Howe Thoughts: The Good Parts Version

My little sister Marissa teaches a fourth-fifth split at an elementary school. This means that for the first half of the day, she teaches both fourth graders and fifth graders literacy, and then the classes switch while she teaches just fifth graders math for the second half of the day. Most of her students have two teachers.

Her students were kind and generous with gifts before Christmas break. Her colleague's students were even more kind and generous. "Did you see what Tommy gave us?" her team teacher asked. Marissa followed her over to her stack of loot to see a large assortment of Harry and David gourmet foods.




"I don't remember a gift tower," Marissa said hesitantly. "Maybe I'll go check again."

Marissa went over to her stash to find Tommy's gift to her:



A chia pet.

For my own personal cataloging history, I wanted to chronicle my favorites of 2009 (at least my favorites of the things I track on this blog).

Favorite Books I Read This Year(in no particular order):

Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset
Bridge of Sighs by Richard Russo
A River Runs Through It and Other Storiesby Norman Maclean
Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt
Ender’s Shadow by Orson Scott Card
Fablehaven (particularly the third book in the series) by Brandon Mull
Peter and the Starcatchers by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson
The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery

Tyler's videos:

Asher: Five Posts in One Day
Hide and Seek
Why You Want to Live at the Howe Home
Asher Begins to Laugh
Happy Fourth of July
Stand
Talmage Turns Four
Our Very Own Maradona
Weight Lifting
Turkey Bowl

My favorites of my own writing. I know this is totally self-serving. I'm doing it anyway. (Is it a shame that I had to reach all the way back to September before I found an entry I liked?):

On Nursing and Panicking (The Hallmarks of New Motherhood)

What to Expect would describe Asher as more of Gourmet. He'll latch on for about 5 seconds, get my milk flowing, and then pull off and try to enjoy the firehose squirting his face at his leisure. He'll sample a mouthful of Mama's Milk (the newest rage at all the finest newborn restaurants) smack his lips satisfactorily, and then maybe spit it out like a wine-taster after he's fully analyzed the bouquet and body. I feel like I've given birth to a snobby Parisian milk connoisseur and at one point he's going to send the milk back if he doesn't find it to his liking.

Just Pretend the Date Attached to This Entry Reads March 17

The most obnoxious thing about this family history obsession is that I am aware of how complex family relations work and feel obligated to explain them to you. "This is Joan," someone might introduce me. "She's my mother's cousin's granddaughter. She's like my fourth cousin, or something." "No," I'll correct. "She's your second cousin once removed. Would you like directions to the Family History Center? My name is Laura."

Here’s My Advice: Stick to Your Standards

If I had to point to one thing wrong with the world, one thing to blame all the ills of society on, it would be the ubiquitous white truck who prowls the street in the summertime looking for pudgy faced kids and their helpless and hapless mothers. Sure, there was a time when I, too, felt a rush of excitement when I heard the tinkly chime of "When the Saints Go Marching In." That was before I realized the militant persistence that qualifies ice cream men to make their $6.55 an hour. I have successfully ignored one stubborn worker who made four tours around the south parking lot of a playground, only to have him enter the north parking lot immediately after. There's only so much stiff mothering you can dole out before you cave and spend $4.50 on a Mickey Mouse Ice Cream bar whose red dye will permanently stain your clothing.

In Memoriam

In the last week, Mom encouraged Grandma to say I love you to her grandchildren. When I said goodbye to her Sunday night, she said "I love you, Laura," after I kissed her on the forehead. It was nice to hear it vocalized. But I almost preferred our previous goodbyes. I'd talk to her on the phone and ask her about her day, her friends who took her to lunch, her meeting at the DUP. I'd close by telling her that I loved her. "Okay, cupie," she'd laugh. Then she'd be gone.

To Compete With Tyler’s ADD

I prefer the description "so creative she has her fingers in many things and can't stop to deal with trifles like shoes." And anyone who has lived with me for longer than fifteen minutes can attest that living with me is an ADVENTURE. Who knows when we're going to leave somewhere because Laura can't find her keys? They could be anywhere! Let's play find Laura's wallet! See? It's fun.

As I Direct Result of Absent-Mindedness I Outlined in a Previous Post. Or Maybe it Was Just Laziness.

What we weren't anticipating, however, was The Attack of the Bad Seventies Information Program. NBC, in place of programming, is sending on an analog signal an explanation of analog vs. digital TV, created in the style of the calculus programs from the Utah Educational Network. Tyler noted that they had to have filmed the program recently, since it speaks to such a current issue, but they must have dusted off their three-piece polyester suits for the explanation.

When I Was Three All I Talked About Was My Little Pony

My first step in potty training was naked time, where I stripped Talmage in hopes that he wouldn't pee on the furniture. It was wildly successful, and Talmage spent large chunks of the day without clothing on. Being naked became a habit at our house. I know what you're thinking. For the sake of strangers showing up unannounced, I needed to dress my child. But he was my little itty-bitty baby boy! Little itty-bitty baby bums are adorable!

The day after Asher joined our family, all I could think was "That kid needs some pants. Somebody should tell his mother."

Much to the Chagrin of Our Friends and Family

So we did an online search. And people? YOU LIED TO ME. Cell phones cost upwards of forty dollars a month. And that's the cheapest plan we could find. And even more shocking? NONE OF YOU ARE SHOCKED BY THAT. How on earth do you pay that, people? Do you have any idea how much orange juice I could buy that I currently avoid at the store because it's too expensive? A WHOLE LOTTA ORANGE JUICE. And not even the concentrate stuff. I could buy the straw in the actual orange, fresh from the fruit stand, with enough pulp swimming around so the viscosity measures somewhere around molten glass, orange juice.