God Only Knows

The Beach Boys were the first concert I ever went to. I was 11 or 12 and I still remember in vivid detail the outfit I assembled: pastel, Hawaiian-print jamz (I believe this was the correct spelling--they were surfer shorts with a drawstring waist) a pastel pink tank top with a net overlay shirt, some chunky plastic bracelets, and, the piece de resistance was a pair of pastel multi-colored Converse high-tops that I wore with two pairs of socks scrunched just so. I remember my feet hurting because of the two pairs of socks. I don't remember anything about the concert, but I'm pretty sure that was a pretty dark time for at least one of the Beach Boys. They were no longer boys, that I remember. But the harmonies were lovely, I'm sure.
We got a new camera. It's nice and it scares me. But I'm going to read the instruction manual and try to keep my sweaty fingers from smearing the lens (again) and then WATCH OUT.

So, back to music. I seem to have trouble remembering the ipod when we are going someplace and, because of the work that is involved in fishing out a cd for a 15 minute ride, we end up listening to the radio. I think I've mentioned more than once my rather disenchanted attitude with "Christian radio." However, Helena has gotten to the point where she actually listens to songs and wants to know what they are called, and her latest query is, "This about Jesus?" and so, when we're listening to the Christian station I can usually say, "Yes, it IS about Jesus!" although sometimes I want to add something cynical like, "Ostensibly, anyway. It actually seems to be more about how this girl lost her keys but it's okay because she just loves the way Jesus holds her." Anyway, the other day I decided to try the classic rock station and the first song was Loverboy's "Working for the Weekend" and Helena says, "This about Jesus?" and I said, "Um, no, I think it's about how people work hard all week so that they can enjoy not having to work on the weekends (even though that's really counter to the idea of finding meaning in our vocation and actually seeing our work, not as drudgery, but as purposeful and God-honoring). Next up came the Eddie Money classic "Two Tickets to Paradise" which, of course, I explained was about a story by Dante that we could all read together in a few years. Then, and here is where I finally relented and switched back to radio that's "Safe for the Whole Family!" I give you, Billy Joel, with his bouncy melodies and the blasphemy that is "Only the Good Die Young":

You got a nice white dress and a party on your confirmation
You got a brand new soul
mmmm, And a cross of gold
But Virginia they didn't give you quite enough information
You didn't count on me
When you were counting on your rosary
(oh woah woah)

They say there's a heaven for those who will wait
Some say it's better but I say it ain't
I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints
the sinners are much more fun...

you know that only the good die young
thats what i said
i tell ya
only the good die young, X2

Oh, woah, woah, indeed.

Dear KSBJ: Forgive me my fault-finding, and thank you for the fact that never once have you exposed my children to lyrics that tell Catholic school girls that their chastity will lead to an early death. Sincerely, Patti.

Two more pictures from the yearly photo shoot also known as All of You SMILE and DO IT NOW So We Will Have a Decent Picture to Put in the Frame We Are Giving Grandmother Pate for Her Birthday:

I'm going to try to blog every day this week. We'll see how that goes.

Bass line

I'm reading Ann Lamott's Traveling Mercies, and every few pages she punches me in the stomach while simultaneously assuring me that God's grace and mercy and creativity and patience and magnanimity and tenderness are more than any of us will ever comprehend. It's gritty (I've never before read or heard a conversion story that included the 'f' word. And no, I don't mean 'faith.') and she definitely doesn't fit into any comfortable mold, but, as I'm getting older (in body and mind and spirit) I'm realizing this is whence some of the deepest blessings come. So Donald Miller, Mary Karr, Annie Dillard, Lauren Winner, Marilyn Robinson, Walker Percy, Willa Cather, Graham Greene, Flannery O'Connor, and now, Ann Lamott, welcome to my bookshelf, question and challenge and inspire me with your salt and grit and grace as you will.

Many years ago I was chatting with some musician friends before their concert, and I remember the extreme frustration that occurred when, minutes before they were to go on stage, their bassist called to cancel. I remember thinking they were over-reacting a little, because really, does anyone even notice the bass thudding along in the background? I mean, I get it if Sting calls and tells the Police he's got a little stomach bug, perhaps you think about rescheduling, but in general, the bass player seems pretty expendable. Then for some reason, a few months ago, I started really paying attention to the bass line, especially in songs that start without it, then build to include it. It DOES matter. It does make the sound richer and more interesting. It does turn an average melody into something rather anthemic. I try to point things like this out to the kids when we are listening to music in the car. The other day I was flipping through radio stations, and I happened on the opening bars of "Free Bird." "Hey everyone!" This is the song that Freebirds the restaurant is named after!" So they thought that was pretty nifty, and we listened to it the entire way home from the zoo because it is a really long song. At the end, I asked what they thought and I think they were a little confused that there weren't any lyrics about kids who like rice and beans stuffed in a fat burrito.

We went to "toddler skate" at a roller rink last Friday. Harper got to use her skates, Hudson zoomed around on his scooter, and Helena pushed her stroller around and stole stuffed animals from other kids while they weren't looking. I got a total of 4 pictures and, believe it or not, this is the best of the lot:

Harper and Hudson's rooms have both undergone Extreme Makeovers thanks to the husband, who stepped in because he saw a wife in need of mercy. In case you have forgotten, here is the retina-searing before shot:
And the after:
He also vacuumed AND dusted to spare me from the anaphylaxis that tends to ensue when I have to deep clean.

Ikea, we thank thee:
Thy storage solutions, they comfort me, and bring me peace. Amen.

Ima Hogg, are you?

We joined our friends Dexter and Wilson for a home school day at Bayou Bend today. I had never been before, though I had heard of the estimable Miss Ima Hogg and her lovely, antigues-laden home. We toured the house, Mrs. W and I wanting to ask many questions about Greek revival furniture and the portraiture of Gilbert Stuart, while the kids wondered inwardly if they would get in VERY much trouble if they climbed the 18th century highboy and leapt off, and also how much longer they would be required to stand still and quiet while the docent pointed out interesting aspects of the handpainted wallpaper. We finally got outside and the real fun began. There were clothes to wash in the good, old-fashioned way:Helena was such an eager washerwoman that she put her whole self in the washtub at one point.

There were yokes to be borne:

Dirty vegetable to be scrubbed clean:

Whining and scowling because our paper boat got soggy and sank and also because we didn't have a snack at precisely 10am:

Wobbly suspension bridges to traverse the bayou:


And lovely gardens in which to frolic after snacks had been eaten and moods lifted:

It was a very good morning and we shall return.

I'll leave you with a picture of Helena after I attempted to brush out her hair before washing it tonight:

Unchained melody

Two posts in two days! Howdy do!

I picked up a cheap bag of carrots at Randalls a few days ago, which I've been meaning to do for several months, so we could go and feed the horses that live on a greenbelt about a mile from us. I would remember to buy carrots every time I was at Whole Foods, but I refuse to pay that much for carrots that are going to be fed to animals that do not belong to me and who do not care one bit whether or not their carrots are infested with pesticides or grown in the shade or whatever. So this morning we packed up the carrots and we headed out; Harper and Hudson on their bikes while I pushed Helena in the stroller. Just as we got to the field, Hudson's chain fell off his bike. I tried to fix it while Harper and Hudson took some pictures:
I think that one is pretty nifty, actually. How did Hudson get the whole blurry background thing? And why will Harper smile for him and not me?
Harper goes more for the conceptual shot. The inside of Hudson's bike helmet:
The side of the trash can in the driveway where I was failing miserably at getting the chain back on:
I finally gave up and we fed the horses. They liked their cheap carrots:
Actually, this paint was really the only horse who would eat them. Maybe the others shop at Whole Foods:
"Harrumph. Is that pesticide I smell?"

I didn't get any good pictures of Helena because I was too afraid the horse might confuse her tiny arm with a carrot. But she had fun all the same:

Then all the carrots were gone and I had to break the news to Hudson that he would be walking his bike home and no amount of army man/ Bear Grylls pep talking could convince him that this was not all very upsetting, so after a couple of blocks I managed to balance his bike on the stroller handles and he trudged and whined and complained pretty much the whole way home. Which definitely made the 99 degrees feel at least 30 degrees hotter. But we made it and we are better for it and the husband is going to spend a little time this weekend teaching me how to get that chain back on.

There is no point to Wednesday

1.Today we were listening to a nursery rhymes cd that Helena loves and which the other two conspire to turn off at every opportunity until I have to use a Stern Voice and make Rigid Guidelines About No One Touching The CD Player Except For Mommy, NO EXCEPTIONS PERIOD, when Harper mused, "Why did Humpty Dumpty even sit on that wall? He should have just walked up to the top of the castle and looked around up there."

2. I came in on this scene yesterday, or was it Monday?:Harper had clicked herself into Helena's booster seat and was making sweeping and very bossy proclamations including telling Hudson that his thumb-sucking, blanket cuddling behavior was not welcome in her kingdom, and that Helena was not allowed to push her puppy in the stroller whilst wearing a princess costume:
Which Helena thought was very devastating news indeed.

3. Helena has a very teeny head. Not tiny enough, however to keep her from wedging it between her crib and the wall this afternoon while in pursuit of a puzzle. I have never heard such a cry. It was almost feral. Thankfully, release was quick and simple. I did not take a picture because I am not a monster, but here she is a little later feeling sad about something else:She then recovered from her great sadness and cleaned the floor with Harper's Cinderella dress which Harper refuses to wear because it is Very Scratchy:

4. I washed all the sheets on Monday and as I was putting them in the washer, I took note of the abomination of desolation that was Harper's room. If you are sensitive (or your name is My Husband) you might want to avert your gaze:


I like how Hudson and Helena are playing in there like it's no big deal that it is Absolute Squalor, and Harper was somewhere else entirely, denying the harsh reality that was the impending Pick It UP And NOW!

5. I have read several critically-lauded contemporary novels over the last couple of months and all of them (with the exception of Cutting for Stone, which I liked very, very much) have left me feeling like a tiny, forsaken Lego on the floor of Harper's room. Since when do hollow, aimless, often vile, self-absorbed humans make for compelling stories? They DON'T, that's what. I don't care if the critics really think that post-postmodernism (yep) is a laudable art form. Blech. I want a book to make me feel the way I felt the first time I read Pride and Prejudice or Gilead or Pilgrim at Tinker Creek or Watership Downor Cry, the Beloved Country. Dear Jonathan Franzen, I have given you two extremely long chances and I now bid you adieu. Freedom, my foot.

6. I am, however, considering giving the Harry Potter series another go. I started a few years ago and lost interest somewhere in the second book. Jamie is apparently reading them now (instead of blogging obviously) and she is generally my canary in the mine for those sorts of things. Would someone else like to make me care?

7. On the latest episode of "Man vs. Wild" Bear Grylls did something for which Harper may never forgive him. He ate a STINGRAY. I was folding clothes in the next room while they watched with the husband and she came in with her head down. "Did Bear just eat a stingray?" I asked. "He did. A blue spotted one," she answered quietly. I left her alone with her grief. Maybe I'll make some more cookies to cheer her:

8. We have entered Narnia at last. The husband has been reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe aloud at bedtime. They call the White Witch "WW" which I think is funny. I'm just glad they have another plot to discuss because I have heard more than any human ever really should about the antics of Lightning and Mater and Finn McMissile and Professor Z ad nauseum ad nauseum.

I am off to bed and really I hope to blog more this week and also to be cheerier.

What's the point of Wednesday

Experiencing much malaise, blog and otherwise. A few things to report, in no particular order:

1. I dropped Helena (bottom first, thankfully) into the toilet a couple of days ago. It turns out she really does need that little potty insert thing if she is going to sit on the big toilet. She didn't really seem to mind, other than repeating, "What happen to Laida Jane?" approximately 245 times while I rinsed her off in the shower. And no, there was nothing in the potty. And yes, we were at home. But STILL.

2. In other unsettling and unhygienic news, yesterday I was in the shower and I suddenly heard Harper and Hudson yelling louder than I thought was probably necessary to reenact the scene from "Cars 2" that they had been busy with when I had left them. Hudson came running in breathlessly to tell me that THERE WAS A ROACH IN THE RIDING ROOM (which is what we call our front room because it is largely devoid of furniture and there's room to ride scooters and tricycles and even, on occasion, bikes). Of course I had conditioner in my hair so I told him to go back and keep his eyes glued to the roach. He came wandering back in a couple of minutes later and I asked what part about eyes GLUED had he not understood and he said, as if he was thinking about something else of terrific import, "Oh, that roach? It's dead." So I came rushing out to find Harper standing in the front room with the spray bottle of 70% isopropyl alcohol (our insecticide of choice. It's like the Windex in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding"--the husband uses it for everything) and a rather smug expression. "Well, where is it?" I asked. And then I slipped in a large puddle of 70% isopropyl alcohol and almost fell to my death in my cheap flip-flops that I wear around the house. Harper said breezily, "I killed it, Mommy. I sprayed it and then I took a bunch of paper towels and smashed it and put it in the trash." Instead of thanking her or congratulating her on her (disgusting) achievement, I said, in a rather panicky voice, "Well, have you washed your HANDS?" and "Are you SURE it's dead??" She had, and she was. Well done, my intrepid girl. May it NEVER happen again.

3. Helena's multi-purpose phrase of choice these days is "What happened Mommy?" and she says it even when nothing has actually happened so I was saying, "Nothing happened, Mommy just put the spoon in the sink." I realized today that I need to leave off the "Nothing happened" part and just tell her what is going on. Even though it is exhausting beyond measure for an introvert like me to have to narrate my every move.

4. More great cousin time. More evidence that photographing groups of kids is a sisyphean task, not for the easily deterred:
Helena looks LONG, doesn't she? And I'm pretty sure that hand gesture Hudson is making is considered very rude in certain parts of southern Europe.

5. We had some fun at a new splash pad with the Browns this morning and it was funny because you know there is this horrible drought in Texas right now and it only rains about a milliliter every 6 months or so, but OF COURSE it came a deluge as we were trying to pack up and leave and as we were rushing to the car and I had far too many bags, I looked back to see that Helena had tripped and fallen in the dirt and was wailing because her shoe had fallen off. So I dumped the other kids and the bags into the car and ran back to get her, making the decision to run her back to the splash pad to rinse her off so as not to sully up the minivan. Only it was raining pretty hard and I couldn't really see because my sunglasses had fallen down awkwardly over my eyes and the orange towel I had draped over my head was also partially obscuring my sight so I stood directly over one of the jets of water, which then completely soaked my shorts and it's still pouring from the sky as well and yet somehow I can't manage to get the mud off of Helena and it was all pretty special. A very damp ride home during which Helena said, "WHAT HAPPENED MOMMY!!" about 68 times.

Hudson's heart

A couple of years ago, Hudson got to choose something from the gift shop at the Natural Science museum. I can't remember what he'd done to earn this special treat. I believe his maximum price point was a whopping $3. He chose this:
A red, polished stone, cut into a heart. He loved it and carried it in his pocket at all times, thus requiring that he always have pockets, which I remember caused a couple of petulant moments when, inevitably, all of his cargo shorts were in the hamper. I remember fearing that he would lose his heart and of course, after a couple of months, he did. Harper never loses anything because she is one of those kids who knows where every single tidbit is at all times. I will say, "I wonder where the tiny piece of Lego that connects the scoop to the backhoe is?" and she will chirp, "It's in the bottom of the striped bin, under the 'pig' rhyming card, next to the headless Polly Pocket in the back of my closet." It's eerie, but rather useful. She did not, sadly, have sufficient sonar to detect the heart because it did not belong to her. So, it remained lost. At first, Hudson would ask about it daily, and sometimes hourly: "Mommy, where is my heart?" and I would say, "I just don't know Hudson. Can't you remember?" No, he could not. We hunted for weeks and finally gave up. After many months, he finally stopped asking if I knew where his heart was.

Then LO, to celebrate our country's independence, guess what I found while digging for something behind the cushion of the big, red chair? I found Hudson's heart. There was tremendous celebrating and, but for the burn ban, we would have exploded some fireworks. His heart is now living on a shelf in Daddy's study, where he visits it and occasionally, gets it down for a pat, then puts it right back. Because it seems he has learned a lesson about losing his heart.

Today Hudson was being a little sillier than I thought appropriate whilst hashing through some complex theological ideas while he composed a new (and LOUD) song on his drums. He sang something that sounded like, "God is not the holy." So I gently told him that he needed to change his lyrics, because there are certain things that we don't act silly about. He then claimed that "It was Mr. Potato Head who was telling him that God was NOT the holy. But I told him that he was WRONG and that God IS the holy!" So, now, along with his other many transgressions, Mr. Potato Head is a heretic.

We went to a neighborhood parade yesterday. It was, frankly, pretty lame (lots of cars draped in streamers carrying political candidates and members of clubs I've never heard of) but I'm the only one who thought so and I did manage to take the requisite photos capturing the curb-side anticipation:

Harper's favorite was the orange beetle bug:

Hudson liked these cool motorcycle guys:
And Helena liked the firetrucks ("fow-wow tucks"), but also declared they were "Noisy."

My own heart was gladdened indeed on Thursday when two dear friends from college came to visit with their families in tow:Stacie and Kim (and their lovely spouses) are the best sort of friend--where conversations begun 20 years ago pick right back up with each sweet reunion.

(I just spent several minutes trying to fix the freaky eyes, to no avail. We'll just conclude that we had such a great time our eyes were shining and shooting out sparks.)

Also noteworthy this weekend: the husband took Harper and Hudson to see their very first movie in a theatre. It probably deserves a post of its own because, as with most things that most people think are no big deal at all, I have (and this will be SHOCKING NEWS) complicated feelings about it. But they had a dandy time.