fetched an ant, and threw it at the web, and we both watched as the spider scampered over and tied up its victim. This was so fascinating that I ran off and caught an ant too, and this time Michael got a magnifying glass so we could see in detail how quickly the spider worked, spinning its victim around and around as it threw more web over it and produced a tightly-trussed ant in no time at all. Really amazing. And if I had noticed the spiderweb first, I would have shuddered and thrown out the flowers! Things like this convince me anew what a great father Michael is going to be to our lucky kids.
Random thought: I detest the phrase 'Just a gleam in his father's eye.' Why shouldn't a mother's eye gleam, too? Ugh. I hate stereotypes.
Second....oh, bother, I've forgotten the second thing. I know there were two things I was mulling about...can't remember it now.
Well, anyway, it's been a busy week. Last night I was on the way to bed when I noticed Michael studying a spider which had built a web between two stalks of gladioli I had brought inside. It was pretty neat, actually, to see how quickly the spider had constructed his parlour, even though I detest spiders. Michael fetched an ant, and threw it at the web, and we both watched as the spider scampered over and tied up its victim. This was so fascinating that I ran off and caught an ant too, and this time Michael got a magnifying glass so we could see in detail how quickly the spider worked, spinning its victim around and around as it threw more web over it and produced a tightly-trussed ant in no time at all. Really amazing. And if I had noticed the spiderweb first, I would have shuddered and thrown out the flowers! Things like this convince me anew what a great father Michael is going to be to our lucky kids.
Random thought: I detest the phrase 'Just a gleam in his father's eye.' Why shouldn't a mother's eye gleam, too? Ugh. I hate stereotypes.
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