There's a lot of talk of death around here. And dying. And being dead. And also shooter guns.
This talk used to bother me a lot. Talmage was my little itty-bitty baby boy, the little baby who used to run his fingers through my hair when I fed him, the little baby who used to climb on my lap to tell me about his owies, the little baby who curled up into my side when we read books, the little baby who wanted channies and who referred to himself exclusively in the third person. I wanted no part of "Talm like guns, yep!"
I especially had a hard time when my little itty-bitty baby boy sat in the backseat and improvised a gun with his finger. "KILL, KILL, KILL!" he'd say as he massacred the cars who passed us on the highway. This lead to our banning the word kill in our house and replacing it with cream. It's slightly less offensive when your little baby boy says "CREAM, CREAM, CREAM!" as he slaughters unsuspecting passing vehicles with his index finger.
Then Asher was born.
My sister-in-law Barbara took Talmage for a week when Asher was born. Yes, she should be nominated for Aunt Of The Year. When Talmage returned to our house, he had roughly quadrupled in size, his torso alone generating its own weather system. My little itty-bitty baby boy was HUGE.
Case in point: in the year leading up to Asher's birth we worked quite a while on potty-training. 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."
And somehow, talk of death was less offensive coming from my great big pantsless giant child. He wasn't a baby anymore; he was a boy. And boys talk about death. And dying. And being dead.
In the end, all my efforts to avoid the word kill merely resulted in Talmage's invention of the transitive verb "to die." This type of verb takes a direct object; in a sentence, it sounds like "I'm going to die you." I recounted to Tyler that Talmage just told me he was going to be die me. "No, Mom," Talmage corrected. "I die you. You going to be died."
Excuse me. Little-boy-violent-speak grammar was never my strong point.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Ender's Game and Ender's Shadow by Orson Scott Card
I've read this book four or five times. I don't know that I learned anything new or insightful on this reading, but I did have some reactions in regards to the foreward included in this edition by Orson Scott Card. Card reacted to a criticism that the kids in the story (the main characters who have the fate of the world on their military shoulders) don't process or act like kids. Which, considering Ender is six when the story begins, I'd have to agree with the critic. Card counters that he received a letter from a group of gifted teens at a math camp who write him to tell him how on the mark he is; they too have felt smarter and more adult than other children and Card hit the nail on the head. "Well, of course they did!" I wanted to shout. They are kids. I remember being 12 years and 6 months and feeling that 12 years really should be considered a teenager. At least I felt like a teenager. And by the time I was a teenager at the ripe old age of 13, I wanted to be treated as an adult. Teenagers want to be treated old and think of themselves as old.
As I thought about that I thought about how little kids in high school seem. And even as I did that, the part of me that remembers being a teenager was annoyed at condescending 29 year old me. I guess I'm grateful for all the adults I was surrounded with who were insightful enough to remember how important it is for teenagers feel validated and who made me feel adult. I hope I remember to do that.
I guess I really liked the character of Graff, the adult in the novel who loves and recognizes the value and importance of these kids. Maybe that's what I'd really like to emulate.
I thought a lot more about this book. First off, I was annoyed by the book. I LOVED the character of Ender in Ender's Game and I originally thought that this story, told from the perspective of another character, Bean, changed the character in less than sympathetic ways. But then I changed my mind and thought that maybe it fit; we are most kind to ourselves and less kind when we filter other's personalities through our own perspective. Then I was amazed that Card could tell an entirely new and original story based on largely the same sequence of events. The book wasn't just Ender's Game from a different perspective. It was an entirely new story where, incidentally, some of the same stuff happens. I think that's pretty incredible. And while I'd like to keep Ender's Game totally separate in my mind, I appreciated this new story.
Maybe because I was already thinking about kids acting like adults, I was most interested in the idea of intelligence as it relates to human emotions. In this book at least, Bean is a kid who's genes were altered in embryo, so that he is incredibly smart. Some people in the book question whether he is even human at this point. But Bean knows that he feels emotions like other humans do, so he must still be. He is just able to control his emotions and give little priority to them because he is so smart and it wouldn't be intelligent to give way to emotion so rashly.
This made me wonder about intelligence and emotion. Do smart people control their emotions better than others? To some extent I think this is true, but the only example I have is my Dad. My Dad is a truly intelligent and well-read individual and I've never known my Dad to be offended by anyone. Is that because he's smart? Or is it because that's just his nature? I've never really thought about it before now.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
As a Direct Result of the Absent-Mindedness I Outlined in a Previous Post. Or Maybe It Was Just Laziness.
The analog signal broadcasting television recently switched over to a digital signal. This was originally planned to happen on February 17, but the date was delayed because the nation wasn't prepared.
The news anchors announced this delay with all the seriousness that would accompany the death count in the war in Afghanistan, like one might say "Hurricane Katrina washed over New Orleans, rendering homeless the thousands WHO WEREN'T PREPARED." Their tone implied images of impending doom, the moon turning to blood, wars and rumors of wars, and the ushering in of the Apocalypse.
Tyler and I laughed about this together, stressing to each other that all that was going to happen was that THE TV WAS GOING TO STOP WORKING. Wasn't that a blessing in a round-about way? We could play board games, make cookies, read books together as a family. These are the perks always advertised in TV shows when the TV mysteriously stops working.
I was all aboard this train of thought, until I remembered that it was February and March was just around the corner, and the last time Tyler and I WERE NOT PREPARED for want of a TV was when we were first married and our cinder-block-walled apartment in Provo didn't received reception AND MARCH MADNESS WAS ON. Tyler called the cable company and asked if he could get the ESPN package. You mean regular service with ESPN added on? No, Tyler responded. Just ESPN. And ESPN2. That wasn't an option, so Tyler spent the next three days on the roof of the complex creating all manner of bunny ears until we got a fuzzy barely watchable CBS signal.
March Madness 2009 was upon us, the analog signal was about to cut out, AND WE WERE NOT PREPARED.
But, lucky for the Howes, the date was moved and we watched March Madness in peace. The impending doom was delayed and, being Tyler and Laura, we still weren't prepared for the new apocalypse and our reception cut off last Friday. We cavalierly let the signal go fuzzy, thinking a lack of reception wouldn't be a big deal. 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. The TV executives must have thought that Nixon's administration could convince the masses to buy a digital box better than Obama's.
The mullet the authoritative engineer is sporting? Now THAT's a natural disaster.
The news anchors announced this delay with all the seriousness that would accompany the death count in the war in Afghanistan, like one might say "Hurricane Katrina washed over New Orleans, rendering homeless the thousands WHO WEREN'T PREPARED." Their tone implied images of impending doom, the moon turning to blood, wars and rumors of wars, and the ushering in of the Apocalypse.
Tyler and I laughed about this together, stressing to each other that all that was going to happen was that THE TV WAS GOING TO STOP WORKING. Wasn't that a blessing in a round-about way? We could play board games, make cookies, read books together as a family. These are the perks always advertised in TV shows when the TV mysteriously stops working.
I was all aboard this train of thought, until I remembered that it was February and March was just around the corner, and the last time Tyler and I WERE NOT PREPARED for want of a TV was when we were first married and our cinder-block-walled apartment in Provo didn't received reception AND MARCH MADNESS WAS ON. Tyler called the cable company and asked if he could get the ESPN package. You mean regular service with ESPN added on? No, Tyler responded. Just ESPN. And ESPN2. That wasn't an option, so Tyler spent the next three days on the roof of the complex creating all manner of bunny ears until we got a fuzzy barely watchable CBS signal.
March Madness 2009 was upon us, the analog signal was about to cut out, AND WE WERE NOT PREPARED.
But, lucky for the Howes, the date was moved and we watched March Madness in peace. The impending doom was delayed and, being Tyler and Laura, we still weren't prepared for the new apocalypse and our reception cut off last Friday. We cavalierly let the signal go fuzzy, thinking a lack of reception wouldn't be a big deal. 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. The TV executives must have thought that Nixon's administration could convince the masses to buy a digital box better than Obama's.
The mullet the authoritative engineer is sporting? Now THAT's a natural disaster.
Angela's Ashes and A River Runs Through It (and Other Stories)
What a heart-breakingly hilarious memoir.
This is a popular novel, so I'm sure everyone has heard this passage: "When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood."
He then continues in heartbreaking detail to illustrate his miserable childhood, "the poverty; the shifless loquacious alcoholic father; the pious defeated mother moaning by the fire; pompous priests; bullying schoolmasters; the English and the terrible things they did to us for eight hundred long years."
As I was reading, I wondered to myself why this was such a successful and beautiful novel. And I decided that it was so wonderful because it was true. The circumstances are so pathetic that if it were fiction, I'd be annoyed by how tragic the author crafted the life. Except that life crafted the life. And laced in every terrible moment--the death of his little brothers, the blood pouring out of his body when he catches Typhoid fever, the horror of hunger, exacerbated when his father comes home drunk, having spend the food money on alcohol--is hope. Because it is a memoir, you know that the child spilling the weight of the horrific world to the angel on the seventh step becomes a snarky and eloquent man. So somehow this childhood, though it's hard to imagine, is going to turn out well.
My other thought was about the huge responsibility I have as an adult raising little children. The author and his brothers are at the mercy of his parents and neighbors decisions. I hope to make decisions that will build my children and allow them fantastic opportunities.
I anticipated loving this book for a couple of reasons. I love memoirs, I love western literature, and I love the movie based on this book. I knew I wouldn't be disappointed when I read the acknowledgements. I mean, if an author can hook you in the thank yous, that's a pretty good guarantee it's going to be a great book.
I've been thinking about the expectations I have for my children. I named them Talmage and Asher, both religious names with a lot of history behind them. Talmage was a great early Mormon scholar and Asher was one the brothers who's lineage became the ten tribes of Israel. His name means happiness. I was pondering this as Tyler and I considered what we felt was important to bless him with this past Sunday. I jokingly suggested we bless him that he'll be kind to his mother. That he wouldn't pick on the other kids at school. That he won't rape, pillage, or plunder. That he'll help old ladies across the street.
But of course, Asher might grow up and do all these things. He might not develop the "contagious happiness" Tyler blessed him with and that we hope for him. And what will I do then? What will I do if he ends up in prison for drug trafficking?
In A River Runs Through It the author's younger brother lives a life of self-destructive habits. His brother and father are at a loss of how to help him. After the brother dies, they are confused by what happened. The author's father asks, "Are you sure you have told me everything you know about his death?" To which the author responds, "'Everything.' 'It's not much, is it?' 'No,' [he replies], 'but you can love completely without complete understanding.'"
I hope to love my sons completely, even when I don't understand choices they might make. That is my number one goal as a mother.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
It's All Happening at the Zoo
Though we have a season pass to the zoo, it's much more fun when your dad's company rents it out for a private evening party. Thanks Dad.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
To Compete With Tyler's ADD
Thanks to everyone for their kind thoughts about Grandma Ramona.
When Tyler asked my father for my hand in marriage, he made an appointment. He called Dad at his office and they set a time for 7:00 that evening in my basement. When Dad got home from work, he waggled his eyebrows, grinned, and said, "I have a special meeting tonight."
My little sister Marissa was understandably a little paranoid about special meetings. The last special meeting my Dad had had was with President Packer, a meeting that involved fourteen-year-old Marissa being uprooted and moved half-way across the globe. Upon seeing my Dad's eyebrows, Marissa started hyperventilating, gasping out "Special meeting? What special meeting? Are you moving to Zimbabwe?"
But no, it was just Tyler humbly asking for me to be his bride. Tyler sat with my father on the couch and presented his good points. He loved me very much. He was working hard in school to become an educator with an educator's salary to support me. He was honest. He was a good man. My Dad listened to his case and kind of squirreled up his nose. Tyler was sure the answer was going to be no, but instead MY OWN FATHER said, "Are you sure you want her? She's kind of absent-minded."
Absent-minded? 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.
This "so creative she has her fingers in many things and can't stop to deal with trifles like shoes" aura I have about me leads to interesting experiences for my children. Talmage is already infinitely more put together than I am, remembering what we need to return to people's houses as we walk out the door. Keys (cheese) was one of his first words because we spent large chunks of the day looking for them. And recently he approached me beaming with excitement saying, "Look, Mom! My socks are same-sames!" And I thought, "What a happy child you would be if Maquel were your mom. Or Chandra. Or Barbara. Or Sarah. Or any other mother besides me who regularly dresses their children in matching clothing."
On Teacher Appreciation Day, Chipotle Mexican Grill offered educators free burritos. Tyler and I decided to take advantage of the delicious fresh mex. We loaded the boys up in the car and I took the wheel and started to drive. I was just out of the driveway when I turned to Tyler and asked, "So, where to?" Tyler said, "I thought you would know where it was." I said, "Nope, you're the one who told me it was in Sugarhouse." How would you respond to this situation? Go inside and look it up in the phone book? Call sister who knows where the restaurant is? Check it out on Google Earth? How did I respond? "Ahh, Sugarhouse is only covers a couple mile radius. I'm sure we'll find it." Exciting right? Adventure! Living with Laura is FUN.
Twenty minutes later, after driving the length of 2100 S., 1300 E., and Highland Drive, as well as Wilmington Ave and Sugarmont Drive, we pulled into Shopko where I looked up the address. "Are we there yet?" Talmage intoned. "If you had any other mother, we would be," Tyler assured him. "But with yours, it'll be fifteen more minutes. And that's if you're lucky."
When Tyler asked my father for my hand in marriage, he made an appointment. He called Dad at his office and they set a time for 7:00 that evening in my basement. When Dad got home from work, he waggled his eyebrows, grinned, and said, "I have a special meeting tonight."
My little sister Marissa was understandably a little paranoid about special meetings. The last special meeting my Dad had had was with President Packer, a meeting that involved fourteen-year-old Marissa being uprooted and moved half-way across the globe. Upon seeing my Dad's eyebrows, Marissa started hyperventilating, gasping out "Special meeting? What special meeting? Are you moving to Zimbabwe?"
But no, it was just Tyler humbly asking for me to be his bride. Tyler sat with my father on the couch and presented his good points. He loved me very much. He was working hard in school to become an educator with an educator's salary to support me. He was honest. He was a good man. My Dad listened to his case and kind of squirreled up his nose. Tyler was sure the answer was going to be no, but instead MY OWN FATHER said, "Are you sure you want her? She's kind of absent-minded."
Absent-minded? 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.
This "so creative she has her fingers in many things and can't stop to deal with trifles like shoes" aura I have about me leads to interesting experiences for my children. Talmage is already infinitely more put together than I am, remembering what we need to return to people's houses as we walk out the door. Keys (cheese) was one of his first words because we spent large chunks of the day looking for them. And recently he approached me beaming with excitement saying, "Look, Mom! My socks are same-sames!" And I thought, "What a happy child you would be if Maquel were your mom. Or Chandra. Or Barbara. Or Sarah. Or any other mother besides me who regularly dresses their children in matching clothing."
On Teacher Appreciation Day, Chipotle Mexican Grill offered educators free burritos. Tyler and I decided to take advantage of the delicious fresh mex. We loaded the boys up in the car and I took the wheel and started to drive. I was just out of the driveway when I turned to Tyler and asked, "So, where to?" Tyler said, "I thought you would know where it was." I said, "Nope, you're the one who told me it was in Sugarhouse." How would you respond to this situation? Go inside and look it up in the phone book? Call sister who knows where the restaurant is? Check it out on Google Earth? How did I respond? "Ahh, Sugarhouse is only covers a couple mile radius. I'm sure we'll find it." Exciting right? Adventure! Living with Laura is FUN.
Twenty minutes later, after driving the length of 2100 S., 1300 E., and Highland Drive, as well as Wilmington Ave and Sugarmont Drive, we pulled into Shopko where I looked up the address. "Are we there yet?" Talmage intoned. "If you had any other mother, we would be," Tyler assured him. "But with yours, it'll be fifteen more minutes. And that's if you're lucky."
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
In Memoriam
My grandma passed away today. She has been degenerating over the last couple years due to pulmonary hypertension. Thursday before Memorial Day she fell in her home, blacking out from the dizzyness and little oxygen she was receiving. She had been in the hospital for several days and just Monday was moved to a care facility. Today her heart failed her and she passed away at 12:10 p.m. If she had had this disease a decade earlier there wouldn't have been a treatment for her and she wouldn't have made it to 90 years old. Arguably, she's been kept alive beyond her time (although I'm not sure I believe it works like that).
I've been struck by the normalcy of my day. This morning I woke up and made breakfast (Tyler had Kix. Talmage and I had granola). I tidied the kitchen and took a shower. I gave a talk at the local Care Center and after picked Talmage up from Aunt Lori's house. 12:10 occurred as I was driving the dog to Petsmart to be groomed. After 12:10 I went to Costco and we ate lunch there. I had a turkey wrap and a berry smoothie and Talmage had a hot dog. I taught my class tonight. I ordered pictures.
Two things plague me.
One, I had considered going to visit Grandma this morning, but instead decided to go this evening and missed her. Two, I've been anxious each time I've seen Grandma for the last several years, due to the biography of our ancestor, Nephi Fawcett, she's asked me to write but which I haven't completed. I feel like I'm her unfinished business left on Earth.
But I am aware that these are selfish concerns and that they have nothing to do with Grandma. So tonight, I would like to write about her.
Grandma loved the color turquoise. Her wardrobe revealed spots of magenta and brief flashes of purple, but turquoise was the main palette.
Grandma was the most social woman I know. She could trace the Adamic link to everyone on this Earth. It was a common occurrence for her to turn around in a restaurant and say to the next table "Did I hear you say you're from Connecticut? I used to live in New Jersey. Maybe we know the same people." And the amazing thing was that she always did know the same people.
Grandma loved to travel. As a small sampling, she went with her husband to Colorado, India, and Bora Bora. She took my mother to China, Egypt, and Peru. She took me to Pennsylvania, Canada, and Hawaii. We'd frequently play How Many States Have You Been In. I believe she's been in all 50.
Grandma is comfortable with anyone. Anyone. Growing up in my home, we regularly had visitors from Brazil. And Grandma could tell them extensive stories about the Riders.
Grandma is a teacher. I have watched and enjoyed slide presentations, old tapes, family movies from the 40s for hours on end. When I was seven.
Grandma is the lead character in The Most Romantic Story I Have Ever Known. The World War II soldiers were stationed in Salt Lake and Grandma accompanied her friend to go dance with the men. She looked smashing that evening, and Dick Murray, upon entering the hall, turned to his friend and said, "Hold my hat; I'm going to dance with the girl in the red dress." Their honeymoon two years later lastest a full year.
I spent Memorial Day with her at my brother's house. She had a hard time making it to the bathroom and passed out from the exertion of being carried in a wheelchair. I stayed awake late that evening and pondered how frightening it would be to feel your body falling apart inside of you. But Grandma wasn't frightened. Grandma is almost incapable of depression or pessimism, despite a life that has known some black times. She seemed constant and normal, ready for the next trip.
The nurses said she was cheerful this morning, but slipped into a fairly catatonic state toward noon. Mom was with her at this point. She rubbed her arm and noted that she didn't look like herself. The doctors called my mom out to let her know there was nothing more to do. Mom noticed that during this conversation, Grandma smiled, perhaps greeting or anticipating the other side (and I do believe it works like that).
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.
I posted this late last night. When I woke up this morning, I realized I had unconciously based it on "The Last Shot" by Tobias Wolff. My credits and apologies.
I've been struck by the normalcy of my day. This morning I woke up and made breakfast (Tyler had Kix. Talmage and I had granola). I tidied the kitchen and took a shower. I gave a talk at the local Care Center and after picked Talmage up from Aunt Lori's house. 12:10 occurred as I was driving the dog to Petsmart to be groomed. After 12:10 I went to Costco and we ate lunch there. I had a turkey wrap and a berry smoothie and Talmage had a hot dog. I taught my class tonight. I ordered pictures.
Two things plague me.
One, I had considered going to visit Grandma this morning, but instead decided to go this evening and missed her. Two, I've been anxious each time I've seen Grandma for the last several years, due to the biography of our ancestor, Nephi Fawcett, she's asked me to write but which I haven't completed. I feel like I'm her unfinished business left on Earth.
But I am aware that these are selfish concerns and that they have nothing to do with Grandma. So tonight, I would like to write about her.
Grandma loved the color turquoise. Her wardrobe revealed spots of magenta and brief flashes of purple, but turquoise was the main palette.
Grandma was the most social woman I know. She could trace the Adamic link to everyone on this Earth. It was a common occurrence for her to turn around in a restaurant and say to the next table "Did I hear you say you're from Connecticut? I used to live in New Jersey. Maybe we know the same people." And the amazing thing was that she always did know the same people.
Grandma loved to travel. As a small sampling, she went with her husband to Colorado, India, and Bora Bora. She took my mother to China, Egypt, and Peru. She took me to Pennsylvania, Canada, and Hawaii. We'd frequently play How Many States Have You Been In. I believe she's been in all 50.
Grandma is comfortable with anyone. Anyone. Growing up in my home, we regularly had visitors from Brazil. And Grandma could tell them extensive stories about the Riders.
Grandma is a teacher. I have watched and enjoyed slide presentations, old tapes, family movies from the 40s for hours on end. When I was seven.
Grandma is the lead character in The Most Romantic Story I Have Ever Known. The World War II soldiers were stationed in Salt Lake and Grandma accompanied her friend to go dance with the men. She looked smashing that evening, and Dick Murray, upon entering the hall, turned to his friend and said, "Hold my hat; I'm going to dance with the girl in the red dress." Their honeymoon two years later lastest a full year.
I spent Memorial Day with her at my brother's house. She had a hard time making it to the bathroom and passed out from the exertion of being carried in a wheelchair. I stayed awake late that evening and pondered how frightening it would be to feel your body falling apart inside of you. But Grandma wasn't frightened. Grandma is almost incapable of depression or pessimism, despite a life that has known some black times. She seemed constant and normal, ready for the next trip.
The nurses said she was cheerful this morning, but slipped into a fairly catatonic state toward noon. Mom was with her at this point. She rubbed her arm and noted that she didn't look like herself. The doctors called my mom out to let her know there was nothing more to do. Mom noticed that during this conversation, Grandma smiled, perhaps greeting or anticipating the other side (and I do believe it works like that).
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.
I posted this late last night. When I woke up this morning, I realized I had unconciously based it on "The Last Shot" by Tobias Wolff. My credits and apologies.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Because Barbara Doesn't Have a Blog to Post It Herself
When asked what he wants to be when he grows up, nine-year-old David James replied, "I'm going to be the CEO of Dell, and then I'm going to have a mid-life crisis, and THEN I'm going to be an amusement park manager."
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
You Can Tell When I Can't Tie It Together In The Title That These Stories Really Have Nothing To Do With Each Other
I went to the grocery store yesterday. We were a little low on food. Tyler says we're out of food when we don't have milk, cheese, or bread. I say we're out of food when I feed Talmage four M&Ms and a tortilla for breakfast. Which I did.
A typical trip to the store involves Talmage asking for 12 million things, ranging from Cars napkins to new sippy cups to bubble bath to, of course, treats, preferably gimicky treats that involve some kind of powder. He's pretty good at being told no when I remind him of our grocery store deal: he gets one treat per visit.
Yesterday my friend Hana offered to watch Talmage while I went to the store, and I chose to bypass the grocery store treat, an omission Talmage took issue with. "I WANNA TREAT" sounded loudly around my house this morning, and when I say loudly, I imagine my neighbors in Colorado heard the shrill echo. I offered him bananas, apples, and cheerios, all substitutions that were promptly rejected. Not that I'd imagine he'd go for it. I just get a strange thrill out of hearing him yell, "NO! NO APPLES!"
After roughly 20 minutes of this meltdown, Talmage exiled himself to Asher's room, where the abundance of toys soothed his tortured soul. Every five minutes or so, however, Tal would remember the injustice of the sugar Nazi, and would give a half-hearted "Wah, hah, hah." After which he'd forget his anger. This continued for another 15 minutes, until he emerged from the room and politely asked for a bowl of cereal.
This is the first time Tal ran to his room and slammed the door in anger. This is the tactic I most often employed as a child, a strategy I imagined caused my parents profound guilt and regret but, of course, just pleased them because I couldn't yell as loudly in my room. I imagined them standing on the other side of my door listening to my tortured cries and typically spelled out all the injustices my family had inflicted on me and vocally arrived at the inevitable consequence: I was going to run away. That'd show em. In fact, I even had three garbage bags full of stuffed animals packed and ready to go in case one of my siblings crossed the line and I needed to make a quick getaway on my pink banana-seat Huffy. I maintained this plan until one day I actually did run away and got all the way to 2700 E, about four blocks away from my house. Turns out three garbage bags are pretty hard to tote when you're chasing your childhood dreams.
But I didn't really have it that bad at my house. At least my mom never served me a single tortilla as a meal. Where I grew up you had your option of any one of 700 condiments. Bavarian sweet mustard, anyone? That's the breakfast of champions.
A typical trip to the store involves Talmage asking for 12 million things, ranging from Cars napkins to new sippy cups to bubble bath to, of course, treats, preferably gimicky treats that involve some kind of powder. He's pretty good at being told no when I remind him of our grocery store deal: he gets one treat per visit.
Yesterday my friend Hana offered to watch Talmage while I went to the store, and I chose to bypass the grocery store treat, an omission Talmage took issue with. "I WANNA TREAT" sounded loudly around my house this morning, and when I say loudly, I imagine my neighbors in Colorado heard the shrill echo. I offered him bananas, apples, and cheerios, all substitutions that were promptly rejected. Not that I'd imagine he'd go for it. I just get a strange thrill out of hearing him yell, "NO! NO APPLES!"
After roughly 20 minutes of this meltdown, Talmage exiled himself to Asher's room, where the abundance of toys soothed his tortured soul. Every five minutes or so, however, Tal would remember the injustice of the sugar Nazi, and would give a half-hearted "Wah, hah, hah." After which he'd forget his anger. This continued for another 15 minutes, until he emerged from the room and politely asked for a bowl of cereal.
This is the first time Tal ran to his room and slammed the door in anger. This is the tactic I most often employed as a child, a strategy I imagined caused my parents profound guilt and regret but, of course, just pleased them because I couldn't yell as loudly in my room. I imagined them standing on the other side of my door listening to my tortured cries and typically spelled out all the injustices my family had inflicted on me and vocally arrived at the inevitable consequence: I was going to run away. That'd show em. In fact, I even had three garbage bags full of stuffed animals packed and ready to go in case one of my siblings crossed the line and I needed to make a quick getaway on my pink banana-seat Huffy. I maintained this plan until one day I actually did run away and got all the way to 2700 E, about four blocks away from my house. Turns out three garbage bags are pretty hard to tote when you're chasing your childhood dreams.
But I didn't really have it that bad at my house. At least my mom never served me a single tortilla as a meal. Where I grew up you had your option of any one of 700 condiments. Bavarian sweet mustard, anyone? That's the breakfast of champions.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Empire Falls
I'm going to post on this book immediately after reading it. Interestingly, I would have thought that books need some time to marinate in my brain before I can really digest them. But lately I've been posting about books weeks after reading them and I have a hard time remembering my thoughts and impressions.
I got online after reading this book because I felt like I needed to discuss it, and short of my sister who recommended the book to me but who told me she forgot the plot, I didn't have anyone to discuss it with. I've actually felt like that at the end of each of the Richard Russo books I've read. I'm never really sure exactly what I want to discuss, just that I want to be in a college class with this as the text. I feel like I'm missing something incredible without the benefit of a close group study.
Anyway, I tried to satiate that need by reading other people's opinions of it, and I came across this quotation from an interview Russo gave after he wrote the screeplay for a mini-series based on the novel:
"You know, you say, 'Why did Columbine happen?' Well, people on the right say it's because of violence in movies and video games. People on the left say it's because of the availability of guns. And the argument goes on as if we have to choose between these explanations.
"But really what people are asking is, 'What does it feel like when something like that happens? What does it feel like to be a parent? What does it feel like to be a child? And that's what stories do. They bring you there. They offer a dramatic explanation, which is always different from an expository explanation.
"And I think that if people are instructed about anything, it should be about the nature of cruelty. And about why people behave so cruelly to each other. And what kind of satisfactions they derive from it. And why there is always a cost, and a price to be paid."
Why do people behave cruelly to each other? Russo offers several suggestions. Jealousy, depravity, in an effort to put oneself on top. Peer pressure, embarassment. To maintain an image. To protect loved ones.
A lot of this novel plays out in a high school, and I think public school is the time when I was closest to those emotions and the closest to cruelty. I think a lot of this is because school is populated by teenagers, and teenagers are bombarded with these sentiments. I've long believed that the hardest times in my life happened in high school because that was before I had confidence in my worldview and lacked the proper perspective to digest the experience, but this book made me wonder if maybe the reason is because I'm just not forced to move as closely through life with people as I did during public school. Most the people I interact with now are my family or friends of my own choosing, the only real exception being my students, and since I teach college I only see them for a maximum of four months, eight if they take two of my courses. I just don't have to live in as tight of circumstances anymore.
I don't think I'm a cruel person. Is this because I'm not cruel? Or is it because I'm no longer really provided with the right opportunity?
Saturday, May 9, 2009
The End of an Era
I'm currently finishing up the last four weeks of being exclusively a teacher. All summer and all next year I'll be going to "principal school."
This video was created by one of the most outstanding educators I've ever worked with representing her dream of the last day of school. I was so pleased by her dream, I made her tell it again and again until she finally resorted to having the students tell the story for her in this video.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Here's My Advice: Stick to Your Standards
It's getting warmer outside. I enjoy the sunshine, but I'm wary of the weather. Summer is the time when people bend their morals, justifying decisions that they just wouldn't make if it weren't for the heat.
I'm talking, of course, about making purchases from the ice cream man.
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.
When I was in high school, the scariest time of year was AP exam season. This was the time teachers convinced us that how we did on these four hour tests was crucial to our success in the afterlife and that if we did well, we could pretty much count on our calling and election being made sure. We received COLLEGE CREDIT for these exams. Those two words struck fear in my nerdy sixteen-year-old heart. A group of friends and I sluffed school to study for them. I want to go back to the girl that I was, pull the pencil out of her hair, and tell her to go skiing. You know, do something worthwhile with your sluffing.
We had just wrapped up an intense study session where we reviewed trivia about the first industrial revolution. We walked out my front door to go somewhere. Probably back to school. We headed to our cars which were parked in front of my house when we heard that familiar jingle. "Hey!" one friend commented. "It's the ice cream man!" We all felt a rush of excitement, broken only when another friend noted, "Does it look like the ice cream man is veering to the right?" We all analyzed his angled trajectory until it hit it's inevitable end point, my friend's Nissan Sentra. "Dude!" one of the group yelled. "You just got hit by the ice cream man!"
The ice cream truck corrected to the left and then pulled over to stop in the gutter. At least that's what we thought he was going to do. Apparently he was just weaving around a bit more, a fact that became obvious when he hit the gas and sped up the street, James Bond style. James Bond to a soundtrack of "You Are My Sunshine."
The owner of the Sentra jumped in the car and began a wild car chase up Del Mar Drive. The ice cream truck finally stopped at the top of the street, where my friend jumped out to get his information. He ignored the beer bottles littering the floor of the ice cream truck and got straight to the point. "What's your name?" he asked. "Joe," replied the driver. Joe handed over his license which listed his name as Chris Matthews. "What happened to Joe?" asked my friend. "That's what my friends call me," he said.
After exchanging information, the ice cream man drove away, taking care to turn on the twinkly music. "Do Your Ears Hang Low" chimed out Joe's drunken shame.
Tyler recently bought Talmage an ice cream cone from the ice cream man. I would have preferred he buy him Playboy.
I'm talking, of course, about making purchases from the ice cream man.
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.
When I was in high school, the scariest time of year was AP exam season. This was the time teachers convinced us that how we did on these four hour tests was crucial to our success in the afterlife and that if we did well, we could pretty much count on our calling and election being made sure. We received COLLEGE CREDIT for these exams. Those two words struck fear in my nerdy sixteen-year-old heart. A group of friends and I sluffed school to study for them. I want to go back to the girl that I was, pull the pencil out of her hair, and tell her to go skiing. You know, do something worthwhile with your sluffing.
We had just wrapped up an intense study session where we reviewed trivia about the first industrial revolution. We walked out my front door to go somewhere. Probably back to school. We headed to our cars which were parked in front of my house when we heard that familiar jingle. "Hey!" one friend commented. "It's the ice cream man!" We all felt a rush of excitement, broken only when another friend noted, "Does it look like the ice cream man is veering to the right?" We all analyzed his angled trajectory until it hit it's inevitable end point, my friend's Nissan Sentra. "Dude!" one of the group yelled. "You just got hit by the ice cream man!"
The ice cream truck corrected to the left and then pulled over to stop in the gutter. At least that's what we thought he was going to do. Apparently he was just weaving around a bit more, a fact that became obvious when he hit the gas and sped up the street, James Bond style. James Bond to a soundtrack of "You Are My Sunshine."
The owner of the Sentra jumped in the car and began a wild car chase up Del Mar Drive. The ice cream truck finally stopped at the top of the street, where my friend jumped out to get his information. He ignored the beer bottles littering the floor of the ice cream truck and got straight to the point. "What's your name?" he asked. "Joe," replied the driver. Joe handed over his license which listed his name as Chris Matthews. "What happened to Joe?" asked my friend. "That's what my friends call me," he said.
After exchanging information, the ice cream man drove away, taking care to turn on the twinkly music. "Do Your Ears Hang Low" chimed out Joe's drunken shame.
Tyler recently bought Talmage an ice cream cone from the ice cream man. I would have preferred he buy him Playboy.
Books I've Read Of Late
So, I used to post after each book. Apparently that's become too complicated. So here are my thoughts on the last several books I've read.
I picked this up at my sister-in-law's house and took it home with me. I forget how much I enjoy children's literature. And I like how quickly I can read it. I enjoy intense novels that require me to give something of myself, but then after, I enjoy a book I can finish in three feedings. (Because that's how I measure a book's length now--in how many times it takes me to nurse Asher while reading it.)
One thing I thought about while reading Hoot was how comic bad guys are in children's literature. And how comic adults are. But it seems to work, because it seems like that's what adults seem to be when you are younger; big nosed silly versions of people.
When I was in elementary school I remember learning about the price of bread in 1930. It cost about a nickel. And even more exciting? Candy cost a penny. A PENNY. And in my little girl brain, I hatched a genius plan. What if I took a wallet full of money from 1988 back to 1930? I could buy anything I wanted. Even Teddy Ruxpin, that creepy animatronic bear that was all the 80s rage.
Little did I realize that I had come up with the plot for several 80s movie, only with more plot holes. Like how was I going to buy Teddy Ruxpin if I lived in 1930? But ever since then I've wondered how I would react at different times in history. A common question, but one that's unanswerable largely because time travel doesn't exist, and also because I'm a product of the current time and I would be a totally different person if I lived at another time.
That's what I thought was most interesting about Kindred. The (black) main character lives in the 1970s and is taken back in time to the antebellum South. The world she creates for herself in the past is frightening because she is aware of how wrong it is. And even more frightening is how she starts to feel at home in a world that is so wrong.
Want to do something kind of risky? Do a google image search on "Straight Man."
Richard Russo is quickly becoming one of my favorite authors. This book was hilarious.
This has nothing to do with the book, but I've realized that my favorite characters in books are men. I don't really know why this is. If I try to identify the female character I've liked the most in novels I've recently read, I think I'd have to point to Sarah Agnes Prine from the These Is My Words books, but even as I do that, I have to admit that I like Sarah, but I LOVE Jack. And Udell for that matter.
Okay, that's all I've got for you.
I picked this up at my sister-in-law's house and took it home with me. I forget how much I enjoy children's literature. And I like how quickly I can read it. I enjoy intense novels that require me to give something of myself, but then after, I enjoy a book I can finish in three feedings. (Because that's how I measure a book's length now--in how many times it takes me to nurse Asher while reading it.)
One thing I thought about while reading Hoot was how comic bad guys are in children's literature. And how comic adults are. But it seems to work, because it seems like that's what adults seem to be when you are younger; big nosed silly versions of people.
When I was in elementary school I remember learning about the price of bread in 1930. It cost about a nickel. And even more exciting? Candy cost a penny. A PENNY. And in my little girl brain, I hatched a genius plan. What if I took a wallet full of money from 1988 back to 1930? I could buy anything I wanted. Even Teddy Ruxpin, that creepy animatronic bear that was all the 80s rage.
Little did I realize that I had come up with the plot for several 80s movie, only with more plot holes. Like how was I going to buy Teddy Ruxpin if I lived in 1930? But ever since then I've wondered how I would react at different times in history. A common question, but one that's unanswerable largely because time travel doesn't exist, and also because I'm a product of the current time and I would be a totally different person if I lived at another time.
That's what I thought was most interesting about Kindred. The (black) main character lives in the 1970s and is taken back in time to the antebellum South. The world she creates for herself in the past is frightening because she is aware of how wrong it is. And even more frightening is how she starts to feel at home in a world that is so wrong.
Want to do something kind of risky? Do a google image search on "Straight Man."
Richard Russo is quickly becoming one of my favorite authors. This book was hilarious.
This has nothing to do with the book, but I've realized that my favorite characters in books are men. I don't really know why this is. If I try to identify the female character I've liked the most in novels I've recently read, I think I'd have to point to Sarah Agnes Prine from the These Is My Words books, but even as I do that, I have to admit that I like Sarah, but I LOVE Jack. And Udell for that matter.
Okay, that's all I've got for you.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Talmage's Dilemma
I had a conversation with a childless friend at work about the degradation of humor that happens when you become a mother. She was convinced that as soon as your child and your child's bodily functions are involved, mothers become 14-year-old boys and potty humor is wildly funny. She was actually saying this to me because she was impressed I still didn't find poop funny. I didn't correct her by pointing out that I've blogged about potty-training Talmage here, here, and here. So far I've restrained from blogging about the time Talmage was on my shoulders and vomited down my face, though, so maybe she's right. I did not find that funny.
I thought, however, that I would post one more (and hopefully final) entry about Talmage and the toilet. You see, Tyler is very much ready for Talmage to be done with potty-training. I'm not as rushed. Our niece (who shall remain nameless in case her seventh-grade crush googles her name and comes up with this anecdote; junior high is rough) developed a paralyzing fear of going poopy in the potty and would hold it until it hurt which would cause her to hold it because it hurt, which would cause it to hurt. Vicious circle. Her father became panicked as she began to approach kindergarten. He encouraged me to tell her the tale of Terri Jo Gillespie, a girl in my first grade class who defecated in her undies (apparently I care less about Terri Jo's anonymity). Terri Jo moved the following year, but here I am, twenty-three years later, writing a blog entry about the poor girl and her six-year-old trauma. Fortunately for my niece, a combination of laxatives and maturity worked for her, and she's currently accident free.
Understandably, I didn't really want to approach these issues. But Tyler has recently told me he'll let me have five children if I want them, a promise he's been fearful of making due to the twelve more years of diaper changing that implies. Since he manned up (the past tense of man up?) and committed to intensive fathering, I decided I'd throw him a bone and push going poopy in the potty.
Ten more diapers. That's what Talmage committed to and then what would happen? We would go poopy! In the potty! Hooray!! And then we would get stickers! And Kid K'nex! And we would go to Chuck E Cheese! And choirs of angels would descend, singing Hallelujah! Preferably a gospel choir with African-American angelic altos!
We made a chart that counted down from ten and crossed off a diaper each time he used one. Around six diapers left, Talmage started to realize that one day there would be no more diapers and decided to test my resolve.
"Mom, what if you get K'nex when you go poopy on the potty and then you share them with me?"
Five diapers.
Holding up eight pudgy fingers, "Maybe I have this many left."
Four diapers.
"Mom, I go poopy when the sun AND the moon are asleep." A cosmic marvel. That's what he wants to go poopy on the potty. All the planets to perfectly align.
Three diapers.
"Mom, how bout I just go poopy in my pants?"
Two diapers.
"Mom, what if I use Stockton's diapers when my diapers are gone?"
One diaper.
"Mom!! The chart is gone!" How'd that happen, Talmage? "I ripped it up and ruined it! Now I can go poopy in diapers."
Today we used our last diaper. As I changed it this morning, Talmage looked at me with genuine fear in his eyes. "Mom," he said to me in a quiet voice, "Maybe I just wear diapers forever."
I'll keep you posted.
*This post is dedicated to Juli who is watching Talmage right now. Thank you Juli!
I thought, however, that I would post one more (and hopefully final) entry about Talmage and the toilet. You see, Tyler is very much ready for Talmage to be done with potty-training. I'm not as rushed. Our niece (who shall remain nameless in case her seventh-grade crush googles her name and comes up with this anecdote; junior high is rough) developed a paralyzing fear of going poopy in the potty and would hold it until it hurt which would cause her to hold it because it hurt, which would cause it to hurt. Vicious circle. Her father became panicked as she began to approach kindergarten. He encouraged me to tell her the tale of Terri Jo Gillespie, a girl in my first grade class who defecated in her undies (apparently I care less about Terri Jo's anonymity). Terri Jo moved the following year, but here I am, twenty-three years later, writing a blog entry about the poor girl and her six-year-old trauma. Fortunately for my niece, a combination of laxatives and maturity worked for her, and she's currently accident free.
Understandably, I didn't really want to approach these issues. But Tyler has recently told me he'll let me have five children if I want them, a promise he's been fearful of making due to the twelve more years of diaper changing that implies. Since he manned up (the past tense of man up?) and committed to intensive fathering, I decided I'd throw him a bone and push going poopy in the potty.
Ten more diapers. That's what Talmage committed to and then what would happen? We would go poopy! In the potty! Hooray!! And then we would get stickers! And Kid K'nex! And we would go to Chuck E Cheese! And choirs of angels would descend, singing Hallelujah! Preferably a gospel choir with African-American angelic altos!
We made a chart that counted down from ten and crossed off a diaper each time he used one. Around six diapers left, Talmage started to realize that one day there would be no more diapers and decided to test my resolve.
"Mom, what if you get K'nex when you go poopy on the potty and then you share them with me?"
Five diapers.
Holding up eight pudgy fingers, "Maybe I have this many left."
Four diapers.
"Mom, I go poopy when the sun AND the moon are asleep." A cosmic marvel. That's what he wants to go poopy on the potty. All the planets to perfectly align.
Three diapers.
"Mom, how bout I just go poopy in my pants?"
Two diapers.
"Mom, what if I use Stockton's diapers when my diapers are gone?"
One diaper.
"Mom!! The chart is gone!" How'd that happen, Talmage? "I ripped it up and ruined it! Now I can go poopy in diapers."
Today we used our last diaper. As I changed it this morning, Talmage looked at me with genuine fear in his eyes. "Mom," he said to me in a quiet voice, "Maybe I just wear diapers forever."
I'll keep you posted.
*This post is dedicated to Juli who is watching Talmage right now. Thank you Juli!
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