Monday, March 31, 2008
6:30 Is For the Birds
I am not very smart. I agreed to work a shift tomorrow that starts at 6:30 AM. The facility is in downtown Denver, a good 30 minute drive from here, in good weather and good traffic. My vehicle is currently under a half inch of ice and snow. This is not going to be fun. Good night.
Friday, March 28, 2008
An Unbalanced Relationship
A song by Ingrid Michaelson ...
Are you kidding me? This dude loves her just like she is and takes her just the way she is? And she responds by buying him Rogaine so he won't go bald. Why can't she just take him the way he is, bald head and all?
I know, I know -- I'm cynical. Whatever. It just strikes me as a tad callous that she can't accept her other half being bald.
If you were falling, then I would catch you.
You need a light, I'd find a match.
Cuz I love the way you say good morning.
And you take me the way I am.
If you are chilly, here take my sweater.
Your head is aching, I'll make it better.
Cuz I love the way you call me baby.
And you take me the way I am.
I'd buy you Rogaine if you start losing all your hair.
Sew on patches to all you tear.
Cuz I love you more than I could ever promise.
And you take me the way I am.
You take me the way I am.
You take me the way I am.
Are you kidding me? This dude loves her just like she is and takes her just the way she is? And she responds by buying him Rogaine so he won't go bald. Why can't she just take him the way he is, bald head and all?
I know, I know -- I'm cynical. Whatever. It just strikes me as a tad callous that she can't accept her other half being bald.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
I Am Here
And apparently, you are all there. A lot of you. I have had several conversations with family and friends in the past few days and everyone says they are reading my blog. I'm flattered and a little overwhelmed.
I mean, yes, I sent the link to all of my family and many of my friends. But I guess I didn't expect everyone to actually read it and to read it with regularity. I kind of thought my blatherings would just hang out on the internet (which is a good place for them, otherwise they clog up my brainwaves) and I wouldn't have to worry about them.
But if multitudes (okay, a dozen) of you are reading my blatherings, it puts a new perspective on them. I have to sit up straight in my chair, do something with my hair and, for pete's sake, stop picking my nose. Ack, the pressure!
Really though, I appreciate that you are all interested in what I think and what I have to say. And now I want to know what you have to say. If there are people reading, there should be people commenting! (Thank you, Dad and Uncle Tommy.)
I mean, yes, I sent the link to all of my family and many of my friends. But I guess I didn't expect everyone to actually read it and to read it with regularity. I kind of thought my blatherings would just hang out on the internet (which is a good place for them, otherwise they clog up my brainwaves) and I wouldn't have to worry about them.
But if multitudes (okay, a dozen) of you are reading my blatherings, it puts a new perspective on them. I have to sit up straight in my chair, do something with my hair and, for pete's sake, stop picking my nose. Ack, the pressure!
Really though, I appreciate that you are all interested in what I think and what I have to say. And now I want to know what you have to say. If there are people reading, there should be people commenting! (Thank you, Dad and Uncle Tommy.)
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Earth Hour
Please join me in taking a stand against global warming. On Saturday March 29, 2008, turn out all your lights for one hour at 8:00 pm, your local time. You may be only one person, but it must start with one person. Watch the video below for more information. To be counted among the millions, go to http://www.earthhour.org/.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
A Few Thoughts About Our New Home
The wind blows a lot more than I expected. A windy day here is not unlike a normal day in West Texas.
The winter isn't that bad. See my previous post dedicated to just this subject.
The mountains look different every day. Something always changes, whether it's the snow on them, the clouds over them, the haze around them, the haze here. It's always something.
Plowed snow is not pretty a week after it falls. It's nasty, slushy, black muck. It sticks around forever. And Samuel gravitates to it like lint to a sweater.
People are exceedingly nice. I have gotten full-blown smiles from complete strangers in Target, at the bank, in the library, every where.
Service in stores and restaurants -- even fast food -- is amazing.
It's not as hard to find my way around as I thought it would be. I thought I'd be dragging Jennifer every where with me or calling her for directions for months.
I have found two radio stations I love. One is called Martini Radio. They play Jack Johnson, Death Cab for Cutie, Amy Winehouse and lots of other artists you don't typically hear on Top 40 only stations. The other one is a Spanish station, with none of the Norteño that I can't stomach. They play Maná, Juanes, Marco Antonio Solís and everyone else I love. Yay!
The winter isn't that bad. See my previous post dedicated to just this subject.
The mountains look different every day. Something always changes, whether it's the snow on them, the clouds over them, the haze around them, the haze here. It's always something.
Plowed snow is not pretty a week after it falls. It's nasty, slushy, black muck. It sticks around forever. And Samuel gravitates to it like lint to a sweater.
People are exceedingly nice. I have gotten full-blown smiles from complete strangers in Target, at the bank, in the library, every where.
Service in stores and restaurants -- even fast food -- is amazing.
It's not as hard to find my way around as I thought it would be. I thought I'd be dragging Jennifer every where with me or calling her for directions for months.
I have found two radio stations I love. One is called Martini Radio. They play Jack Johnson, Death Cab for Cutie, Amy Winehouse and lots of other artists you don't typically hear on Top 40 only stations. The other one is a Spanish station, with none of the Norteño that I can't stomach. They play Maná, Juanes, Marco Antonio Solís and everyone else I love. Yay!
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Remembering the Moments
I will confess up front, that I am slightly inebriated at this writing. Friends and family have just left my apartment after a very nice evening of chatting, drinking, listening to music, eating. Basically, being our boring selves. But we like our boring selves and we have fun.
I am tired, but I don't want to go to bed. I want to bask in the glow of this moment here. Friends, family, food, a little vodka, good times. It's a nice moment. So I am imprinting the details into my memory so maybe they won't fade quite as quickly as they might otherwise.
I am tired, but I don't want to go to bed. I want to bask in the glow of this moment here. Friends, family, food, a little vodka, good times. It's a nice moment. So I am imprinting the details into my memory so maybe they won't fade quite as quickly as they might otherwise.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
On Motherhood
I came across the essay posted below on a message board I frequent. It's an online community for mothers and so the topic is more than fitting. I decided to post it here because it is a reminder of what I am doing, all day, every day, with every breath and every step.
I often pause to look at my children and marvel at how far they have come. I always kick myself for not remembering some mundane detail of their infancy or toddlerhood. The mundane things are the things that I must work to remember. I will always remember their very first day of school; but will I remember the overalls they wore, or the pigtails, or the scuffed up tennis shoes? I surely hope so.
There are days when I must count to 10 (or 1000) to avoid doing or saying something I know I will regret. Those are the days when I silently chant to myself, "Only 14 more years. Only 14 more years."
And then there are moments like this, when I am reminded of how little time I have, how they will one day -- all too soon -- be capable of living on their own. I remember my tiny little babies, that heavenly newborn scent, their toothless, milky smiles and I tear up and think, "Only 14 more years."
All My Babies Are Gone Now
By Anna Quindlen, Newsweek Columnist and Author
All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow, but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.
Everything in all the books I once pored over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach, T. Berry Brazelton, Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education -- all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories. What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations -- what they taught me, was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all.
Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One child is toilet trained at 3, his sibling at 2.
When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow. I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.
Every part of raising children is humbling. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the "Remember-When-Mom-Did" Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language -- mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, "What did you get wrong?" (She insisted I include that here.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?
But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them, sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night.
I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.
Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.
I often pause to look at my children and marvel at how far they have come. I always kick myself for not remembering some mundane detail of their infancy or toddlerhood. The mundane things are the things that I must work to remember. I will always remember their very first day of school; but will I remember the overalls they wore, or the pigtails, or the scuffed up tennis shoes? I surely hope so.
There are days when I must count to 10 (or 1000) to avoid doing or saying something I know I will regret. Those are the days when I silently chant to myself, "Only 14 more years. Only 14 more years."
And then there are moments like this, when I am reminded of how little time I have, how they will one day -- all too soon -- be capable of living on their own. I remember my tiny little babies, that heavenly newborn scent, their toothless, milky smiles and I tear up and think, "Only 14 more years."
All My Babies Are Gone Now
By Anna Quindlen, Newsweek Columnist and Author
All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow, but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.
Everything in all the books I once pored over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach, T. Berry Brazelton, Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education -- all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories. What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations -- what they taught me, was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all.
Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One child is toilet trained at 3, his sibling at 2.
When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow. I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.
Every part of raising children is humbling. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the "Remember-When-Mom-Did" Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language -- mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, "What did you get wrong?" (She insisted I include that here.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?
But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them, sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night.
I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.
Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.
Friday, March 7, 2008
I Belong!
I finally got my Colorado license plates yesterday. So now, since total strangers can't tell that I am a transplant, I actually feel like I belong here. Little do they know that I still possess a Texas driver's license with a hole punched in it and an addendum to prove that I have applied for a Colorado driver's license. I'm fooling them all! Mwahahaha!
I really don't know what that means. I guess it means that I can cross off a few other things on the To Do List. Other than that, the significance is pretty close to nothing. Whatever. I just like typing out the evil laugh.
I felt a little twinge of nostalgia while removing my Texas plates and securing the Colorado ones yesterday. That vehicle was bought in Texas and I've driven it primarily in Texas for well over 5 years. At the time it was purchased, I never considered that I'd ever move to Colorado. I was living a totally different life with no desire to change anything.
I have no idea why the simple act of changing license plates triggered all that thought. The significance of that is pretty nonexistent, too.
I really don't know what that means. I guess it means that I can cross off a few other things on the To Do List. Other than that, the significance is pretty close to nothing. Whatever. I just like typing out the evil laugh.
I felt a little twinge of nostalgia while removing my Texas plates and securing the Colorado ones yesterday. That vehicle was bought in Texas and I've driven it primarily in Texas for well over 5 years. At the time it was purchased, I never considered that I'd ever move to Colorado. I was living a totally different life with no desire to change anything.
I have no idea why the simple act of changing license plates triggered all that thought. The significance of that is pretty nonexistent, too.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
At Long Last! A New Sofa!
I finally ordered a new couch. I am so excited. It is going to be delivered tomorrow. I cannot wait! No more sitting on the floor to watch television and fold laundry!
It has taken two weeks of shopping and I mean real, hard-core shopping. I first checked out hundreds of sofas on line to get an idea of what I might want. I sat on dozens of sofas in half a dozen stores. I drove all over Denver looking for an outlet store that I finally discovered doesn't technically exist.
And then all the questions. Leather or fabric? Couch and chair or just a couch? How evil is microfiber, really? Will this particular fabric 'pill' and leave my couch looking like a sheepdog? Should I spring for the sofa sleeper? On one hand, it means an extra bed which can often come in handy. On the other hand, it makes the couch weigh a ton, is generally not fit for actual sleeping and will tack on at least $200 to the cost. How will this couch stand up to the trampling of a wild herd of buffalo? (Because that's what three children and their assorted cousins and friends amount to over 5 to 20 years.) What kind of person actually spends $2000 on a pit sectional for their living room?
I have come to the conclusion that I am the pickiest person on earth, when it comes to my couch. I want durable fabric that is still soft to the touch. I want thick, comfortable cushions that don't look too poofy. I want a tailored look that can still accomodate a few throw pillows. I want a sofa deep enough that I can snuggle all three children on while watching movies. I do not want a printed fabric. I want a solid color that can go with a variety of different colors so if I like blue throw pillows this week but green ones next week, everything will still look okay.
No wonder it took so long to make a decision. But I am pleased with the final choice. More than pleased -- overjoyed really. I am glad I took the time to make sure I am happy with this couch, because I do not want to do this again for oh, say 30 years. And I am so glad that they can deliver in two days, rather than making me wait a week or more. That might kill me.
I am currently searching the store's website for a picture of the sofa I ordered. I am not having any luck. So, since you can't see it here, you'll just have to come visit me to appreciate my new sofa in all its glory.
It has taken two weeks of shopping and I mean real, hard-core shopping. I first checked out hundreds of sofas on line to get an idea of what I might want. I sat on dozens of sofas in half a dozen stores. I drove all over Denver looking for an outlet store that I finally discovered doesn't technically exist.
And then all the questions. Leather or fabric? Couch and chair or just a couch? How evil is microfiber, really? Will this particular fabric 'pill' and leave my couch looking like a sheepdog? Should I spring for the sofa sleeper? On one hand, it means an extra bed which can often come in handy. On the other hand, it makes the couch weigh a ton, is generally not fit for actual sleeping and will tack on at least $200 to the cost. How will this couch stand up to the trampling of a wild herd of buffalo? (Because that's what three children and their assorted cousins and friends amount to over 5 to 20 years.) What kind of person actually spends $2000 on a pit sectional for their living room?
I have come to the conclusion that I am the pickiest person on earth, when it comes to my couch. I want durable fabric that is still soft to the touch. I want thick, comfortable cushions that don't look too poofy. I want a tailored look that can still accomodate a few throw pillows. I want a sofa deep enough that I can snuggle all three children on while watching movies. I do not want a printed fabric. I want a solid color that can go with a variety of different colors so if I like blue throw pillows this week but green ones next week, everything will still look okay.
No wonder it took so long to make a decision. But I am pleased with the final choice. More than pleased -- overjoyed really. I am glad I took the time to make sure I am happy with this couch, because I do not want to do this again for oh, say 30 years. And I am so glad that they can deliver in two days, rather than making me wait a week or more. That might kill me.
I am currently searching the store's website for a picture of the sofa I ordered. I am not having any luck. So, since you can't see it here, you'll just have to come visit me to appreciate my new sofa in all its glory.
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