No, no, this is not an examination of the new Olafur Eliasson work in NYC (though I hope to get to see it, since I was pregnant and unable to travel for last major public art installation, The Gates).
It is a celebration of water play.
In 20 minutes of uninterrupted creativity (during which I finished the last post), they cleaned my sink, rinsed some dishes, and washed the counters, chairs, and surrounding floor.
Oh, and they had lots of fun too.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Tyranny of Stuff*
I loved the article on the "Tyranny of the Heirloom." And I don't even really have heirlooms from family yet! My parents and Mama's parents are thankfully alive and healthy with their stuff in their own houses. And when the time comes, there actually isn't all that much "stuff" in my mom's house: a burglary and a fire cleared out both treasured heirlooms and junk, and she just isn't a keeper.
That used to drive me nuts--we had a joke in the family that if something sat still for 5 minutes, Mom would throw it away. Like the time she was cleaning her computer desktop and "recycled" all of her Microsoft programs because she didn't like the icons cluttering up the screen. So, there won't be much heirloom tyranny there (and I wouldn't call Grandma Johnson's Dresden tyranny at all!).
My in-laws are a different story; they have stuff. Lots of stuff.
But I was thinking about our own tyranny of stuff. The stuff that we have personally accumulated. Stuff that would eventually be heirlooms for the kiddos, even if it is mostly junk. We have an entire basement and closets and house filled with the accumulation of two keepers. Who rushed to prepare the house for twins, clearing two full rooms (in a 3 bedroom house) to make a nursery and playroom. Who have detritus from twins, waiting to be given away, waiting to be used by the twins, and saved to give back to the twins later.
Articles like these always inspire me to throw things out. I looked at all my magazine clippings and "keeper" magazines last night and almost sent Mama to the trash cans at 10 pm, but then changed my mind. We always talk about clearing the basement, especially because we'd love to finish it someday (to make another room . . . for stuff!), but there is rarely time.
But I do want to do it. I don't want this stuff, much of it in the basement more because of laziness and lack of time than because of any real sentimental value, to become a burden on the kiddos. The tyranny stops here.
-=-=-=-=-
*With a grateful nod to the humor of George Carlin.
That used to drive me nuts--we had a joke in the family that if something sat still for 5 minutes, Mom would throw it away. Like the time she was cleaning her computer desktop and "recycled" all of her Microsoft programs because she didn't like the icons cluttering up the screen. So, there won't be much heirloom tyranny there (and I wouldn't call Grandma Johnson's Dresden tyranny at all!).
My in-laws are a different story; they have stuff. Lots of stuff.
But I was thinking about our own tyranny of stuff. The stuff that we have personally accumulated. Stuff that would eventually be heirlooms for the kiddos, even if it is mostly junk. We have an entire basement and closets and house filled with the accumulation of two keepers. Who rushed to prepare the house for twins, clearing two full rooms (in a 3 bedroom house) to make a nursery and playroom. Who have detritus from twins, waiting to be given away, waiting to be used by the twins, and saved to give back to the twins later.
Articles like these always inspire me to throw things out. I looked at all my magazine clippings and "keeper" magazines last night and almost sent Mama to the trash cans at 10 pm, but then changed my mind. We always talk about clearing the basement, especially because we'd love to finish it someday (to make another room . . . for stuff!), but there is rarely time.
But I do want to do it. I don't want this stuff, much of it in the basement more because of laziness and lack of time than because of any real sentimental value, to become a burden on the kiddos. The tyranny stops here.
-=-=-=-=-
*With a grateful nod to the humor of George Carlin.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Tomorrow's Her Birthday!
Thursday is Mama's birthday.
Come on, all you readers, please leave her some good birthday wishes here! Or you can email them to my account.
Come on, all you readers, please leave her some good birthday wishes here! Or you can email them to my account.
It's 6:30, Do You Know Where Your Kids Are?
Yep, mine are in bed. Asleep.
And Mama is at work late. Not working, but taking a free CPR class. She'll be home around 10.
Which means I'm on the couch, tv on, about to work on my church cookbook and the baby blanket I need to finish (the first blanket has gone missing somewhere in our personal Bermuda Triangle; the baby was born yesterday!). I've got manicotti in the oven and am trying to choose a movie for the evening. Probably Pride and Prejudice.
Have a good night!
-=-=-=-=-
And Mama is at work late. Not working, but taking a free CPR class. She'll be home around 10.
Which means I'm on the couch, tv on, about to work on my church cookbook and the baby blanket I need to finish (the first blanket has gone missing somewhere in our personal Bermuda Triangle; the baby was born yesterday!). I've got manicotti in the oven and am trying to choose a movie for the evening. Probably Pride and Prejudice.
Have a good night!
-=-=-=-=-
Manicotti
1 package manicotti
2-27 oz. jars spaghetti sauce
2 eggs
1-15 oz. container ricotta cheese
4 cups (16 oz) shredded mozzarella cheese, divided
1 cup (4 oz) grate parmesan cheese, divided
¼ cup chopped fresh parsley (1 tablespoon dried)
Cook manicotti according to package directions; drain. Preheat oven to 35O°F. Spray bottom of 15 x 10 x 2 inch glass baking dish with no stick cooking spray. In large bowl, beat eggs; stir in ricotta, 3 cups of the mozzarella, ¾ cup of parmesan, and parsley.
Spread 1 jar of sauce on bottom of baking dish. Fill each cooked manicotti with ricotta mixture. Arrange filled manicotti in baking dish. Top with second jar of sauce and remaining cheese.
Bake, covered with foil, until bubbly, about 45 minutes. Uncover and continue until cheese is melted, about 5 minutes. Let stand 5 minutes before serving.
Note: one-10 oz. package frozen chopped spinach, thawed, water squeezed out, may be added to the ricotta mixture.
Passing Albanians
Apparently, it is a 500 year-old custom in Albania, codified in the Kanun of Leke Dukagjini, that women in a family that has lost its male head can become that man. It's not a modern transgendered thing--no sex changes, no hormones, not even a change in name sometimes. But the woman dons male clothes, takes a male job, and never does "woman's work" again. The role play is required because women couldn't work until very recently in isolated Albania and someone needed to step in to help support unprotected families. Mind you, gender roles are rigid in this code. The women become virgins and the article is careful to point out that they are not lesbians.
But, I wonder, would the more dykey women, those not that interested in men already, been the ones more likely to volunteer? Among 9 sisters, say, how is one chosen? I bet there are some lesbian tendencies in there, even if homosexuality is forbidden by the code.
But, I wonder, would the more dykey women, those not that interested in men already, been the ones more likely to volunteer? Among 9 sisters, say, how is one chosen? I bet there are some lesbian tendencies in there, even if homosexuality is forbidden by the code.
Solstice
Solstice has come and gone and we noted the day but weren't able to celebrate much.
Indeed, the main thing we've realized about the solstice is that the kiddos are definitely back to their old schedule--up around 6:45 and to bed at 6:30. This is their default, and has been for almost 3 whole years. Sometimes things get messed up around the time changes but inevitably, they return to this schedule.
For those of you keeping track, that means they'll want to go to bed almost two whole hours before my sister's wedding starts.
Otherwise, we have had several moments of appreciation nature and the cycles of the seasons. We've had several major thunderstorms, almost as if it were spring. I love the smell before a storm and the look of the dark clouds. Luckily, none of the lightening nor thunder has frightened the kids. It hasn't even woken them up. My roses have exploded in pink blossoms everywhere and our garden continues to grow. I think we'll have some lettuce for lunch.
And yesterday, in the evening, as a large cloud threatened (but never performed) a rainbow arched above our house.
Happy Solstice.
Indeed, the main thing we've realized about the solstice is that the kiddos are definitely back to their old schedule--up around 6:45 and to bed at 6:30. This is their default, and has been for almost 3 whole years. Sometimes things get messed up around the time changes but inevitably, they return to this schedule.
For those of you keeping track, that means they'll want to go to bed almost two whole hours before my sister's wedding starts.
Otherwise, we have had several moments of appreciation nature and the cycles of the seasons. We've had several major thunderstorms, almost as if it were spring. I love the smell before a storm and the look of the dark clouds. Luckily, none of the lightening nor thunder has frightened the kids. It hasn't even woken them up. My roses have exploded in pink blossoms everywhere and our garden continues to grow. I think we'll have some lettuce for lunch.
And yesterday, in the evening, as a large cloud threatened (but never performed) a rainbow arched above our house.
Happy Solstice.
Monday, June 23, 2008
The Truth About Cats and Dogs
Mama has a theory: Sis is a cat and Buddy is a dog.
Let me expound. As per the stereotypes of their animal counterparts, Sis is picky about the food she eats and how it is served to her--she doesn't like sauce, any food touching, and really prefers separate plates. She has a favorite type of fork (small). Buddy, however, doesn't even need a fork but will wolf down pretty much whatever you put in front of him. He doesn't even need a plate and needs to be watched because he'll pick stray morsels up off the floor of the kitchen, floor of the car, or from his carseat.
Sis also doesn't like unsolicited attention. If she wants cuddles, she'll come to you and curl up in your lap and sit quietly for awhile. But try to ask for a hug or a kiss, and she'll just look at you incredulously. Buddy, however, constantly seeks attention and companionship and will take a hug, cuddle, or kiss almost all the time. He is very social. She doesn't mind time alone, especially alone from Buddy, who follows her around like a, you guessed it, puppy.
Their hygiene habits are also feline and canine. Sis doesn't like to be messy--she keeps her hands clean so she can hold shirt. She also gets upset if her clothes get too dirty, her hands get muddy or sandy, or she gets stuff in her shoes. Buddy gets food and dirt everywhere and only objects if he gets too wet. And he doesn't particularly like having his hair washed either, kinda like Harry, The Dirty Dog.
Likewise, disciplining Sis results oftentimes in a look of superiority and indifference. Buddy, however, is distraught when he gets into trouble.
As for let's call them litter habits, Sis wants to be clean and finds the whole potty-training learning process distasteful, even if she likes the undies. Accidents are very upsetting. Buddy likes to pee in the potty, will go everytime, is fascinating by peeing, even if it's on the carpet.
Come to think of it, I believe Sis's first word was "cat." Maybe she was trying to tell us something.
Let me expound. As per the stereotypes of their animal counterparts, Sis is picky about the food she eats and how it is served to her--she doesn't like sauce, any food touching, and really prefers separate plates. She has a favorite type of fork (small). Buddy, however, doesn't even need a fork but will wolf down pretty much whatever you put in front of him. He doesn't even need a plate and needs to be watched because he'll pick stray morsels up off the floor of the kitchen, floor of the car, or from his carseat.
Sis also doesn't like unsolicited attention. If she wants cuddles, she'll come to you and curl up in your lap and sit quietly for awhile. But try to ask for a hug or a kiss, and she'll just look at you incredulously. Buddy, however, constantly seeks attention and companionship and will take a hug, cuddle, or kiss almost all the time. He is very social. She doesn't mind time alone, especially alone from Buddy, who follows her around like a, you guessed it, puppy.
Their hygiene habits are also feline and canine. Sis doesn't like to be messy--she keeps her hands clean so she can hold shirt. She also gets upset if her clothes get too dirty, her hands get muddy or sandy, or she gets stuff in her shoes. Buddy gets food and dirt everywhere and only objects if he gets too wet. And he doesn't particularly like having his hair washed either, kinda like Harry, The Dirty Dog.
Likewise, disciplining Sis results oftentimes in a look of superiority and indifference. Buddy, however, is distraught when he gets into trouble.
As for let's call them litter habits, Sis wants to be clean and finds the whole potty-training learning process distasteful, even if she likes the undies. Accidents are very upsetting. Buddy likes to pee in the potty, will go everytime, is fascinating by peeing, even if it's on the carpet.
Come to think of it, I believe Sis's first word was "cat." Maybe she was trying to tell us something.
Of Art and Sports
Sis loves arts and crafts. Almost nothing makes her happier that markers, crayons, paints, paper, glue, string, and scissors. She makes narrative drawings, telling us or the air the stories as she goes. There are characters--Mr. Shuke and Mr. Rock (we think that last one is from Wonder Pets, the first one eludes us)--and these are circular figures complete with eyes, arms, legs, hands, toes (specifically not just feet), sometimes clothes, hair, teeth, and belly buttons. She's also done drawings of the family, usually leaving Buddy out of the picture, with me as a big blob, her as a flying nun-type blob, and Mama as a little blob on the side. There is even carpet in the that picture. Other pictures have grass or clouds or birds.
And we rave about these artworks--they really are marvelous (I'll see if I can upload one)--"what wonderful lines!" "I like the colors you chose," and "You must have been excited when you drew that shape." Not "what is that?" but instead "tell me what's going on in this picture?" Never "that looks like a . . . " but "what a wonderful squiggly line." There aren't examples to follow--I loathe step-by-step conformist art projects (like at the library's storytime)--only her incredible imagination and creativity.
Until, recently, she has been asking us, more and more, to draw for her--usually images from her favorite t.v. shows. I suggest she try, and she laments that she "only draws squiggly lines." I try to tell her that her lines, her art, are great, but it's not what she wants sometimes. She wants the "real thing." Oddly, she'll settle for my loosely translated renditions of Dora and Diego and is perfectly content (I won't say "I'm not an artist"--I can't stand that refrain in adults, especially around kids--it's so defeatist, self-denigrating, just like "I can't sing" or "I can't cook" or "I can't play ball." Take it out of your vocabulary, please. For the children.) Then she "writes their names" and labels the different body parts, like in all those books for toddlers.
Yesterday, we did a little of everything--I drew Dora and Diego and she labeled them, but, then, trying to break away from that activity, I pulled out scissors, glue, and tissue paper and we collaged. Only, we collaged together making one work of art, each gluing on different colors and shapes. It was just what art should be at this age--creative and fun.
While we worked, Buddy played baseball. Mama was pitcher, he was batter. Though, sometimes, he wanted just to catch so he would don his glove and be . . . "glover." Makes sense, right? Luckily, there's velcro on that glove because neither the pitches nor the catches are spot on. His own throws, though, are long and strong. He's definitely quite an arm (he kicks a mean ball, too, but that's another sport).
For Buddy, baseball is social, which is why he still won't play with his tee-ball set. This is just as well because he took it apart and the ring that holds the whole thing together is not surprisingly missing. He prefers that someone sit and pitch to him, saying "batter up" and such. He still needs to put on his shirt with the "New York Yankees symbol" (when did he learn "symbol"? I'm so proud.) and his matching hat; very sweet. He's also learning the words to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" (and do you know the origins of that 1908 song? It's all about a girl obsessed with the game who gets her beau to take her. Who knew?). The only challenge with the whole baseball obsession--he'll even watch old games on YES network (that's Yankees tv) because he doesn't know better--besides trying to throw it so he can hit or catch it, is that Sis doesn't want to play. She wants to draw. With me or Mama. At the exact same time that Bud wants to play baseball. With me or Mama. Fine for weekends, really hard on weekdays. So, we've taken to setting timers, practically, five minutes here, five pitches there, etc. Not ideal.
But it has an up-side, which I'm ashamed to admit: when there are things he doesn't want to do--like brush teeth or put on clothes--we invoke baseball players, as in "baseball players brush their teeth" or "baseball players always wear clothes." He'll immediately comply.
Homerun!
(Luckily, Sis doesn't need what-artists-do as an enticement. Then what would we shout as encouragement, "Turner Prize? Biennial?" I can't imagine.)
And we rave about these artworks--they really are marvelous (I'll see if I can upload one)--"what wonderful lines!" "I like the colors you chose," and "You must have been excited when you drew that shape." Not "what is that?" but instead "tell me what's going on in this picture?" Never "that looks like a . . . " but "what a wonderful squiggly line." There aren't examples to follow--I loathe step-by-step conformist art projects (like at the library's storytime)--only her incredible imagination and creativity.
Until, recently, she has been asking us, more and more, to draw for her--usually images from her favorite t.v. shows. I suggest she try, and she laments that she "only draws squiggly lines." I try to tell her that her lines, her art, are great, but it's not what she wants sometimes. She wants the "real thing." Oddly, she'll settle for my loosely translated renditions of Dora and Diego and is perfectly content (I won't say "I'm not an artist"--I can't stand that refrain in adults, especially around kids--it's so defeatist, self-denigrating, just like "I can't sing" or "I can't cook" or "I can't play ball." Take it out of your vocabulary, please. For the children.) Then she "writes their names" and labels the different body parts, like in all those books for toddlers.
Yesterday, we did a little of everything--I drew Dora and Diego and she labeled them, but, then, trying to break away from that activity, I pulled out scissors, glue, and tissue paper and we collaged. Only, we collaged together making one work of art, each gluing on different colors and shapes. It was just what art should be at this age--creative and fun.
While we worked, Buddy played baseball. Mama was pitcher, he was batter. Though, sometimes, he wanted just to catch so he would don his glove and be . . . "glover." Makes sense, right? Luckily, there's velcro on that glove because neither the pitches nor the catches are spot on. His own throws, though, are long and strong. He's definitely quite an arm (he kicks a mean ball, too, but that's another sport).
For Buddy, baseball is social, which is why he still won't play with his tee-ball set. This is just as well because he took it apart and the ring that holds the whole thing together is not surprisingly missing. He prefers that someone sit and pitch to him, saying "batter up" and such. He still needs to put on his shirt with the "New York Yankees symbol" (when did he learn "symbol"? I'm so proud.) and his matching hat; very sweet. He's also learning the words to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" (and do you know the origins of that 1908 song? It's all about a girl obsessed with the game who gets her beau to take her. Who knew?). The only challenge with the whole baseball obsession--he'll even watch old games on YES network (that's Yankees tv) because he doesn't know better--besides trying to throw it so he can hit or catch it, is that Sis doesn't want to play. She wants to draw. With me or Mama. At the exact same time that Bud wants to play baseball. With me or Mama. Fine for weekends, really hard on weekdays. So, we've taken to setting timers, practically, five minutes here, five pitches there, etc. Not ideal.
But it has an up-side, which I'm ashamed to admit: when there are things he doesn't want to do--like brush teeth or put on clothes--we invoke baseball players, as in "baseball players brush their teeth" or "baseball players always wear clothes." He'll immediately comply.
Homerun!
(Luckily, Sis doesn't need what-artists-do as an enticement. Then what would we shout as encouragement, "Turner Prize? Biennial?" I can't imagine.)
Isn't It Ironic?
Do you know what one of Bud and Sis's favorite games is? They're playing it right now.
Pretending to go to sleep.
They get covers, pillows, critters, and curl up on the couches. Then one tucks the other in--handshake, nose rub, kiss, hug, happy thoughts, and lullaby. Their eyes close for a minute and then they switch off.
Sometimes, I get to play. I'm tucked in, kissed, and left to sleep.
For about a minute.
Pretending to go to sleep.
They get covers, pillows, critters, and curl up on the couches. Then one tucks the other in--handshake, nose rub, kiss, hug, happy thoughts, and lullaby. Their eyes close for a minute and then they switch off.
Sometimes, I get to play. I'm tucked in, kissed, and left to sleep.
For about a minute.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Candles of Concern
We lit candles today for several friends:
- the mommy we know who had two surgical procedures and needs at least 2 more
- the little girl who was pushed on the playground and broke her arm
- the little boy who gets tubes in his ears on Tuesday
- the mommy who is a week overdue and is totally ready to have this baby
- the mommy whose 14 year old cat died this week
Friday, June 20, 2008
A Black-Bordered Post
Renowned children's book author and illustrator, Tasha Tudor, has died.
I have two of her books from my childhood still, one on fairytales and my favorite, A Time to Keep. Her delicate and gentle evocations of another, timeless time have always enthralled me.
The kids have 1 is One and will get to look at my special books when they're older. Until then, we'll make some recipes from her cookbook. And enjoy the beautiful world she created.
I have two of her books from my childhood still, one on fairytales and my favorite, A Time to Keep. Her delicate and gentle evocations of another, timeless time have always enthralled me.
The kids have 1 is One and will get to look at my special books when they're older. Until then, we'll make some recipes from her cookbook. And enjoy the beautiful world she created.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
My Night Off
Mama is working really late tonight, attending a company meeting. I put the kids to bed at 6:30 and the night is mine.
I hardly know what to do with myself.
I have put Gone with the Wind in the DVD (I know, I know, so un-PC and ahistorical, but it really is one of my all-time favorite movies from early childhood, up there with Star Wars; I even read the whole book as a tween. Ask Mama, I quote it weekly, and if she doesn't recognize an allusion I make, she knows it's some arcane GWTW), am drinking some decaf coffee, eating one of my last chocolate pralines from the Southern Candymakers in New Orleans, and . . . playing on the computer. Actually, I'm about to start editing the church cookbook, but I've been checking email and reading the NYTimes.
Which is when I stumbled across the obituary, per se, of White Lily flour. Now, Texas is not so Southern that I have any memory of White Lily flour (Mom, do you?). But apparently, it is the flour par excellence. I was intrigued with the article in the paper, which describes how the flour has changed since production was moved to the Midwest from Knoxville, despite strict adherence to established procedures. Apparently, White Lily is a soft wheat with low protein and gluten that has been chlorinated. States the article:
"Soft wheat is, in fact, the key to understanding why the South is better known for cakes, biscuits and pie crusts than for yeast breads, which require the strength of high-protein flour. Soft red winter wheat was once grown primarily in the Carolinas, Georgia and Tennessee and, in the days before national food distribution networks, it was the only wheat widely available in the South. Nowadays, Ohio, Indiana and Illinois are among the largest producers.
-=-=-=-=-
Touch of Grace Biscuits
Adapted from “CookWise” by Shirley O. Corriher (Morrow)
Buttermilk Biscuits
I hardly know what to do with myself.
I have put Gone with the Wind in the DVD (I know, I know, so un-PC and ahistorical, but it really is one of my all-time favorite movies from early childhood, up there with Star Wars; I even read the whole book as a tween. Ask Mama, I quote it weekly, and if she doesn't recognize an allusion I make, she knows it's some arcane GWTW), am drinking some decaf coffee, eating one of my last chocolate pralines from the Southern Candymakers in New Orleans, and . . . playing on the computer. Actually, I'm about to start editing the church cookbook, but I've been checking email and reading the NYTimes.
Which is when I stumbled across the obituary, per se, of White Lily flour. Now, Texas is not so Southern that I have any memory of White Lily flour (Mom, do you?). But apparently, it is the flour par excellence. I was intrigued with the article in the paper, which describes how the flour has changed since production was moved to the Midwest from Knoxville, despite strict adherence to established procedures. Apparently, White Lily is a soft wheat with low protein and gluten that has been chlorinated. States the article:
"Soft wheat is, in fact, the key to understanding why the South is better known for cakes, biscuits and pie crusts than for yeast breads, which require the strength of high-protein flour. Soft red winter wheat was once grown primarily in the Carolinas, Georgia and Tennessee and, in the days before national food distribution networks, it was the only wheat widely available in the South. Nowadays, Ohio, Indiana and Illinois are among the largest producers.
"It may also explain why many Northerners’ attempts to replicate Southern delicacies fall flat. Low-protein flour absorbs less liquid, so a recipe designed for White Lily won’t work with other flours. Cake flour or another low-protein flour like Martha White are the closest substitutes." [many pardons, I can't figure out how to block indent for a quote longer than 3 lines, as required]
-=-=-=-=-
Touch of Grace Biscuits
Adapted from “CookWise” by Shirley O. Corriher (Morrow)
Time: 40 minutes
Nonstick cooking spray
2 cups self-rising flour, preferably a low-protein Southern flour like White Lily
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons vegetable shortening
2/3 cup heavy cream
1 cup buttermilk, or as needed
1 cup bleached all-purpose flour, preferably low-protein flour like White Lily, or as needed
2 tablespoons butter, melted.
1. Heat oven to 425 degrees, and arrange a shelf slightly below center of oven. Spray a 9-inch cake pan with nonstick cooking spray. In a large mixing bowl, stir together the self-rising flour, sugar and salt. Work shortening in with your fingers until there are no large lumps. Gently stir in the cream, then enough buttermilk so that dough resembles wet cottage cheese. (If you are not using low-protein Southern flour, this may take considerably more than 1 cup buttermilk.)
2. Spread one cup all-purpose flour (not self-rising) across a plate or pie pan. Using a medium (about 2 inches, No. 30) ice cream scoop or spoon, place three scoops of dough well apart in flour. Sprinkle flour over each. Flour your hands. Turn the dough in flour to coat, shaping a ball and shaking off excess flour as you work. Place each ball in prepared pan; biscuits should be touching one another. Continue shaping until all dough is used.
3. Bake until lightly browned, 20 to 25 minutes. Brushed with melted butter. Invert onto a plate, then back onto another. With a knife or spatula, cut quickly between biscuits to make them easy to remove. Serve immediately.
Yield: 12 to 14 biscuits.
Buttermilk Biscuits
Needing to prove my “Southerness,” I decided I had to know how to make biscuits. But, having bad experience with chewy dumplings and hard scones, I was nervous about trying my hand at biscuits. But for the February 2002 full moon—a true snow moon, I gave it another shot. Straight out of the back of Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café (with a little help form Laurie Colwin’s book). And, though they were a little short, they were flaky and good, the perfect biscuit. The secret is not to over knead.
2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons salt
¼ teaspoon baking soda
½ cup Crisco
1 cup buttermilk (or soured milk)
Preheat oven to 450°F. If using soured milk, combine vinegar and milk now and let stand, while continuing. Sift dry ingredients together. Add Crisco and blend well until like fine meal. Add buttermilk and mix delicately until it comes together. Dump out on floured surface and knead gently 5 times. Roll out about ½” thick and cut into desired size. Bake in greased pan, with sides touching, until golden brown, 15-18 minutes.
Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café
Equal Parenting
A recent article in the NYTimes examined in-depth the phenomenon of equal parenting. I forwarded the article to my SAHMommy friends, even before I finished it. So I was surprised to find out that the last several paragraphs deal with lesbian parents. Apparently, lesbians are relatively committed to equal parenting because our family structures don't fit into the typical mommy-daddy dyad. We have to work it all our for ourselves.
In comparing us to the examples the author Lisa Belkin includes, I realized we were both typical and atypical of both lesbian and also straight parents. For instance, Mama works full time and I stay home, pretty atypical for lesbians and more normal for straight parents. But like other lesbian couples, we pretty much split whatever housework we do. I was fascinated by, but in no way surprised, that lesbians just do less housework than their straight sisters, almost by half, but more than straight men (gay parents weren't surveyed apparently, not enough of them yet, I guess). You only have to look at my house to know that's true. All of my friends' houses are cleaner, neater, and more, what would be the word, decorated? We call it the "house beautiful" approach. Must not be in the lesbian genes.
Interestingly, the article did seem more concerned about housework than actual parenting, which it seemed to boil down to tucking kids in and planning birthday parties. The focus was also limited to quantifiable hours, but I think that is reductive though probably sociologically necessary. Mama and I are equal parents but in quality not quantity. On average, I spend 84 hours with the kids in a week; she spends 34. We try hard to be all together on evenings and weekends; that's our family time. There is very little (possibly not enough) single parenting when both parents are home. At those times, or even when we're apart (for those things that are tangential to actual, physical childcare), either one of us is likely to call the pediatrician, buy toys, put a child in timeout, serve a meal, tuck in, soothe tears, plan a birthday party. Indeed, she has night coverage, which means any problems arising after they go to bed are handled (most adeptly) by her, because they respond better to her at night (and are much more likely to go back to sleep. Lucky me).
Call it parenting by committee, if not equal. Everything, EVERYTHING is discussed. Take potty training: we've discussed potty-training theories, where to put the potty charts, what box to put the potty chart stickers in, what kind of stool to buy so they can get on the potty, what undies to buy, where to keep them, whether they've earned enough stickers to get their weekly treat, what kind of weekly treats they can earn, when to go undies-only. And that's just the tip of it. Do my straight friends do this? Do their husbands have these kinds of conversations? And it's not just about big issues like potty training. It's EVERYTHING. Housework too: we revisit the division of chores, discuss the best way to organize clothes/toys/supplies, make the grocery list and menu together, ad nauseum. There are only a few things we don't mess with--she does laundry and garbage and I handle the kitchen, including dishes and food.
It is said that committees don't get anything done. And, well, when it comes to housework, it's probably true--perhaps why lesbians do less of it and my house isn't so neat (and mind you, we "farm out," as one of the men in the article mentioned, the heavy stuff every two weeks! In many ways, equal parenting is as much an economic decision as anything else. We don't want to give up the safety, security, and, let's face it, comfort of one solid income with insurance as opposed to two part-time or reduced salary ones). And sometimes it can be frustrating and time-consuming--I can't just rearrange something because it suits me (or throw out something)--we share, we both live here, it's all ours, which means decisions, all decisions, are too. Nothing, nothing happens quickly. But, I find, with parenting decisions anyway (though perhaps not the upstairs closet or the basement!), it's wonderful to have someone in my proverbial boat. There is always talk about the isolation of suburban mommyhood--and it does exist for those 50 hours I'm with the kids by myself, even with all my SAHM friends and activities--but such co-parenting helps, because I'm only alone physically, not spiritually. Even if our conceptions of parenthood--she's the working mom (though with the great benefit of being "married" to her childcare, and this can't be undervalued, she says) trying to balance work and home while I'm the stay-at-home-mom struggling with isolation and three-year olds. She might not be here during the weekdays but we communicate constantly, completely--I have been told that this (some call it co-dependency) is a lesbian thing. Whatever the word, it makes us better parents, better partners, better people. I don't know if that makes us typical or not. But it's what works for us.
Besides, the parenting is more important than the housework any day. There just aren't enough hours in the week to do it all.
-=-=-=-
P.S. We kept our own names but hyphenated the kiddos. Another shared decision.
In comparing us to the examples the author Lisa Belkin includes, I realized we were both typical and atypical of both lesbian and also straight parents. For instance, Mama works full time and I stay home, pretty atypical for lesbians and more normal for straight parents. But like other lesbian couples, we pretty much split whatever housework we do. I was fascinated by, but in no way surprised, that lesbians just do less housework than their straight sisters, almost by half, but more than straight men (gay parents weren't surveyed apparently, not enough of them yet, I guess). You only have to look at my house to know that's true. All of my friends' houses are cleaner, neater, and more, what would be the word, decorated? We call it the "house beautiful" approach. Must not be in the lesbian genes.
Interestingly, the article did seem more concerned about housework than actual parenting, which it seemed to boil down to tucking kids in and planning birthday parties. The focus was also limited to quantifiable hours, but I think that is reductive though probably sociologically necessary. Mama and I are equal parents but in quality not quantity. On average, I spend 84 hours with the kids in a week; she spends 34. We try hard to be all together on evenings and weekends; that's our family time. There is very little (possibly not enough) single parenting when both parents are home. At those times, or even when we're apart (for those things that are tangential to actual, physical childcare), either one of us is likely to call the pediatrician, buy toys, put a child in timeout, serve a meal, tuck in, soothe tears, plan a birthday party. Indeed, she has night coverage, which means any problems arising after they go to bed are handled (most adeptly) by her, because they respond better to her at night (and are much more likely to go back to sleep. Lucky me).
Call it parenting by committee, if not equal. Everything, EVERYTHING is discussed. Take potty training: we've discussed potty-training theories, where to put the potty charts, what box to put the potty chart stickers in, what kind of stool to buy so they can get on the potty, what undies to buy, where to keep them, whether they've earned enough stickers to get their weekly treat, what kind of weekly treats they can earn, when to go undies-only. And that's just the tip of it. Do my straight friends do this? Do their husbands have these kinds of conversations? And it's not just about big issues like potty training. It's EVERYTHING. Housework too: we revisit the division of chores, discuss the best way to organize clothes/toys/supplies, make the grocery list and menu together, ad nauseum. There are only a few things we don't mess with--she does laundry and garbage and I handle the kitchen, including dishes and food.
It is said that committees don't get anything done. And, well, when it comes to housework, it's probably true--perhaps why lesbians do less of it and my house isn't so neat (and mind you, we "farm out," as one of the men in the article mentioned, the heavy stuff every two weeks! In many ways, equal parenting is as much an economic decision as anything else. We don't want to give up the safety, security, and, let's face it, comfort of one solid income with insurance as opposed to two part-time or reduced salary ones). And sometimes it can be frustrating and time-consuming--I can't just rearrange something because it suits me (or throw out something)--we share, we both live here, it's all ours, which means decisions, all decisions, are too. Nothing, nothing happens quickly. But, I find, with parenting decisions anyway (though perhaps not the upstairs closet or the basement!), it's wonderful to have someone in my proverbial boat. There is always talk about the isolation of suburban mommyhood--and it does exist for those 50 hours I'm with the kids by myself, even with all my SAHM friends and activities--but such co-parenting helps, because I'm only alone physically, not spiritually. Even if our conceptions of parenthood--she's the working mom (though with the great benefit of being "married" to her childcare, and this can't be undervalued, she says) trying to balance work and home while I'm the stay-at-home-mom struggling with isolation and three-year olds. She might not be here during the weekdays but we communicate constantly, completely--I have been told that this (some call it co-dependency) is a lesbian thing. Whatever the word, it makes us better parents, better partners, better people. I don't know if that makes us typical or not. But it's what works for us.
Besides, the parenting is more important than the housework any day. There just aren't enough hours in the week to do it all.
-=-=-=-
P.S. We kept our own names but hyphenated the kiddos. Another shared decision.
Out of Doors
The recent torrential downpours have dropped the temperature here significantly. And, so, we have been outside--and enjoyed it! This, of course, is a revelation because we don't usually like the outdoors--and that's not the royal "we," I'm not a big outdoors-girl myself.
Yesterday, we spent more than four hours--4 HOURS--at a local park with our playgroup. My kiddos weren't at all attracted to the sprinkler garden--they just don't seem to like getting wet, though they certainly enjoyed watching me try it. I figured I needed to set an enthusiastic example and so shucked my shoes and sprinted in. No takers. Oh, well. Points for trying. They much preferred the sand box (actually a volleyball court) and the playground, complete with "pirate ship" and "whale-dolphin" bouncy things.
And then, as we were leaving, they spied some of our group in the swimming pool. We went in to say hello and we stayed for a bit. Then, lo and behold, we swam! I had to borrow suits, though we had the swimmer diapers, and we didn't even have a towel. No matter. Sis particularly enjoyed wading in and playing with someone's crocodile. She was in there for an hour! She only got out because clouds loomed and rain threatened (I was surprised they hadn't actually closed the pool yet). Bud waded in a few times but preferred sitting on the sidelines with a bucket and shovel. Still, he was wet. Definitely promising. So, we'll join the local pool park and go some this summer with our friends.
And we were outside again today. First, we walked to the local deli and got some snacks for a picnic. Nothing healthy--Funions and Skittles for Buddy, Swedish Fish and Baked Lays for Sis, plus juice boxes--but it was a great adventure to WALK to the store across the busy main street (with warnings never, ever to even think about doing it by themselves). Bud was especially incredulous that we could walk to a store. I'm sure I've opened a can of worms--they noticed lots of treats we didn't buy--but that's okay. I remember the people who owned this house reminiscing about walking their kids there; the tradition continues.
Then I hauled the table from the garage (no worries, it's plastic and light), put up the sand table umbrella, and we ate out back. I even have a new technique for preserving the chairs by tipping them against the table (well, it won't help much now--we inherited the chairs and table from the previous owners of the house and it shows). We then filled the bird feeders, played in the water table, played in the sand turtle, played in our own "pirate ship" (the historian in me would like to correct their innocent view of pirates but there is time enough for that. And then I can tell them about the pirate here on Connecticut's coast and also about lady pirates), and finally looked at our garden (see following post).
I hope the weather holds--we're heading to the city this Saturday to go to Ar-Ma and Ar-Gong's beach. Third time's a charm.
Yesterday, we spent more than four hours--4 HOURS--at a local park with our playgroup. My kiddos weren't at all attracted to the sprinkler garden--they just don't seem to like getting wet, though they certainly enjoyed watching me try it. I figured I needed to set an enthusiastic example and so shucked my shoes and sprinted in. No takers. Oh, well. Points for trying. They much preferred the sand box (actually a volleyball court) and the playground, complete with "pirate ship" and "whale-dolphin" bouncy things.
And then, as we were leaving, they spied some of our group in the swimming pool. We went in to say hello and we stayed for a bit. Then, lo and behold, we swam! I had to borrow suits, though we had the swimmer diapers, and we didn't even have a towel. No matter. Sis particularly enjoyed wading in and playing with someone's crocodile. She was in there for an hour! She only got out because clouds loomed and rain threatened (I was surprised they hadn't actually closed the pool yet). Bud waded in a few times but preferred sitting on the sidelines with a bucket and shovel. Still, he was wet. Definitely promising. So, we'll join the local pool park and go some this summer with our friends.
And we were outside again today. First, we walked to the local deli and got some snacks for a picnic. Nothing healthy--Funions and Skittles for Buddy, Swedish Fish and Baked Lays for Sis, plus juice boxes--but it was a great adventure to WALK to the store across the busy main street (with warnings never, ever to even think about doing it by themselves). Bud was especially incredulous that we could walk to a store. I'm sure I've opened a can of worms--they noticed lots of treats we didn't buy--but that's okay. I remember the people who owned this house reminiscing about walking their kids there; the tradition continues.
Then I hauled the table from the garage (no worries, it's plastic and light), put up the sand table umbrella, and we ate out back. I even have a new technique for preserving the chairs by tipping them against the table (well, it won't help much now--we inherited the chairs and table from the previous owners of the house and it shows). We then filled the bird feeders, played in the water table, played in the sand turtle, played in our own "pirate ship" (the historian in me would like to correct their innocent view of pirates but there is time enough for that. And then I can tell them about the pirate here on Connecticut's coast and also about lady pirates), and finally looked at our garden (see following post).
I hope the weather holds--we're heading to the city this Saturday to go to Ar-Ma and Ar-Gong's beach. Third time's a charm.
Vegetables of Our Labor
We tasted the first crops in our container garden today. We had been playing outside all morning, and, as per usual, perused our garden as we headed inside. The flowers are spreading, the grass seed is filling in, and there are vegetable plants in our pots. Nothing near ready to eat yet. Except the mesclun. I thought Mama was nuts for buying lettuce but turns out it was a great idea. So, there we were, water bottle in hand, washing lettuce leaves and eating them. Yum.
Now, just to convince the kiddos not to eat just any plant in the yard!
Now, just to convince the kiddos not to eat just any plant in the yard!
Thou Shalt Not Scare, Pt. 2: Timeouts
After my first post on discipline, fear, and religion, I received from my dear Lambeth an email about obedience. Specifically, he is concerned that a). my children won't obey me in times of danger and b). that my children will be annoying to society at large if they are not disciplined. Both of these are good and valid points.
And of the two, the first is easier to answer. Because I don't shout, yell, pull/grab, or use "no" frequently, my kiddos pay particular attention when I do. I have a good, stern, loud "mommy voice" when need be, honed as a camp counselor, preschool teacher, and educator. I can be scary. And since I'm not often, it stops them in their tracks.
Now for the second point. Just because my children don't fear me doesn't mean they don't listen and obey. We have several systems in place with which they are familiar. The first is a set of house rules: toys are for playing (not throwing), eat only in the kitchen, only sit (not stand or jump) on the couch, be gentle (i.e. no hitting cats, kids, or others), use inside voices, stay away from the oven, open the door only with an adult. Notice that most of these are stated positively, not just to avoid the overuse of "no" but also to give them clear directions on what they are expected to do. There are other, minor ones--tummies off the table, no toys at meals, hold hands in the parking lot, no touching things at the store, stay where you can see Mommy, and even more--and we try to follow them. Indeed, Sis, who really likes to repeat the rules when it's convenient, loudly instructed a friend recently during lunch, "There are no toys at the table."
But let's say they are ignoring said rules, Lambeth, which does often happen (they are not quite 3 after all and testing limits is their job, as it is mine to set them). Or they find a loophole about which I have as yet not established a rule (I'm wearing skirts more now and Buddy is convinced they are tents--great--and so I've just put into place a strict skirt-privacy rule. No jokes, please). Say Buddy is throwing toys. He knows better. I remind him of the rule And I issue a warning, "Toys are for playing. This is your warning. I will put the toy in timeout if you keep throwing." He stops. Or he doesn't. And the toy goes into timeout at the count of three (no doubt why they could count to three at a young age!). I then try to ignore the ensuing tantrum (this is harder than it sounds and I'm not always good at ignoring tantrums, but we try to save timeouts for physical aggression and serious disrespect, to maintain its potency. Everything else--mean talk, whining, making messes, tantrums--is addressed through warnings and talk--"let's talk about this"--or ignoring, so as to take away its power).
If it becomes aggressive and violent, it is an automatic timeout for Bud. No warnings, no counting. Straight to his spot. Though, unlike your countrywoman Super Nanny, Lambeth, I don't employ a "naughty mat." The kiddos know they have to remove themselves from the area of play and sit for a minute for each year they are old. We are using 3 minutes on the timer now. I don't insist on a mat because frankly I don't want the episode to devolve into a fight about where they are sitting, mainly because I can't physically drag either one of them to a spot. They can have their loveys and shirts in timeout for comfort to help them calm down. This is all about taking a break to stop a behavior, not punishment. I don't reset the timer if they don't stay put mainly because they can't really tell time or understand that concept yet; however, if they won't stay put (or get too many timeouts in a row), they go to their room. Usually, if I'm lucky, they even walk there themselves, needing the break as much as the rest of us.
When the timer rings, we talk. "What is your lesson in timeout?" Never "why?" Kids this age don't understand cause and effect like that--can you really answer why you do things? Sometimes I ask "what were you feeling?" or "what happened before this happened?" We talk about feelings--"were you angry? frustrated? scared? tired?" Then we try to talk about "what will you do next time?"--use your words, walk away, kick/hit the ground/a pillow, yell out frustration. They have to participate in this conversation or they sit a little longer. Then we ask them to let the person they hurt know they are sorry (this is me if it was undirected aggression or not listening) by saying sorry or doing something like patting or hugging. Mama and I go back and forth about whether this is required; putting them back in timeout for not saying sorry doesn't feel right and can go on forever (trust me, we've tried) but neither does not having to apologize. Our process continually evolves.
And mostly it works. Sometimes just the mention of timeout (or a reminder about their having already been in timeout) stops the behavior. Sometimes it does take a timeout or two or a trip to their room ("because you are having trouble being with others right now"). And, sometimes, when nothing works and hysteria sets in, I know we have bigger problems--sleep deprivation, hunger, boredom. And while I try not to reward the behavior, I try to fix as many triggers as I can. The secret is consistency on my part so that they know where the boundaries are and self-correct their behavior before I have to. And sometimes, that is no fun and I'm tempted to let something slide.
Which made that international phone call so tricky. It's usually our policy to ignore whining and crying, but it was making the call very difficult, even when I, gulp of shame, hid in the bathroom. But, I didn't want to take time from the call to go through the whole process of warnings and talking, which would then give Bud exactly what he wanted which was my attention. In retrospect, I should have gotten off the call, put the boy in timeout for not following directions (if they ignore warnings on directions and listening repeatedly, it is timeout, even if there is no aggression), and called my friend back when things settled down (which is easier with a call to a friend down the street in my time zone). Or, more gulps of shame, turned on the tv when the call came in so I could talk uninterrupted.
So, while there are definitely misses with the system, it's the one we've chosen, the one the kids are now used to (timeouts started early because twins, unlike singletons, have early chances at fighting with other kids; it's hard to share everything all the time), the one we think--we hope--will keep them from being undisciplined blights on society.
Which is why, if you ever see my kiddos doing something they shouldn't, please feel free to put them in timeout. They know.
And of the two, the first is easier to answer. Because I don't shout, yell, pull/grab, or use "no" frequently, my kiddos pay particular attention when I do. I have a good, stern, loud "mommy voice" when need be, honed as a camp counselor, preschool teacher, and educator. I can be scary. And since I'm not often, it stops them in their tracks.
Now for the second point. Just because my children don't fear me doesn't mean they don't listen and obey. We have several systems in place with which they are familiar. The first is a set of house rules: toys are for playing (not throwing), eat only in the kitchen, only sit (not stand or jump) on the couch, be gentle (i.e. no hitting cats, kids, or others), use inside voices, stay away from the oven, open the door only with an adult. Notice that most of these are stated positively, not just to avoid the overuse of "no" but also to give them clear directions on what they are expected to do. There are other, minor ones--tummies off the table, no toys at meals, hold hands in the parking lot, no touching things at the store, stay where you can see Mommy, and even more--and we try to follow them. Indeed, Sis, who really likes to repeat the rules when it's convenient, loudly instructed a friend recently during lunch, "There are no toys at the table."
But let's say they are ignoring said rules, Lambeth, which does often happen (they are not quite 3 after all and testing limits is their job, as it is mine to set them). Or they find a loophole about which I have as yet not established a rule (I'm wearing skirts more now and Buddy is convinced they are tents--great--and so I've just put into place a strict skirt-privacy rule. No jokes, please). Say Buddy is throwing toys. He knows better. I remind him of the rule And I issue a warning, "Toys are for playing. This is your warning. I will put the toy in timeout if you keep throwing." He stops. Or he doesn't. And the toy goes into timeout at the count of three (no doubt why they could count to three at a young age!). I then try to ignore the ensuing tantrum (this is harder than it sounds and I'm not always good at ignoring tantrums, but we try to save timeouts for physical aggression and serious disrespect, to maintain its potency. Everything else--mean talk, whining, making messes, tantrums--is addressed through warnings and talk--"let's talk about this"--or ignoring, so as to take away its power).
If it becomes aggressive and violent, it is an automatic timeout for Bud. No warnings, no counting. Straight to his spot. Though, unlike your countrywoman Super Nanny, Lambeth, I don't employ a "naughty mat." The kiddos know they have to remove themselves from the area of play and sit for a minute for each year they are old. We are using 3 minutes on the timer now. I don't insist on a mat because frankly I don't want the episode to devolve into a fight about where they are sitting, mainly because I can't physically drag either one of them to a spot. They can have their loveys and shirts in timeout for comfort to help them calm down. This is all about taking a break to stop a behavior, not punishment. I don't reset the timer if they don't stay put mainly because they can't really tell time or understand that concept yet; however, if they won't stay put (or get too many timeouts in a row), they go to their room. Usually, if I'm lucky, they even walk there themselves, needing the break as much as the rest of us.
When the timer rings, we talk. "What is your lesson in timeout?" Never "why?" Kids this age don't understand cause and effect like that--can you really answer why you do things? Sometimes I ask "what were you feeling?" or "what happened before this happened?" We talk about feelings--"were you angry? frustrated? scared? tired?" Then we try to talk about "what will you do next time?"--use your words, walk away, kick/hit the ground/a pillow, yell out frustration. They have to participate in this conversation or they sit a little longer. Then we ask them to let the person they hurt know they are sorry (this is me if it was undirected aggression or not listening) by saying sorry or doing something like patting or hugging. Mama and I go back and forth about whether this is required; putting them back in timeout for not saying sorry doesn't feel right and can go on forever (trust me, we've tried) but neither does not having to apologize. Our process continually evolves.
And mostly it works. Sometimes just the mention of timeout (or a reminder about their having already been in timeout) stops the behavior. Sometimes it does take a timeout or two or a trip to their room ("because you are having trouble being with others right now"). And, sometimes, when nothing works and hysteria sets in, I know we have bigger problems--sleep deprivation, hunger, boredom. And while I try not to reward the behavior, I try to fix as many triggers as I can. The secret is consistency on my part so that they know where the boundaries are and self-correct their behavior before I have to. And sometimes, that is no fun and I'm tempted to let something slide.
Which made that international phone call so tricky. It's usually our policy to ignore whining and crying, but it was making the call very difficult, even when I, gulp of shame, hid in the bathroom. But, I didn't want to take time from the call to go through the whole process of warnings and talking, which would then give Bud exactly what he wanted which was my attention. In retrospect, I should have gotten off the call, put the boy in timeout for not following directions (if they ignore warnings on directions and listening repeatedly, it is timeout, even if there is no aggression), and called my friend back when things settled down (which is easier with a call to a friend down the street in my time zone). Or, more gulps of shame, turned on the tv when the call came in so I could talk uninterrupted.
So, while there are definitely misses with the system, it's the one we've chosen, the one the kids are now used to (timeouts started early because twins, unlike singletons, have early chances at fighting with other kids; it's hard to share everything all the time), the one we think--we hope--will keep them from being undisciplined blights on society.
Which is why, if you ever see my kiddos doing something they shouldn't, please feel free to put them in timeout. They know.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Happy Thoughts
So, Gommie tells me that the only current stories she has to pass on is that the kids have established a personal best for timeouts in a day and that Mommy has had some too.
My challenge: tell some cute or at least repeatable stories.
Here it goes . . .
We have a new nighttime ritual to add to our four stories (one chosen by each of us), singing the "Mama Loves Me" song, tucking in with kisses (2 for Buddy and 3 for Sis) and nose rubs (Sis's addition) and hugs (Bud's addition), and now "happy thoughts," inspired by the reassuring book Tell Me Something Happy Before I Go to Sleep. They each relay 5 happy thoughts. Tonight's list: gummy bears, horses, Max and Ruby, Franklin, Wonder Pets for her; baseball, gummies, Wonder Pets, "Myskit" Seaport music, and baseball again.
They have been building towers out of plastic blocks on the porch. Tall, tall towers. Then, they walk their fingers up the tower--"going to Chinese class" which was on the third floor of an imposing old building, in a rotunda with great windows. It was probably the most impressive thing about class, perhaps even before the Chinese.
Buddy is OBSESSED with a bag of diapers--generic, drugstore diapers--from a friend of ours. But they have dinosaurs on them. And so now, a boy who had happily worn undies the other day with no accident, now doesn't even want to change his diapers. And he insists on wearing those daytime diapers over his nighttime diapers. We've offered dinosaur undies, but they won't do. Because, and I quote, "Dinosaur diapers keep me cozy. They keep me company." Heaven help us, there are only two bags total! One step forward, two steps back.
We played in the rain yesterday at church. While it was still actively downpouring, the kiddos stood in the doorway and watched the water in wonder and awe. Sis bravely poked her head out and squealed with delight. When the rain stopped, they danced in the puddle that had gathered at the entry, getting their shoes sopping wet. After almost everyone left, we were still in play mode and headed into the center of the parking lot, which had a huge puddle--a small pond--about 10' in diameter. I took off my expensive sneakers and we danced in the water, singing Laurie Berkner tunes such as "Walk Along the River" and "I'm Gonna Catch You." Sis ran in circles so very fast. Buddy liked to splash. We all made big waves. Mama photographed it all.
I'm a Wonder Mom. Or more specifically, I do the bidding of Wonder Twins. Who are currently obsessed (yep, obsession is the theme here) with saving insects. Did I mention I rescued, at their bidding, a fly at my coffee shop the other day? A fly. I caught the dizzy, dying thing trapped by the window near our table in a napkin, as they cheered me on, and we went out the front door and released the poor thing. Which did promptly fly away. And yesterday, in the rain, we saw a "bee" (it was a wasp) trapped in the water and I heroically scooped it up in a leaf and placed it somewhere dry. They then emulated this rescue for the next 20 minutes, actually singing the Wonder Pets theme song.
Today at lunch, which we had at a friend's house, the kiddos out ate everyone, as usual. At the end, when the other two girls were off playing, my two were still eating fried rice, dumplings, and "trees" (broccoli--Bud's had a robin in it!). And then they started to feed one another. "Here try this. Now you help me." They went back and forth for awhile. It was so sweet, especially because mealtimes usually aren't so peaceful.
I know there are more stories--how Sis loves to play with the babies at playgroup by reading them stories or tickling their toes; how Buddy took the church nursery school teacher 1 grape and 1 chocolate animal cracker as a snack; how Buddy likes to hold my hand during meals; how Sis will only sing the "Family Song"--and she can sing all the words--if Mama is home, otherwise she says, "somebody's missing; how they have both been great with the cats, trying to pet them gently and toss them toys. I admit my memory has been clouded with the stress of keeping us from tumbling into chaos and so I can't relate more stories.
Perhaps I need to practice my happy thoughts. So here goes.
1. picnics together, both real and pretend
2. cats at home
3. singing the "Family Song"--they sang it to us all by themselves tonight
4. Robin Hood on BBCA for date night
5. thunderstorms (we're having a big one right now) and the puddles they make
My challenge: tell some cute or at least repeatable stories.
Here it goes . . .
We have a new nighttime ritual to add to our four stories (one chosen by each of us), singing the "Mama Loves Me" song, tucking in with kisses (2 for Buddy and 3 for Sis) and nose rubs (Sis's addition) and hugs (Bud's addition), and now "happy thoughts," inspired by the reassuring book Tell Me Something Happy Before I Go to Sleep. They each relay 5 happy thoughts. Tonight's list: gummy bears, horses, Max and Ruby, Franklin, Wonder Pets for her; baseball, gummies, Wonder Pets, "Myskit" Seaport music, and baseball again.
They have been building towers out of plastic blocks on the porch. Tall, tall towers. Then, they walk their fingers up the tower--"going to Chinese class" which was on the third floor of an imposing old building, in a rotunda with great windows. It was probably the most impressive thing about class, perhaps even before the Chinese.
Buddy is OBSESSED with a bag of diapers--generic, drugstore diapers--from a friend of ours. But they have dinosaurs on them. And so now, a boy who had happily worn undies the other day with no accident, now doesn't even want to change his diapers. And he insists on wearing those daytime diapers over his nighttime diapers. We've offered dinosaur undies, but they won't do. Because, and I quote, "Dinosaur diapers keep me cozy. They keep me company." Heaven help us, there are only two bags total! One step forward, two steps back.
We played in the rain yesterday at church. While it was still actively downpouring, the kiddos stood in the doorway and watched the water in wonder and awe. Sis bravely poked her head out and squealed with delight. When the rain stopped, they danced in the puddle that had gathered at the entry, getting their shoes sopping wet. After almost everyone left, we were still in play mode and headed into the center of the parking lot, which had a huge puddle--a small pond--about 10' in diameter. I took off my expensive sneakers and we danced in the water, singing Laurie Berkner tunes such as "Walk Along the River" and "I'm Gonna Catch You." Sis ran in circles so very fast. Buddy liked to splash. We all made big waves. Mama photographed it all.
I'm a Wonder Mom. Or more specifically, I do the bidding of Wonder Twins. Who are currently obsessed (yep, obsession is the theme here) with saving insects. Did I mention I rescued, at their bidding, a fly at my coffee shop the other day? A fly. I caught the dizzy, dying thing trapped by the window near our table in a napkin, as they cheered me on, and we went out the front door and released the poor thing. Which did promptly fly away. And yesterday, in the rain, we saw a "bee" (it was a wasp) trapped in the water and I heroically scooped it up in a leaf and placed it somewhere dry. They then emulated this rescue for the next 20 minutes, actually singing the Wonder Pets theme song.
Today at lunch, which we had at a friend's house, the kiddos out ate everyone, as usual. At the end, when the other two girls were off playing, my two were still eating fried rice, dumplings, and "trees" (broccoli--Bud's had a robin in it!). And then they started to feed one another. "Here try this. Now you help me." They went back and forth for awhile. It was so sweet, especially because mealtimes usually aren't so peaceful.
I know there are more stories--how Sis loves to play with the babies at playgroup by reading them stories or tickling their toes; how Buddy took the church nursery school teacher 1 grape and 1 chocolate animal cracker as a snack; how Buddy likes to hold my hand during meals; how Sis will only sing the "Family Song"--and she can sing all the words--if Mama is home, otherwise she says, "somebody's missing; how they have both been great with the cats, trying to pet them gently and toss them toys. I admit my memory has been clouded with the stress of keeping us from tumbling into chaos and so I can't relate more stories.
Perhaps I need to practice my happy thoughts. So here goes.
1. picnics together, both real and pretend
2. cats at home
3. singing the "Family Song"--they sang it to us all by themselves tonight
4. Robin Hood on BBCA for date night
5. thunderstorms (we're having a big one right now) and the puddles they make
Fish Gotta Swim
We spent Saturday at "Myskit" Seaport's annual Sea Music Festival, enjoying the nice weather and the lively singing. Sis especially liked riding the horse, or specifically, the carriage the horse pulls. She gets so serious, though, and doesn't seem to be having fun, until she gets off and practically dances around the sidewalk. We had all been watching a chantey performer and she got bored during an instrumental. They left but then she came back--for money. For the horse ride. So, for the very first time, but not the last, I forked over cash to my daughter. You should have seen her look of pride--and the knowing smirks of those around me--as she walked that $20 bill back to Mama (no, it didn't cost that much; it was all I had).
Buddy and I stayed to listen to the music, including his now favorite song "Strike the Bell." He's been asking for Mystic Seaport music--we bought two CDs--ever since. He loved seeing all the instruments--the accordion, harmonica, guitar, flute, fife, concertina, and the one he likes but never remembers by name, the hurdy-gurdy (the love child of the bagpipe and the accordion). He even insisted we follow the spoons and "bones" player (who had vegetarian bones, among others!) to his next performance. I'd better lock up the silverware.
We also played in the children's museum, on the wooden boat playsets, made wooden boats for arts and crafts, and ate. And here, in the museum that records American history and the sea, where whaling lore takes precedence, most spectacularly in the existing whaler the Charles W. Morgan, I didn't even eat fish. I'd been thinking about the fish. I like fish and chips, but really could do without almost all other seafood. Just don't like it, it being mussels, clams, scallops, lobster, crab, anything "fishy"-er than cod, even seaweed. So, I've been okay not eating fish. Especially because, as I see it, if I'm an animal-rights vegetarian, it makes no difference which animal has to die. If I only refuse to eat the "cute" animals (i.e. lamb, deer, cows, rabbit), but will eat ugly ones (fish are funny looking, so are chicken), I'm embracing a kind of looks-ism I can't abide when applied to people, especially women. It offends the feminist in me.
(I know, I know, plants have feelings too. Even relatives, as described in a recent NYTimes article. But a girl has to eat.)
I'm sure the 19th-century sailors would not have understood me at all, nor would they have rejected meat for meals. Though, if my understanding of the life they led is accurate--and after many trips to Mystic Seaport, I think it is--they could have probably used some more fruits and vegetables themselves!
Buddy and I stayed to listen to the music, including his now favorite song "Strike the Bell." He's been asking for Mystic Seaport music--we bought two CDs--ever since. He loved seeing all the instruments--the accordion, harmonica, guitar, flute, fife, concertina, and the one he likes but never remembers by name, the hurdy-gurdy (the love child of the bagpipe and the accordion). He even insisted we follow the spoons and "bones" player (who had vegetarian bones, among others!) to his next performance. I'd better lock up the silverware.
We also played in the children's museum, on the wooden boat playsets, made wooden boats for arts and crafts, and ate. And here, in the museum that records American history and the sea, where whaling lore takes precedence, most spectacularly in the existing whaler the Charles W. Morgan, I didn't even eat fish. I'd been thinking about the fish. I like fish and chips, but really could do without almost all other seafood. Just don't like it, it being mussels, clams, scallops, lobster, crab, anything "fishy"-er than cod, even seaweed. So, I've been okay not eating fish. Especially because, as I see it, if I'm an animal-rights vegetarian, it makes no difference which animal has to die. If I only refuse to eat the "cute" animals (i.e. lamb, deer, cows, rabbit), but will eat ugly ones (fish are funny looking, so are chicken), I'm embracing a kind of looks-ism I can't abide when applied to people, especially women. It offends the feminist in me.
(I know, I know, plants have feelings too. Even relatives, as described in a recent NYTimes article. But a girl has to eat.)
I'm sure the 19th-century sailors would not have understood me at all, nor would they have rejected meat for meals. Though, if my understanding of the life they led is accurate--and after many trips to Mystic Seaport, I think it is--they could have probably used some more fruits and vegetables themselves!
Thou Shalt Not Scare
I've had a few days of real parenting lows recently, one of the lowest being Buddy screaming through an international phone call I received and my not doing anything (being able to do anything?) to stop it. Ugh. Annoying bugger, indeed.
Interestingly, said caller, Lambeth, had asked how I direct my moral compass with no God to guide by. And the answer came to me later that day as I was thinking about parenting techniques (in guilt and shame). I don't believe fear is the best motivator for behavior. Just as I don't yell at, hit, or otherwise intimidate Bud and Sis because I don't want them to either fear me or only act out of fear, I do not believe that morals in society are best upheld by fear of a wrathful God (which, by the way, I do capitalize, out of respect to those who believe, since someone once asked . . . ). Fear and fright of punishment beget more fear and fright and punishment. It's an ongoing cycle of oppression and violence. I'm thinking of the strictures of Sharia law or of the rightwing Christian pro-gun, pro-execution, fear and punishment of gays, women, nonwhites, non-Christians. Of course, it is awfully effective in the short term but I believe the long-term consequences are dire, for the individual and for society.
I want my children to act out of a sense of community, of civic engagement and obligation, of empathy and compassion, the seven principles of Unitarian Universalism. When they go to make choices, I want it to be love not fear that guide them. So, I didn't scare Buddy into being quiet the other day. I wish ignoring him and redirecting him had been more effective during that phone call. Because, trust me, I was doubting my techniques as I had to lock myself in the bathroom to finish the call. If I had yelled or hit, he would have been quiet.
But at what cost?
So, I set my moral compass, which includes my parenting, to love, with some failure, but no fear. I think it will work; it just takes a little time.
Interestingly, said caller, Lambeth, had asked how I direct my moral compass with no God to guide by. And the answer came to me later that day as I was thinking about parenting techniques (in guilt and shame). I don't believe fear is the best motivator for behavior. Just as I don't yell at, hit, or otherwise intimidate Bud and Sis because I don't want them to either fear me or only act out of fear, I do not believe that morals in society are best upheld by fear of a wrathful God (which, by the way, I do capitalize, out of respect to those who believe, since someone once asked . . . ). Fear and fright of punishment beget more fear and fright and punishment. It's an ongoing cycle of oppression and violence. I'm thinking of the strictures of Sharia law or of the rightwing Christian pro-gun, pro-execution, fear and punishment of gays, women, nonwhites, non-Christians. Of course, it is awfully effective in the short term but I believe the long-term consequences are dire, for the individual and for society.
I want my children to act out of a sense of community, of civic engagement and obligation, of empathy and compassion, the seven principles of Unitarian Universalism. When they go to make choices, I want it to be love not fear that guide them. So, I didn't scare Buddy into being quiet the other day. I wish ignoring him and redirecting him had been more effective during that phone call. Because, trust me, I was doubting my techniques as I had to lock myself in the bathroom to finish the call. If I had yelled or hit, he would have been quiet.
But at what cost?
So, I set my moral compass, which includes my parenting, to love, with some failure, but no fear. I think it will work; it just takes a little time.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Happy Father's Day
I lit a candle at church today. My spoken joy was the acceptance we find for our family at church, as well as all the men there who are friends and role models for the kids.
My silent sorrow was for all the families who lost dads, or grandads, this year--four by count. We are thinking of them all today.
Finally, my other joy: the men--uncles, in laws, Brits-- in my life, particularly and especially my own dad. I love you.
My silent sorrow was for all the families who lost dads, or grandads, this year--four by count. We are thinking of them all today.
Finally, my other joy: the men--uncles, in laws, Brits-- in my life, particularly and especially my own dad. I love you.
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