I like our church. A bunch. And one reason I like it is that, unlike almost every other church I've attended in my life, it doesn't make me mad to be there. In fact, when we moved here we almost joined a church that I thought I liked because I felt at home there. But then I realized that the "at home" feeling was really the "pissed off" feeling. It had just become so normal to be pissed off that I mistook it for something good.
Yes, our church is a study in progessive orthodoxy, to put it simply. Led by a pastor named Heather (rather than someone named something like the Rev. Walter T. Glockenspiel, Jr. -- my apologies to the real Rev. Glockenspiel, wherever he is), it is openly committed to racial, economic, and cultural justice and diversity in a county known for its lack of all of these things, for its advocacy of separation of church and state (*sigh of relief*), and for the ways that it seeks to be imaginative and progressive and creative and open and interesting and intelligent. I *like* all of those adjectives. And it is still a flavor of Baptist, although you can probably guess that it's not exactly the conservative kind. In fact, it is precisely not the conservative kind, although it remains so truly respectful of the beautiful aspects of Christianity that it would be hard to call it anything but orthodox. So how's progressive orthodox sound?
Take, for example, a retreat that I attended this weekend, which was a lovely thing to behold in many ways. Good friends handled the music, which was lovely, and which was modeled after monastic chants. Children, cared for by babysitters (HURRAY! FREE BABYSITTERS!) bantered in and out, and were made a welcome part of all that went on. And everyone was glad that they were there. And some even told them so, personally offering them blessings and telling them how special they are.
We practiced praying and meditating with icons, colors, mandalas, labyrinths, and many other forms, and Jungian psychology, the Eucharist, scriptural meditations, guided imagery, God-as-female, and other items not so frequently discussed in Christian churches were happily introduced and embraced. And there was coffee (it was church coffee, so it tasted like dirt, but at least it was warm?), and good food, and I ate approximately 14 cookies.
And I brought my knitting and worked on a sweater while listening to the goings-on, and a friend leading the event remarked on the Benedictine nature of working with the hands as a religious affair, and everyone else admired the lovely Malabrigo silky merino that I'm working with, which in its variegated blue-green-yellow-purple self (something someone likened to a Van Gogh), is a prayer in color all its own. And the always terrific pastor Heather did what she usually does -- runs around, in, over, and under things and takes pictures -- and made sure that both my children and sweater made an appearance in the photos.
Yes, Heather is my friend :).
But I was arrested -- and I truly believe that there might not be a better word -- by a time that we shared this morning, during which we were challenged to take the theme of the weekend ("Brokenness and Blessing") personally by sharing with others the way that we wish we would have been blessed as a child, but weren't. There was also the other option of sharing how you actually were blessed as a child, but interestingly, few people offered that. It seems that everyone had a hurt to share. Now before you sigh and throw this off as another sappy excuse for Christian pop psychology, let me say that this time was led by a group of very educated theologians and otherwise intelligent and religiously diverse and aware people. In other words, this wasn't exactly a Christian Jr. High camp meeting, the success of which is almost always measured by how many people cry and subsequently get saved. No, that wasn't the ambiance at all.
My arrestedness was/is the result of one woman's utterance to me, a woman who I would guess is in her late 60s or early 70s, someone who undoubtedly has had sufficient time to have plenty of perspective on life. This was the first time I'd met her. This woman, K, revealed in an almost-whisper that she wished she had heard as a child that it was OK that she was a girl. Her dad had wanted a boy, she said.
And I sucked in my breath. Literally. And then I started crying.
I'm a semi-sobber, I will admit. This is a tendency that has grown since I've had children, since the world seems all the more tinged with poignancy and emotion. I could do nothing more at this moment, though, than to remember how scared I had been when, pregnant with Cole, I found out that he was a boy. Not to get TMI on you, but I didn't exactly grow up with the greatest healthy male role models. Or come to think of it, ANY healthy male role models. Marrying Brian didn't scare me, for some reason, perhaps because he's so different than any of my man-family. But producing a boy that would share the genetics of the man-family -- now THAT was a scary prospect.
But enough of that. Obviously I knew that there was a good chance of getting a boy when getting pregnant! I just hadn't internalized it. And for those of you who know Cole, and me and Cole together, you know that it is quite the love affair: he is a most sensitive, funny, and lovely person whose presence makes my life immeasurably wonderful. He is, in short, amazing.
But when he was a fetus, I was friggin' scared of him. In great part this was for what he might become ("the bad guys"), but in another way it was for the ways I might harm him if I couldn't pull myself together. Yes, for an instant it seems that I saw what might have become of Cole had those magical mothering instincts of mine not kicked in, the fear-made-flesh of all of my pregnancy woes made manifest in a 70 year old woman, the mourning that she experienced for an inadequacy that could never be fixed.
Now I certainly am not trying to make the woman out to be a basket-case -- she wasn't. She was a woman sharing what is, sadly, a rather normal sort of hurt. Would you be surprised to know that a very significant number of this group (ranging in age from 30s-70s?) mentioned their fathers as part of this lack-of-blessing? I for one, was not.
So thinking of your parenting in terms of what your kids need.....and the difference between this and what you give.......now that's an interesting exercise.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Superhero
I often think of a clever thing that Jovi used to have at the bottom of her email, which went something like "I make milk. What' s your superpower?" The first time I read this I just rolled with laughter, primarily because it was so validating, so descriptive of that strange absurdity (is there any other kind?) that I felt when I realized that my body could single-handedly sustain each of my children for years, collectively. There is, in fact, a breastfeeding book entitled "How My Breasts Saved the World", and I must say that the title isn't anything if it isn't accurate.
I. CAN. FEED. ENTIRE. VILLAGES!
Okay, so enough of the power trip. I say all that, though, to remark on other superpowers that I have been more impressed with as of late. Don't get me wrong. The milk thing is major. But now that I'm on my umpteenth year of nursing, and have a fairly good handle on how it works, I am more amazed by my ability to do other things that don't make much sense to me at all.
Take, for instance, my superhuman sense of hearing. Perhaps other parents out there have it, but I never fail to be impressed with how I can hear the smallest bit of mischief going on in the most remote part of the house furthest from where I currently am. My "middle of the night" ears are also astounding in the fact that they can hear the smallest whimper through closed doors, 1 floor apart (Brian will tell you that they're not always well-functioning ears, since he had to rescue a screaming Micah from his crib last night at 4 AM when I didn't get up to go to him. Dude. I heard him. I just was refusing to move.)
And my sniffer is working pretty well, too. I can always smell a dirty diaper before anyone else, and lately I've been able to detect absolute micro-particles of baby powder with relative speed, mere seconds after one of the older children has opened the bottle and squeezed it hard, always one and sometimes two floors from where I am (Which reminds me to ask why we *own* baby powder, which is used for nothing but these powder bombs. And can be unsafe if you breathe it in. There's my obligatory health warning).
I can also do a host of other parent tricks, like predict the actual numeric value of a fever with the palm of my hand. But I am most proud of a pseudo-superpower, which I like to call "The Ability to See Through Children and Their Motives with the Speed of a Cheetah." It doesn't hurt that my children are rather transparent in their guilt. This is why I label this a mere "pseudo-superpower": they're terrible liars. Like their father.
This is good for me.
Off to brew my morning superpotion and ponder my greatness.
I. CAN. FEED. ENTIRE. VILLAGES!
Okay, so enough of the power trip. I say all that, though, to remark on other superpowers that I have been more impressed with as of late. Don't get me wrong. The milk thing is major. But now that I'm on my umpteenth year of nursing, and have a fairly good handle on how it works, I am more amazed by my ability to do other things that don't make much sense to me at all.
Take, for instance, my superhuman sense of hearing. Perhaps other parents out there have it, but I never fail to be impressed with how I can hear the smallest bit of mischief going on in the most remote part of the house furthest from where I currently am. My "middle of the night" ears are also astounding in the fact that they can hear the smallest whimper through closed doors, 1 floor apart (Brian will tell you that they're not always well-functioning ears, since he had to rescue a screaming Micah from his crib last night at 4 AM when I didn't get up to go to him. Dude. I heard him. I just was refusing to move.)
And my sniffer is working pretty well, too. I can always smell a dirty diaper before anyone else, and lately I've been able to detect absolute micro-particles of baby powder with relative speed, mere seconds after one of the older children has opened the bottle and squeezed it hard, always one and sometimes two floors from where I am (Which reminds me to ask why we *own* baby powder, which is used for nothing but these powder bombs. And can be unsafe if you breathe it in. There's my obligatory health warning).
I can also do a host of other parent tricks, like predict the actual numeric value of a fever with the palm of my hand. But I am most proud of a pseudo-superpower, which I like to call "The Ability to See Through Children and Their Motives with the Speed of a Cheetah." It doesn't hurt that my children are rather transparent in their guilt. This is why I label this a mere "pseudo-superpower": they're terrible liars. Like their father.
This is good for me.
Off to brew my morning superpotion and ponder my greatness.
Communication Breakthrough
I have this fantasy....a musing that's passed through my head on more than one occasion. In said fantasy I am in my car and I'm able to communicate with other cars via something akin to a mobile billboard, but I'm able to change the content at will. In essence, this allows me to "text" other cars from a "screen" attached to my car. It would be the way that cars talk, in other words.
Don't think about the safety issues now, my friends. Those are mere bugs to be worked out.
There would be the usual stuff you'd want to say to someone, the "turn your lights on" or the "Watch it, Buster!" or perhaps the "BABY ON BOARD!" that you already see on so many cars; in this sense, I suppose you could also liken this device to a completely dynamic bumper sticker. But in my mental world I always use this device to provide the world with a dose of completely profound social commentary and other glimpses of my all-around acumen.
Take, for instance, something I saw the other day. It was an absolutely bitterly cold day, with highs no greater than 10 or so degrees. Just really awful. In fact, it was one of those deliriously frigid days that made me think that it would be better to be lying homeless on the beach with a campfire and some canned food than to enjoy home ownership. But I digress. As I am prone to do.
Anyway, on this day I had to get out to the store, and had all three kids with me. After finishing the shopping and getting everyone piled back into the car (and believe me, three kids in coats/blankets are about 8 million times harder to get into the car than three kids without outerwear....), and breathing a literal sigh of relief that that chore was done, I saw something so startling that I laughed out loud.
Leaving the liquor store that shares a parking lot with the grocery store was a very large woman with tremendous bosoms wearing an even more tremendous fur coat. To give you an accurate picture, this coat was of the wooly-mammoth variety. Held one under each arm, football style, were two of those GINORMOUS wine bottles that I have always been convinced are just for display in liquor store windows; they literally scream "If I really am filled with wine then I am too large to pour and must be decanted into approximately 4,560 vessels! ".
Did I mention that she was sprinting across the parking lot? As much as a large body, tremendous bosoms, the pelt of a paleolithic animal, and a grand total of 10 feet of wine bottle allow?
Between the dark fur coat and the dark bottles, each one nestled to the side of the aforementioned ample bosoms, she literally looked like a furry, four-boobed animal running through the parking lot. She was flat out running, bosoms heaving, wine bottles-acting-as-two-more-boobs bouncing along.
Now yes, it was cold. And I can see the quickened pace as a response to this. But at this moment I desired the portable social commentary machine (gotta think of a better name for that) so that I could satiate this urge to scream something out the window about how all of that alcohol wasn't going to help with this cold situation. Yes, I could post that on the social commentary machine, or perhaps something about how you should not run with ginormous wine bottles, particularly when one is not so athletic as it is. Come to think of it, I don't think that you should run with regular-sized wine bottles, no matter your size or athleticism, but that's another day's blog.
That my urge was to shout a *health warning* in this situation that otherwise contained so much humor value, that was so rich with other possible headlines to place on the social commentary machine, is but a mere indication of the fact that I'm both guilty and nice.
But you knew that.
Don't think about the safety issues now, my friends. Those are mere bugs to be worked out.
There would be the usual stuff you'd want to say to someone, the "turn your lights on" or the "Watch it, Buster!" or perhaps the "BABY ON BOARD!" that you already see on so many cars; in this sense, I suppose you could also liken this device to a completely dynamic bumper sticker. But in my mental world I always use this device to provide the world with a dose of completely profound social commentary and other glimpses of my all-around acumen.
Take, for instance, something I saw the other day. It was an absolutely bitterly cold day, with highs no greater than 10 or so degrees. Just really awful. In fact, it was one of those deliriously frigid days that made me think that it would be better to be lying homeless on the beach with a campfire and some canned food than to enjoy home ownership. But I digress. As I am prone to do.
Anyway, on this day I had to get out to the store, and had all three kids with me. After finishing the shopping and getting everyone piled back into the car (and believe me, three kids in coats/blankets are about 8 million times harder to get into the car than three kids without outerwear....), and breathing a literal sigh of relief that that chore was done, I saw something so startling that I laughed out loud.
Leaving the liquor store that shares a parking lot with the grocery store was a very large woman with tremendous bosoms wearing an even more tremendous fur coat. To give you an accurate picture, this coat was of the wooly-mammoth variety. Held one under each arm, football style, were two of those GINORMOUS wine bottles that I have always been convinced are just for display in liquor store windows; they literally scream "If I really am filled with wine then I am too large to pour and must be decanted into approximately 4,560 vessels! ".
Did I mention that she was sprinting across the parking lot? As much as a large body, tremendous bosoms, the pelt of a paleolithic animal, and a grand total of 10 feet of wine bottle allow?
Between the dark fur coat and the dark bottles, each one nestled to the side of the aforementioned ample bosoms, she literally looked like a furry, four-boobed animal running through the parking lot. She was flat out running, bosoms heaving, wine bottles-acting-as-two-more-boobs bouncing along.
Now yes, it was cold. And I can see the quickened pace as a response to this. But at this moment I desired the portable social commentary machine (gotta think of a better name for that) so that I could satiate this urge to scream something out the window about how all of that alcohol wasn't going to help with this cold situation. Yes, I could post that on the social commentary machine, or perhaps something about how you should not run with ginormous wine bottles, particularly when one is not so athletic as it is. Come to think of it, I don't think that you should run with regular-sized wine bottles, no matter your size or athleticism, but that's another day's blog.
That my urge was to shout a *health warning* in this situation that otherwise contained so much humor value, that was so rich with other possible headlines to place on the social commentary machine, is but a mere indication of the fact that I'm both guilty and nice.
But you knew that.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Too Cool for School
Annemarie has become obsessed with her looks lately, and this is both difficult and amusing for me. I have given the speech many times that it is more important to be kind and respectful of others, and to be happy yourself, than it is to live up to impossible and ridiculous social standards, and while she rolls her eyes at me and tells me she knows, I still sense inside that she is very, very much interested in looking like impossible and ridiculous social standards.
I am only heartened by the fact that she is still lacking in enough self-consciousness that she will run through the backyard naked if the situation seems to call for it (which sometimes it does, you know), or that she will be perfectly content to present herself to the public having dressed herself up in a melange of scarves, plastic firefighter gear, and Mardi Gras beads. These are the moments that give me some sort of twisted hope.
But then there are those days when the "I wanna look like that" bug shines through, and this morning was one of those mornings. I had picked out a perfectly nice looking outfit for her, and she shunned it in favor of something similar but a touch more edgy; you see, for reasons that are beyond me, Annemarie now seeks to look like a rock star.
The way that Annemarie mimics rock-stardom is by wearing a headband and putting on a pair of too short jeans that are torn in the knee. This is fine, and if we can continue to be "rock stars" in that way while avoiding the drugs, then I'm happy with this definition of rock star :). So after dressing herself in an outfit that she deemed more appropriate, she remarked:
"I look like a rock star. Like a teenager or a colleger. Do you think anyone will know that I'm in Pre-K?"
No one. No one will ever know.
I am only heartened by the fact that she is still lacking in enough self-consciousness that she will run through the backyard naked if the situation seems to call for it (which sometimes it does, you know), or that she will be perfectly content to present herself to the public having dressed herself up in a melange of scarves, plastic firefighter gear, and Mardi Gras beads. These are the moments that give me some sort of twisted hope.
But then there are those days when the "I wanna look like that" bug shines through, and this morning was one of those mornings. I had picked out a perfectly nice looking outfit for her, and she shunned it in favor of something similar but a touch more edgy; you see, for reasons that are beyond me, Annemarie now seeks to look like a rock star.
The way that Annemarie mimics rock-stardom is by wearing a headband and putting on a pair of too short jeans that are torn in the knee. This is fine, and if we can continue to be "rock stars" in that way while avoiding the drugs, then I'm happy with this definition of rock star :). So after dressing herself in an outfit that she deemed more appropriate, she remarked:
"I look like a rock star. Like a teenager or a colleger. Do you think anyone will know that I'm in Pre-K?"
No one. No one will ever know.
Lactation and its Many Merits
If you know me at all, you know that I am almost always nursing someone.
Let me be more specific -- I keep the nursing to my children, but since I've been nursing a baby/toddler for the past 5.5 years with only about a 3 mo. break in there, it's true that I'm almost always nursing someone. And that's a great thing, imho. Nursing all of my kids till they were around two is one thing I'm very proud of, and I'm not at all a shy nurser -- we nurse anywhere, everywhere, in front of everyone, in every circumstance. I believe -- strongly -- that even in this age where many people do nurse, the startling brevity of most nursing relationships demands that people who feel comfortable doing it pave the way for those who are still learning the lactation ropes. It's just that important to everyone's health and well-being, frankly.
You can thus understand the great admiration that I have for one of my students who, as the mother of a newborn, is so devoted to giving him her own milk that she slips out of class every two hours and sits IN THE NASTY BATHROOM FLOOR (I'm working on it....I'm working on it.....) pumping, in order that he might get the best food around. When she told me that he takes bottles only -- that he won't go to the breast at all -- I immediately started thinking of ideas to get him to the breast. Of course, I am her prof, not her lactation consultant, so I don't want to offer advice that may jeopardize or in some way make awkward our educational relationship. But as I found myself more inclined to think about latches than Hinduism, I got a bit tickled by lactation-consulting alter-ego who is not too far under the surface, waiting to emerge if this academic gig ever goes south :).
Lactation is also ever on the mind of Cole, who at the tender age of 3 still remembers nursing (he was weaned only a little over a year ago), and who thought he'd give it another shot when Micah was born 9 mos ago. At that point Cole didn't really seem to remember how to nurse, and after giving it more thought was rather amused by it. But Cole's love of nursing shines through. This is seen in the fact that recently, when I was knitting a very cute sweater (if I may say so myself) that is covered with bobbles in the front, Cole examined the sweater carefully, exclaiming "Mom! You're making a nipple sweater! A nipple sweater just for me!"
Let me be more specific -- I keep the nursing to my children, but since I've been nursing a baby/toddler for the past 5.5 years with only about a 3 mo. break in there, it's true that I'm almost always nursing someone. And that's a great thing, imho. Nursing all of my kids till they were around two is one thing I'm very proud of, and I'm not at all a shy nurser -- we nurse anywhere, everywhere, in front of everyone, in every circumstance. I believe -- strongly -- that even in this age where many people do nurse, the startling brevity of most nursing relationships demands that people who feel comfortable doing it pave the way for those who are still learning the lactation ropes. It's just that important to everyone's health and well-being, frankly.
You can thus understand the great admiration that I have for one of my students who, as the mother of a newborn, is so devoted to giving him her own milk that she slips out of class every two hours and sits IN THE NASTY BATHROOM FLOOR (I'm working on it....I'm working on it.....) pumping, in order that he might get the best food around. When she told me that he takes bottles only -- that he won't go to the breast at all -- I immediately started thinking of ideas to get him to the breast. Of course, I am her prof, not her lactation consultant, so I don't want to offer advice that may jeopardize or in some way make awkward our educational relationship. But as I found myself more inclined to think about latches than Hinduism, I got a bit tickled by lactation-consulting alter-ego who is not too far under the surface, waiting to emerge if this academic gig ever goes south :).
Lactation is also ever on the mind of Cole, who at the tender age of 3 still remembers nursing (he was weaned only a little over a year ago), and who thought he'd give it another shot when Micah was born 9 mos ago. At that point Cole didn't really seem to remember how to nurse, and after giving it more thought was rather amused by it. But Cole's love of nursing shines through. This is seen in the fact that recently, when I was knitting a very cute sweater (if I may say so myself) that is covered with bobbles in the front, Cole examined the sweater carefully, exclaiming "Mom! You're making a nipple sweater! A nipple sweater just for me!"
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Disappointment
I know I've shared in past posts that I dread it when the stomach bug comes to our house, but I particularly grow weak in the knees at the though of it disrupting big events that we have planned. After all, the pukes keep you tied to the house in a way that a drippy nose or hacking cough doesn't.
With that said, this coming weekend is my first weekend teaching -- and I only teach three weekends out of the entire semester. Missing even one of these weekends is, in other words, a major, major deal. I have double and triple planned babysitting, photocopying, and technology in the hopes that there is little that screws things up.
Today we had a birthday party to go to, and it was one that we were very excited about. It was a beach party planned for the middle of February, and the parents were planning to let the kids run around in their bathing suits in an overheated house to give the feel of sunnier, balmier places. Did I mention that this family has just moved here from LA? And that they're very cool and I already like hanging out with them quite a bit? And that that they live three blocks from us? Yeah, lots of good things.
When we arrived at said birthday party that dad casually informed us that one of their daughters (the party was for both girls -- their birthdays are a day apart) had been up all night crying and vomiting -- and this morning, too. And they hoped it was just a 24 hour thing, but they'd put her back to bed just in case. I started to get the cold sweats. Seriously. Then the little girl in question came down stairs, and dad directed her downstairs to play with all of the kids who had shown up for the party!
Ugh. Annemarie and Cole were already stripping off their clothes, ready to bare their bathing suits and join the fun. But I had to stop them; I had them put on their clothes, made a very uncomfortable speech about how we just couldn't get sick, and we headed for the door. And while mom was apologizing and trying to send us with cupcakes, trying to get the older daughter to hug each of my kids goodbye, Annemarie and Cole stood their with eyes welling with tears. Poor kids. I was a bit weepy myself: in part feeling the disappointment they felt; in other part with some small anger that no one had thought that this might be a good thing to warn us of before we got there, before we got ourselves mentally committed to the streamers and sunshine shaped balloons and the cupcakes with frosting that looked like the blue ocean with red gummy fish squished into their tops. And so with plans to reunite soon and re-enact the highlights of the party, we took off.
Was it over the top for me to go home? I don't think so. But I'm still feeling that terrible knot in the pit of my stomach over their disappointment.
With that said, this coming weekend is my first weekend teaching -- and I only teach three weekends out of the entire semester. Missing even one of these weekends is, in other words, a major, major deal. I have double and triple planned babysitting, photocopying, and technology in the hopes that there is little that screws things up.
Today we had a birthday party to go to, and it was one that we were very excited about. It was a beach party planned for the middle of February, and the parents were planning to let the kids run around in their bathing suits in an overheated house to give the feel of sunnier, balmier places. Did I mention that this family has just moved here from LA? And that they're very cool and I already like hanging out with them quite a bit? And that that they live three blocks from us? Yeah, lots of good things.
When we arrived at said birthday party that dad casually informed us that one of their daughters (the party was for both girls -- their birthdays are a day apart) had been up all night crying and vomiting -- and this morning, too. And they hoped it was just a 24 hour thing, but they'd put her back to bed just in case. I started to get the cold sweats. Seriously. Then the little girl in question came down stairs, and dad directed her downstairs to play with all of the kids who had shown up for the party!
Ugh. Annemarie and Cole were already stripping off their clothes, ready to bare their bathing suits and join the fun. But I had to stop them; I had them put on their clothes, made a very uncomfortable speech about how we just couldn't get sick, and we headed for the door. And while mom was apologizing and trying to send us with cupcakes, trying to get the older daughter to hug each of my kids goodbye, Annemarie and Cole stood their with eyes welling with tears. Poor kids. I was a bit weepy myself: in part feeling the disappointment they felt; in other part with some small anger that no one had thought that this might be a good thing to warn us of before we got there, before we got ourselves mentally committed to the streamers and sunshine shaped balloons and the cupcakes with frosting that looked like the blue ocean with red gummy fish squished into their tops. And so with plans to reunite soon and re-enact the highlights of the party, we took off.
Was it over the top for me to go home? I don't think so. But I'm still feeling that terrible knot in the pit of my stomach over their disappointment.
The Greatest Weapon
What a 3 year old boy with an influential older sister, currently into lotions and potions, says while pretending to be Spiderman:
"I WILL DEFEAT YOU WITH MY OILS AND SPRAYS!"
"I WILL DEFEAT YOU WITH MY OILS AND SPRAYS!"
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Pictures
This is the picture of my children that I intend to have printed tomorrow, to hang prominently in our family room. And I love it. Not only is it rootin-tootin' cute, but it displays their personalities so well. Annemarie is so sunny, Cole is so enthusiastically quirky, and Micah is a bit more reserved, yet cuddly and happy.
In every "leaf" picture we've taken (this is our third year now) the colors of the leaves are just fabulous, but I love most of all how everyone's hair matches the leaves. So while we may have to wear a whole heckuva lot of sunscreen, our family's collective hair matches the autumn leaves...............................sigh...................................
College-Land
Did I tell you that I got a little job?
I say "little" because it is the teeniest sort of teaching job one can have, in my opinion. I'm teaching a class at a nearby university; the class is happening only on three weekends (they call it "weekend intensive" -- uh, *yeah*), although it is a regular three credit course. Then next semester I'll teach the same weekend course again, paired with another traditional, 16 week semester course.
I'm really excited about this opportunity because it's my chance to get my head back in the game. But let me say from the outset that this isn't the same game that I'm used to playing, in the sense that the gameboard is much different. The university with which I am now employed is a very small, Catholic, liberal arts school -- like, less than 2000 students, I think. I never attended a school of less than 20,000, and as far as I know, I've never taught at one that had less than 8-10K. So a change.
And this small school mentality was extraordinarily evident when, upon visiting last week, I happened to schedule a tour of the library before I got my official paperwork turned in (which granted an ID and thus library resource access). So after having scoured their video selection for something I might use this semester, I realized that I wasn't authorized to check anything out.
This, however, deterred no one.
With no ID in tow, no NOTHING to show them that I was who I said I was, they created an account for me right there, and insisted that I take the films with me right then. And don't worry about bringing them back until the semester is over, or even later. They'll just keep renewing them for me until someone else needs them.
And parking permit? Oh yeah, we have those -- here's one. You can have it free. But no one really uses them. But I'm not supposed to tell you that because we're supposed to use them around here. And you don' t have any ID yet? That's not a problem. Don't remember your license plate number? Not really a big deal. Just call us next week.
Uh, me no understand your school. Me understand long lines and lots of monies to parking. Me understand onerous bureaucracy.
I say "little" because it is the teeniest sort of teaching job one can have, in my opinion. I'm teaching a class at a nearby university; the class is happening only on three weekends (they call it "weekend intensive" -- uh, *yeah*), although it is a regular three credit course. Then next semester I'll teach the same weekend course again, paired with another traditional, 16 week semester course.
I'm really excited about this opportunity because it's my chance to get my head back in the game. But let me say from the outset that this isn't the same game that I'm used to playing, in the sense that the gameboard is much different. The university with which I am now employed is a very small, Catholic, liberal arts school -- like, less than 2000 students, I think. I never attended a school of less than 20,000, and as far as I know, I've never taught at one that had less than 8-10K. So a change.
And this small school mentality was extraordinarily evident when, upon visiting last week, I happened to schedule a tour of the library before I got my official paperwork turned in (which granted an ID and thus library resource access). So after having scoured their video selection for something I might use this semester, I realized that I wasn't authorized to check anything out.
This, however, deterred no one.
With no ID in tow, no NOTHING to show them that I was who I said I was, they created an account for me right there, and insisted that I take the films with me right then. And don't worry about bringing them back until the semester is over, or even later. They'll just keep renewing them for me until someone else needs them.
And parking permit? Oh yeah, we have those -- here's one. You can have it free. But no one really uses them. But I'm not supposed to tell you that because we're supposed to use them around here. And you don' t have any ID yet? That's not a problem. Don't remember your license plate number? Not really a big deal. Just call us next week.
Uh, me no understand your school. Me understand long lines and lots of monies to parking. Me understand onerous bureaucracy.
What I Learn From Knitting
I have been surprised by this knitting thing.
Although I actually learned to knit several years ago (7 or 8, maybe?), it was never something that I liked very much -- it was mildly interesting and all, but I just wanted the sweater at the end. It reminds me very much of how i feel about running. When B and I lived in California, we both ran; he ran much, much more than I did. The furthest I ever ran was 7 miles, and I can still remember the feeling in my knees when I stopped -- that hot and swollen feeling. No, running was something that I did to be healthier and maintain my weight, to justify the affair that I had with both Ben and Jerry (**rampant eye batting**) while Brian was away at work. But for Brian it had become something therapeutic. And although he falls in and out of "therapy", as it were, it always holds that mental place for him.
So knitting is my running. And as I've become more involved with knitting, I've been amazed most by how willing I am to unravel something that needs to be redone, even if it means losing hours of work. I'm not happy about it, of course, but I realize that knitting in and of itself is meaningful to me, and so I'd be doing it anyway -- whether it's that same sweater three times over, or three different sweaters. I also started to learn when it is appropriate and good to improvise...and when it is not. And how the improvisation and the mistakes are, uh, often related.
I'd say that making mistakes is the most intriguing part about knitting, because my perfectionistic blood simply boils at the thought of leaving a known error. But over the past few knitting months, I have begun to recognize when a mistake is best left (it has no impact, or is perfectly hidden), as well as when it needs to be remedied. Although I've always known it in my head, I'm beginning to understand that it's better to take a few hours to fix a problem so that I don't have to wear it for several years. I truly think that when I learned to knit a few years ago that I was just too young to knit. Not chronologically young, of course -- I was in my mid 20s at the time -- but just too impatient, too uptight about the possibility that things might not be perfect.
And of course, there's the obvious stuff about patience and craftspersonship and pride in one's work and connection to the material base of our world. And these are all important.
But really? I think it's the yarn.
I used to get tickled at little kids and their hoarding ways; both Annemarie and Cole have stockpiles of stuff in their dresser drawers and pockets. There's always something stashed somewhere, which makes housecleaning and laundry constant adventures. They refuse to throw away anything. I was wondering to myself the other day why little kids are like this, and while musing upon this I stumbled onto my yarn stash.
Knitting folk refer to their stockpiled yarn as their "stash", and in recent months I've come to develop my own. Now i'm rather certain that's it's not nearly as healthy as Jovi's is, but it's substantial enough to see me through at least four or five more projects, not to mention supplement a couple that are already under way.
OK: Guilty confession time.
In the rather recent past I saw the stash as a rather superfluous and sorta silly thing, since after all, it' s not like you can knit with all of that yarn at once, you don't know exactly how much you'll need when you buy it, and if you used the stash rationale ("But it's ____brand, and it's just the color I want, and it's on sale!") for everything, you'd be the credit card's golden child.
But this is why I like knitting. The irrationality of stash building (the opposite of which is stash busting, btw) is so much like preschooler hoarding habits, I think. And it goes something like this:
It's pretty. it's soft. And if I just mess with it for a minute, it will turn into something lovely. And I just love to be around loveliness.
argh. Micah's awake. 12:10 AM.
Although I actually learned to knit several years ago (7 or 8, maybe?), it was never something that I liked very much -- it was mildly interesting and all, but I just wanted the sweater at the end. It reminds me very much of how i feel about running. When B and I lived in California, we both ran; he ran much, much more than I did. The furthest I ever ran was 7 miles, and I can still remember the feeling in my knees when I stopped -- that hot and swollen feeling. No, running was something that I did to be healthier and maintain my weight, to justify the affair that I had with both Ben and Jerry (**rampant eye batting**) while Brian was away at work. But for Brian it had become something therapeutic. And although he falls in and out of "therapy", as it were, it always holds that mental place for him.
So knitting is my running. And as I've become more involved with knitting, I've been amazed most by how willing I am to unravel something that needs to be redone, even if it means losing hours of work. I'm not happy about it, of course, but I realize that knitting in and of itself is meaningful to me, and so I'd be doing it anyway -- whether it's that same sweater three times over, or three different sweaters. I also started to learn when it is appropriate and good to improvise...and when it is not. And how the improvisation and the mistakes are, uh, often related.
I'd say that making mistakes is the most intriguing part about knitting, because my perfectionistic blood simply boils at the thought of leaving a known error. But over the past few knitting months, I have begun to recognize when a mistake is best left (it has no impact, or is perfectly hidden), as well as when it needs to be remedied. Although I've always known it in my head, I'm beginning to understand that it's better to take a few hours to fix a problem so that I don't have to wear it for several years. I truly think that when I learned to knit a few years ago that I was just too young to knit. Not chronologically young, of course -- I was in my mid 20s at the time -- but just too impatient, too uptight about the possibility that things might not be perfect.
And of course, there's the obvious stuff about patience and craftspersonship and pride in one's work and connection to the material base of our world. And these are all important.
But really? I think it's the yarn.
I used to get tickled at little kids and their hoarding ways; both Annemarie and Cole have stockpiles of stuff in their dresser drawers and pockets. There's always something stashed somewhere, which makes housecleaning and laundry constant adventures. They refuse to throw away anything. I was wondering to myself the other day why little kids are like this, and while musing upon this I stumbled onto my yarn stash.
Knitting folk refer to their stockpiled yarn as their "stash", and in recent months I've come to develop my own. Now i'm rather certain that's it's not nearly as healthy as Jovi's is, but it's substantial enough to see me through at least four or five more projects, not to mention supplement a couple that are already under way.
OK: Guilty confession time.
In the rather recent past I saw the stash as a rather superfluous and sorta silly thing, since after all, it' s not like you can knit with all of that yarn at once, you don't know exactly how much you'll need when you buy it, and if you used the stash rationale ("But it's ____brand, and it's just the color I want, and it's on sale!") for everything, you'd be the credit card's golden child.
But this is why I like knitting. The irrationality of stash building (the opposite of which is stash busting, btw) is so much like preschooler hoarding habits, I think. And it goes something like this:
It's pretty. it's soft. And if I just mess with it for a minute, it will turn into something lovely. And I just love to be around loveliness.
argh. Micah's awake. 12:10 AM.
Virtual Squared Reality
I really should be sleeping.
After all, it's 11:34 PM, and Micah will be up in less than three hours. But dear blogging world, I have neglected you so terribly. And so I must, for you, shoulder more sleep deprivation.
Leslie: Martyr.
Actually, if we're going to be technical about this thing, I've not really neglected you if it's the thought that counts -- literally. Truth of the matter is that I think about blogging almost every day, and I'm constantly composing a new entry in my head. In fact, it occurred to me the other night that I've come to believe in a form of virtual reality that completely transcends those available to us today. Put another way, I believe in virtual virtual reality.
That's right. Virtual squared reality.
It's not just a parallel reality to the one in which we physically live, but a parallel mental reality to the parallel reality to the physical one in which we live, see????????
Sigh. Yes, I know. Too much caffeine again tooooooooooooooooo late in the day? Yup. I'll get along with proper blogging now.
After all, it's 11:34 PM, and Micah will be up in less than three hours. But dear blogging world, I have neglected you so terribly. And so I must, for you, shoulder more sleep deprivation.
Leslie: Martyr.
Actually, if we're going to be technical about this thing, I've not really neglected you if it's the thought that counts -- literally. Truth of the matter is that I think about blogging almost every day, and I'm constantly composing a new entry in my head. In fact, it occurred to me the other night that I've come to believe in a form of virtual reality that completely transcends those available to us today. Put another way, I believe in virtual virtual reality.
That's right. Virtual squared reality.
It's not just a parallel reality to the one in which we physically live, but a parallel mental reality to the parallel reality to the physical one in which we live, see????????
Sigh. Yes, I know. Too much caffeine again tooooooooooooooooo late in the day? Yup. I'll get along with proper blogging now.
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