I Like This

During my last year in college I spent a lot of time with a couple other English Education major friends who I shared several classes with. Naturally, we were all thinking a lot about the future. One of the girls was telling the other two of us that all she really wanted was to be a wife and mother. She loved crafts and Martha Stewart (I believe that was pre-prison) and making dinners and having a clean bathroom. There was nothing quite like perfecting the crepe and displaying the fruit in alphabetical order just in time for a tea party or having a stew in the crockpot for a rainy night, she explained.

We were both incredulous and even made fun of her for it. It seemed so unusual and so…un-college of her to think that way. Ironically, she was the best student among the three of us— never missing a single point on the linguistics exams that made me want to shoot myself. (I’ll admit that I do get a thrill out of correctly diagramming a sentence, but that class was just a little too intense even for me.) I tried to understand what she was saying, but I really couldn’t. I was excited to be finally ready to graduate and teach English— to be helping kids learn the magic that is reading and writing; to be a young professional with my own apartment and growing bank account; to not rely on any man; to take chances and learn new things. Who cares about cookbooks? That’s for old ladies. I was ready to change the world by uniting pimply-faced readers with classic novels that would change their lives.

I suppose there’s a time for everything. It is now my time for stew and cookbooks and piles of Spiderman underwear and little jeans with knee-holes and grass stains. And when I have dinner ready to eat when Brian gets home? Well, it’s hard to beat the feeling. I’ve searched, because I feel like I should, but I don’t find any part of me that feels that I need fulfillment from a real job. This is my job. And most days I love it. Why does having our meals for the week planned or hearing the comforting hum of the dishwasher make me feel so complete? Why does finishing a messy art project or teaching the boys how to plant basil and rosemary seeds make me feel like my day was a smashing success? I don’t know. But it does. And I love that it does because I know it doesn’t for everyone.

I did teach. I taught for five years and wrote online curriculum for two years. I taught a lot of pimply-faced kids, as well as ones with spotless complexions, about writing and books. And I liked it. But I really only liked it until I had kids. I taught from when the boys were 4 months old until they were 9 months old and I hated it. Even though I taught at an amazing school with talented and kind administration and wonderfully motivated teachers, all I wanted to do was leave and go hug my babies. I’m so happy that I’m able to stay home with them. I’m also happy that I feel fulfilled by staying home with them. I have great admiration for women who can both work full-time and run a household. I have no idea how you can do it. I think it would fry my brain. 

Maybe I’ll go back to teaching when the three boys are in school- I don’t know. I took a class and renewed my license so I’ll have the option. I’m hoping I can finding something in writing that I can do from home though- while the stew gurgles in the crockpot and the laundry gets done. But maybe by then I’ll want to venture out into the professional world— dress in real clothes and speak in full sentences and such.

There are annoying things about being a full-time mom— cleaning the toilet seats after little boys, doing so much laundry that you want to make them go naked for the rest of forever, (or at least until puberty) just potty training is pretty horrific, being constantly in the middle of making a meal and forever behind on dishes, remembering to have snacks and wipes and extra pants and Tylenol and sunblock and crayons and diapers and water packed in every possible carrying case, that kind of thing. But for all the annoying things there are a million fun things. And very weird things that give me reasons to write, so that's cool.  

It took me ten years, but I finally understand what my college friend meant. Being a housewife and mother can be fulfilling and fun and rewarding in itself. And that’s okay. 

Sometimes this happens. I'm pretty sure it was clean underwear at least.

Cal is arranging his quinoa baseball field to have pork chop outfield seats.
 It is also delightfully flanked by a broccoli forest down the first base/right field line. 

How Valentine's Day Rocked: Kids, Bacon, and Baseball

Today we had a Valentine's Day party at our house. We spent time decorating for it the past couple days. The boys' art teacher had them make heart mobiles with contact paper, tissue paper, and glitter last week. So we made more of those in heart shapes and put them on windows, stuck Charlie Brown Valentines on windows, and the boys made construction paper hearts and taped them all over as well.

Art class mobile

Making our own

This one we made into a big heart for the window.

Our guest of honor was none other than Alexandra.

At our party we did a little art: scribbled markers on coffee filters cut in heart shapes and then dripped water on them with medicine droppers. The colors slowly spread out, giving them sort of a tie-dyed look. Super easy thing to do with little ones.

Markers on coffee filters

Finished hearts- I also tied yarn or ribbon through the holes I punched
at the tops so they could be displayed.

Next we did some experimenting with candy hearts: The kids took turns dropping candy hearts into various liquids and we observed what happened. We tried cold water, hot water, lemon juice, and water with baking soda that we added vinegar to. The cool one was the soda and vinegar because the hearts danced and flipped around in all the fizz. The hot water melted chunks of the hearts off, and color from the hearts slowly dissolved in the cold water and lemon juice. In case you were curious.

Philip and Alex check out the hearts and liquids.

Everyone was so curious!

Pouring vinegar on them made the hearts dance!

Next, the eight kids had a picnic on the living room floor. Grilled cheese, strawberries, and banana chips. The other three moms and I actually were able to sit down at the table and talk for a few minutes over some soup and sandwiches. The kids were awesome. Even after having mini cupcakes and Rice Krispie treats, they sat on the couch and humored us for some pictures of them all in their reds, pinks, and purples.

Picnic in February!

Rice Krispie treats on sticks with strawberry cake mix,
hearts, and mini cupcakes

Yum!

Can you say Red and Pink and Purple?

Happy Valentine's Day!

Besties

After the party dust settled, I made my gift for Brian: bacon roses.

Yes.

That's what I said.

I saw the picture here online and modified the instructions. I did not take a drill to a perfectly good mini muffin tin as they suggested (to account for bacon grease), but I microwaved the bacon a minute and a half first, and then rolled it into rolls and stuffed them in small cookie cutters on top of the broiler pan, like this:

I found some fake flowers and cut them off and stuck the bacon roses on.

This. Just. Happened.

Brian approved. Then he laced his leftover grilled cheese sandwich with bacon roses and I had made his dinner as well! Pretty sure I just won an award.

Then mini Nationals Bryce Harper and Stephen Strasburg gave me some tulips for the balcony. Super romantic.

And my gift from Brian was a subscription to MLB.TV, so we will be able to watch the Nationals even though we got rid of cable!

After my tulip gift, we took the boys to the playground. They ran around like crazy monkeys, hit baseballs off their new tee, and got covered in mud. Then it was bath time, dinner, and bed.

It's taken Brian and I nine years of knowing each other, but I think we've finally gotten this holiday right: kids, bacon, and baseball.

This was one of my favorite Valentine's Days ever.

First Friday Fables

This morning I was explaining the concept of main characters and conflict to the boys. We used their favorite story The Gruffalo as a model and then had them test their knowledge by telling me some stories while I wrote them down. Maybe I'll make Friday Fables a weekly event.

A Hungry Parachute
by Calvin

Once upon a time there was a girl lion named Facestamp and her husband lion named Booky. They had a baby named Pocho. They lived in a big forest. One day a parachute that looked like a balloon fell from the sky into the grass so they could see the whole thing. The parachute tried to eat the lion family so they tried to find a way out of the forest. They went down the long forest slide all the way out of the forest and they ran as fast as a motorcycle so the parachute didn't eat them. The baby lion Pocho found a little tree to eat. The parachute ate balloons. The end.

Golf Course
by Clark

Once upon a time a squirrel named Alth lived in the jungle. His family was Daddy Squirrel,  Mommy Squirrel, and Baby Bok. It was a really big jungle- gigantic as a Earth. The problem was that a lot of animals wanted to eat them. A fox, an owl, a snake, and a jungle lion all wanted to eat them. The squirrel family was scared and they screamed in their tree. Do you know what happened next? The squirrel Alth realized that a sea lion ran all over the place. A monster came and tried to eat them and the jungle. The squirrel family saw a way out of the jungle. They put on monster costumes and sneaked out of the jungle and into the feline jungle. Then a house came and roared with claws so they moved to a golf course. The end.



Do you want to know what happened next?

On Coming Home

When we got home from our epic road trip the beginning of last month, there was a whirlwind of activity around my sister-in-law’s wedding and our refinancing our house and just settling back in. For a few days straight the boys were running around pointing to various toys and books and household items, shrieking, “Remember this!?”  and “This is OUR house!” We had spent so many nights sleeping in different places with other people’s things that they nearly forgot we had our own place with our own things. There's nothing like coming home when you love your home.

Something else that added to the whirlwind of settling back in was that we found out I was pregnant. Surprise! We certainly hadn’t planned to get pregnant, specifically during the lapse in time between Brian’s healthcare coverage. We had purchased a basic healthcare plan in case of an emergency, but hadn’t had to use it all summer. I scheduled my first OB/Gyn appointment for as soon as I could after our new insurance kicks in— September—and tried to get used to the idea of another baby.

We told only a few people and planned out how to tell our families. It was a weird feeling—much different from my first pregnancy. I was thrown off by the news but eventually was excited about it. We went through our whole house again and got rid of things. We figured out how we can arrange a changing table and crib in our room, which included getting rid of both dressers and, you guessed it, building more shelves. We were thinking about names, reading about the baby’s weekly development, and getting used to the idea of a tiny new addition to our family.

About two weeks ago I miscarried. You always hear about people having miscarriages but I didn’t realize how long and painful it can be. It lasted about four days and though I only took two Percocet pills it was quite uncomfortable. Remember the healthcare situation I mentioned? Yeah. I ended up going into the ER on the weekend, and then had two subsequent visits to the doctor. We haven’t seen the bills, and they won’t be pretty. Odd timing on all counts. More whirlwind-y feelings.

I was sad. I wanted that baby, even though we hadn’t planned on it. I wasn’t sure I’d write about it here on my blog, that maybe it’s too personal, but I decided I would go ahead and do it. I now understand why couples don’t often tell people they’re pregnant until later on in the pregnancy. It would have been painful to have to call and tell a bunch of people what happened a few weeks after we’d just called to tell them the news. With Cal and Clark we told a couple people the news on the night I took the pregnancy test, we were so excited. Fortunately it worked out fine that time.

Anyway, coming home has been a long and weird process. We refinanced, de-cluttered, reorganized, and shampooed the carpets in our house. We were in a wedding, potty trained the boys, went on a raspberry and peach jam canning spree, had a miscarriage, and expect to be hit by a huge medical bill soon. All that at the end of our awesome road trip adventure. Crazy summer.

Just today things are seeming more normal and less vacation-y. Brian is at work (just down the road!). Alex, the little girl I watch a few days a week, was here today. She’s talking like crazy and the boys are both in love with her still (Though Cal needs to work on his bossy tone if he wants to win her over when they’re older). I’ve started giving the boys little reading lessons on weekdays and that has been fun. They’re both signed up for community center classes in a few weeks: art, swimming, and martial arts.

And so, another chapter begins. We’re home.

Clark bulks up for his martial arts class as Cal and Alexandra watch.

 

How the Crazy Lady and the Drunk Man Gave Me Stories

I had a revelation last night, initiated by a drunk man at the library, but first I have to take you down Nostalgic Lane in order to set the stage.

One year in college I lived in the greatest old house that ever existed. I lived with my three best friends in the world. The house had a front porch whose windows unlatched and popped out (the perfect Saturday morning coffee and tea location) and an ancient claw-footed bathtub. There was random sink and mirror in a walk-in closet that was clearly not designed to have a sink in it. There were grapes growing in the backyard. The place was quirky in general and just oozing charm.

Somehow I ended up getting the dining room as my bedroom. I don’t know how it happened but I probably thought I was being all edgy and Bohemian—like I’d be in better touch with my inner artist for living there or something. The room had three doors—one to the kitchen, one to the hallway, and one to the back bedroom—and one fabulously crooked chandelier. I loved it. The problem was that I was student teaching at the time so I couldn’t stay up until 2 or 3 in the morning every night anymore since I had to be in class at 7am. And by “in class” I mean actually standing in front of a class appropriately cleaned and clothed, presenting a lesson, not coming in late in my pajamas and flip-flops in the back, nursing a cup of coffee. Not that I know what that's like.

One of my housemates was also doing her student teaching but the other two and their boyfriends and friends were definitely not. It seemed like they were doing the opposite of student teaching and that it was all crazy fun that we were missing out on. Those doors did not block out sound or light, and someone was always forgetting I was there and going in and out of the back bedroom while I huddled under my stupid crooked chandelier and cursed anyone who ever made me want to become a teacher in the first place. (Clearly the choice to study education had a lot to do with my under-the-chandelier situation.) So after a week or so I moved into the other bedroom with my friend who was also doing her student teaching and we invested in a loud fan to drown out the forbidden bliss of staying up late.

The House

The only other downside of the house other than the dining non-room was that there was no washer or dryer. That, coupled with the fact that it was in a sketchy area of town, could only result in one situation: being kissed by a crazy old lady at a run-down laundromat. It’s true. One of the grossest yet most fantastic events-to-tell-the-story-about in my life. She accused me of having her jeans on while I was doing laundry and kept muttering about how she would take them and how horrible I was. I didn’t pay her much attention. She was the same old lady who a few weeks prior had told my brother that she was his mom. When I was done I loaded my laundry into my car, sat down in the driver’s seat, shut the door, and BAM! She was there! Right in my face! Just like in a movie. There would have been startling music playing. She was knocking on my window and for whatever dumb reason, I rolled it down, only to be greeted with a big kiss. “I love you!” she told me passionately. Which is when I rolled the window up and drove away to our safe, charming house only a block away. Then I washed my mouth, face, hands, and car window and entertained people for weeks with the tale. She had actually given me more than a disgusting kiss-- she'd given me a story.

The kissing story came to mind because tonight while tutoring at our library, I had a similarly invasive experience with an either mentally impaired or drunk man. The library is situated next to a homeless shelter and it is warm and big and has internet and wi-fi and bathrooms and water fountains and lots of rows of books to live among. A perfect home! I am not unaccustomed to people talking to themselves and strangers or smelling of alcohol. It happens all the time. Keeps it real. Tonight I was working with a student in a more secluded area because of the power cord situation at the tables we normally sit at— some opportunistic volleyball player and her Spanish tutor were monopolizing the outlets. This guy came in, reeking of alcohol and sat down and started talking to the air. He looked in our general direction and asked about us being students and I just ignored him, focusing on what I was showing my student on my computer. Then he stood up by us and emptied his pocket into his hand: he had an iPod and a travel size toothpaste tube. He wanted me to show him how to plug the cord into to his iPod. I told him he had the wrong end and he needed to try the other side. He did and he eventually got it, claiming he couldn’t do it very well because he was an old man (57 he said). I think there was another big reason why and it starts with Te and ends with Quila, but whatever.

Then he wanted me to help him out and let him hook his iPod up to my computer! He went right in for the kill—narrowing in on the USB port on my laptop. I think I was maybe a bit loud for a library when I said, “DUDE! I am not letting you hook that up to my computer! Go away.” He very politely apologized and went and put his arm around a guy at another computer and tried to plug in with him. The regional branch manager came over and asked are you okay and what happened and which one was he, and I told him. It was nice to have him come over and help, but I was mostly focused on the fact that he was a regional manager but didn’t resemble Michael Scott in any way, which was disappointing.

What happened next was the cool part. My student, who had been reading a post on my blog on request (I told her she could read one and tell me the main idea and supporting details) said, “You should write about this! OMG you could write about that man on your blog! So, here I am (OMG) writing about that man on my blog. The man gave us a story and she’s going to read this and love it. This was a great revelation to me. I had never used my blog to teach writing or reading before, but I just might start. In addition to her going home and revising the draft of the essay she’s been working on, I told her I’d buy her lunch if she could find a typo or grammatical error on my blog. My credit card is poised because I’m sure she’ll find won.

So that is how a drunk man made me think about a crazy lady and a charming old house and how I’m going to use my blogging to teach writing and reading. And if you made it to the end of this, I have given you three stories, and I'm not even drunk or crazy. (Student: what are the three stories?)

Our Poetic Pretenders

I’ve always heard that children are natural poets because of their unbridled imagination—because they have not been taught to second-guess themselves or conform to convention—what poetry “should” sound like or look like. The point is that time, and thus experience, silences intuition and creativity. I believe that to be true. However, since 7^th graders are the youngest age group I’ve officially taught, I don’t think I’ve gotten to truly see that on a larger scale. While teaching poetry in 7^th grade I still had to work hard to undo what kids thought poetry was or was not in order to pull from their unwilling pens some rewarding and creative, original poetry. Teaching poetry to seniors in high school, most of whom had sordid pasts with poetry, was even more challenging. What I found that worked for all ages is teaching poetry through music.  Not that I enjoy every genre of music, specifically what 9^th grade boys pump through their headphones, but kids love to listen to their favorite songs as homework and typically they can find figurative language and rhyme scheme in them and even appreciate an extended metaphor. They don’t even know it, but they like poetry. 

All that introduction to tell you that the boys have been delighting us with their creativity and imaginative play lately. Their imagination is not bound by convention, and in that way it reminds me of writing poetry. I can’t wait to read what the boys will write! First thing is first though, I realize. I purchased a book about teaching reading that came in the mail yesterday, and I can’t wait to start. My hope is that they will continue to have such active, think-outside-the-box imaginations that they demonstrate from all the pretending they do.

Here are some of the highlights of their creative pretending lately:

Office: They love to pretend they are going to their office. We took out an old keyboard and propped up a hardback book in a little box so they have a workstation with a computer. They love to say they are working on something and click the keys. The first night we played office I put on their neck ties and they really enjoyed playing their parts.

work station

What is the code for that? Dang it! My HTML is rusty.

Okay, the tech guy is here to help.

Library: They take a canvas bag and declare they are going to the library, walk down the hall, and come back with books. They have a newfound interest in older books we haven’t read in awhile due to this pretending. The variation on this is that one will pretend to put his shoes on, open the front door, tell the other one to “watch Mommy and Daddy” because he is “going to the library to find a new Signing Time video and sit on the blue and green chairs.” This variation can get cold with all the door opening and closing, so there is a limit on the amount of times this can be played back-to-back.

Food: This one is elaborate and extensive. We have a nice collection of play food—mostly old Fisher Price food from when I was little that I love too much to let go of—and the boys always have it around. They started putting plastic eggs and vegetables and fruit up on the real stove, which always scares me a little since I don’t always see them put it up there. I found a clump of plastic green beans on a burner last night right before I turned it on. They recently started feeding play food to stuffed animals—this started after Halloween when Cal started pretending to feed candy sauce (I don’t know what that is) to his “baby ceiling fan” (his costume) and I encouraged him to feed something that actually had a mouth, albeit a fake mouth. We put bibs on the teddy bears and the fun still hasn’t ended. At lunch yesterday they were feeding their real macaroni and cheese to their animals, which really meant they were dumping it on the floor.

feeding ice cream and chocolate milk to baby teddy bears in bibs

We don’t have room for a chunky toy kitchen in our house, but the other day I took a box from Costco that had a panel that flipped open, somewhat like an oven door, and the boys helped me turn it into an oven. We painted it, glued on old CDs as burners, buttons as knobs, and a bead as a handle. I’m pretty proud of it. Cal lately enjoys baking corn on the cob in the oven and Clark likes to cook eggs and bacon directly on the burners. Perhaps they will revolutionize the culinary arts. They also love to pretend things outside are food. The favorites are white pebbles by the pond are popcorn, mulch is cookies (or else keys to open doors, which is weird), pine needles are hay for horses, etc.

Clark monitors Cal's progress painting the oven-box.

painted box, CDs for burners

fashioning the back of the stove

Cal cooks whole fruits and a cupcake...yum?

Mmmm.

Everything is a Bat: Pretty self-explanatory. Anything that could possibly be used to hit something smaller is a bat. This includes but is certainly not limited to: toothbrushes, paper towel tubes, utensils, shoes, blocks, tubes of Desitin, etc. Swing it like a ball player, drop it, and run the bases, and it is a bat. (See also, Everything Else is a Ball)

Here, the football-dart thing is a bat...

...and here the acorn is the ball.

House: Outside there are two “houses.” One is between two large bushes and could conceal two boys excellently until a recent trimming. In that house they like to sit down and watch baseball, Signing Time, and of course, eat dinner. The other house is under a pine tree. That is the house they like to clean, which means they pick up the pine needles, run over and throw them into the parking lot, and demand that I kick them. This pointless task burns a lot of energy so I haven’t mentioned to them that it’s pointless.

Clark watches baseball while Cal cleans the house of pine needles.

Hair: Yesterday the boys raced out, sat down on the living room floor, Clark on his bottom, Cal on his knees, and Cal began slowly running something across Clark’s head. “I’m cuttin’ Clarky’s hair,” he said seriously. He was using a toy zebra. “It makes a loud noise,” he told me. Since we cut their hair using clippers, this made sense. Well, except the zebra part.

zebra shears

I can’t get enough of all the pretending they do. I wish we could copy this imagination that little kids have, bottle it, and force-feed it to the lifeless lumps of pimples and cologne with earphones that sit in the back of the classroom and refuse to lift a pencil when it is time to write. I suppose if we could though, it would be totally normal to see adults making mud-pies and playing house and so little kids wouldn’t be as charming. Also, we would have a lot of mud-pies.

First Glasses Day

Today Cal started wearing glasses. A week ago we had yet another second opinion from another ophthalmologist because we weren't happy with the apathy our initial one was showing in regard to helping strengthen Cal’s vision as much as possible and showing any curiosity about what he can see rather than settling for knowing what he can’t see. So when we saw the new doctor we had the mixed blessing of finding out that he is far-sighted in his good eye and needs glasses to correct it. The silver lining to that news is that wearing glasses to fix the farsightedness could straighten out his eyes so he might not have to have an alignment surgery when he’s older. We are glad we took him in again. Second opinions, folks. Get them! Cal picked out frames that were black and thick because he said “Uncle A!” when he saw them. It turned out that the black ones were too big for him, but the brown ones that looked vaguely Uncle A-ish were his size. So we ordered them.

Cal's glasses and band

Then the other day Cal’s bad eye seemed to be either having an allergic reaction or be infected. We took his contact out and expected it to clear up. When it didn't clear up overnight we both feared that it might be the sign of something related to the pressure in the eye, which led us to think glaucoma. He has been at high risk for glaucoma since his first surgery. Yesterday his retina specialist found a scratch on his cornea, presumably from something on his contact lens. With some antibiotic drops today, the eye has cleared up nicely. Next week he will have an EUA (exam under anesthesia) for routine measuring and pressure checking, but also to see if his contact lens strength needs to increase or decrease and to get a prescription for a progressive lens in addition to his contact on that right eye. Now is the time that his eyes are developing so we want to do all we possibly can to strengthen them. Once he hits nine or so the eyes will be done developing. We also found out that he needs to be patched more than he has been. Six hours a day while wearing glasses. Anything we can do to get this little guy the best possible vision is what we'll continue to do.

 Before we started this first day of glasses I looked up some helpful articles on getting toddlers to wear glasses and our day has been much better than I thought it would be based on his shrieking last night when we tried them on. We got a sports strap from a sporting goods store and this morning I made a stickers chart for motivation. Every time he wears his glasses for one “thing” he gets a sticker and he earns a sticker for Clark. I figured this might provide a little peer pressure for him to wear the glasses too. 

He kept his glasses on A L L through breakfast!

...and through watching home videos after breakfast

The chart has worked way better than I expected it would. First he wore them for a session of two Jimmy Buffet songs while riding the rocking horse. Then he wore them all through breakfast, during six stories, etc. He clearly can see better with them on. I put a bunch of children’s books about kids getting glasses on hold at the library and we looked at a photo gallery of a bunch of toddlers wearing glasses. Because of the eye infection we won’t start patching again for week or so. That gives him awhile to adjust to the glasses before he has to deal with both. What a trooper he is. Great first glasses day!

Playing music on Gammy's iPad

What Brain Space? Where?

Today I had a thought. Just one, but it was there. Remember all those things I used to know? So many things! I compiled a list for you. And for me, to prove to myself that I can still make lists.

A Sampling of Things That Used To Take Up My Brain Space (with only a few exaggerations)

·         Exact time the bell rang for each class period

·         Which settings I used on the elliptical machine

·         Grammar rules and spelling for most words

·         Catalogue of recipes for sit–down meals for two

·         The 505 bus timetable, both weekdays and weekends

·         All the prepositions in alphabetical order (oh wait, that’s still in there)

·         The Major League Baseball standings in the NL East Division on any given day

·         Names of all the Canterbury Tales, and which were didactic, which were not

·         Hamlet’s soliloquies

·          MLA style guide

A Sampling of Things That Have Replaced Those Other Things in My Brain Space

·         Exactly how much the stroller pockets will contain without spilling over (it’s science, people!)

·         Sight recognition of night diapers vs. day diapers

·         Curious George is on PBS at 8:30am, followed by Cat In The Hat

·         The garbage man comes on Monday and Friday mornings and is best seen from the boys’ window

·         Start at the top right side and work clockwise to put on a fitted crib sheet and don’t do it right after eating

·         Oddly, Playtex makes the best sippy cups

·         Tonka trucks can all go to H-E-double hockey sticks for making such loud sounds at such duration

·         Working list of which restaurants have the best: mac ‘n cheese, high chairs, ceiling fans, and the most durable crayons

·         An acute sense for when the noise tolerance threshold of the lady in the kids section at the bookstore has been reached

·         Storytimes at various local establishments

·         Exactly how much time I have until the boys wake up

And another thing: a catalogue of play food and how long since it's been cleaned

Library with a Capital L: A Concept

The smell of stale paper and new books, combined with the titillating knowledge that inside each book was a secret life—an adventure waiting to happen—made The Library a magical place for me as a small girl. It was where in the summer I could go to collect exciting prizes such as bookmarks and stickers and canvas bags for all the books I read, and where in the winter I would go each week and pick out as many interesting and entertaining books as Mom would allow and spend the wintry inside-week learning about exotic places and time periods and enjoying the escapism and intrigue of the mysteries of The Boxcar Children and The Bobbsey Twins and The Hardy Boys. I’m thankful that Mom took my siblings and me to The Library like clockwork, once a week—rain or shine.

Later The Library was a place that made me feel exceedingly collegiate, even exceedingly brilliant when I got too carried away in my thinking. Going to the reference section and printing out (at first on the dot matrix printer paper), information only valuable to me—the eccentric who chose to do her papers on obscure topics when possible— made me feel important. Much of the goal of going to the library during the first part of college was to lock myself away from the chaos of dorm life and force myself to focus. Somehow it usually worked. Since I went to a college with an embarrassingly small library, I often went to a nearby university library where I felt intelligent and important just by walking up and down surrounded by so many, many books and bespectacled scholars partitioned off in soundproof rooms. I came away hoping I had absorbed some universal truths and worldly wisdom just by exposing myself to the books.

When I made my cross-country move, The Library became the place I went for bus and metro-riding reading material. Since I could suddenly read for pleasure and not for class, and had time on public transportation every day, I read like a crazy-person, sometimes missing my metro or bus stops because I was buried in my books.

As a teacher, my relationship with The Library changed a bit. For one thing there was always the pronunciation struggle. At the end of each of the years I taught seventh grade I had a floor-to-ceiling exposed beam covered with papers on which students had correctly spelled LIBRARY after pronouncing it LYE-BERRY. Ridiculous. Also,it can be challenging to keep track of 24 students in a library. But I always tried to present it (even to my disillusioned 12^th graders who oddly enough already knew everything) as an inspiring place to be, and one we were privileged to visit.

Though I was technically getting paid for it, parading unwilling high school students down the halls and into the library where I cracked the whip of graduation above them was not as great as when I worked writing curriculum courses. I GOT PAID to go to The Library, which gave me all kinds of chills. I remember going to collect information on various authors for the British Literature course I helped write and pinching myself, knowing that I was on the clock taking this kind of trip. Always though, entering The Library has been like walking into a quiet sanctuary of peacefulness.

Enter Twin Boys. The Library has changed. When the boys were younger it was pleasant enough, pushing them down the street and around the corner and into the air conditioned silence of The Library made me feel responsible as a parent. I would check out all the board books that would fit into my canvas grocery bag and hang it on the back of the stroller for the trip home. The boys were fairly contained most of the time just looking around at that point, though I lived in fear that a cry, possibly even a wail, might escape them and that the librarians would scowl at me. I even had a librarian basically kick me out of storytime for not being able to contain the two boys (13 months at the time) on my lap at once, and not allowing me to use my stroller as a means to contain them. (The first and last time we ever went to storytime at The Library. The bookstore nearby is much more friendly. It seems the readers there have actually been around children and know what to expect from them—namely that one year olds don’t sit in perfect semi-circles quietly.)

Eventually the boys started wanting out of the stroller on our visits. I could only put one of them out at once, which I learned after I took them both out and they ran in opposite directions, tripping on the edges of their sandals, falling face-first onto the thin carpet, and sobbing—one at each end of the children’s section. One of the most memorable times was not long ago when Brian and I both took them to The Library later at night, to get some new books and sign language videos (they’re obsessed with sign language). We each just walked in with a boy at our hands and no stroller. Immediately they started squealing, squirming out of our grips, and running around, pointing at the lights, the “new stories!” “Signing Time!”and giggling at eluding our clutches. We got some of the “How cute, what a handful, I know what you’re going through” looks as well as the “What the devil are you doing in The Library, go home and take your seed with you” looks.

Now my library visits feel more like a military drill. I take them in the stroller, push them in as fast as I can without exceeding some imaginary speed limit set forth in the mind of the stuck-up children’s librarian, hold my breath as I pass her and the boys lean out of the stroller saying “walk, walk!” or “down, down!”, get to the place I want to go, quietly distract the boys by asking about the books they recognize while I search madly for more books and signing videos. When I’m done I give them each one book or video to hold and sprint-push the stroller back to a self-checkout station where I madly scan the copies of the books, pulling a couple from eager fingers, “Book, MY BOOK!” and return them to the flailing arms and arching backs threatening to tip over the stroller. Usually by that time my headband or hair tie is falling out and my hair is in my eyes and I’ve worked up some ridiculous sweat since I didn’t want to take the time to take my coat off. It seems that everyone in The Library is glaring at me and rolling their eyes, though I’m sure it’s only a few. As soon as the boys are placated with their reading or viewing material, I whisk them out the door and take in a deep breath. I have survived The Library Drill and I somehow still love books.

I started tutoring in The Library and occasionally I am even able to slip away to The Library by myself. I am relieved to know that when I walk in alone it has the same appeal that it always has had. It is a sanctuary. It is the medley of words and stories and possibilities that I love. I get no stares. I do not cringe. I do not sweat. I sip my covered drink and calmly saunter down the narrow aisles of the Classics section that do not accommodate the double stroller. It is My Library.