This is 40, Installment 9

The day is fast-approaching. It's less than a month now until I turn 40. I feel like I'm recording my last will and testament here. My last words. But for now I'd just like to write about smoothies. Why? Because they're amazing and I'm completely in love and I think it might make me old. Or else super healthy and robust.

For the past three months I've been making smoothies nearly ever morning. How else do you expect me to eat kale? Turns out kale is not only ridiculously good for you, it's also super filling. I can exist all morning with my tummy full of kale and a whole bunch of fruit and seeds and not be hungry until noon or later. It also cuts down on my coffee-intake, which I suppose is for the best.

I feel like smoothies could be an old person drink. You know, don't have to put the dentures in, just blend, sip through an elbow straw so you don't to raise your head, and swallow. But I don't actually think smoothies are an old person thing; I just thought they might make a good turning 40 blog post.

However, they did make me think of dentures.

So.

This is 40.

Denture-friendly 

In case you're interested in practicing for the denture life, or tricking yourself into eating kale, here's what I've been putting in smoothies. Not all of these into one smoothie, but I've found good combinations of flavors that include these ingredients.

kale

spinach
carrots
bananas

pears

apples

oranges

frozen strawberries

frozen mixed berries

frozen cucumber slices from cucumbers that had been in the fridge too long so I froze them.

frozen cranberries

frozen pineapple chunks

avocado

coconut

ground oatmeal

chia seeds (soak 'em first) 

ground flax seed

plain yogurt (vanilla-flavored when I'm feeling wild)

coconut milk

unsweetened cranberry juice

ice cubes

This is 40, Installment 4

I've learned that some people don't make sense, and that's okay.

You know the ones:

She's in the express lane checkout with 105 items and a handful of coupons and she's writing a check. 

He's in the left lane happily going 12 miles an hour in a 45 zone, next to someone in the right lane who's on her phone.

These people don't make sense.

I'm almost 40 and I think I've come to terms with that. These people happen. They will continue happening for the rest of forever. And nothing I do or say or how many times I roll my eyes or make annoyed coughs, she will continue to stand in the bathroom line with a huge gap between her and the person in front of her while the end of the line snakes down the hall. He will wait for 20 minutes with his turn signal on, while the family of eight loads up their groceries and buckle up for safety, so he can claim the parking spot ten feet closer to the store.

And that's okay.

We won't be best friends, we won't even maintain eye contact, but I don't have to try to teach you a lesson with my indignation or a "thoughtful" word of advice, or even be involved in any way.

Coming to know and practice this is freeing. And for some reason it has taken me awhile to internalize. I do not understand people. I love many of them and I like many of them, but not all of them. But they will always be here, with their turn signals stuck on, or completely blocking the bread aisle with their cart.

And that's okay.

This is 40.

And that's okay.

On Second Thought...

Brian and I have plans for the future. There's a good chance that all won't go quite as planned, but one of our plans is that I will return to teaching when Teddy goes to school in a few years. I'd like to say our future plans also include things like early retirement in a downtown luxury loft with season tickets to the Nats and lots of exotically-named margaritas on white sand by a glassy-green ocean, but who's to say.

I have four and a half years of experience teaching English in middle and high schools, but not a master's degree. A few months ago I researched a graduate program at the closest university in something that I have recently become interested in learning more about-- reading and literacy. I loved teaching the boys to read over the past few years, even though I didn't really know what I was doing. It was challenging and super rewarding and big to see the wheels turn and everything click into place as they slowly read their first word and then first sentence and then first book. All of the sudden they were finishing their summer reading programs at the library and becoming some of the best readers in their kindergarten class.

I don't know much about teaching reading, (Though this is the book I used and highly recommend.) and am curious to know more and to help other little kids learn to read. I also know that I'll get paid more if I have my master's when I go back to teaching. Starting the program seemed like the right thing to do for my family-- like the responsible thing to do. Make more money. To help a little more in finally being able to buy a bigger place to live without giving up all our conveniences that are so important to our lifestyle.

So I applied. I got accepted. I enrolled in my first class. I activated my student accounts. And then I went to orientation.

The program is more credits than I realized. It lasts longer than I realized. It includes five education classes. FIVE. All the literacy classes sound super interesting and challenging and fun but reading the descriptions of the education classes made me cringe. That's when I remembered: I HATE EDUCATION CLASSES. I mean, for the most part.

We found out anecdotally things I should have researched before applying to the program-- things like what a reading specialist's job is actually like (more paperwork, less time with kids, we were told) and the pay scale they are on in our county (same as teachers). We added up the credits and costs and the inevitable stress that I would have which would not only make me more prone to seizures, but most likely make me less of an involved mom, and more of a bitchy, stressy, yelling mom. It would also prevent me from working on the writing project that I've been working on and caressing and yelling at and crying about for nearly five years.

I want to write a book. I've always wanted to. And I'm at least halfway there. One problem is that I haven't integrated time for writing into my daily schedule over the past few years. Another problem is that I think what I have might be total crap. But I still want to finish it, minimize the crap, and make it something I'm proud of and see what editors and publishers think of it. I'm thankful for a husband who is so supportive and encouraging of my writing endeavors, but specifically this one.

I had been excited about the literacy program. I'd been excited about going to school again for something that interested me. But after I finally made the decision to withdraw, I felt an immense peace. It is peace I didn't expect I would feel and one that has been pushing me to write and write and write on my book lately. I even made a big map of my story on the wall of our bedroom-- chapter by chapter. This matters to me and makes me so much more happy than being elbows-deep in education classes and spending more time away from my boys and husband. So, on second thought, I'm out.

Maybe in a few years it will be time for me to go back to school for a master's. Or maybe never. But now it is time to finish the project I started five years ago.

Just for fun, here is a lovely read for any aspiring writers to give to their parents.

And here is a bonus Teddy picture from yesterday.

Doing

Introduction: I wrote this entry ("Doing") after a long day of mothering. After I published it and read it through again I realized it sounds pretty bitter. I was definitely venting, but I do love being a mom. I was trying to entertain my readers a bit by finding the humor in it all through a little hyperbole. I hope that this went without saying for most people who know me, but I wasn't sure. 

*****************************************************************


This is a lot.

I have no idea how mothers of more than three children at home manage their lives. From dawn until way after dusk and into the wee hours of the morning, I am doing. I am doing everything. And I don't mean I'm doing everything to take care of our household, I'm certainly not, but I'm doing constantly, and what I'm doing doesn't involve much sitting and sometimes not even much thinking, but it is constant.

Turns out these little turds have to eat three times a day, Teddy even more often, and preferably healthy food that makes up a balanced diet, which is a lot of work just on its own and involves grocery lists and recipes-- two things I'm not very fond of-- as well as heaps of dishes every day.

But. There are a million other things these boys need as well. Like a cup of milk please and for me to take their hair out of the other one's hands NOW, and their Batman shirts out of the laundry before the villains strike, and for me to watch the AMAZING slide into home in slow motion and for their toothpaste to be extracted from their noses and for me to observe their ant farm through their magnifying glass and show them how to make their beds and get down Candy Land from their shelf and to open their applesauce lids and to take the teething ring off the baseball bat and look at the cool car they made out of gears and take Teddy out of the bedroom so he doesn't knock over their Lego restaurant and tape the box to the balcony rail so they can shoot their basketball into it and to clean the finger paint out of their ears and the Play-doh off the chairs and read their new books and set the chicken out to thaw for dinner and label the body parts of an ant and look at the pretty drawing they made and play their memory game with them and get their damn hockey gear on them before their hockey class and floss the corn out of their teeth and give them all baths that aren't too cold or too hot or too long or too short that actually remove the baseball field dirt from all crevices of their bodies. No biggie.

On top of these odds and ends that keep me hopping all day, I am to keep the house on the better side of the filthy and cluttered vs. almost filthy and fairly cluttered line, and hopefully provide some semblance of education and exercise to the boys' lives. How do parents do it and retain sanity? I like to think I am sane, but I'm actually not so sure. Right now I am drinking a Mason jar of wine and talking to a measuring cup full of chocolate chips, so you tell me.

These menial tasks and goals are what make up each and every day of my life and are why I haven't been blogging much. We also just moved Teddy into Cal and Clark's room, which has proved challenging to say the least. We have tee-ball, which has been a blast, but also consumes time and I've been maintaining a spot in my book club, which requires some late-night reading stints. One daunting thought is knowing that it will only get more hectic from here. The twins will develop different interests and not be doing every activity together, which will involve more time spent figuring out transportation for each of them, more weeknight and weekend activities, and inevitably more freaking laundry. Teddy will begin to be involved in more activities, and meanwhile I will not be working out, but remaining a lumpy blob of a mom who eats leftover hot dog scraps and secretly makes and eats piles of nachos and dips anything and everything into her homemade ranch dressing.

So, I'm kind of a mess.

But as all the well-edited articles about this stage of motherhood that I get a quarter of the way through but never have time to finish tell me, I should enjoy this time because it will pass so quickly and soon I will be missing the days that I find superhero capes in my pillow case and raisins in my hair. I will miss washing out bib pockets and stepping on tiny dinosaurs. Right now that doesn't seem possible, but in order to keep myself on the good side of sanity, I choose to believe that the articles on motherhood that I partially read are correct.

I also remind myself that I have only a little over two months before my little baby twins will be off to kindergarten and I might have time to actually vacuum the carpet and chop an entire onion up at once. But I know I will also miss them and their LOUD presence throughout my day.

I'm actually not even sure what the point of this entry is. I guess just to write something, because it is therapeutic and fun and it's a weekend night so I'll have Brian's help in the morning. And now Teddy is awake and I have to put him back to sleep without waking up Cal and Clark.

I know I will not miss this part.

These rings around the tub and dirt at the bottom sum up
the conclusion of my days quite well.

Chasing the Maternal Glow

This probably sounds bad, but I’m so done with being pregnant. I feel like I’m supposed to love this time—that I should be bathing everyone I’m around in my maternal glow— laughing in slow motion while my fingertips caress the gentle slope of my belly and my luxurious copper locks of hair fly gently on the perfectly-calibrated wind. I feel like I’m supposed to be this walking symbol of life and motherhood and all that is virtuous and right and fertile in the world. Like everything around me should be smooth and soft and set in sepia tones. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to be that way. But if you think you see my maternal glow, I assure you that it is in fact the three rosy patches of acne that I’ve had since week four. If you think my hair is glossier, you might be right— the boys have been sick, so it’s not unlikely that their boogers have added to my sheen. And there’s nothing gentle or sloping about my belly—this thing is large and in charge. 

I know this time in my life will be over soon enough and I won’t give these limitations another thought, but I’m so ready to run and play with the boys without hurting, and to throw a ball as hard as I can without it twisting my ab muscles in knots. To walk without my back hurting. To lift the boys up. To be able to walk up three flights of stairs at a normal pace instead of at the pace of a small, distracted, crippled snail. To not have to pee every couple minutes or feel like I’ll pass out if I don’t eat every hour. All of those things will fade to grey. But for now they are bolded and in all CAPS and right in my face. A lot like the current state of my maternal bossoms.

I feel like such a fussy baby when I read what I’ve written, but it also feels good to say it. I know that when I see little Peapod’s face and hold his tiny body it will all be worth it, but right now it just feels like it’s taking forever and I miss my other body. Also, did I mention that I think I’m just about as heavy at 22 weeks as I was with the boys at this time? My body seriously needs to chill out. It’s not a competition, and there is only one human in there this time. Get over yourself. Everyone knows you can carry twins. You don’t have to try to do it again. I do not want to give birth to a 13 pounder—which is about what the boys weighed combined.

Okay, I’m done whining. Besides, I have to go pee.

This is me and my maternal glow holding up the toaster.
This is, however, from when I was 30 weeks pregnant with the boys.
I noticed that I don't have pictures of myself from this time...

My Facebook Tantrum

So here's the deal. Awhile ago I wrote this letter to Facebook on my blog. It was bold and I was happy that I wrote it, and I really meant what I said. I thought I would be done with Facebook other than as an avenue for sharing my blog posts. Then as I was trying to manage my personal profile page (I had to keep a profile page to keep my Whispers & Shouts page up) I found out that I had to "unfriend" every. single. friend. one at a time. Talk about way too many clicks and going back and clicking and going back. Stupid Facebook and its far-reaching clutches.

So I started it off and boldly was unfriending everyone in whatever random order Facebook put them in. It actually sucked because I like you people, but I really wanted a break from Facebook and so I thought this was the way I could do it. Plus, I'd already written that letter on my blog... But of course I couldn't do much clicking and selecting and going back and all that for long without going crazy looking at the screen and swearing at Facebook for being clingy and obnoxious and trying to rule the world. So I unfriended some people and then had no patience to unfriend anyone else. But I did take a nice break from Facebook for awhile.

Then I found myself wondering about certain friends and realizing they were people I had unfriended in my Facebook cleansing phase, but I truly do care about their lives and times. So here it is: I don't love Facebook and I like to fantasize about a pre-Facebook world, but I've now reluctantly come to grips with the fact that it works extremely well and in our world of knowing a lot of people and taking a lot of pictures and our habits of not picking up the phone and talking to someone, but instead perusing their FB profile, it is effective.

Anyway, I don't love it, and I don't love that so much bad and... unnatural can happen because of it, but I do like it and recognize that it is a valuable way to stay in touch with a lot of people. I'm just trying not to let my Facebooking take the place of real relationships. And to not spend much time on it unless there's something particular that I want to find out.

AND, there's this phenomenon that has developed in my life ever since I started writing this blog. I have friends who know a lot about me and my goings on, but whom I never hear from, I rarely call, and therefore I don't know anything about their lives. It has to stop! I need to be a better friend.

P.S. I've refriended quite a few people, but please don't hesitate to refriend me if you wish.  

Just for fun- Brian and me enjoying some quality literature

Choose Your Own Hair Story?

Cal wants to grow his hair out “until it touches his shirt.”

I don’t know how to respond to this. Is this acceptable? Do parents let boys grow their hair out if they want to when they’re three years old? Is that a thing? And also—I cut the boys’ hair. How do I let it grow out without it looking like a mullet and then a homeless person? Does he simply not want a haircut because he hates haircuts? Maybe it isn't fear; I haven't talked about a haircut for awhile.

So I Googled something like “little boys growing their hair out” and promptly spent way too much time reading ridiculously useless message boards. And yet I still don’t have an answer. I emailed a friend of mine whose son has long hair, and I think her advice is probably the only advice that Brian and I will actually pay attention to.

Much of the material I read online was complaints about strangers mistaking long-haired boys for girls(gasp!). Other people said letting a toddler make the decision is fine, some said he shouldn't make the decision at this age. Some asked if the boy in question is rebellious.

Now that I've done so much reading on it, it feels like a much bigger deal than it probably is.

Maybe in a month if his hair is hanging in his eyes he’ll change his mind. It does seem like kind of a fun experiment—to have Cal grow his out and Clark cut his. Then we’ll know what they’d look like either way. Kind of a choose-your-own adventure kind of hair...story.

*editor's note: Many apologies for those of you who read this post earlier in its very rough draft form.

I can't quite imagine his hair long...

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.

 

A Foot of Change

Change is afoot. Or a leg. Or maybe just an enflamed left ankle. Right now as I prop my legs and ankles up under ice packs it seems like change blankets all of my lower extremities. Three weeks ago I started running again after not running much at all since before that horribly cold day in 2002 when I broke a bunch of bones in a car accident. The doctors thought I probably wouldn’t be able to run again on my left ankle—that the bones would probably have to be fused. I would be able to walk passably, but not run, they told me. That all made sense, considering I had at that point a freshly inserted titanium rod from my right knee to my ankle, several screws in my left ankle, and screws and plates in my wrist. (No, I don’t run with my wrist like a monkey, I threw that other hardware factoid in for effect) Well, the doctors were wrong. I didn’t need any bones in my ankle fused. I didn’t even need the bone graft they thought I would need in that ankle. They saved the bone grafting for my leg and wrist with bones from my hips. I strongly urge you to never need a bone graft. 

Back then, just being pushed on a walk wore me out.

But I hated running with a burning passion of a thousand suns, didn’t care for running, and because it’s been painful to run the past ten years I haven’t pushed it. I didn’t need any encouragement not to run. I’ll do workout DVDs while the boys nap and go to the little gym at our condo clubhouse—spend some time on the elliptical machine or with the weights.  I’ve belonged to other gyms over the past years and kept myself in passable shape until I got pregnant. It’s kind of been a blur since then. My workouts were reduced to carrying growing infants up three flights of stairs and squatting to wipe up various body fluids. I’ve tried to work out and I’ve kept from becoming a fat lard done a decent enough job, but nothing like what I should be doing. For some reason a few weeks ago Brian and I both decided to start running again. It’s just so easy. I mean, no machines, no gym, no gear, just you and the ground. And wherever you are you can find ground. So I’ve been running mostly outside on a route I really like, but a few times on a treadmill at our gym. I’m honestly shocked. I’m enjoying it. And the titanium inside me is not falling out or breaking like I always imagined it might. The first time on the treadmill was one of the first times I ran and I was SLOW. But tonight I picked up my speed and ran three miles, and only partially because I was watching Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and I wanted to keep watching it. I also felt good. So that’s one change: I’m running. And oddly, I like it.

Change number two: The boys are in bunk beds. That’s right. We bunked ‘em up. So far no one has fallen off with the exception of stuffed animals and books. It’s a little like crib on the top because they haven’t figured out how to climb down. The top-bunker is trapped. If only the bottom-bunker could be too. The problem is that Cal is on the top bunk and he loves to shout orders to Clark. So Clark runs around the room, picking up certain books, pulling the CD player over, shooting basketballs, playing with the night light turtle, putting weird things in his mouth, all things that Cal tells him to do and then laughs at. They haven’t come close to falling asleep on their bunk beds for nap time; we still have to separate them, one on our bed, one on the top bunk bed. It’s obnoxious. But at bedtime they fall asleep fine. There’s something about the darkness I guess. No toys crying at you to be played with.

The bunkers

Change number three: I traded the small lamp in the living room with the big lamp on our nightstand. Lighting has slightly improved.

Grand finale of changes: My next post will be my 100^th post on this blog, and to celebrate I am going to be introducing some big and super cool changes to the layout. I know that all you devoted Whispers and Shouts fans will be waiting with bated breath until I post next and the awesomeness spills forth. On my 100^th post I plan to make it a love fest to you— my dear readers— and at the same time unveil the new look that is being custom-made for me by an awesome artist.

Change is afoot! And now I can't feel my foot from all the ice packs.

Ten Years

I feel that I shouldn’t be silent as a blogger on the anniversary of our nation’s tragic day ten years ago, or simply write about something like boogers and rashes and not acknowledge the day.


I was not affected directly by any losses of friends or family, for which I am grateful, but my heart still breaks for the many who were affected in such horrible ways for hateful, senseless reasons. I remember that day clearly. I was a tired student teacher, writing on a whiteboard and preparing for class as the pink sun rose in Meridian, Idaho. The principal told us to turn on our TVs. I watched in horror at the smoking building as the second plane hit the other tower. It was difficult to keep composed around middle schoolers who were asking about it, especially when I knew little. It was supposed to be a testing day but the school cancelled all the testing. After first period a teacher poked her head in and told me that the Pentagon was bombed. I remember being glad I was in little Idaho, but immediately thinking about my friend and future roommate, Missy, in DC.


And so all our stories go— the shock, sadness, horror, anger, surging through our bodies in rapid succession and repeatedly. Glued to the television. Racing to the gas pumps. Flying flags. Talking to strangers. Calling family. It really was, as Alan Jackson said in his song, the day the world stopped turning. I’m thankful we have not had anything happen on that scale again and that we’re not too far away from the completion of the tallest building in the world being built right next to Ground Zero in New York. I am proud to be an American. And, though the risks of being involved in some kind of attack are much greater here by DC than they are in the mountains of Idaho, I am proud and blessed to live here.

Missy and me, teeth chattering, Inauguration '05

What's That Fing, Mommy?

As those of you who know our kids and/or read my blog often know, Cal is a very figurative thinker who is astute at voicing similes. He called bowtie pasta “like a ceiling fan” the other day. I have a necklace with a round pendant on it that he says is, “like a tire swing.” Clouds are blankies, half-eaten crackers are stars, bears, Gammy's Kitchen Aid mixer’s front knob is its nose, etc. Lately both boys are not only soaking up anything new by asking, “What’s that, Mommy? What’s that fing? (thing) when they see unfamiliar objects, they also test me constantly. They pick up something familiar, like say a crumb from their toast, and say, “What’s that, Mommy? What’s that?” in their most inquisitive voices. Hopefully I pass the test by naming the toast crumb and they smile with a reassuring smile and say, “Yes!” I’m waiting for the day they hand me a gold star sticker or a free homework pass.

So Cal likes to ask what something is and then add his simile in there as if he is guiding me to see things the way he seems them I love it. Only occasionally does something happen like he grabs my or a girl friend or aunt’s or grandma’s chest and ask, “What’s that, Mommy?” Awk. Ward.

Constantly listening to, “What’s that fing?” over and over does get old after awhile, but seeing the world through their eyes is still exciting. As we were walking past a restaurant the other day Cal asked, “What’s that fing? What’s that restaurant?” Nice. I told him it was Macaroni Grill. He immediately responded, “Eat it?”

navigating the metro system

Clark likes to ask what things are and then respond with, “like on TV!” with great enthusiasm. Since they see all kinds of things on their favorite movies to watch ever, the Signing Time series, (which I HIGHLY recommend) they see, for instance, stalks of corn growing in a field at the farm we’ve been to a few times and say, “like on TV!” That is when I grimace inside and try to come to terms with the fact that it’s okay that my kids aren’t growing up in gardens and barns and forests like I did, where novel things on TV were cities and buses and professional sports. Which is more practical to know, how to plant potatoes and grow beans on poles, or how to navigate a bus system? It’s hard to say. But I’m pretty sure there are more buses than bean poles in the world and so I hereby proclaim that it is okay to raise kids here. And then they point at the baby chicks at the farm and scream, “like on TV!” and I grimace again, but not as much because I remember the unpleasant chicken coops I had to clean when I was little. 

Then I go home and wash all our hands well and order takeout from one of the twenty restaurants across the street from our house. After dinner we sit on our balcony with wine and watch the airplanes come and go in the twilight. The stars aren’t as bright here as in rural Idaho, but I do overall feel a bit cleaner and less chicken-y. That’s worth something…right?

Old Pictures

Last fall I had fun going through tons of old pictures and found some similarities between Brian and me and the boys. I just now stumbled upon them again.

Brian

Clark

Me (and Aunt Jane!)

Calvin

Everyone always says the boys both look just like Brian, and I think they do too, but I also see my side of the family in Calvin quite often. You can go ahead and tell me I did a good job finding parallel poses. Thanks.

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