Nope

My due date is one month from today and I realize that blogging lulls at this point will cause many wonderings of "has she?" So I'll try to do better. We unveiled the new kitchen here on Christmas morning and it was received with an encouraging amount of enthusiasm. We then headed to Port Neches had a good few days at my parents' house where the gift giving continued. The husband and I even went to a movie. What we'd planned to see wasn't playing anymore and we settled on "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," which was so long and almost pointlessly meandering that I began to actually ache with wanting the credits to roll. AND some parent had brought their consumptive? croupy? tuberculosis-y? toddler with them (because apparently it's more important to go see a 3 hour movie on opening day than it is to actually stay home with your sick kid) and approximately every 4 minutes the poor child would launch into a wet hacking spasm of coughing which would turn the husband (who is an unapologetic germaphobe) into a writhing Howard Hughes. If I didn't know it was physiologically impossible, I'd say he held his breath through the entire 3 hours. I think he gave some serious thought to actually drinking the bottle of Purell in his pocket at one point. It was an interesting case study in group dynamics that after each of the child's episodes, several adults in the packed theater would then have spasmodic coughing episodes of their very own. Plus the theater there at the Central Mall still smells strongly of hurricane mold and other olfactory detritus. So, a fun date night for us!

I think the nesting is just about complete around here. I even washed crib sheets today and have the suitcase out and ready to pack. If Helena Jane is anything like her siblings she will show up precisely 5 days past her actual due date, but I don't want to assume.

Veiled in flesh the Godhead see

Fetal test sheds light but stirs ethical debate.

It's a headline on the front page of the Houston Chronicle today. Let's see if I can choose a favorite quote: (emphases mine)

"Advocates say the test uncovers tragic conditions, allowing couples to terminate the pregnancy and spare themselves the emotionally and financially exhausting ordeal of caring for a severely disabled child."

or,
"As long as the information is reliable, a pregnant woman has a right to know as much as possible about the kind of parenting she'd face."

or,
"They (ethicists) debate whether it's a 'good or bad eugenics,' noting that before Adolf Hitler gave it a bad name, eugenics was science's hope for a better future, the answer to economic inequities and social ills."

and, then, this:
"Eighty to 95 percent of women who receive a Down Syndrome diagnosis after such screening abort, according to studies cited by the National Down Syndrome Society."

I acknowledge that I am an emotional pregnant woman. That I spent a chunk of the morning thinking about Mary in a dirty stable. That I wept through a short video at church showing me a cesspool in Sierra Leone where mothers had no choice but to get water for their children. Then rejoiced over the simple miracle of what can happen when a few people here chose to forgo expensive Christmas presents to instead build wells spouting clean water. Then heard on the radio a story Amy Grant told about singing "Breath of Heaven"while looking at the face of Cindy Parseghian, who sat in the front row and whose three kids were living with and, then, dying of a rare genetic disorder called Niemann-Pick disease. Then while I'm reading this article I have the t.v. on and there on Extreme Makeover Home Edition was this amazing family with two sweet daughters with the genetic disorder spinal muscular atrophy, which has also stricken Hannah, the beautiful daughter of my friends Lee and Eric. Can you get your head around it? Because I can't. But I know the difference between a cesspool and living water.

Do you hear what I hear

Hudson has been working on saying Harper's name for a couple of months now. It started off as "Arp" then progressed to "Harp" and then, today, we seem to have settled on "HOPPY!" It is very, very endearing and even Hoppy herself seems to be quite pleased.

We took a little family trip to Whole Earth Provision today. The husband got a tiny little freakishly bright flashlight, and I got a new pair of shoes. I might even lay to rest the 5 year old red Dansko clogs that I wear pretty much every day. Don't think this means I won't still be tempted to bust out with a little clogging, though.

Radiant beams from Thy holy face

This morning I decided to add a little structure to the drawing space on the coffee table and suggested Harper might want to practice writing her name. She agreed enthusiastically. So, I said, help me spell it out. She writes an 'L' facing the wrong way. Then she starts on the 'I'. But we're going to write your name, I reminded her. Yes, she sighed patiently, I'm spelling Lightning. I tried to convince her that Harper was much easier to write AND that it contained absolutely no sneaky silent letters. But she insisted. So I wrote both names down and took Hudson for a diaper change and when we got back in the room, this is what she had accomplished:

Harper had been scratched through, Lightning had been underlined in red, and a happy little balloon man was celebrating. No actual letters had been practiced.

We went to the Museum of Natural Science on Wednesday. The butterfly atrium really is wonderful. Here are the girls marveling. Abby is showing amazing gentleness and restraint for a 2 year old. Hudson was off splashing in a puddle. Izzy and Harper had worn their brightest dresses in hopes that many butterflies would alight upon them. Today I dug through bins and washed some tiny baby clothes so that Helena will have something to wear if she decides to come early. Harper spent lots of time choosing things for her puppy to wear. Hudson spends lots of time doing this:

Boy loves his thumb and his blanket. They used to be confined to the crib but he's been needing additional solace, apparently. Perhaps he's figuring it all out.

Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel

Is, of course, technically not a Christmas carol. But I saw a billboard for, I am NOT making this up, "Chanukah on Ice" yesterday and I figured the saturation must be complete. So I was actually already in bed because I am utterly exhausted from a day that involved an embarrassing amount of me on the couch while the kids watched PBS and DVDs, but even in my weariness, sleep eludes. Then I remembered the day had been blog-free. Better to be productive than lying in bed all achy and wild eyed. I'll fill out Mr. B's little Christmas questionnaire. Which for you might not be any better than insomnia. Here we go:

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? wrapping, even though I am terrible at it and can never manage to cut the correct amount of paper.
2. Real tree or Artificial? I like real but we have a small artificial one. Our first tree as a married couple, as I mentioned in another post. Growing up we had some real years and some artificial.
3. When do you put up the tree? This year it was purchased and assembled before Thanksgiving, I think.
4. When do you take the tree down? We'll probably leave it up for awhile. Maybe until the baby comes.
5. Do you like eggnog? You know, I do. If I don't think too much about the egg part. I pretend it's runny pudding.
6. Favorite gift received as a child? This one is hard. I have very idyllic memories of Christmas mornings in front of the fireplace, but I can't really remember specific gifts. I had these two dolls I loved named Mandy and Jenny, but they might have been birthday gifts. I got a wooden doll house one year that I loved buying furniture for.
7. Hardest person to buy for? My mom, probably, because she deserves everything and wants nothing
8. Easiest person to buy for? the husband. A variety of things please him. But we really don't do gifts for each other.
9. Do you have a nativity scene? Yes. It's these little clay figurines that I think came from Peru. They came into the marriage with the husband.
10. Mail or email Christmas cards? Mail, but this year is in doubt.
11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? I just in general don't like getting presents so this is a weird question for me. I am always touched when people try, it's just awkward for me.
12. Favorite Christmas Movie? Hm. I can't think of one so I'll steal Jamie's answer--"Little Women"
13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? too late, every single year. Because the whole thing is unpleasant.
14. Have you ever re-gifted a Christmas present? No
15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Peppermint bark, cookies,
16. Lights on the tree? Yes, white, simple.
17. Favorite Christmas song? Once in Royal David's City, Hark the Herald Angels Sing (because it's the first Christmas carol Harper learned to sing) and Angels We Have Heard on High (because Hudson just learned to sing the Gloria's this week and it is unspeakably cute)
18. Travel at Christmas or stay home? home, then maybe a little travel
19. Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer? Dasher and Dancer and Comet and Blitzen, Rudolph, Prancer, Cupid?, Donner?

20. Angel on the tree top or a star? We have a bow-ish kind of thing

21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? morning
22. Most annoying thing about this time of the year? presents
23. Favorite ornament theme or color? I have some painted eggs that I got when I lived in Hungary that I think are really pretty
24. Favorite for Christmas dinner? I like the sweet potato thing my mom makes that is covered in pecans and brown sugar.
25. What do you want for Christmas this year? A free afternoon one Saturday each month to go see a movie or read a book or take a walk sans my little people. I'd also love a weekend away with the husband, but chances are slim that will happen before, oh, 2024.

God rest ye..

Merry and Kathy and Brenda and Laura and Wendy and Priscilla. These are the lovely, wise ladies in my Bible study group. Last night they not only provided me with a wonderful evening of scintillating conversation around a beautifully set table replete with delicious food, but those rapscallions actually turned a secret Santa exchange into an excuse to shower me with diapers and other gifts for our coming child. It was all very sneaky and hilarious. They had me convinced that I had missed the email about the secret Santa business and while I was in the bathroom contemplating how much of a heel I was going to feel like as they all exchanged their scented candles and giant Toblerones, they waited with their cameras and their enormous bounty of diapers for me to emerge. It was like an extremely generous pack of paparazzi. It was splendid. I feel blessed beyond measure to know each of them.

Who mourn in lonely exile here

Clearly I've moved on from titles to lyrics. Sorry Mrs. Littlefield. We met a British family yesterday who are in Houston for a few weeks to visit some of the churches who support their work with Mission Aviation Fellowship in Uganda. There's nothing like a conversation about the turmoil in Africa to make you thankful for the stability (political and otherwise) that we have here. And Uganda is actually one of the more stable African countries, comparatively speaking. The mother, Emma, told me that many Ugandans were amazed at how peaceful the American presidential election was. They were astonished that John McCain graciously accepted defeat and the country just moved on. In most African elections there is significant bloodshed before, during, and after elections, and there is rarely anything remotely resembling legitimacy when it comes to outcomes. How debilitating that must feel to be caught in that futility. If only there were easy solutions and not just the same seemingly intractable problems. Why don't we all get right on that.

I'm about to make some peppermint brownies and ginger cookies for a Christmas gathering with my Bible study ladies tonight. Absolutely no lonely exile when I'm with that group. Though we've had a fair amount of mourning.

to ransom captive Israel

Well, I went and ruined my perfect attendance at the December Blog Challenge. It is really hard to blog every day. On our way to church we pass a new strip mall and most of the upper floor is taken up with a Krav Maga studio. Do you know what that means? It's the specialized form of self defense utilized by the Israeli army. And, apparently, the next new exercise craze. So put away your gentle pilates and your yoga mat and get ready to beat up on somebody. I find it kind of intriguing. Perhaps when I am no longer great with child I'll go try it out. I was in Israel for a couple of weeks back in the late 90's and I have to say that those Israeli soldiers did make me feel oddly safe. Though it could've been more about the AK-47 they had casually flung across their backs than any mastery of Krav Maga they possessed. It was odd seeing these 18 year old boys and girls in their Abercrombie and Fitch (or whatever the hip, Middle Eastern equivalent was) just waiting in line at the kosher McDonalds with this enormous weapon at the ready. I had my first falafel in Israel. And pita and hummus. Plus, you know, walked in the footsteps of Jesus and stuff. I wonder what Jesus would think about Krav Maga.

What Child is This

We were out for a little walk and Harper walked over to some stairs, sat on the bottom one, and attempted a forlorn expression.
me: What are you doing, Harper?
she: I'm not Harper. I'm another little girl just sitting on the steps waiting for my Mommy to get home from work.
Ah, yes. That green, green grass on the other side of the fence.

When I went to get Hudson up from his nap this afternoon he was all smiley and he proclaimed, with exuberance, "PUPPIES!" then, "DADDY!" which about sums up the two joys of his life these days.

Do you think it's unrealistic of me to think that the kids will use the play kitchen they are getting for Christmas to actually begin preparing their own food?

Waltz of the Sugarplum Fairy

I couldn't think of another Christmas song about food. I just brought home and indulged in some Haagen Dazs Limited Edition Peppermint Bark ice cream. Oh, my. We already had peppermint Bluebell in the freezer but this is far, far superior. Although I'm now chilled. Would it be wrong to have hot chocolate after ice cream?

Tender Tennessee Christmas

Is a Christmas song that should have stayed in Amy Grant's living room, where I'm assuming it originated. It's just silly. Two different radio stations in Houston are playing all Christmas music, all the time, and this means every vanity Christmas song ever written gets airplay. I don't like songs that try to speculate about how Joseph or Mary or Jesus or the sheep or the manger might have felt about the whole God intersecting time and space thing. Unless your name is Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John, AND you were divinely inspired 2,000 years ago, keep your musings in your journal and don't try to set them to a jazzy beat.

For the third time in 4 1/2 years of marriage, we again have a baby crib in our bedroom. There isn't room in the closet this time. The husband is a magician when it comes to arranging furniture.

For the first time in 4 1/2 years of marriage, we have a Christmas tree. It's little and has white lights. The ornamentation is a work in progress. I find myself greatly inspired by the Jesse Tree over at Chrys and Mike's blog. A project for next year, hopefully.

Here is the baby boy, who has no idea what that nice, expanding perch on my tummy is going to mean for him in seven weeks.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

It is indeed snowing just a tiny bit in Houston. Snow showers, they call it. We have our heater on for only the second time. I do not like using the heater because I don't like how artificial and dry it makes the air seem. I also don't particularly like air conditioning because I think it's unnatural and uncomfortable to be so cold inside when it's so hot outside. I realize this makes me very odd. It's also meant big marriage compromises because men seem to prefer the air to be around 58 degrees Fahrenheit inside when it is hot outside.

Harper has always been very attentive to her stuffed dog, whose name started out as Wadsworth and who has since been renamed, and this list is in no way definitive: Jeff, Joshua, Toby, Millie, Sasha, Maddie, Chanel, Hank, Dada, Gracie, Levi, and today, Mimi. Jeff was in homage to her then-favorite Wiggle (the Wiggles fell very far out of her favor around 18 months ago when she got terribly frightened by the pirate, Captain Feathersword), Joshua was the husband's beloved childhood dog, and the others are dogs we meet out and about that particularly strike her fancy. Her attentions have become increasingly maternal (some might use the word 'smothering') the past month or so. She also hasn't mentioned the puppy in her tummy in awhile which might mean that she has actually given imaginary birth after an extremely uneventful labor. Today Mimi is diapered, pajama-ed (these were stolen from the poor Cabbage Patch baby who is tragically neglected), bootied, pantied, and, after I found it in the bottom of the laundry basket, encased in the little knit hat that was on Harper's head when she got back to me from her first bath at the hospital. When I was tucking her in just now, the hat slipped off and Harper asked if I could fix it. I tried just perching it on top of Mimi's ears but Harper insisted that it be pulled down to entirely cover her face. She looks kind of like a hostage. Or a bank robbing dog in a baby disguise.

The Friendly Beasts

Hudson noticed that he had not been featured in a long while. His hair grows increasingly fluffy. We have a new computer and while it is so fast and efficient it makes me almost dizzy, it changed the way I find pictures and we all know that Learning New Computer Skills is not a strength of mine. Along with his tricycle attempts, Hudson has also developed a deep and almost primal need. To Dance. Christmas carols, the Nutcracker, the theme song to "Blue's Clues", Daddy on the guitar--he finds them all irresistible. He takes it extremely seriously. His particular choreography involves very deep knee bending, stomping, an occasional stomp/spin combination move and a grimace. He would prefer that you not watch him and if he catches you enjoying his stylings, he will push out his bottom lip, take a final, almost careless stomp, and cease.

Yesterday morning I looked at my two kids enjoying breakfast in their footy pajamas and it seems as though it is all a dream, this sweet life.

Today we went to visit the horses at the Houston Police Department stables. They were a lively bunch and Mrs. B and I made the decision that the carrots and apples we brought were best handed to the friendly beasts via our hands and not the four other eager sets of tiny hands we had brought along. We assured the kids that tossing carrots into the corral and putting pieces of apple into the feeding buckets was equally as fun as having the horses snatch them directly from their hands. Harper decided on the way home that when she gets to be six she will be able to hold her fingers still even if there is a horse tickling her palm with his big horsey mouth.

Go, Tell It On the Mountain!

Well, the December Blog Challenge, Revised, has begun. The goal is to blog every day for the next two weeks and use Christmas carol titles for each post.

We seemed to have settled on a name over the weekend:

She will be called Helena Jane and we will pronounce it HuhLAYnuh and probably call her Lanie. We will not be dismayed if it gets pronounced HELL-in-uh (I think that's how my friends in England might say it) or Huh-LEE-nuh, which is apparently how it gets pronounced in Nederland, Texas, according to my mother. So, there. She is getting an H after all.

Harper got an actual Big Girl Bed at Ikea this weekend. She is thrilled. We got some really cute (and cheap) bedding as well. Sheets, duvet cover AND duvet all for around $40. Take that Pottery Barn Kids. Ikea has figured very prominently in our design scheme since we moved to Houston 4 years ago and have lived on one salary. Though I'm pretty sure we'd still shop there even if we could buy expensive things. The thought of heavy, expensive furniture has always stressed me out. It seems restrictive somehow. As though if you decided to up and move to Argentina or Alberta or Albania it would just be so cumbersome and back-breaking to transplant. I knew this girl Caroline at A&M and when she packed up her dorm room to go home at the end of each semester, if there was stuff she couldn't fit into her tiny car, she would give it away, reasoning that if it wouldn't fit, she probably didn't need it. That's just good. I wonder what she'd say if she could see our minivan packed for just a few days at my parents' house.

Ten for Tuesday

I stole this from Robin. There are probably rules of which I'm not aware, but my version is just going to be a list of ten things that pass as an actual post.

1. It's beautiful weather here in Houston today--clear and coldish and autumnal.
2. I'm supposed to be going to the doctor every two weeks now and I find this very vexing.
3. Because each appointment takes around 2 hours, some of which is travel time and parking time, and some of which is spent waiting to be asked the same pleasant questions they asked at the last appointment. To which my answer is always no. I am, however, exceedingly thankful for uncomplicated pregnancies. I just think I should be allowed, in spite of my Advanced Maternal Age, to go to the doctor only when there is an actual need. When one is in active labor, for example.
4. I read a novel titled Home while at my parents' for Thanksgiving. If you ever think about writing your very own novel, Marilynne Robinson will either inspire you to be better at it, or, as is probably the case with me, her writing will convince you that if it's already being done this well, why sully it up with your own paltry effort.
5. On that note of self-pity, I have just received in the post a series of lectures from The Teaching Company titled, "Building Great Sentences: Exploring the Writer's Craft." A fellow named Brooks Landon, who teaches (with Marilynne Robinson, incidentally) at the the University of Iowa's famed writing workshop is going to lecture me on things like The Riddle of Prose Rhythm and Prefab Patterns for Suspense. I'm extremely excited to start.
6. This afternoon, the Daddy accompanied us to the park, to our delight, and on the way home Harper exclaimed, "Daddy, I found an idea!" which I thought was a pretty cute take on the more conventional having of ideas. Perhaps she's already watched Prefab Patterns for Suspense. The idea she found had to do with officially changing her name to Lightning Harper Anne.
7. The baby still has no name, though not from lack of input. Some people seem to feel we started the alliteration business and we should persevere lest #3 feel left out. Because clearly having names that start with H has bonded Harper to Hudson in a way she never would have experienced otherwise.
8. Your child can listen to Tchaikovsky for weeks and weeks and still tell you, that actually, her favorite song in the world is "I Was Made To Love You" by Toby Mac, Christian rapper. No offense to Mr. Mac, whose song she has heard maybe twice on the radio, and is indeed snazzy, but it's like that post I wrote last year about how you can take your kid to the Louvre and whatever, but they'd still rather look at the inflatable Frosty the Snowman snowglobe in the yard down the street.
9. I watched "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" last week. For a movie about a guy who has a stroke at 42 and is utterly paralyzed and able to communicate by flickering his one unaffected eyelid, it is oddly uplifting. I think it's just good to get a vivid reminder to be daily and deeply thankful for bodies that are whole and work as they should.
10. On Monday I shall again embark on Jamie's December Blog Challenge, Abridged.

Beatrix, not Harry

Yesterday at the park Harper was sitting in this little jeep structure with two girls who were probably around 8. They were in the front driving and Harper was in the back sorting the collection of treasures she had acquired since we had arrived--an empty snack bag filled with mulch, a rock, and a piece of string. Hudson and I were just above her walking back and forth across a little bridge and I could hear Harper talking but couldn't really tell what she was saying. The two girls got up, and as they galloped over to the swings I heard one of them say, "Did you hear what that little girl just said? She said..(she lowered her voice and whispered to the other one, much to my dismay)" to which the other girl responded, "She's barely bigger than a baby--and she said THAT!!" Well, you can imagine my curiosity. I decided to go directly to the source, and asked Harper to come over. She gathered up her things. "Hi there, little one. Um hey, Mommy was just wondering what you said to the big girls just now." Blank stare. "The big girls who were driving the jeep? Did you say something to them?" She can see that it's clearly important to me that she remember, and she is trying. "Were you telling them a story, maybe?" Aha. Now we're getting somewhere. "I said, 'Stop, thief!'" she said. This is her friend Izzy's favorite line to shout when she and Harper are playing chase. It's what Mr. McGregor says to Peter Rabbit when he catches him eating the radishes and French beans in the garden. And I'm guessing that with Harper's speech issues, and the fact that it was completely out of context, it probably had sounded somewhat profane. I deliberated following the girls and trying to clear things up, but decided that would probably cement the incident into their brains. Just goes to show the importance of shared context. If she had said it to Izzy, there would have been, instead of scandal, an imaginary throwing down of lettuces, and an energetic scamper around the cucumber frames.

If you're ever wondering how to get two hungry kids to stop whining while they are waiting for dinner to be ready, Pregnant Mommy Doing Ballet works wonders around here. We've been enjoying The Nutcracker Suite. Hudson thinks I'm the most elegant Sugarplum Fairy he has ever seen. Harper is looking forward to going to an actual performance in a few weeks and I have yet to convince her that she is only going to be in the audience and will not be up on stage in a starring role.

Who ARE you people??

A few mornings ago I had just asked Harper to clean up the impressive array of toys and activities she'd managed to strew throughout the entire apartment. Instead of heeding my request she walked over to the front door, paused, turned around and said, "I'm just coming back from a walk. I don't know you." And then, rather imperiously, "You need to clean up your house!" I joined her in her little charade and speculated that she must be the little girl, whom I'd never seen before, of course, whom I had hired to come and clean up my house. "No," she replied vaguely, "I am not that little girl." Then the familial amnesia continued today when she composed a charming ditty on her keyboard that went a little something like this:

"Hudson is not my brudder. I do not know him. I do not love him.."
The melody was rather bouncy and light so that Hudson, who was sitting next to her on the couch at the time, was actually chortling with glee, probably thinking it was a love song. Harper and I spent several minutes post-prayer, pre-sleep tonight discussing how she might make tomorrow's lyrics a little more edifying. We'll see how that goes. Speaking of unedifying lyrics, when I'm too lazy to put in a cd while we're driving we will listen to the Christian radio station. It's not all cringe-inducing (and some of it is good) but I heard a song sometime last week that actually had "steeple-people" as a recurring rhyme theme. I am incredulous that someone went through an actual song writing Process and that's all they could come up with. Let's be better than that, shall we? If this is your favorite song, or if, as I'm sure is the case, the songwriter himself is a reader of this enormously popular blog, I kind of apologize. I've been reading New Yorker articles to branch out, and boy howdy, are they a smug and bitter bunch up there in the big city. I actually winced while reading a satire piece a few days ago. I felt bludgeoned.

How about a picture instead? The new help finally decided she wasn't above a little swiffering:

I'm Darrell. And this is my other brother Darrell.

Does anyone remember that? It was on the Bob Newhart show a very long time ago. While all of you cool kids were watching "Dukes of Hazzard" I was apparently soaking in the gentle humor and quirky inhabitants of a Vermont bed and breakfast. Anyway, Harper has decided that the new baby should be named Harper Anne. I explained to her that we really like this name. That, in fact, we like it so very much that we gave it to her when she was born. At first she didn't really see why she and the baby couldn't share the name, then she conceded that it might get a tad confusing. Her solution? She will give 'Harper Anne' to the baby and she herself will take on a new name. And that name will be LIGHTNING. Lightning has also decided that she is going to be a mother. My mom had picked her up and commented that she felt heavier than last time. "It's because I have a puppy in my tummy," she replied casually. "And in a little while he is going to POP right out." She also shared her happy news with a complete stranger a few minutes later as we petted his little dog, whom, I think it's safe to assume, did not pop out of the tummy of a 3 year old named Lightning.

The kids and I have been at my parents' house for a week and it was so relaxing right up until a stomach virus set its course through, in order: my dad, my mom, Hudson, and me. The virulent little bug had already wreaked its havoc on my brother and his entire family the week before. Lightning remains unscathed. Here's a duck that really looks more like a penguin that she drew on the patio while she was waiting patiently for everyone to stop throwing up:
I tried to convince her that it was really more of a penguin but she was adamant that it was a duck. Yes, she is wearing mismatched pj's. Yes, she wore them for the entire day. No, I do not know how to interpret the hieroglyphic just under the penguinduck's beak.

It's funny because I really thought I wasn't going to get the virus. Because I had been fine all week. Then around 4 hours before the husband was due to show up and take me to my 20 year high school reunion, I had that little funny feeling of imminent reverse peristalsis. Not one to let a little vomit stand in my way of a fantastic party, we still went. My sweet friend Shelley, who has been my sweet friend since we were around 4, sat next to me most of the night to keep me company, even though her husband Mitchell treated me as though I had active TB. He kept the husband well entertained at a safe distance. The husband kept himself entertained by telling everyone within earshot that he was 12 when we graduated. He also told at least one person that we had met when I had been his babysitter. Every time I stood up for more than a few seconds I'd feel the need to swoon, but it was still a really good time. Even if I do go down as the Typhoid Mary of the PN-G Class of 1988 Reunion, it was so worth it. Here we are. You'll notice I'm a little peaked around the eyes. You'll also notice that I'm a little more pregnant. Almost 7 months worth.

gender. politics.

Hudson has learned that the best time to play with Harper's things is when she is napping. Which, sadly, is only happening about twice a week now. I had hoped she'd keep her nap until she was four (I know, I'm greedy) but it looks like I might have to be satisfied with 3 1/2. She will play quietly in her bed for a couple of hours though, so I'm technically not complaining. Anyway, one day last week when she was actually napping, Hudson woke up first and decided that he really wanted to wear Harper's pink wedge flip-flops.
He found the wedge a little steep for walking and his toes refused to embrace the necessary position, as you can see in the photo. Even so, he kept at it for a good 20 minutes. The whole episode was interesting to me because just that morning I'd had a great conversation with my dear friend Mrs. B (who, incidentally, is always good for fabulous conversation amidst the mothering. Just this morning she brought up Noam Chomsky! at the playground!) about gender roles and how much of it is conditioned versus innate. I've done lots of thinking about how we think about femininity and masculinity, and how much of that is God-governed as opposed to societal. Not much, I'm afraid. As parents, you are solely responsible for shaping your children's aesthetic. You are the filter. It's not that difficult to decide which sentiments are the correct ones to inculcate. But there's the figuring out how your kids are truly different in their innate uniqueness and how to make that part of their process towards glorifying and enjoying God forever. The hard part comes with the actual practice, which must be carried out in the actual world. The world of Bratz dolls and Hannah Dakota and t-shirts like the one I saw at the mall last week that read : "I HATE school but I LOVE boys!" So, I'll let you know when I've got it all figured out. Sometime next week, I'm sure.

I've seen high school students debate better than our two presidential contenders. I'll watch again on Wednesday night but it will pain me and make it harder for me to vote and not easier. Time constraints are to our immense detriment when it comes to finding out the measure of a man. The candidates are so afraid of being misunderstood or misrepresented that they end up saying nothing at all that isn't riddled with cliches or tired accusations. We are, in our laziness, at the whim of the media for whom the sound bite is their corporate bread and butter. Stale bread and rancid butter.

Today at the pool we met a lady from Scotland and Harper told her she was pretty sure that several of the lizards we'd seen on our walk over had come from Scotland. Hudson, meanwhile, was carefully using his yellow shovel to scoop water into a bucket which he then poured into another bucket, which he then poured on himself. Then he would start over. He was dismayed to leave the job unfinished when it was time to go.

The finer things

Today on our way to the park, Harper saw a sporty little convertible Mercedes and she gasped and said, "Oh Mommy! Look at that fast car--is that a RACE car?" I told her that technically it was not but that it probably was quite speedy. "I WANT that convertible Mercedes, Mommy!" So I told her that when she got to be a big and could buy her own car she was more than welcome to chose whatever car she wished. She pondered that for a minute and said, "When I get to be big I WILL buy a Mercedes with a convertible." Then a pause. "And I will climb trees."

Drowning in a drop

Harper hasn't been fond of the camera lately, but for some reason she was amenable to this shot:
This is a more typical response:
It's downright surly.
We briefly had another pet last week. It was a tiny roly-poly and it spent the morning crawling all over Harper's arm and she decided that it was the key to all happiness and contentment that the roly-poly join us later at the zoo. So I pulled out our makeshift bug catcher (a plastic leftover container with some air holes punched in the lid) and in went Tiny Roly-Poly Friend and an ivy leaf. As an afterthought I decided to put a couple of drops of water in since I certainly didn't want Tiny Roly-Poly Friend to die of thirst at the zoo. Hm. Make note, all you amateur entymologists: Tiny Roly-Poly Friends Don't Need Water. They will roll into a ball and roll right into said drop of water. They will drown. Before you even get to the zoo and show them the elephants. I tried explaining to Tiny Roly-Poly Friend that it was only a drop and that if he hadn't panicked and stayed all rolled up he would have realized this and crawled right out of the drop and right on to the ivy leaf. Alas. He was beyond hearing. Harper, as is her inclination, refused to believe that he was really and truly dead and insisted on putting him outside to "dry out" when we got home. Feel free to personalize the metaphor. Unfurl all ye who seem to drown!! It isn't the ocean, more than likely. Maybe it's just a drop.

I have a theory that preachers secretly love natural disasters because there are so many metaphors to be gained from them. I don't mind it as long as they don't get too thick. I am loathe to criticize the direct anecdote, even if they are cheesy, because they are so much better than stories that start off, "A man once said..." or "It was once told that..." Seriously, if the scriptures aren't vivid enough to you that you don't find daily, if not hourly, personal, first-person application that you can use to illustrate a point on Sunday morning, then you shouldn't be teaching other people. Period. There. In the unlikely event that I would ever get a chance to voice my views to a bunch of folks Training For The Paid Ministry, this is what I would tell them. Don't use passive voice. "Saturday when I was buying Hudson a pair of shoes on sale at R.E.I....." is a much better introduction to a point than, "It was once told that..." And for the love of all that is foot-noted, never introduce a quote by saying, "A man once said.." There's just no excuse for it. Find out who said it and tell me. And if Google attributes it to Mark Twain and Warren Buffet, go with Mark Twain. And if Google attributes it to more than, say, four different people, that probably means it's trite. SO don't use it at all. Think of something original to say. Whew. Class dismissed.

Speaking of class, my husband was on campus on his way to teach one of his classes a couple of days ago and a student he passed asked him, "Is there a play?" He called to tell me and I immediately asked him what he was wearing (the husband, not the student). "Blue pin-striped suit, white shirt...yellow bow-tie." The husband loves the bow-ties. He's a snazzy dresser. Apparently to the point of looking theatrical.

Speaking of college campuses, I have decided something quite radical. Are you ready? (caveat #1: if you have a liberal arts degree and are easily offended, STOP READING NOW. caveat #2: the husband and I have, between us, undergrad degrees in English and Biblical studies, and graduate degrees in philosophical theology and law). I have decided that I do not care if my children go to college. That's right. You read that correctly. I want my kids to find a fulfilling vocation through which they can be useful, be joyful, and earn a living wage, regardless of the economy. If college is necessary to enhance their usefulness in their chosen vocation, I will support it. But if my son comes to me when he is 18 and tells me he wants to major in philosophy, I will tell him he must first apprentice as a pipe-fitter or electrician so that he can earn a wage while he pursues philosophy. Or the drums. Or poetry. I think it's a little trickier with girls. So much of what they will need to know I need to teach them, and I have lots of learning to do. Or I'll encourage them to be nurses. Because it is so very useful. And so like Jesus to go around healing people physically. Plus the pay is great. There is lots left for me to hash out, I realize. I just know that I spent four years at college and had NOT ONE useful skill when I graduated. I don't count the ability to find obscure thematic elements in Mansfield Park as a useful skill, you see. I watch home improvement shows and am amazed that people know how to wire a house. Or sew their own curtains. Or make sure toilets flush properly. Ok, the kids are up from their naps and we are going swimming, because these are the years they just get to play. I'll rant more on this topic later, I'm sure.

When you give a girl an action figure...

This is what she will do with it:She will make sure the firemen (which actually don't belong to us--they live at my parents' but hitched a ride home with us last time we visited) are tucked in, nice and cozy, and that they have some cars to choose from in case they wake up and fancy a spin around the fire station.

Hm, what else should I write about today? I got a new pair of maternity jeans. Then I went to Target. Bought some shampoo. And conditioner. Big thing of toilet paper. On sale. Toothpaste... Oh! Yes. The ultrasound. Everything looks great. And female. So Harper's hopes that there might be a puppy in there are officially dashed.

Doc Hudson

Hudson tried on one of Daddy's bowties yesterday.
Harper has given Hudson a nickname. Dare we say a term of endearment? This morning they were in the kitchen trying to ride their tricycles (it is the only hard floor we have except for bathrooms and is, I'm sorry to say, not at all big enough for one, let alone two, tricycle riders) and I heard her saying, "Come on, Doc! You can do it!" Doc Hudson, for the uninitiated, is the car (voiced by Paul Newman) in the movie "Cars." She continued with the pleasantness for the rest of the morning until we got to the park, at which point she forgot all about "Doc" and words of encouragement and instead reverted to "No, Hudson! You can't laugh/play/swing with me."
I've been trying to decide since we got home which is more depressing: a park with no children, or a park full of children (and mothers) who all seem to already know each other. I'm leaning toward the latter. Because there were around 5 different playgroups at the park this morning and Harper spent the first 30 minutes or so running up to kids saying, "Would you like to play with me?" and getting blank stares in return. It could be the case that the kids were just perplexed by the formality of the invitation. I'm still figuring out what my role is supposed to be in this. Probably minimal. We do try to meet friends at the park when we can, it's just gotten a little harder since we moved. And I'm well aware that when I do have friends at the park I chat with them and may not always notice if there's a kid who doesn't belong to me trying to join in. But still. When you're pregnant and hormonal and watching your little girl run up to people with a big smile on her face only to be ignored, well, maybe you won't actually start crying in front of everyone at the park but you will certainly want to. And of course, the one child at the park who would have been overjoyed to play with her, she spurns because he is her little brother. So maybe this is her consequence. Yuck. And don't think I don't realize that this is just the beginning. I was reading a blog yesterday about a mom whose little guy came home from kindergarten and, when asked about new friends said something like, "I don't have any friends. They all say my drawings are stupid." I was weeping for this kid whom I do not even know.

On a much lighter (or heavier, literally speaking) note, here is picture of the pregnant lady at 21 weeks. The belly seems to be growing faster this time around, as I had been warned it would. For some reason I don't have many pictures of me pregnant with Harper or Hudson, so I'm trying to document the progress this time.

Safe. Sound.

We are home. We have electricity, plenty of food, cable, internet, and no damage to our apartment. It is almost an embarrassment of riches. We are pretty much back to normal in our little world, except for the fact that both kids have colds so we've been staying inside instead of enjoying the lovely cool weather. We got to see some (but alas, not all) of our good friends while in Dallas, which is always so very sweet.

Hudson is going through the verbal phase where he over-generalizes: all men are "Daddy", all animals (and even the legs on my mother-in-law's table) are "PUPPIES!" The Generalist, I've taken to calling him. As a pleasant coincidence, Harper is going through her Literalist phase. She finds the flagrant Daddying and puppying Absolutely Maddening. "NOHUDSON!! That is not our Daddy. Our Daddy is at work. That is Just A Guy,"or, "That is not a puppy, HUDSON!! That is a STEGOSAURUS!" She is determined to right all of these insidious wrongs. It's tiring work. Probably why she contracted the cold. She has, to be fair, also started pointing out buses to him when we are in the car because she knows he likes them. A glimmer of generosity.

I was supposed to have my 20-week ultrasound on Tuesday morning but had to reschedule because we were still in Dallas. Next Wednesday will bring tidings of gender. Yes, we will be sharing. No we have not decided on the name, though we have narrowed. We have middle names chosen. Jane and Jude. We don't think we're going with another 'H' this time, but reserve the right to change our minds. Hudson was almost Holden, but in the end I just couldn't saddle the boy with all of The Catcher in the Rye comparisons. The husband is still a big fan. I was really liking Jonas until the husband reminded me (because he's on the cutting edge of pop music) that people would probably think "Brothers" instead of "Salk". Emmeline is the only girl name we somewhat agree on, but he's not completely sold. That will have to be all for today. Hudson has awakened prematurely from his nap and is crying which means he will be even more congested and miserable. I shall intervene.

the cone of uncertainty

Would make a great title for a short story. I think it would be about ice cream. For those of you who don't live in Houston, it's what they were calling the trajectory Ike might or might not take in the days leading up to his (its?) ultimate land-fall. After deciding that we would "hunker down," (yet another humorous catch-phrase the local media just couldn't get enough of), we changed our (I'll confess that the husband was, as usual, more clear headed than I. He was SO right. ) minds Friday morning and headed for my mother-in-law's in Dallas. We realized that the roads were traffic-free this time around (it took us, I think, 9 hours to get here during the Rita evacuation) AND that living without electricity for even a couple of days just wouldn't be fun. So, we're thankful to be safe. We're thankful not to be eating canned goods warmed up on a camp stove.We're hearing worst case scenarios that it might be FOUR WEEKS before Houston gets power back, at which point the salmon I left in my freezer will certainly be holding all of West Houston hostage.

We just went to Galveston for the day last Saturday. The weather was glorious and cool. Harper was brave this time and went out really far in the water with Daddy. She got her first sunburn because I wasn't vigilant enough with the sunblock reapplication. Hudson and I sat under an umbrella and played in the sand. He preferred, again, to keep his distance from the water, though he just whimpered instead of crying this time when I tried to get him to go closer. We have watched the news footage in amazement, saying to each other, "But we were just there.." as if that somehow negates the possibility of such destruction. In case any of us had forgotten what omnipotence looks like, it seems that the ocean surging over our sadly insufficient boundaries might be a good place to start.

three is the new two

A year or so ago I got a couple of free issues of a magazine called Cookie. It's a mommy magazine for mommies who shop at Bergdorf Goodman and whose Big Conflicts center around things like whether or not to have a nanny or a "manny" for their young sons. I found it pretty entertaining. One article I specifically remember chronicled a trend among the young and affluent to have at least three kids because it was a symbol of financial bounty. It mainly detailed the phenomenon in large metropolitan areas where, apparently, kids are SOO expensive because of all the private schools and nannies and the needing of extra space in one's upper East side apartment. It's interesting to me that while several of my friends have two kids with no plans for more, the majority of my circle, both childhood friends and newer acquisitions, have at least three, or four, or five. We tend to shop at Target instead of Barney's. Most of us don't have nannies. Or mannies. And while we're all somewhere along the middle class spectrum, I don't think any of us sees the kids we have (or will have) beyond two as any sort of hallmark of financial success. Growing up, my parents had a fairly large group of friends, all of whom, with one exception, had two kids. The only big families I can remember at school were Mormon. Even the Catholic families had three at the most. I think my parents and their friends find our choices somewhat puzzling, even irresponsible maybe. It was instructive for me, a few months back, to read a fascinating discussion/debate about this issue (from a decidedly Christian perspective) over at Amy's Humble Musings. I honestly had never really formed strong opinions about how many kids I wanted to have. And we still haven't. I think getting married somewhat late (I was 33) made me apprehensive to make broad proclamations about something that is clearly outside of my control. I had seen so many friends struggle with infertility that pregnancy seemed veiled in this longing with no guarantee of it ever actually happening. I have, as it turns out, been pregnant and/or nursing for all but the first three months of marriage. And pregnancy IS always somewhat miraculous. And it has been amazing. And unexpected. And tiring. And my poor husband has at times been neglected because he (usually) doesn't cry when he is not fed on time and he is really good at dressing himself. But I know neither of us would do it differently. Clearly at some point in the near future, I will be at the end of biologic child bearing. But then there is the fact that every time I read or hear about friends (or strangers, for that matter) who have adopted, I weep with the beautiful metaphorical God-ness of it, and something in me wants to be a part of that deeply as well. So. There you have it. For those who have asked, or simply wondered, what our plans are. I wish Harper were old enough to read this. When we talk about the new baby she has repeatedly responded, always in a slow, deliberate way because we are clearly missing it, "But we already HAVE a baby."

I think I needed to write this today because I had a day fraught with regret and self-doubt yesterday. I let Hudson fall off of a tall bridge at the playground and he was terrified and had dirt and pine needles in his eyes and his nose and his mouth and his face is all scraped up. He is, thankfully and rather miraculously, intact. He'd gone across it probably five times without incident and even though I was right there, he managed to trip and fall just out of my reach. Now there's a metaphor for you. It is, I imagine, some semblance of what Sarah Palin and her husband are feeling these days. Only I get slightly less media coverage.Here he is at two weeks. Much easier to keep him safe then.

Invasion of privacy

Harper: Where are you going, Mommy?

me: To the bathroom, Harper.

Harper: Poo-poo or tee-tee?

the shirt still fits

July 2006:

And today:

Party of five.
January 31, 2009.

The Big Sister has stated, for the record, that she would prefer a baby PUPPY this time around.

party in back

I wish I could take better pictures. But can you see what's going on here?

Excepting the two dread locks we've had to snip off this month, the bird dog has never had a haircut. We figure if it starts to bother him we'll do something about it, but the front is surprisingly well-behaved.

It makes me sad that I can't take better pictures. Have you seen Robin's blog? And Margie's? And Hilary's? And Chrys'? And Bethany's? And Ari's (people PAY her to take pictures!) They are all over there in my favorites. It's inspiring I tell you. Artistry.

I decided to stop reading One Hundred Years of Solitude after 200 pages. I rarely don't finish a book but it was oppressive and strange and I was having to force myself, which really defeats the purpose of recreational reading. I was validated when the other couple of girls who were reading it with me had made the same decision. Time is short, art is long. That's Longfellow I think. I picked up The Bell Jar last week and read it again. It's depressing, which, you know, isn't particularly surprising considering that even though it's supposed to be fiction, it is an almost totally autobiographical account of Sylvia Plath's suicidal descent. I think it's cheating to call a book fiction when all you do is change everyone's name and have a few composite characters. To her credit, she did originally publish it under a pseudonym to protect all involved. Then after she died it was republished under her real name. It always feels a little invasive to read books that are published after the author dies. John Kennedy Toole's mom found the manuscript of Confederacy of Dunces in his desk after he killed himself (writing is a happy, happy profession) and, though she had no real understanding of its merits, had the sense to send it to someone who did. Walker Percy, if I remember correctly. Anyway, now I am soothing myself with some Jane Austen. I wish there were more than six. Though I never seem to get tired of rereading them.

Well, it was Tuesday so I felt I really should post. That should be enough.

Glory days

We let Harper stay up a little past her bedtime to watch gymnastics a couple of nights ago. She has been talking about it for weeks so I found her response a little underwhelming actually. She watched the first floor exercise intently and, about halfway through it said, "They don't do gymnastics like I do gymnastics." I think what she meant is that most of "her" gymnastics is fairly limited to the ground, while theirs is mostly airborne. She went on, with a nonchalant air: "I used to do it like that, a long time ago." The husband and I barely contained our glee. "When did you do it like that, Harper?" he queried. She took a nice long pause, clearly searching the time-space continuum for that exact moment when she had actually been able to do a full twisting double back somersault into a punch front. "I did it like that," she finally explained patiently, "before Hudson was very tiny." Ohhh, way back then. She lost interest after about 15 minutes, which meant that I had to miss an entire rotation while I read her bedtime stories. I am TOTALLY LOVING the Olympics. Staying up way too late, weeping during national anthems (not just ours either--though I found Japan's rather uninspiring), pumping my fist all by myself (I mean SERIOUSLY did anyone see the ending of the 400 m freestyle relay?? Come ON. Lezak was SUPER human). I think I have mentioned before the rather ambivalent feelings I have toward Sport in general, but I am a sucker for this stuff.

The husband and I got to have a date Friday night so we missed the opening ceremony. I didn't care very much. We went to see "The Dark Knight." It was intense. It should really be titled "The REALLY, REALLY Dark Knight." I closed my eyes quite a bit because even the stylized violence was too much for me. But I thought it was a really well done movie. All of the press about Heath Ledger's performance is merited--he really is so bizarre and fascinating to watch.

So I saw a bumper sticker on Friday that made me think about the presidential election. It read:

CATS NOT KIDS

Now, here's the thing. Why is this lady not just okay with liking her cats? Why does she need to proclaim (and it really is a proclamation when you put it on your car) that not only does she choose to have cats, but she chooses to disparage having kids. I mean if you love something or someone, by all means extol its virtues, but why does something else have to be put down in the process? SO. This illustrates why I loathe negative campaigns. Why can't we just want to vote FOR someone because they have the positive attributes (or at least some of them) that we're looking for, instead of voting AGAINST someone who frightens us? Three long months until election day and I'm tired already.

Mr. Bean

I heard Hudson using his higher than normal pitched voice in the kitchen. He only uses this special voice when there are animals or insects to converse with so I was a little leery at what I might find. He was squatting down having a very animated discussion with an errant coffee bean that had fallen under the counter. He mistook it, I suppose, for a little bug friend. (The coffee bean, incidentally, came from Nicaragua, where our church has developed a relationship with some coffee farmers from whom they buy the beans directly. Fair trade at its most basic.) Here is the boy with Harper's new frog (with which, most surprisingly, she has been incredibly generous) wearing his new frog pj's:
In other Animal Related News, we had, when we first moved into the new place, a veritable tribe of rolly-pollies (sp?) roaming around. Most of them have moved out but there's one unfortunate little fellow, long dead, who has been laying on his back for several weeks right at the baseboard behind the rocking chair in Hudson's room. I don't know why I didn't dispose of him when I first noticed. The same reason I still haven't unpacked 75% of my closet, I suppose. Anyway, Harper discovered Dead Rolly Polly, only she refuses to believe that he is, in fact, dead. She has thought of all sorts of amusements and enticements to raise him from his eternal repose. She tries to persuade him to hop on the rocking horse for a wild ride. She leaves cars and books nearby. It's very sweet and more than a little sad.

Is anyone else a little creeped out by the enormous, tumor-like mass of seeds inside of bell peppers? We like bell peppers around here (red, orange, and yellow only--the green ones only the husband enjoys) but every time I cut one open I am a little frightened. What if the Bible verse said "faith like a bell pepper seed mass" instead of mustard seed? We'd all be in trouble.

I was an inveterate speeder most of my life. I was an appallingly bad driver in high school (passed the driving test on the THIRD try) but did not let that stop me from whizzing around at excessive speeds in my V-8 Camaro (I know, it's like a John Hughes movie). Then in college I got approximately 27 speeding tickets a year because for some reason it seemed terribly important to cut 15 minutes off of my drive time from Port Neches to College Station. I got a little better when I had to start paying for my own tickets and defensive driving, but I still sped, mostly because I was always running late to something. This changed when I had kids. Now I usually drive a little under the posted speed limit and, since I read in a Wall Street Journal article that I could save anywhere from 24 to 84 cents per gallon, I don't drive over 60 on the highway. This, it turns out, makes some other drivers Extremely Frustrated. I stay in the far right lane (feeling smug that instead of complaining about High Gas Prices!! I am actually doing something to alleviate part of the problem) and they fly past shaking their heads and their fists.

Latest cable indulgence: Jon and Kate Plus 8. This couple had twins then sextuplets, then they invited a camera crew to film their days. It's highly entertaining. Especially considering that tonight's network offerings included Wipeout!, Celebrity Family Feud, and I Survived a Japanese Game Show. Seriously? What poor sap had to call the advertisers on those gems?

magical realism

I just started reading One Hundred Years of Solitude with the book club girls. Mr. Marquez utilized something called magical realism, which translates into everything sort of going along normally and then, for example, some kids will ride by the window on a magic carpet that the gypsies brought to town. I also have an A.W. Tozer collection on my nightstand. It's been a long time since I've read anything of his, but I seem to remember that he writes in a realm of magical realism as well. The Abolition of Man is a bit of a trudge. I need to read the first section again to cement it before I move on.

Produce most likely to break your heart? The avocado. I don't like them AT ALL (I think it's the texture) but everyone else in my family strenuously disagrees. So I pick up approximately 817 different avocados before eventually purchasing two (at $2.49 each for organic) that feel exactly as they should, supposedly. Then I plan an entire evening meal around them only to cut them open and find an oily, rotting mess. Or sometimes, they will look fine when you first cut them open so you will begin to feed them to your children but then your child who is old enough to discern when something isn't quite right will say, "Mommy, the avocado tastes funny," only by then you've already shoveled half of it into your other child's mouth and then he will have terrible, unspeakable diapers for two entire days and nights.

Have you ever wondered why you meet people named Christian but never anyone named Muslim? Or Jew. Or Hindu. Or B'hai. Interesting, no?

I told Harper she was no longer allowed to use the Stinky Defense as a reason to steer clear of Hudson. Yesterday she was working on something at the kitchen table and he wandered over within a couple of feet and her face contorted and she started making this coughing, gasping sound. What's the problem? I ask. "I want my NOSE.. PROTECTED!!!" she wailed, as if an actual skunk had just sprayed his skunkness directly into her nasal canals. Again, I state wearily for the record: there was no offending smell emanating at that particular moment.

widdle wizard

You'll notice we've been spending lots of time at my parents' lately. Harper and Hudson LOVE their grandparents and I love that their house provides a fantastic, shaded backyard replete with a swing, an inflatable baby pool, a slip-n-slide AND wildlife galore. One morning a tiny lizard wandered in and tried to take a shower with me so we rounded him up and kept him in this little bug holder for the rest of the day. Harper had made lots of plans for her future with her widdle wizard but handled it really well when I told her we'd have to set him free to go find his mommy and brothers and sisters. Hudson summoned up his every last ounce of Brave and got in the pool with Grandfather close at hand.
We haven't called the Olympic Swimming Committee Scouting Team just yet, but perhaps there is a glimmer of hope.

I had an idea once back in the day when I had lots of time and fairly discretionary income that I might take a few months off and outfit some sort of vehicle (a la Mr. Steinbeck in the aforementioned Travels with Charley) in which I'd travel across the country taking photos of the stuff churches put on their signs out front. Then the plan was to go inside the church and ask the first person I met a simple question. Something along the lines of, "Can you tell me why I should believe in Jesus?" My hope was that the person would actually give me a real answer from personal experience and not try to usher me into the pastor's office. I remembered my little plan as I was driving out of Port Arthur and spotted a sign that was rather shocking. My guess would be that whoever was in charge of Clever Sign Messages at this little church actually had no idea that there was a double entendre worthy of 1970's era Richard Pryor embedded in what they probably thought was just a funny little saying. I just can't write it here on this family friendly blog but instead I'll give you one from my parents' church a few months back:

BE YE FISHERS OF MEN....
You catch 'em, He'll clean 'em!

Comment tally (vous?)

I just got back from a few internet free days at the grandparents only to realize that blogspot decided, apparently, that the last post wouldn't be commented upon. Perhaps benevolent blogspot, in all its prescience, was trying to save me from some vitriol. If you wanted to comment, do it here, and we'll give you credit on the last post. If not, there's a real post coming tomorrow.

Praise, praise the Fear

When Harper likes something, she really really likes it for a long time. Like pumpkins. And "All Creatures of Our God and King." She was singing with gusto in the backseat yesterday and got to the line, "Praise, praise the Father! Praise the Son! Praise, praise the Spirit, three in one!" only she sang it "Praise, praise the Fear it's green and white!!" I think I'll keep letting her sing it that way. I'm not quite ready to attempt to explain the trinity.

Speaking of green, I finally finished Animal, Vegetable, Miracle a few weeks ago. It definitely made me want to try to buy foods that are grown locally, and to eat foods in their proper season. (those apples you can get now? likely from a different hemisphere) It will also really make you want a garden. Not an option for us at the moment, but a goal for Someday. The most depressing thing I discovered is that the bananas that my kids eat (pretty much every single day) , though they only cost me around 70 cents a pound, actually cost around $7 million dollars to get from whatever Central American country they were grown in to Houston. That's a slight hyperbole. Take home lesson: the wide variety of food that we enjoy, cheaply, year around IS expensive, just not in a way that troubles us on a daily basis. I don't want to be obsessed, but I do want to be mindful. So. The book is probably not quite as preachy as this paragraph has been and there is a hilarious section detailing the author's attempt to get her heritage turkeys to breed. One of them falls briefly in love with her husband.

Hudson got some new big boy shoes today. Size 5.
You see how proud he is. He really likes the shoes, really did NOT like the shoe buying. Apparently when I told him, "Hudson, this lady is going to put the shoes on you to see if they fit," he actually heard, "Hudson, this lady is going to cut OFF your FEET," because he burst into tears and buried his face in my neck and refused to be consoled throughout the entire process.

Speaking of 5, Harper has decided that it is the magical age at which all of her dreams will come true. So far:
1. When I am five I will jump in the swimming pool BY MYSELF!
2. When I am five I will go to gymnastic school! and, my favorite:
3. When I am five I will get a bagpipe! (with which she will, presumably, play a rousing version of "All Creatures of Our God and King)

The Wait of Glory

What do you suppose she's doing in there? he asks himself. We went to Galveston for the day yesterday. It's something we should probably do more often, considering the proximity. I think we've been four times in the almost four years we've lived here. Harper had a fantastic time, as did Hudson unless you tried to get him close to the water, at which point he would break into a high pitched shriek/wail which made everyone in a 1 mile radius stop what they were doing and look at me as if to say, "It's very sad that you should torture him thus." I had an idea that the ocean might be mildly disturbing to him because, while he really enjoys baths, he hasn't found any other water experiences particularly pleasant. What he did find particularly pleasant was the tiny little bites of sand he kept sneaking. He had tried, and enjoyed, cous cous for the first time the night before and I'm pretty sure he thought he was sitting on a giant beach of cous cous.
The husband had a great time out in the water with Harper right up until the moment when, about two hours in, he realized that the perfunctory dab of sunblock he'd slapped on his shoulders was sadly, tragically insufficient. His back is red beyond telling--scarlet? crimson? Nope, beyond describing. And the tops of his feet. And he had to put on a suit for court today. Last weekend, during a rousing game of hide and seek, he sustained a pulled muscle while trying to hide in a cedar chest that, lean though he is, clearly was NOT going to contain him (which I politely mentioned during the attempt). The myriad (at times painful) sacrifices of parenthood.

I am not sunburned because I sat under a beach umbrella approximately the entire time and when I did venture out I had on an enormous hat, huge sunglasses and SPF 45. I remember laughing at the likes of me when I was 16 and coating myself in olive oil to speed up the "tanning" process.

The public beach is great for people watching and I believe my favorite subject was the girl (19 maybe) who was around 8 months pregnant and wearing a tiny bikini with the "Corona" logo emblazoned across the bottoms. Classy. Do you think she found it at Pea in the Pod?

Harper asked me what "glory" means the other night after she prayed. Um, well, it's...all I could think of were other abstract, multi-syllabic words that she doesn't know yet, so I told her I would think about it and come up with a good definition. Anyone?

This morning REM did a little guest spot on Sesame Street. Even singing "furry, happy monsters feeling glad!" and bouncing around there is just something so aching and melancholy about Michael Stipe. Maybe I'm projecting because when I first listened to REM in college (and saw them in concert--they actually came to A&M which is somewhat mystifying to me still) I was myself in a rather aching and melancholy place. Norah Jones was on a few weeks ago and sang "I don't know why 'Y' didn't come" about the letter of the day. Clever.

faux paw, part two

In last Sunday's paper five of the eleven wedding announcements included dogs. That's almost 50%. Those announcements are expensive. I think you probably pay by the word. Folks, YOUR DOG CAN'T READ. Never will. And the people who read your wedding announcement may care even less about the fact that you'll be sharing your new home with your dogs than they do what kind of flowers were in your bridesmaids' bouquets. Weddings and wedding announcements actually merit an entire post one of these days. Ripe for satire. On our way home from the park this morning, the person in front of us had a "My schnauzer is smarter than your honor student" bumper sticker. Now, it's not as though I don't understand the sentiment. Those bumper stickers are annoying, but they probably give them away to the kids at school when they make all A's or something and there might be an occasional kid who just feels really good to see it announced right there on the back of the station wagon. So I try not to judge.

Speaking of judges, I've had quite a case of insomnia lately and when I can't sleep I think about the Supreme Court. I go through the justices in my head. I start with the boring ones (yes, I'm talking about you RBG) and save Scalia for last because he's very entertaining to think about. You should read some of his opinions. John Paul Stevens is 88 and wears bow ties. Kennedy is the resident tie-breaker. Are you getting sleepy?

Margie tagged me with some questions. Here goes:

What were you doing 10 years ago?
I was living in Arlington, Texas and taking organic chemistry. I had decided after two years of teaching high school English and two years of teaching English overseas, that what I really wanted to be was a doctor. My poorly trained, liberal arts infested brain was ill-equipped to handle such a strenuous endeavor and it had to be abandoned a couple of years (and MCATs) later.

What are five things on your to-do list?
1. Finish Tess of the D'Urbervilles for the book club. Oh, poor Tess. Thomas Hardy will beat you down.
2. Assemble a craft box so that we have something productive to do with our 95 degree afternoons.
3. Reread The Abolition of Man. (at husband's request so we can discuss it)
4. Finish unpacking closet.
5. Take a nap.

What are five snacks you enjoy?
1. raw unsalted almonds
2. pistachios
3. tortilla chips with refried black beans and cheddar cheese
4. Wheat Thins with peanut butter
5. Hummus with baby carrots
and, on a less healthy note:
6. Cheez-its (I know. Don't judge.)
7. Milk Duds (ditto)

What would you do if you were a millionaire?
I would buy a hammock. Which would necessitate a yard with numerous large, leafy trees.

Name some of the places you've called home.
Port Neches, Texas
College Station, Texas
Grapevine, Texas
Szigetszentmiklos, Hungary
Fort Worth, Texas
Houston

What are some of your bad habits?
I am lazy and messy. I procrastinate.

What are some jobs you've held?
high school English teacher
EFL teacher
substitute teacher
clerk in pediatric ER
teacher in a children's hospital (coolest teaching job EVER)

Whom are you tagging?
Robin--have you done this already?
And Mr. and Mrs. Bowser should do it when they return to England.
But only if you want to.

Look Daddy, a weak!

So on Friday morning I awoke at 6:45 and heard Hudson talking quietly on the monitor. He is sleeping much better these days, thankfully, but usually wakes up around 5:30 or 6, so 6:45 was a delightful new development. The husband (who incidentally has asked that I not use his name on the blog for reasons pertaining to something Very Mysterious that I Dare Not Mention) got up to go get him and after a couple of minutes whispered into the monitor that he needed a little backup. Even the overnight diaper was not enough to contain 12 hours of excretion and there had been a leak. As I was pulling off sheets, Harper woke up and the husband went to get her, perhaps thinking it would be an endeavor less excretory. Well, it turned out she had sprung a leak as well. So as he was getting her into some dry clothes she said, "Look Daddy, a weak!" and he said something like yes, you had a leak, Hudson had a leak, we're all very leaky this morning. Only that wasn't what she meant. She pointed to the ceiling and in one corner there was water. Seeping. He went into their bathroom for further investigation and the paint on the ceiling was bulging and dripping. At this point the husband kicks into Hazmat mode: "Assume it's toilet water!! No one in the bathroom!!No one in the bedroom!!" The maintenance team arrived fairly expediently considering it was 7 am and ascertained that the deluge had originated in the apartment two floors above ours and was, to our relief, bathtub and not toilet related. We've been at my parents' for a few days (yet again) so the sheet-rock, paint, and carpet could be fixed. We got back today and it looks pretty good and, more importantly, smells pretty good. It took Harper the better part of the trip there to understand that we had to leave the apartment because the ceiling was leaking and not, as she seemed to believe, because she had been leaking.

Yesterday at breakfast she said, "I want you to take Hudson for a long walk." Oh, that's somewhat charitable, I'm thinking. Then, "I want you to take Hudson for a long walk...and I want him to never come back." The last phrase was whispered. Which begs the question that if she knew she needed to whisper it, why did she think she could say it at all? Hudson loved being around my five year old niece Susannah. He lavished her with all of the affection he wishes he could bestow upon Harper. She is, thankfully, a much more gracious recipient.

Maybe I'm biased

But I think there's a fair amount of cute sitting on my sofa. Hudson's hair was particularly fluffy that day.
Yesterday while she was enjoying a book on the potty, Harper got contemplative for a moment and then this:

Harper: Why do all of the kids in this book have joyful hearts?
me: What do you think?
Harper: I think when I get to be a grown up, THEN I'll be nice to Hudson.
me: I wonder why it's so hard for you to be kind to Hudson right now.
Harper: I don't want him to come close to me because I don't want to SMELL him.

I refrained from pointing out the obvious irony in the timing of her proclamation.

blog malaise of summer

It's just too hot to write anything good. I realize it's only June. I realize I live in Houston. I realize the futility of complaining. But there it is. We watched "Charlie Wilson's War" a few nights ago and it got me thinking about some things. Not the actual events depicted in the movie, because I'm pretty immune to Aaron Sorkin and his agenda, though the guy is masterful with dialogue. I had read a few articles pointing out the overt creative license that had been taken. It's Shakespearean (see Henry IV and V) and biblical (see Abraham, David, Jonah, Paul..) to dramatize a man's ascent from depravity to nobility. But Sorkin seems to think it necessary-- he makes the depravity seem like an integral part of the greatness. Like if Charlie Wilson hadn't been so fond of cocaine and the company of disreputable women it wouldn't have been quite as impressive for him to be concerned about the Afghan rebels and their desperate attempts to fight off the Soviet army. So, that annoys me. Then the movie ends with Wilson, who had convinced our government to bankroll the war effort for upwards of $500 million, unable to get anyone in Congress to give him a measly million to help rebuild schools in the war torn country once the Soviets finally got out. It ANNOYS ME NO END when people romanticize Education (I capitalize it so you'll say it out loud in a dreamy voice) this way. So we're led to believe if we had JUST gotten those schools built the Taliban never would have taken root as they had and we'd all be visiting the World Trade Center this summer and Bin Laden would be teaching Business Ethics at the new NYU branch that's opening in Abu Dhabi next year. If only it were that simple. I don't honestly know how Americans can look at the (mostly) sad state of our education system and think that we have much of anything to offer there. On a less pessimistic note, the next night I caught most of a documentary about David McCullough, the historian behind John Adams and Truman and 1776. If you haven't read any of his books you just should because they will entertain you and make you smarter. It turns out, he is the opposite of Charlie Wilson. He writes and he paints and he studies and he loves his wife of 54 years and their five children. He writes his books on a typewriter in a little wooden shed sans computer and telephone. He writes about history and it is compelling and far better than anything Aaron Sorkin could write. Muck wallowing is not a prerequisite for greatness. That should be a high school debate topic: "RESOLVED. That muck wallowing is not a prerequisite for greatness. " I was on the debate team briefly my senior year. It was an extreme departure from my other activities of hair teasing and high kicks and decorating the locker of my football player, and was, not surprisingly, a dismal failure. It's depressing in so many ways that our topic was immigration. All that's new is old again.
Today Harper was doing something that Hudson thought was funny and he was giggling like crazy and she shouted, "STOP LAUGHING HUDSON! YOU MAY NOT SMILE HUDSON." He defied her and laughed even harder. I had a parallel Peanuts to show you but I don't know how to make it fit. It makes me want to go write in a shed with my typewriter.