When I was growing up, my great-aunt would send my mother envelopes stuffed with crossword puzzles cut out from the local paper. My mom always loved to do crosswords (she and my grandfather share that hobby) and I think the care packages may have started when she was away at college and continued on through marriage, two kids, subsequent moves, etc. Every so often there'd be an explosion of half-done crosswords around the house - a few in the kitchen, a few next to Mom's chair, some tucked up by her bed, and even a couple set carefully with a pen on the back of the toilet.
Those are actually the first crosswords I remember peering at, trying to puzzle out the rare spots my mother had left undone, racking my brain for an answer while my brother beat on the door and howled that I was taking too long and he needed to go nooowwwwww....
After Bertie died, a fluke in the mail delivered one last envelope addressed in her tiny careful printing, the folder heavy and full,with even a brief note for my mom to treasure among the newstype.
It always seemed like such a loving thing to me. Great Aunt Bertie subscribed to the Louisville Courier-Journal daily, my mother lived far away, why not send them if they would be enjoyed?
And they were.
Last week I found an email in my in-box from my grandmother, (who is bravely learning all this computer mumbo-jumbo so she can keep up with her far-flung grandchildren) telling me that some books were coming for the children. Yesterday a beautifully illustrated book of children's bible stories came, with the notation inside that this book had once belonged to my great-uncle Louie (and then my grandmother) and...a clipping about helping your children learn to read.
A clipping from the Courier-Journal.
Sometimes it doesn't take much to let us know we're treasured.
Saturday, 21 June 2008
Friday, 20 June 2008
Thursday, 19 June 2008
True Thursday: I can't make this stuff up *UPDATED*
Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the beach....
The lovely Chantal of Two Hands Full sent me this UPDATE today, which doesn't clear up the mystery and injects an even more sinister tone....
The lovely Chantal of Two Hands Full sent me this UPDATE today, which doesn't clear up the mystery and injects an even more sinister tone....
Wednesday, 18 June 2008
nothing to see here
We have the super-duper model couch. Not only the bright colours, but the optional large brown throw pillow, as well.
R is recouping from a brush with almost-ickiness (fever and whoopsy-feeling tum) and whatever helps her sleep today is a good thing. Jasper would have been given a Hail Mary pass this time, but apparently I'm fiercer than I thought - I shot this photo and he tromped all over R to get down, shame-faced and wagging his fool tail all the while.
I'm sure if she sleeps again he'll scoot up there. Just to keep her company, you know.
R is recouping from a brush with almost-ickiness (fever and whoopsy-feeling tum) and whatever helps her sleep today is a good thing. Jasper would have been given a Hail Mary pass this time, but apparently I'm fiercer than I thought - I shot this photo and he tromped all over R to get down, shame-faced and wagging his fool tail all the while.
I'm sure if she sleeps again he'll scoot up there. Just to keep her company, you know.
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
budding conservationist
We were loading up in the car tonight, ready to go to Cass's Literature Night, and there was a lump? something moving? on the road across from my neighbors' house...
and damned if it wasn't another turtle.
Ever since a few years back when the our returning grande dame was squashed we have been turtle defenders 'round here - holding up traffic and standing boldly in the road, prodding the beasties across to grass and safety.
Something about their funny gait and obvious uncomfortable movements out of the water makes me feel tender towards them, like children learning to walk. They hitch and bob from side to side just like the chilluns did, spreading their feet wide and blinking owlishly to determine if you're fish or foe.
(Not that my kids can catch fish with their mouths. If they could this blog would be *all kinds* of different interesting, and feature the circus prominently.)
We talked about how their (wicked) stubby-sharp claws work hard to pull their big bodies back to the reeds and pools of the riverbank, where they dig happily in the mud and use those same claws to gracefully propel themselves through the water, and how we feel at home on land and the turtle feels at home floating in the current.
Then Cass's voice turned slightly wistful and he mentioned the old turtle and how much bigger she was than this one.
(It astounds me that no matter how hard I try to shape my kids' lives with happy experiences, the negative ones -and all they learned from them- linger on so completely, ready to be recalled at a moment's notice.)
And I hugged him and told him that maybe, just maybe, this turtle was one of 'our' turtle's babies. That turtles return home to the site where they were hatched, and lay new eggs. (And now I've got to go google turtles, as I have no idea if they all do that or if the homing instinct is only apparent in sea turtles.)
We left the new turtle contemplating the flowers in my neighbor's yard. It's a short push from there to the river, and she should be fine there, as long as she doesn't go back across the road.
When we entered the gym Cass ran over to his friends and told them 'I saved a turtle!'
(I'm buying him a red cape later.)
and damned if it wasn't another turtle.
Ever since a few years back when the our returning grande dame was squashed we have been turtle defenders 'round here - holding up traffic and standing boldly in the road, prodding the beasties across to grass and safety.
Something about their funny gait and obvious uncomfortable movements out of the water makes me feel tender towards them, like children learning to walk. They hitch and bob from side to side just like the chilluns did, spreading their feet wide and blinking owlishly to determine if you're fish or foe.
(Not that my kids can catch fish with their mouths. If they could this blog would be *all kinds* of different interesting, and feature the circus prominently.)
We talked about how their (wicked) stubby-sharp claws work hard to pull their big bodies back to the reeds and pools of the riverbank, where they dig happily in the mud and use those same claws to gracefully propel themselves through the water, and how we feel at home on land and the turtle feels at home floating in the current.
Then Cass's voice turned slightly wistful and he mentioned the old turtle and how much bigger she was than this one.
(It astounds me that no matter how hard I try to shape my kids' lives with happy experiences, the negative ones -and all they learned from them- linger on so completely, ready to be recalled at a moment's notice.)
And I hugged him and told him that maybe, just maybe, this turtle was one of 'our' turtle's babies. That turtles return home to the site where they were hatched, and lay new eggs. (And now I've got to go google turtles, as I have no idea if they all do that or if the homing instinct is only apparent in sea turtles.)
We left the new turtle contemplating the flowers in my neighbor's yard. It's a short push from there to the river, and she should be fine there, as long as she doesn't go back across the road.
When we entered the gym Cass ran over to his friends and told them 'I saved a turtle!'
(I'm buying him a red cape later.)
Monday, 16 June 2008
influences
R was happily playing with her Barbie dolls, enacting some huge thing about two dogs and who got to feed them and the fluffy cat whose water bowl the dogs weren't allowed to touch. (Really, it's amazing what goes on in her head.)
I decided to play. 'What are your dolls names?'
R put her finger on the redhead. 'Moya.' The brunette. 'Nadoila' The blonde 'Linka.'
I tried to think if I had any old termpapers buried in my room. Or if we had a pop-up version of The Brothers Karamazov. All I could come up with was a tattered VHS of Anastasia, and she hadn't seen that in months.
____
There's a corner of our yard where the wildflowers grow rampant. We've never planted seeds or moved plants in that area, they just flourish there. I found out why today. It seems the ash pile (that lump behind) leaches into the ground with the rain, and the wildflowers looove them some increased ph levels.
Pretty, no?
____
I'm getting really excited about the BFF trip. It's coming up in 32 days!!!!
I decided to play. 'What are your dolls names?'
R put her finger on the redhead. 'Moya.' The brunette. 'Nadoila' The blonde 'Linka.'
I tried to think if I had any old termpapers buried in my room. Or if we had a pop-up version of The Brothers Karamazov. All I could come up with was a tattered VHS of Anastasia, and she hadn't seen that in months.
____
There's a corner of our yard where the wildflowers grow rampant. We've never planted seeds or moved plants in that area, they just flourish there. I found out why today. It seems the ash pile (that lump behind) leaches into the ground with the rain, and the wildflowers looove them some increased ph levels.
Pretty, no?
____
I'm getting really excited about the BFF trip. It's coming up in 32 days!!!!
Sunday, 15 June 2008
Saturday, 14 June 2008
sugar bombs
I fall for the supermarket arrangement scam every time.
Each time, I turn into the vegetable/fruit section, spend some quality time sniffing lemons, picking out the best mushrooms, the crispest apples, the plumpest ears of corn, all with the jet-speed help of my little farm hands, who think we're running a race and move accordingly. By the time we're done there and I've done the detours into the bread/deli area and the butcher section, the kids are beginning to show signs of strain and tiredness and an obscene fondness with the blood pressure machine in the drugstore. By the time I drag them off that, the whinging and carrying on isn't too far off. We stump through paper products, pet food, canned goods, household products, (while maintaining that the toy aisle simply isn't there) and arrive at the cereal aisle. By now, I've shot the Mom-glare six times, hissed 'Stay with the cart!' twelve gagillion times, and am unenthused and heartily sick of the whole operation. I mean, eating is over-rated, really.
Which is why we tend to end up with the bad cereal.
Oh, I used to fight the good fight about this. Back before I was outnumbered (and back before the boy realized marshmallows existed) we had Cheerios. Rice Crispies. Granola. The basics. He didn't care.
Now we have a girl. Who is programmed (are they all like this?) to be hyper-sensitive to pinks and purples, so any bright colored box catches her eye and screams her name.
So while I'm busy veto-ing Lucky Charms (otherwise known as the repository for ALL the food coloring numbers*) Cass is eying up the boxes for whatever prizes are hiding inside the waxy paper insides. Score! Indiana Jones!
'Mo-om? Can we.....' I swung around and eyed the box. Wheat. Good. We'd had this before. Oh look, a new flavor! Okay.
Then, this morning....
'Mo-om? This doesn't taste good.'
I lifted my head from my coffee cup. Why can't the kids sleep in? Not even once??
Huh? What? Who said that? Oh, the Boy.
'It's too...sweet.'
Blink-blink. You - think it's too sweet? Let me have a taste.
He obligingly brought me his bowl. I dipped, spooned, chewed.
And winced as my tongue went into spasms of sugar shock.
Toast, anyone?
From now on, I'm going to the cereal aisle first. Best to get that battle over with.
Public Safety Notice: Do not EVER EVER EVER buy Vanilla Flavour Mini-Wheats. Despite the (weakly) healthy sounding name, actually putting a biscuit in your mouth will cause the greasy, curling sensation of licking out an icing container.
You're welcome.
*Red Dye #7, Blue Dye #3, etc. A clunky reference.
Each time, I turn into the vegetable/fruit section, spend some quality time sniffing lemons, picking out the best mushrooms, the crispest apples, the plumpest ears of corn, all with the jet-speed help of my little farm hands, who think we're running a race and move accordingly. By the time we're done there and I've done the detours into the bread/deli area and the butcher section, the kids are beginning to show signs of strain and tiredness and an obscene fondness with the blood pressure machine in the drugstore. By the time I drag them off that, the whinging and carrying on isn't too far off. We stump through paper products, pet food, canned goods, household products, (while maintaining that the toy aisle simply isn't there) and arrive at the cereal aisle. By now, I've shot the Mom-glare six times, hissed 'Stay with the cart!' twelve gagillion times, and am unenthused and heartily sick of the whole operation. I mean, eating is over-rated, really.
Which is why we tend to end up with the bad cereal.
Oh, I used to fight the good fight about this. Back before I was outnumbered (and back before the boy realized marshmallows existed) we had Cheerios. Rice Crispies. Granola. The basics. He didn't care.
Now we have a girl. Who is programmed (are they all like this?) to be hyper-sensitive to pinks and purples, so any bright colored box catches her eye and screams her name.
So while I'm busy veto-ing Lucky Charms (otherwise known as the repository for ALL the food coloring numbers*) Cass is eying up the boxes for whatever prizes are hiding inside the waxy paper insides. Score! Indiana Jones!
'Mo-om? Can we.....' I swung around and eyed the box. Wheat. Good. We'd had this before. Oh look, a new flavor! Okay.
Then, this morning....
'Mo-om? This doesn't taste good.'
I lifted my head from my coffee cup. Why can't the kids sleep in? Not even once??
Huh? What? Who said that? Oh, the Boy.
'It's too...sweet.'
Blink-blink. You - think it's too sweet? Let me have a taste.
He obligingly brought me his bowl. I dipped, spooned, chewed.
And winced as my tongue went into spasms of sugar shock.
Toast, anyone?
From now on, I'm going to the cereal aisle first. Best to get that battle over with.
Public Safety Notice: Do not EVER EVER EVER buy Vanilla Flavour Mini-Wheats. Despite the (weakly) healthy sounding name, actually putting a biscuit in your mouth will cause the greasy, curling sensation of licking out an icing container.
You're welcome.
*Red Dye #7, Blue Dye #3, etc. A clunky reference.
Friday, 13 June 2008
brief and to the point
So sad about Tim Russert.
His voice added a richness and a clarity to this crazed, twisted political mess we've got going on.
He was one of the first political commentators that I'd ever seen having fun with the process, grinning as he explained things, looking amused and enjoying himself.
May 7th, 1950 to June 13, 2008
His voice added a richness and a clarity to this crazed, twisted political mess we've got going on.
He was one of the first political commentators that I'd ever seen having fun with the process, grinning as he explained things, looking amused and enjoying himself.
May 7th, 1950 to June 13, 2008
Thursday, 12 June 2008
growing up isn't easy for parents to watch
I was aware she was growing up. Really. I was. Last week we started the no-diapers-at-night-anymore thing (and holy God, I think I'm done with diapers!!) and she's getting taller and more beautiful all the time, and she tests out at a 4.5 age level with her speech and comprehension (From these humble beginnings) but she's still my baby on so many levels.
So now I have two kids in tball. TWO KIDS IN T-BALL.
Now, aren't I right in assuming there has been some breach of contract here? She was supposed to stay little a whole lot longer, right? RIGHT?
Tonight, my big girl threw the ball back. She walked (not quite getting the concept yet) around the bases, and hit the ball. I was so proud. And oh yeah, she's hooked.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find some baby socks and babble about 'but she was so small!' to Bear for awhile.....
And then yesterday there was this:
First bike. The tricycle is no longer.
and then today there was this:
Cass started t-ball for the summer. And damned if
Rosey didn't want to play too.
First bike. The tricycle is no longer.and then today there was this:
Cass started t-ball for the summer. And damned if
Rosey didn't want to play too.
So now I have two kids in tball. TWO KIDS IN T-BALL.
Now, aren't I right in assuming there has been some breach of contract here? She was supposed to stay little a whole lot longer, right? RIGHT?
Tonight, my big girl threw the ball back. She walked (not quite getting the concept yet) around the bases, and hit the ball. I was so proud. And oh yeah, she's hooked.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find some baby socks and babble about 'but she was so small!' to Bear for awhile.....
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
six centimetres is about three inches
I still can't make this stuff up....
but Holy Jumpin' Jesus.
*UPDATE* A lot of people have expressed skepticism over this - however, they had the guy (and the nail, eww, and his x-ray, double ewww) on CNN last night. I'm thinking this one was legit. Although didn't I have a post on Sunday that says that I trust things too much??
Hmmmmm.
but Holy Jumpin' Jesus.
*UPDATE* A lot of people have expressed skepticism over this - however, they had the guy (and the nail, eww, and his x-ray, double ewww) on CNN last night. I'm thinking this one was legit. Although didn't I have a post on Sunday that says that I trust things too much??
Hmmmmm.
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