This post is not about Rose. It's about Calvin. Ha! Fake out!
Specifically, let's talk about the names Calvin comes up with for his stuffed animals. Calvin, bless his little heart, is terrible at naming. The only animal he did not name is the infamous Joe which, if you will recall, I rewarded his sisters with the privilege of naming in exchange for me not having to name my only son after one of the stupid Blue's Clues dudes, Steve and Joe.
And since Calvin LOVED that dog, I bought many in case the original Joe was lost, only to find out that Calvin's extra Spidey sense enabled him to note differences that were indiscernible to the rest of us. However, I was under strict instructions to never get rid of those other dogs, all of who were subsequently named (by Calvin) Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe, and Joe. Are you sensing a pattern yet? Not the most creative namer, my boy. To help us tell them apart, the Joes started acquiring descriptive adjectives such as Stinky Joe, Not-so-Stinky Joe, Fluffy Joe, Brown Joe, Spotty Joe, and Big Fluffy Joe. But in the end, they're all still Joe.
The girls get very disgusted with him because they like to come up with distinctive names for their pets. For example, Sabrina named her cactus Phelton, and Rose has a dog named Buford.
But not Calvin. When he gets a dog that is not Joe, he calls it Doggie. He got a cat and named it Kitty. He's also got Beary, Crabby, Snakey, Eegy (the eagle), and so on and so forth, ad nauseam.
And then he got a turtle, and we waited with baited breath. Would he do it? Yes, he would! He named it . . . Turtie. Have you said it out loud yet? Come on, try it. Turtie the Turtle. The girls start running around the house yelling, "Calvin's got a turdy. Calvin's got a turdy." And Calvin's screaming, "No, it's Tur-TEE, not Tur-DEE!" He comes crying to me, but I'm no help at all, because I'm on the floor laughing with the girls that Calvin's got a turdy.
I think Calvin would disagree with Shakespeare. A rose by any other name is not as sweet.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Camp
I sent my oldest daughter off to camp today. It's her first big trip away from home that doesn't involved being spoiled rotten by her grandparents. She was hesitant at first, but once her teacher showed them a video about what the camp was about, from that day forward she was nothing but excited. And this morning she was oh, so calm about it all, informing me with quiet exasperation after my third time hugging her and saying goodbye, that despite my promises of departure I had yet to leave. Properly chastised I went on my way.
Boy, this was not what I was expecting at all. And no, I am not talking about my daughter growing up and not needing me anymore. I am talking about her actually being excited to go to camp. I HATED the idea of going to camp. I hated going to camp. But after I had reached a certain age, my parents decided that sending me to a weeklong summer camp was just the right thing. I heartily disagreed.
The first year they tried to send me to church camp I stated in no uncertain terms that I did not want to go. But I was making absolutely no headway as camp day approached, and panic started to rise. I spent the last three days before camp crying hysterically.
The night before I was to be packed off, my mom urged me to the table for my Last Supper. I wasn't hungry, but she made me sit at the table anyway. She urged me to tone down the hysteria for at least one meal. Everybody tried to eat their dinner in peace, but I managed to cause indigestion in more than one family member with tears dripping into my spaghetti and pathetic little whimpers punctuating silent sobbing. My parents finally gave in and told me I didn't have to go. Hurrah! I was saved!
Unfortunately, they didn't take the hint and proceeded to sign me up again the next summer. The hysterical tactics of the summer before did absolutely no good as my parents were now prepared and had steeled their hearts against me. I sobbed and cried and whimpered to no avail, and off to summer camp I went.
The crying did not stop at camp much to the dismay of those around me. Yes, I was "that kid," the one that cries the entire week, the one that perpetually has snot running down her face. The one that is sure her family has abandoned her. I knew, just KNEW, that in the week I was absent my parents would sell our house, pack up and move away with no forwarding address. I would be stuck at camp my entire life, singing lame camp songs and eating tear-soaked food.
The next year -- and, yes, there was a next year, too; my parents are slow learners -- I managed to approach camp with if not quite delight, at least not sheer terror. I knew what to expect. I didn't cry once. And as I left on the bus, off to yet another week of adventure, my parents were stuck in the church parking lot with no way to get home. Apparently, when I had collected my items to take to camp, I had locked their car keys in their trunk, a little Freudian f#&! you for having the audacity to want to provide me with memories that would last a lifetime.
Boy, this was not what I was expecting at all. And no, I am not talking about my daughter growing up and not needing me anymore. I am talking about her actually being excited to go to camp. I HATED the idea of going to camp. I hated going to camp. But after I had reached a certain age, my parents decided that sending me to a weeklong summer camp was just the right thing. I heartily disagreed.
The first year they tried to send me to church camp I stated in no uncertain terms that I did not want to go. But I was making absolutely no headway as camp day approached, and panic started to rise. I spent the last three days before camp crying hysterically.
The night before I was to be packed off, my mom urged me to the table for my Last Supper. I wasn't hungry, but she made me sit at the table anyway. She urged me to tone down the hysteria for at least one meal. Everybody tried to eat their dinner in peace, but I managed to cause indigestion in more than one family member with tears dripping into my spaghetti and pathetic little whimpers punctuating silent sobbing. My parents finally gave in and told me I didn't have to go. Hurrah! I was saved!
Unfortunately, they didn't take the hint and proceeded to sign me up again the next summer. The hysterical tactics of the summer before did absolutely no good as my parents were now prepared and had steeled their hearts against me. I sobbed and cried and whimpered to no avail, and off to summer camp I went.
The crying did not stop at camp much to the dismay of those around me. Yes, I was "that kid," the one that cries the entire week, the one that perpetually has snot running down her face. The one that is sure her family has abandoned her. I knew, just KNEW, that in the week I was absent my parents would sell our house, pack up and move away with no forwarding address. I would be stuck at camp my entire life, singing lame camp songs and eating tear-soaked food.
The next year -- and, yes, there was a next year, too; my parents are slow learners -- I managed to approach camp with if not quite delight, at least not sheer terror. I knew what to expect. I didn't cry once. And as I left on the bus, off to yet another week of adventure, my parents were stuck in the church parking lot with no way to get home. Apparently, when I had collected my items to take to camp, I had locked their car keys in their trunk, a little Freudian f#&! you for having the audacity to want to provide me with memories that would last a lifetime.
Milton J. Snookers
Contrary to popular opinion, the tooth fairy is not the typical fairy envisioned by most (normal) people. No, the tooth fairy that services the George household, and yours though you don't know it, is Milton J. Snookers. According to the tale passed down to me by my father (who is quite trustworthy, of course), Milton J. is a frustrated dentist who got tired of doing daily dental work and having people unhappy around him all the time. He decided to ditch his day job and spread joy and cheer around the world by becoming the tooth fairy, exchanging small amounts of money for children's lost teeth.
Milton J. Snookers has made many visits to the George household in the last couple of weeks. First, Calvin had to go to the dentist to have his baby tooth pulled. (See what I mean about people being unhappy about going to see the dentist? Also, see my notes on getting a crown). Rose wiggled and cajoled and finally flat-out pulled her own loose tooth. And Sabrina lost one, but had to have it cut loose from her braces seeing as it was still attached to the wires.
Sabrina is like the princess and the pea and refuses to put her tooth under her pillow. It's terribly uncomfortable to have that tooth poking into your head while you sleep, you know. However, she was concerned the tooth fairy wouldn't find her tooth since it would not be in the usual place. Hence, she made a sign.
Nothing gets past good ol' Milton J, though, and he found the tooth readily enough and responded in kind.
After a brief moment of hysteria when Sabrina discovered her tooth was gone, but apparently no money was left in its place, she thought to look up. Then, she smiled and looked at me and said, "He's funny."
Milton J. Snookers has made many visits to the George household in the last couple of weeks. First, Calvin had to go to the dentist to have his baby tooth pulled. (See what I mean about people being unhappy about going to see the dentist? Also, see my notes on getting a crown). Rose wiggled and cajoled and finally flat-out pulled her own loose tooth. And Sabrina lost one, but had to have it cut loose from her braces seeing as it was still attached to the wires.
Sabrina is like the princess and the pea and refuses to put her tooth under her pillow. It's terribly uncomfortable to have that tooth poking into your head while you sleep, you know. However, she was concerned the tooth fairy wouldn't find her tooth since it would not be in the usual place. Hence, she made a sign.
Nothing gets past good ol' Milton J, though, and he found the tooth readily enough and responded in kind.
After a brief moment of hysteria when Sabrina discovered her tooth was gone, but apparently no money was left in its place, she thought to look up. Then, she smiled and looked at me and said, "He's funny."
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Calvin Math
My seven-year-old son likes math, and his math assignments include explaining how you determined the answers to certain problems. A recent problem was to explain how you figure out the answer to 81-16. David said, "Well, what's the answer?" Calvin pauses for just a second and then says, "65." David asks him, "So how did you get that?" Calvin goes, "Well, 1 - 6 = -5, so instead of subtracting 10 from 80, I subtract 20 from 80 and then subtract the -5."
Clear, everyone?
Clear, everyone?
Toy Story
Rose and her friend Hannah were playing together the other evening. They were discussing how toys came to life when people left the room. I'm presuming this conversation came about because Toy Story 1 and 2 will be making a reappearance in theaters and advertising has been high. They were trying to determine how to catch these sneaky little toys and their shenanigans and came up with the brilliant idea of setting up a video camera.
And so that's what they did. They got a video camera and set it up in the play room, aiming it right where all the toys were congregated. They turned the camera on and left the room. All of this was done quite nonchalantly since they didn't want to tip any off any of the toys (or the parents) as to what was going on.
An hour later they returned, only to find that the camera had recorded only a couple of minutes of no action, and then it went blank. There then followed a great debate about whether the battery had simply died or the toys had cottoned on to the whole scheme and sent an envoy to turn off the camera. The toy scenario was definitely winning in the debate, the general consensus being it was the reindeer, because the reindeer could have moved around without being seen, having never been in the lens.
By this time Sabrina had joined in the conversation. Her contribution was to hide the camera before you turn it on so the toys don't know what you are doing. I guess I know what side of the nanny cam debate she'll be on when she grows up. Their play date ended before a second attempt at creating a video could be done, but their imaginations are so captivating, they have actually got me wondering what they will catch on film next time they try.
And so that's what they did. They got a video camera and set it up in the play room, aiming it right where all the toys were congregated. They turned the camera on and left the room. All of this was done quite nonchalantly since they didn't want to tip any off any of the toys (or the parents) as to what was going on.
An hour later they returned, only to find that the camera had recorded only a couple of minutes of no action, and then it went blank. There then followed a great debate about whether the battery had simply died or the toys had cottoned on to the whole scheme and sent an envoy to turn off the camera. The toy scenario was definitely winning in the debate, the general consensus being it was the reindeer, because the reindeer could have moved around without being seen, having never been in the lens.
By this time Sabrina had joined in the conversation. Her contribution was to hide the camera before you turn it on so the toys don't know what you are doing. I guess I know what side of the nanny cam debate she'll be on when she grows up. Their play date ended before a second attempt at creating a video could be done, but their imaginations are so captivating, they have actually got me wondering what they will catch on film next time they try.
My Kingdom for a Crown
I don't particularly enjoy the dentist. Who does? But my visits are always short. They scrape minute amounts of plaque off my teeth, pat me on the head for my superb brushing ability, and send me on way with a new toothbrush and my very own tiny tube of toothpaste. The only dental work I have ever had done, other than the preventative stuff, was having a couple cavities filled when I was 15. I had just gotten my first job at a sub shop and was enjoying the perk of free soda whenever I wanted. Unfortunately, my teeth did not enjoy that privilege as much and told me so. Two cavities appeared, but they were drilled, filled, and I went on my merry way having learned my lesson.
Since then, for close to 25 years I have traipsed in and out of the dentist's office with nary a problem. In fact, if I were being brutally honest with myself, I've always congratulated myself on what a fine set of teeth I have. Braces? Never had them. Root canal? Nope. Gum planing? Don't even think about bringing that laser next to my beautiful teeth. Of course, I make the appropriately sympathetic noises when talking with others about their dental woes, but secretly inside I am pitying these lesser mortals.
So this last Wednesday I blew into the dentist for my semiannual congratulatory session. Things were going great. The hygienist was speeding through my cleaning as usual, when all of a sudden she paused and spent quite a lot of time in one area. She scraped. She poked. She scraped some more. She spent an inordinate amount of time just staring at my teeth with a mirror. What the heck was going on? Even for teeth as gorgeous as mine I couldn't see staring at them that long. But nothing was said, and she moved on to complete my cleaning.
I decided I was getting all worked up for nothing and was ready to accept my bag of goodies when the dreaded words came. "I have some bad news." What? Who? It can't be me. You've cleaned my teeth for years. Are you sure you're talking about my mouth? (Pearly whites flashed here.)
Remember those cavities I mentioned earlier? Well, one of the fillings decided it was too big for its britches and fractured my tooth. When I looked at the picture, even I, swimming in a big river of denial, couldn't mistake that crack for anything but what it was. Climbers could have been lost down in that fissure it was so large.
So the answer? Get a crown. They asked me if I was familiar with what a crown was. I gathered from their expressions that my answer of "a special cap proclaiming that tooth to be royalty" was not entirely correct. They walked me through the upcoming procedure, freaking me out with each successive sentence. As I was hyperventilating, the first appointment was scheduled, and they gently shoved me out the door muttering to themselves to remember to put the tanks of nitrous oxide in my room.
I went home and quietly fell to pieces. Now, I have plenty of faults. I have a quick temper, I am definitely more zaftig than twiggy, and my skin has two tones, sunburned or blotchy. But, damn it, I have good teeth! Or at least I did. My world has changed. My teeth have betrayed me. My crowning glory is no more. And what do I have left? A crown, which is not as glorious as it sounds.
Next up . . . fun with nitrous oxide.
Since then, for close to 25 years I have traipsed in and out of the dentist's office with nary a problem. In fact, if I were being brutally honest with myself, I've always congratulated myself on what a fine set of teeth I have. Braces? Never had them. Root canal? Nope. Gum planing? Don't even think about bringing that laser next to my beautiful teeth. Of course, I make the appropriately sympathetic noises when talking with others about their dental woes, but secretly inside I am pitying these lesser mortals.
So this last Wednesday I blew into the dentist for my semiannual congratulatory session. Things were going great. The hygienist was speeding through my cleaning as usual, when all of a sudden she paused and spent quite a lot of time in one area. She scraped. She poked. She scraped some more. She spent an inordinate amount of time just staring at my teeth with a mirror. What the heck was going on? Even for teeth as gorgeous as mine I couldn't see staring at them that long. But nothing was said, and she moved on to complete my cleaning.
I decided I was getting all worked up for nothing and was ready to accept my bag of goodies when the dreaded words came. "I have some bad news." What? Who? It can't be me. You've cleaned my teeth for years. Are you sure you're talking about my mouth? (Pearly whites flashed here.)
Remember those cavities I mentioned earlier? Well, one of the fillings decided it was too big for its britches and fractured my tooth. When I looked at the picture, even I, swimming in a big river of denial, couldn't mistake that crack for anything but what it was. Climbers could have been lost down in that fissure it was so large.
So the answer? Get a crown. They asked me if I was familiar with what a crown was. I gathered from their expressions that my answer of "a special cap proclaiming that tooth to be royalty" was not entirely correct. They walked me through the upcoming procedure, freaking me out with each successive sentence. As I was hyperventilating, the first appointment was scheduled, and they gently shoved me out the door muttering to themselves to remember to put the tanks of nitrous oxide in my room.
I went home and quietly fell to pieces. Now, I have plenty of faults. I have a quick temper, I am definitely more zaftig than twiggy, and my skin has two tones, sunburned or blotchy. But, damn it, I have good teeth! Or at least I did. My world has changed. My teeth have betrayed me. My crowning glory is no more. And what do I have left? A crown, which is not as glorious as it sounds.
Next up . . . fun with nitrous oxide.
In the doghouse
Continuing on the theme of dogs, let me introduce you to Joe. Joe is a beige stuffed dog that arrived at our household a week before Calvin was born along with many other baby gifts. The girls named him. They were very interested in naming the new baby, but their only real ideas were the names of the guys in "Blue's Clues" -- Joe and Steve. Since I wasn't really interested in naming my baby after a toddler's television show that annoyed the crap out of me, I decided they could name one of the baby's toys. They picked the dog, and that was that.
Calvin was only three weeks old when he decided Joe was his best friend. Even at that startlingly young age he loved touching Joe and stroking his ears. He became agitated if the dog wasn't with him at bedtime, or any other time really. Being the brilliant mother that I am, I promptly went out and bought two other identical dogs so we would never be without a Joe.
Ha! Did that plan ever backfire on me. Little did I know that the dogs were not, in fact, identical. For the life of me, I couldn't tell one from the other, but Calvin always could. When he could finally communicate, he let us know that Joe's ears feel different than the other Joes. Who knew? I don't think I was ever once able to fool him into accepting the Joe that was not "real."
Calvin turns seven next week, and Joe has been with him every step of the way. Once upon a time Joe was extremely soft and fluffy. Now . . . not so much. His fluff is completely gone, which begs the question, where the heck did it disappear to? And if you hold him up to the light, you can see sunlight through his worn out body. He is now called "Stinky Joe" because I have been informed that Joe does not like baths. On the rare occasions that I am able to pry Joe away, Calvin has had to make do with "Not-so-Stinky Joe" or "Fluffy Joe," now totally recognizable due to the fact that they are not gray or stinky.
But Stinky Joe got a bath this week. He decided that while he had tried being stinky for a while, maybe it was time to try living on the other side of the fence. So when I threw some sheets in the wash, Joe hitched a ride. Unfortunately for Joe, I picked the wrong sheets to be washed with -- Rose's flaming, sear-your-eyes pink sheets. The new fluorescent sheets that had been washed only once before. You can see where this is going can't you?
Joe isn't gray anymore. And I would be in the doghouse if I hadn't immediately used copious amounts of bleach and then declared to Calvin that Joe is now "the color of clean." Hope he doesn't ask why clean looks rather pink.Thursday, January 14, 2010
Going to the dogs
Let me tell you about Rose and dogs. Rose LOVES dogs. She's got dogs on her brain. I would call her a dog-brain if that didn't sound so insulting. She is not allowed to own a real, live dog of her own. (Side note here -- allergies. I look at anything with four legs and fur, and I practically end up in the hospital. So no nasty messages about what a horrible mother I am, please.) She has compensated for this crushing disappointment by collecting somewhere close to 300 dogs in the various forms of stuffies, Littlest Pets, and figurines.
Her bestChris tmas present last year came from her uncle. Crazy Uncle Douglas gave her a compendium of all the dog breeds in the world, along with a stuffed dog, and told her to find out what breed her new dog was. Way to go, Uncle Douglas! Maybe you aren't so crazy after all! That kept her occupied for hours, and even now the book has a place of honor on her shelf and she reads it from time to time just for fun.
She lives for the two weeks a year she spends with her grandma inOregon
I once overheard Rose talking with her friend about "her" dog. The friend piped in to say Rose doesn't have a dog. And Rose replied that yes, she does. The dog just stays at her grandma's house. I'm sure grandma would be surprised to know that Lucy isn't really her dog, it's Rose's, but I won't be jumping in that fire any time soon.
Before grandma got her dog, there was a period of time when Rose was a dog herself. She made floppy ears to wear on her head, a tail that she taped to her bottom, and she put socks over her hands to simulate paws. She asked if I would please put her food in a bowl on the floor.
But Rose has a new love in her life now.
And while you all gasp and say, "No! How can this be?" let me assure you that I am relatively certain it's temporary . . . probably. But this new love does make for a change in the conversation. I am hearing the rattling of a little box that she constantly carries with her. Ask her what she's thinking about, and she will spend fifteen minutes waxing rhapsodic about the flavor sensation that bursts in her mouth. She accosts strangers in the street and asks them to smell her fresh breath. Yes, I'm talking about Tic Tacs.
Who knew Tic Tacs could be such a revelation? I'm kind of in awe of how she can throw herself into the moment and so thoroughly enjoy . . . a Tic Tac. I would have introduced them to her years ago if I knew entertaining her could be done this cheaply.
I wonder if dogs like Tic Tacs?
Her best
She lives for the two weeks a year she spends with her grandma in
I once overheard Rose talking with her friend about "her" dog. The friend piped in to say Rose doesn't have a dog. And Rose replied that yes, she does. The dog just stays at her grandma's house. I'm sure grandma would be surprised to know that Lucy isn't really her dog, it's Rose's, but I won't be jumping in that fire any time soon.
Before grandma got her dog, there was a period of time when Rose was a dog herself. She made floppy ears to wear on her head, a tail that she taped to her bottom, and she put socks over her hands to simulate paws. She asked if I would please put her food in a bowl on the floor.
But Rose has a new love in her life now.
And while you all gasp and say, "No! How can this be?" let me assure you that I am relatively certain it's temporary . . . probably. But this new love does make for a change in the conversation. I am hearing the rattling of a little box that she constantly carries with her. Ask her what she's thinking about, and she will spend fifteen minutes waxing rhapsodic about the flavor sensation that bursts in her mouth. She accosts strangers in the street and asks them to smell her fresh breath. Yes, I'm talking about Tic Tacs.
Who knew Tic Tacs could be such a revelation? I'm kind of in awe of how she can throw herself into the moment and so thoroughly enjoy . . . a Tic Tac. I would have introduced them to her years ago if I knew entertaining her could be done this cheaply.
I wonder if dogs like Tic Tacs?
Shopping is exercise, right?
I am going to be a single mom this next week. It's more work for me, but if I'm honest, sometimes I like it. Oh, I don't necessarily like being responsible for everything, but I do like the quiet in the evenings. I also like getting all the pillows without having to hear anyone whine that they don't have anything to put their head on.
David is doing Cycle Oregon. For a whole week he gets to pretend he's Lance Armstrong, balance his butt on a tiny bike seat, and pedal his little heart out. But the fun doesn't stop there. Once he's done riding all day, he gets to sleep in the great outdoors. Wow, I can't think of a better way to spend my time: pedaling all day, then sleeping on rocks. I was invited, but I said no. I'll suffer at home with my pillows, thank you very much.
David is an athlete. Did I mention that? He also likes to run, but no measly 5K or 12K for him. Oh, no, he likes to run marathons and half marathons. He says half marathons are the perfect race. I, of course, nod politely. But seriously, running 13 miles is the perfect race? Thirteen miles is a loooooong way if you're using your feet to cover that distance. I tell him he could go a lot faster in a car, or even a bike, with the added benefit of not hurting so much at the end, but he just shakes his head at me.
I obviously do not get the point of running. I would rather stick a fork in my eye than run. It wouldn't be any more painful, but it would be over more quickly. My favorite athletic activity is reading books. You can really work up a sweat turning pages fast, but at least those pages provide you with a nice breeze. And the only marathon I would consider taking part in would have to have the word "shopping" in it.
So now an elite athlete is stuck with a comfortably rounded couch potato like me. But I would contend it wasn't by design. In fact, I was sold a bill of goods, married under false pretenses. When I first met my future husband, his favorite activity was eating a dozen doughnuts and reading the newspaper on a Sunday morning. A dozen doughnuts . . . and he wouldn't share with me. If I begged, he'd let me pick one. If it was a small one. And he was a physics geek. So you tell me, how was I supposed to know that inside this doughnut-loving science guy was an athlete lurking, just waiting to pounce?
David is doing Cycle Oregon. For a whole week he gets to pretend he's Lance Armstrong, balance his butt on a tiny bike seat, and pedal his little heart out. But the fun doesn't stop there. Once he's done riding all day, he gets to sleep in the great outdoors. Wow, I can't think of a better way to spend my time: pedaling all day, then sleeping on rocks. I was invited, but I said no. I'll suffer at home with my pillows, thank you very much.
David is an athlete. Did I mention that? He also likes to run, but no measly 5K or 12K for him. Oh, no, he likes to run marathons and half marathons. He says half marathons are the perfect race. I, of course, nod politely. But seriously, running 13 miles is the perfect race? Thirteen miles is a loooooong way if you're using your feet to cover that distance. I tell him he could go a lot faster in a car, or even a bike, with the added benefit of not hurting so much at the end, but he just shakes his head at me.
I obviously do not get the point of running. I would rather stick a fork in my eye than run. It wouldn't be any more painful, but it would be over more quickly. My favorite athletic activity is reading books. You can really work up a sweat turning pages fast, but at least those pages provide you with a nice breeze. And the only marathon I would consider taking part in would have to have the word "shopping" in it.
So now an elite athlete is stuck with a comfortably rounded couch potato like me. But I would contend it wasn't by design. In fact, I was sold a bill of goods, married under false pretenses. When I first met my future husband, his favorite activity was eating a dozen doughnuts and reading the newspaper on a Sunday morning. A dozen doughnuts . . . and he wouldn't share with me. If I begged, he'd let me pick one. If it was a small one. And he was a physics geek. So you tell me, how was I supposed to know that inside this doughnut-loving science guy was an athlete lurking, just waiting to pounce?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Goodbyes.
(Previously posted on August 31, 2009 on another site.)
David's grandfather died yesterday. This wasn't unexpected. He was 93, and the slow decline he had been in for months had started accelerating rapidly as of late. But still, we're reeling. That's the funny thing about death. There isn't anything more certain in this world, yet we're all taken by surprise when it comes. For all its certainty, it's mysterious and unknowable.
Earlier in the week we told our kids that Grandpa Wayne was not doing well, and that he would be dying soon. Sabrina immediately burst into tears and said, "I don't want him to die!" Rose was quiet. She sat for a while, and then said, "Well, he was very old wasn't he?" "Yes, dear, quite old." "Well, at least he had a long life and a family he loved . . . Did he have a will?" Calvin said nothing, just frowned quietly. I asked him if he was okay. He replied, "Can we watch Wipeout? I think it'll make me feel better." I said sure, and we all sat together as a family watching and laughing as people bit the dust on big red balls. Calvin was right; it did make us feel better.
Grandpa Wayne (or Big Paw-Paw as my kids called him, derived from a two-year-old's attempt to say Great Grandpa) lived a long life, well-loved by his family. David remembers spending a week of his summer every year with his grandparents and trips to see the Queen Mary, the Spruce Goose, and Disneyland. David's sister loved spending time talking music with him, a special love that they both shared.
He was a musician in the Navy in World War II playing the string bass. He traveled all over the world performing for the troops. Afterwards he toured America with a band. But he didn't really enjoy traveling, and once he settled down and got married to David's grandma, he was happy to live a quiet life, never venturing far from home.
After his life as a musician, he became, in his words, "a bean counter" for Rocketdyne and seemed quite satisfied. It always seemed strange to me the juxtaposition of those two seemingly diametrically opposed professions, but people are complicated, are they not? And he was just as content "bean counting" as he had been playing in a band.
His economy and thrift showed up in his ability to fix almost anything. He would rather do something himself than pay someone to do it for him. Having seen this attribute in my grandparents also, I would guess that some of that was instilled from having lived through the Great Depression. You either fixed things yourself, or did without. He fixed sprinklers, bikes, cars. He changed his own oil and spark plugs, adjusted the timing, worked on carburetors, and even taught David some of the same things.
He also picked up woodworking after he retired. Self-taught, he became an expert at making things appear out of solid blocks of wood. He started with tables and chairs and progressed to more decorative stuff. I once commented how I would love to have a bookcase, and not long afterward one was delivered. We also have a gorgeous wine rack and a curio cabinet made by him. Eventually, he carved figurines and a relief of the Nativity. Quite amazing.
Although I recall seeing him play his string bass only once or twice, I do remember him playing big band tunes on his organ. He so enjoyed playing that organ that even after most of his memory was gone, his fingers knew what to do, and he could sit and play that organ for hours. I remember one time going to visit him, and he sat down to play us a song. As soon as it was over, he turned to us and said, "You know, I have a song that you'll like," and proceeded to play the exact same song again. He played that song for us at least three more times that visit.
It is so sad to see a person's memory slipping away. What makes you, you if all the memories you've stored up over a lifetime are gone? Stroke, dementia, or Alzheimer's, it doesn't matter what you call it. The end result is the same and just as heartbreaking.
But even though the Grandpa Wayne we knew had been long gone due to memory damage, we're mourning the loss of the man he used to be. So goodbye Big Paw-Paw. I'm glad you finally get to see your beloved wife once more.
David's grandfather died yesterday. This wasn't unexpected. He was 93, and the slow decline he had been in for months had started accelerating rapidly as of late. But still, we're reeling. That's the funny thing about death. There isn't anything more certain in this world, yet we're all taken by surprise when it comes. For all its certainty, it's mysterious and unknowable.
Earlier in the week we told our kids that Grandpa Wayne was not doing well, and that he would be dying soon. Sabrina immediately burst into tears and said, "I don't want him to die!" Rose was quiet. She sat for a while, and then said, "Well, he was very old wasn't he?" "Yes, dear, quite old." "Well, at least he had a long life and a family he loved . . . Did he have a will?" Calvin said nothing, just frowned quietly. I asked him if he was okay. He replied, "Can we watch Wipeout? I think it'll make me feel better." I said sure, and we all sat together as a family watching and laughing as people bit the dust on big red balls. Calvin was right; it did make us feel better.
Grandpa Wayne (or Big Paw-Paw as my kids called him, derived from a two-year-old's attempt to say Great Grandpa) lived a long life, well-loved by his family. David remembers spending a week of his summer every year with his grandparents and trips to see the Queen Mary, the Spruce Goose, and Disneyland. David's sister loved spending time talking music with him, a special love that they both shared.
He was a musician in the Navy in World War II playing the string bass. He traveled all over the world performing for the troops. Afterwards he toured America with a band. But he didn't really enjoy traveling, and once he settled down and got married to David's grandma, he was happy to live a quiet life, never venturing far from home.
After his life as a musician, he became, in his words, "a bean counter" for Rocketdyne and seemed quite satisfied. It always seemed strange to me the juxtaposition of those two seemingly diametrically opposed professions, but people are complicated, are they not? And he was just as content "bean counting" as he had been playing in a band.
His economy and thrift showed up in his ability to fix almost anything. He would rather do something himself than pay someone to do it for him. Having seen this attribute in my grandparents also, I would guess that some of that was instilled from having lived through the Great Depression. You either fixed things yourself, or did without. He fixed sprinklers, bikes, cars. He changed his own oil and spark plugs, adjusted the timing, worked on carburetors, and even taught David some of the same things.
He also picked up woodworking after he retired. Self-taught, he became an expert at making things appear out of solid blocks of wood. He started with tables and chairs and progressed to more decorative stuff. I once commented how I would love to have a bookcase, and not long afterward one was delivered. We also have a gorgeous wine rack and a curio cabinet made by him. Eventually, he carved figurines and a relief of the Nativity. Quite amazing.
Although I recall seeing him play his string bass only once or twice, I do remember him playing big band tunes on his organ. He so enjoyed playing that organ that even after most of his memory was gone, his fingers knew what to do, and he could sit and play that organ for hours. I remember one time going to visit him, and he sat down to play us a song. As soon as it was over, he turned to us and said, "You know, I have a song that you'll like," and proceeded to play the exact same song again. He played that song for us at least three more times that visit.
It is so sad to see a person's memory slipping away. What makes you, you if all the memories you've stored up over a lifetime are gone? Stroke, dementia, or Alzheimer's, it doesn't matter what you call it. The end result is the same and just as heartbreaking.
But even though the Grandpa Wayne we knew had been long gone due to memory damage, we're mourning the loss of the man he used to be. So goodbye Big Paw-Paw. I'm glad you finally get to see your beloved wife once more.
Monday, January 11, 2010
School forms and husbands and beer, oh, my!
When you start thinking about having children of your own, you think of things like taking them to Disneyland, cuddling with them while you read them books, playing games together, teaching them to throw a baseball. No one tells you about cold, hard reality. Oh, they'll tell you the horrors of their birth experiences, sure. But nary a word comes your way about the best method of cleaning vomit out of car seats or the fact that you'll be spending a good amount of your time uttering things like, "Forks are not for combing your hair, dear," or "please don’t lick the bottom of your shoes," or, "we pee in toilets, not on lawns."
And the forms, dear God, the forms! Forms for the pediatrician, the eye doctor, the dentist, forms to sign them up for soccer, forms for school. It's bad enough, the multitude of forms you have to fill out for just one child. But multiply that by three, and now you're talking about entire forests being decimated, not to mention a permanently deformed hand from pressing through triplicate layers.
Tired of having hand cramps that take days to subside, this year I decided to bring in some help in the form of my husband. He just looked at me, rolled his eyes, and popped open another beer. I told him I was serious. I was not filling out all these forms, three times each, without help. I gave him the "Tell me about your child" form. He said no way. I told him it was either that ONE single-sided form or the THREE double-sided, repetitive, this information hasn't changed in nine years but I still have to fill it out, general information form. He grabbed the single form.
Five minutes later he handed it back to me. I thought that was rather quick considering he had to think about his child, what his strengths and weaknesses are, what the teacher should know to best help her guide our precious son through second grade.
Here's what he wrote:
Strengths:
Comedy, sarcasm, breeding discontent.
Generally well-behaved when not inciting riots.
Pretty good at math.
Areas of concern:
Humility
Needs practice writing, also.
Some questions I have:
Good luck!
I sure hope the teacher has a sense of humor.
And the forms, dear God, the forms! Forms for the pediatrician, the eye doctor, the dentist, forms to sign them up for soccer, forms for school. It's bad enough, the multitude of forms you have to fill out for just one child. But multiply that by three, and now you're talking about entire forests being decimated, not to mention a permanently deformed hand from pressing through triplicate layers.
Tired of having hand cramps that take days to subside, this year I decided to bring in some help in the form of my husband. He just looked at me, rolled his eyes, and popped open another beer. I told him I was serious. I was not filling out all these forms, three times each, without help. I gave him the "Tell me about your child" form. He said no way. I told him it was either that ONE single-sided form or the THREE double-sided, repetitive, this information hasn't changed in nine years but I still have to fill it out, general information form. He grabbed the single form.
Five minutes later he handed it back to me. I thought that was rather quick considering he had to think about his child, what his strengths and weaknesses are, what the teacher should know to best help her guide our precious son through second grade.
Here's what he wrote:
Strengths:
Comedy, sarcasm, breeding discontent.
Generally well-behaved when not inciting riots.
Pretty good at math.
Areas of concern:
Humility
Needs practice writing, also.
Some questions I have:
Good luck!
I sure hope the teacher has a sense of humor.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Night of the Living Cart
I hate grocery shopping. I especially hate going to the grocery store with three kids in tow (ah, summertime!). The last time I went was a nightmare. Between begging for every little sugary, kitschy item they saw, Rose and Calvin were making up enchanting little games like "let's poke each other in the eye," while Sabrina was judging for accuracy and artistic flair. By the time we got to the checkout line I was denying that I even knew them. "Who are these kids? Somebody should really keep those kids under control. Parents these days! Ha ha . . . "
I believe the carts were on strike. They looked unionized to me. And they took umbrage at the fact that I was daring to cross the picket line. I couldn't find one cart that wasn't stuck to another one. No matter how hard I pulled in one direction and Rose pulled from the other, those carts were not budging. Ten hot, sweaty minutes later, I finally found one lonely cart, a scab, and pounced on it. Ha! It's mine!
What? I didn't receive the Mother-of-the-Year Award AGAIN?!?
I have been told that I seem to be taking all the drama of having a preteen pretty gracefully. After I finished cleaning up the mess from having snorted coffee through my nose, I thought perhaps I should respond lest people, when they think of me, get warm, fuzzy feelings.
I've never considered myself graceful, and, as far as I know, neither has anyone else. (But I love you for the thought, Amy!) Ask anyone who knew me growing up, and they will tell you that I could fall UP stairs like nobody's business, not to mention the more commonly preferred down. After one "trip" too many, my grandma actually looked at me and said, "Doesn't it bother you that you're not graceful?" This incensed my mother to no end, but not me. Having never experienced gracefulness, I figured I couldn't miss what I never had.
But I digress.
I was talking (complaining) to David. "Sabrina challenges me constantly. (How disrespectful!) She interrupts me in the middle of my sentence to answer a question I haven't even finished asking, assuming she knows what I'm talking about. (How rude!) And she always wants the last word. (How childish!) I'm starting to come to the conclusion that she thinks she knows everything. (How arrogant!) Where on earth did she get that from? It has to be from your side of the family. Nobody in my family would . . . What? Me??"
Well, he should know. He married me.
So after more than 10 years of being told by family members that my oldest daughter is a "mini me" of my husband, I am finding that, much to my chagrin, she's actually much more like me.
An example: I took the kids to see Harry Potter. Afterward, Sabrina made some comment about Harry going to the lake twice to get water for Dumbledore. I disagreed, since obviously he only went once. This particular point had nothing whatsoever to do with the actual plot of the movie or even anything significant, so it should have ended then and there, right? Right? RIGHT????
Well, I am here to tell you that we almost came to blows arguing over how many times a fictional character got water from a movie set. Neither of us was going to give ground. I only came to my senses when my 9-year-old daughter, Rose, yelled, "Shut up, you guys!"
Another Mother-of-the-Year Award down the drain. Man, I'm never going to get one of those.
I've never considered myself graceful, and, as far as I know, neither has anyone else. (But I love you for the thought, Amy!) Ask anyone who knew me growing up, and they will tell you that I could fall UP stairs like nobody's business, not to mention the more commonly preferred down. After one "trip" too many, my grandma actually looked at me and said, "Doesn't it bother you that you're not graceful?" This incensed my mother to no end, but not me. Having never experienced gracefulness, I figured I couldn't miss what I never had.
But I digress.
I was talking (complaining) to David. "Sabrina challenges me constantly. (How disrespectful!) She interrupts me in the middle of my sentence to answer a question I haven't even finished asking, assuming she knows what I'm talking about. (How rude!) And she always wants the last word. (How childish!) I'm starting to come to the conclusion that she thinks she knows everything. (How arrogant!) Where on earth did she get that from? It has to be from your side of the family. Nobody in my family would . . . What? Me??"
Well, he should know. He married me.
So after more than 10 years of being told by family members that my oldest daughter is a "mini me" of my husband, I am finding that, much to my chagrin, she's actually much more like me.
An example: I took the kids to see Harry Potter. Afterward, Sabrina made some comment about Harry going to the lake twice to get water for Dumbledore. I disagreed, since obviously he only went once. This particular point had nothing whatsoever to do with the actual plot of the movie or even anything significant, so it should have ended then and there, right? Right? RIGHT????
Well, I am here to tell you that we almost came to blows arguing over how many times a fictional character got water from a movie set. Neither of us was going to give ground. I only came to my senses when my 9-year-old daughter, Rose, yelled, "Shut up, you guys!"
Another Mother-of-the-Year Award down the drain. Man, I'm never going to get one of those.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Oh, the insanity!
Two days ago my daughter couldn't find her goggles. And it was IMPORTANT that she do so. She has swim lessons, you know. She can't possibly be expected to swim 100 meters without goggles. Complete meltdown . . . over goggles.
Yesterday, she couldn't find an art project she had made out of cotton balls. She had spent hours slaving over this project (hours, I tell you), and now it's gone. She's searched everywhere, and it's not to be found! I asked her how she could have possibly searched everywhere in the house in under a minute and a half. Apparently, this was not the right answer, and meltdown number two commenced over approximately 45 cents worth of cotton balls.
Today's meltdown occurred over the fact that her horrid siblings don't always bow down to her and let her sit in her favorite chair to watch TV. How dare they expect her to share the comfiest chair in the house? The nerve of them.
Did I mention she's 11? Yes, I can see the future, and it isn't pretty.
I can't remember being this crazy or emotional or irrational. My dad, however, begs to differ and assures me I was totally insane. In fact, he dreaded coming home from work. He swears that he would just look at me, and I would burst into tears. Moi? Unbelievable.
So I guess this is the circle of life. Insanity revisited upon you in the form of your children.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Facebook Quizzes
I'm rather ambivalent about the Facebook quizzes. I thought they were fun at first, but started getting suspicious when I took the "Who's Your Twilight Guy?" quiz. It told me Edward was my man when clearly I'm a Jacob girl.
My suspicions were confirmed when my brothers and my husband all took the "Which Star Wars Character Are You?" Every one of them came up as Darth Vader. Since you couldn't find three more different people on the planet, the quiz was obviously rigged to always answer Darth Vader. I mean, I could possibly see one of my brothers as Darth Vader, but the other one could only be Jar Jar Binks.
And if anyone was Darth Vader, it would obviously be me with my death glares, cutting remarks, and general dislike for people. And yes, for those of you wondering, I, too, took the quiz. It was purely for scientific purposes, of course. By that point, I was curious to see if I would also be Darth Vader. Apparently, however, girls are limited to Leia. No crushing people with the significant power of the Force for me.
My problem is that, stupid as these quizzes are, they're a good avoidance technique. Got work to do? No problem, take a quiz. Trying to avoid your children? Take a quiz. Laundry to do, bills to pay, toilets to clean? You got it, take a quiz.
I thought I'd try "What type of learner are you?" I've read "The Tipping Point", "Multiple Intelligences", "What Color is Your Parachute", and even, occasionally, the astrology section in the newspaper. I could avoid doing something productive while at the same time indulging my interest in pop psychology. Two birds with one stone.
But I've sunk to new lows. It was not a real quiz but a Hot Pockets quiz-vertisement. I was told my answers meant that I learned many different ways, and both the Whole Wheat Pepperoni Hot Pockets as well as the Cheese Crust Broccoli Hot Pockets would appeal to one such as me. Wow, lucky for me that I learned that. I'll be sure and add that to my resume.
All I could think of was Jim Gaffigan's routine on Hot Pockets, and I went around the house the rest of the night singing "Hot Pockets . . . " Such my life has become.
My suspicions were confirmed when my brothers and my husband all took the "Which Star Wars Character Are You?" Every one of them came up as Darth Vader. Since you couldn't find three more different people on the planet, the quiz was obviously rigged to always answer Darth Vader. I mean, I could possibly see one of my brothers as Darth Vader, but the other one could only be Jar Jar Binks.
And if anyone was Darth Vader, it would obviously be me with my death glares, cutting remarks, and general dislike for people. And yes, for those of you wondering, I, too, took the quiz. It was purely for scientific purposes, of course. By that point, I was curious to see if I would also be Darth Vader. Apparently, however, girls are limited to Leia. No crushing people with the significant power of the Force for me.
My problem is that, stupid as these quizzes are, they're a good avoidance technique. Got work to do? No problem, take a quiz. Trying to avoid your children? Take a quiz. Laundry to do, bills to pay, toilets to clean? You got it, take a quiz.
I thought I'd try "What type of learner are you?" I've read "The Tipping Point", "Multiple Intelligences", "What Color is Your Parachute", and even, occasionally, the astrology section in the newspaper. I could avoid doing something productive while at the same time indulging my interest in pop psychology. Two birds with one stone.
But I've sunk to new lows. It was not a real quiz but a Hot Pockets quiz-vertisement. I was told my answers meant that I learned many different ways, and both the Whole Wheat Pepperoni Hot Pockets as well as the Cheese Crust Broccoli Hot Pockets would appeal to one such as me. Wow, lucky for me that I learned that. I'll be sure and add that to my resume.
All I could think of was Jim Gaffigan's routine on Hot Pockets, and I went around the house the rest of the night singing "Hot Pockets . . . " Such my life has become.
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