Week in review: Botany,Butterflies, and Bayou Bend

Yesterday morning, I was going to try to sit down and blog, then I realized that I have three children. So I decided just to leave the page open and sit down at random free moments and jot down the events of the day. This was the result, with some necessary commentary in parentheses:

**Well, Sasha just celebrated the first day of Advent by pooping on the Wandering Jew. (My brother's mother-in-law told me the name of this plant. She is one of those people who Knows Things. Anyway, I supposed that there might be a slightly more PC name. There are several: Purple Heart, Purple Queen, and Tradescantia pallida. Its pretty little purple flowers are, according to Wiki, sterile, which I don't entirely understand, but it makes me a little melancholy for the Purple Queen. I should also note that every morning I follow Sasha outside to watch her do her business so that I can have a visual on her piles, because they are impossible to spot otherwise. And then small children step in them. Which makes me think many bad words in my head. Incidentally, our Wandering Jew is completely ignored, unless you count the fact that it is covered with fresh-smelling dryer lint on a daily basis because it grows under the vent. In spite of the neglect, it has thrived. In fact, it seems to be even more abundant than before the drought began. Interesting.)

**The end of the Old Testament. The wait. (Using the Jesus Storybook Bible for Advent.)

**Helena is weeping, as far as I can decipher, because her play-doh is now in two pieces and she would like it to be just one. "How can I help you?" I ask, as calmly as I can muster. (She is going through some Moody Blues lately. She wept when her piece of pumpkin pie broke apart last night. She wept at the zoo on Wednesday when I wouldn't give her an almond. Then she wept when she had a mouthful of chewed up almond that she didn't want to swallow. Then she screamed when I suggested maybe she spit it out into a wipe. I remembered this week that when Harper was Helena's age, Hudson was a newly walking 14 month old, AND I had just discovered I was pregnant with Helena. I can't remember that phase at ALL. Birth order makes for vastly different parenting and perspective.)

**I bought a pair of Dearfoam slippers at Costco this weekend. Which, I'm fairly certain, signals the Beginning of the End.

**Helena is wailing, "I want to have a big big SMACK."(or a big big sNack.)

**There should be a patch for television withdrawal.(we got some free movies on cable and the husband recorded "Voyage of the Dawn Treader" and decided to watch it with the big kids since they have been reading it. They loved it, but it seems to have triggered an obsession for more, more, more. We have several friends who've done away with t.v. entirely with their kids, and I really think that's the way to go.)

As for the rest of our week, it has been pretty busy. We went to the Natural Science Museum with the Whiles on Tuesday. The butterflies were more plentiful than I think I've ever seen them. Harper's favorite is the Blue "Mortho." Helena got really excited at the roach habitat, which disgusted me greatly. On Wednesday we went to the zoo with the Swanks. The siamangs were very noisy. Harper took this picture of a mandrill: The Swank kids recited a poem titled "The Vulture" while we stood next to an actual vulture, which was adorable. (The recitation, NOT the vulture.It's disturbing.) Then yesterday, Bayou Bend had another home school day, so we went to go see the Ima Hogg manse in all its Christmas glory (I feel like there's a joke about pearls and swine in there somewhere, but I shall refrain.) There was a 45 minute lecture on the history of Christmas that was basically one of the sweet, elderly docents chatting quietly about how she liked making Christmas decorations from the different eras in history that are represented by the antiques in the house. You can imagine that the children found this to be riveting. Then we made some crafts (the highlight of this was the moment when a gust of wind blew our pieces of 3-D construction paper Christmas trees off the table at the very instant Helena decided to hurl a handful of gravel at the table of crafting children. Terrific parenting moment, all around), played in the gardens, and toured the house. Helena liked this little statue. She realized that she could "push her" and not get scolded. So, she did. Repeatedly.:
She was pleased to realize that statues do not push back or tattle. She did give the statue a nice hug when all the aggression had subsided. Note to self: remember to tell her that not all statues are for pushing before our next trip to the Museum of Fine Arts.

That's about it. We went to Hobby Lobby for some crafting supplies today. (il-advised) The sweet elderly man behind us in line complimented the kids and also schooled me in the Ancient Art of Pyrography. It seemed a rather risky hobby for someone dependent on oxygen. He said, at one point, "This line is INTERMINABLE," which endeared him to me even more.

Also, the kids were laughing uproariously while repeating, "ULRICH ZWINGLI AND THE ANABAPTISTS!" in silly voices just now during lunch. That, and the fact that Hudson has lately been saying "FUIT!" when he is confounded, are two of the reasons I like our memory work so much.

Whew. That is plenty.

Attachment Parenting: Canine Edition

Maybe you'll remember that we acquired our dog largely against our (actually, just my) will. Poor little Sasha had either run away from home or been abandoned when she showed up on our doorstep that fateful, cold morning in February. and frankly, she gets away with more than she should because of her status as a Recovering Abandoned Puppy Who Suffered In the Cold For WHO KNOWS HOW LONG.

Exhibit A:

We were getting ready to go and spend a couple of days with the Grandparents Pate for Thanksgiving, and, as is her usual reaction when the suitcases appear, Sasha begin to quiver and attempt to get directly under my feet in a way that was incredibly annoying. The husband observed her for a minute, then asked where the Baby Bjorn was. I didn't exactly know, but I did happen to know exactly where this sling was. Sasha took right to the dog-wearing and immediately stopped the quivering.

The first night Sasha stayed with us, she slept outside in a cardboard box. In fact, she slept out there for several nights. Which I do feel slightly guilty about in hindsight. It WAS pretty cold. But you know, I think we have more than made up for that possible cruelty. Guess where she slept last night? We had still not turned on our heater and it was around 33 degrees outside, and 50 degrees in our room. Sasha was curled up in the crook of my knees, UNDER the sheet, skin-to-fur, the entire night. Gross. Sort of sweet, but GROSS. If you had told me two years ago that I would be letting a small shedding animal sleep under the covers with me I would have laughed at you in a really rude way.

So, we have dog-wearing and co-sleeping. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. At least I'm not dressing her up and putting her in a stroller though. RIGHT???

One is silver, and the other gold

Just a quick post to commemorate a sweet reunion that transpired today. Our beloved B's and K's returned for a holiday date at the park, and it was just like old times. Since I told her a week ago (unadvisable) that we'd be seeing Izzy and Abby, Helena has awakened each morning with "We see Izzy and Abby and Aiken Dum today?" and today I could finally tell her YES! Today!

This is my very special friend Miss A. She and I are a mutual admiration society.

Moms and kids alike picked up where we last left off and it was golden all around. Isn't there so much for which to be thankful?

Mind the crack.

I interrupt this series detailing our family weirdness to instead detail a few funny things about the Hudson boy that I don't want to forget.

Night before last, we were getting ready for our evening stories. We always congregate in the same configuration: Harper wedged in at the end, just under the lamp, then I am in the middle, then Hudson is curled into me on the other side. (Helena is already in bed at this point. She gets her own story time during which she can comment and point and make animal noises and turn pages backwards if she needs to, all without the protestations of the other two to JUST GET ON WITH IT PLEASE.) Well, Hudson had gotten to the couch first and he and I had snuggled into the opposite corner to look at a book while we waited for Harper to finish brushing her teeth. She came in, surveyed the set-up, and said, "We need to get in our regular place. I do NOT want to sit on the crack." (the crack being the gaping space between the two rather saggy seat cushions) I conceded that we probably did need to move so that I could be closer to the lamp, then I added, "And I don't think Hudson minds the crack--do you buddy?" The reason I assumed this is because we have been sitting together like this for approximately 2 1/2 years now and he has never, not once, complained about the crack. Well. Hudson said, in a rather plaintive tone, "But I DO! I DO mind the crack!! I mind it all the time!!" I told him he needs to speak up regarding such future injustices. And so now we squeeze together very tightly in order to fit on the one cushion. It makes me remember when Hudson was a baby, the way he still melds himself so tightly to my side. He was that kind of baby. So pleasant to hold and snuggle with. He would have been content to be sewn onto me at the start of each day. I forget that when I see how independent he is now.

Saturday we were taking a little drive after going to Cavender's for some long-awaited real cowboy boots for the big kids:
Are my kids the only ones who, when I try to take a picture of them, insist on incorporating stuffed animals and other large toys that almost completely obscure the actual kid who is supposedly the subject of the photo? Anyway, so we got the boots and were on the way home and Hudson says, "I'm going to start doing 'one' like this," and I turn around and he is, with some concentration, isolating his middle finger and holding it in the air. It's one of those times as a parent that you really shouldn't laugh. But I couldn't help it. Then, of course, they all want to know why it's SOO funny to use your tall man to do number one. The husband took over while I stopped with the spasmodic laughing. I did tell him that some cultures use their thumb to denote 'one,' but that no culture that I knew of used their middle finger for that purpose. "Well. I think I am still going to," he decided. We did not go into the other use, so, should you see Hudson waving his middle finger about, please do not take offense.

One last little story. Hudson is always the first kid to wake up, usually between 6:45 and 7. He then plays in his room for a good, long while before he needs anything from us. One morning I could hear his cars and trucks all talking and having a good time. Then one of the cars started behaving in a rather boorish fashion, so I think an army man stepped in and asked him to behave himself. Which the car disregarded and said, "Oh yeah? Well I'm going to BEAT UP GOD!" It was quiet for a moment while the other vehicles and the army man digested this audacious statement. Then the army man said, "You can't beat up God. He doesn't have a body!" and the truck said, "Oh, well, okay!" and there was again harmony. Thank you, catechism cd, for your melodic reminder that "God is a spirit, and He doesn't have a body like man."

It's true. My kids have never eaten at Chick-fil-A.

Or McDonald's. Or Burger King. Or Subway. Or Chuck E. Cheese.

Nope, not even once.

I remember seeing a headline on the cover of a tabloid while I waited in line at the grocery store a couple of years ago and it said something like, "No television, McDonald's, or preschool for Suri!! Will Tom and Katie ever let her be a normal child??" and I realized something I would never have thought possible: I might actually have something in common with Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.

It also made me realize that the term "normal child" is extremely subjective.

I suppose our main reason for not eating fast food (it has nothing to do with L. Ron Hubbard) is because it is also true that my kids don't eat meat. Or eggs. Or most dairy. It's pretty tricky to find something to eat at a fast food restaurant that doesn't contain meat or eggs or dairy. I suppose we could go and get french fries. But, that wouldn't really pass the "is this the best thing?" test I mentioned in the last post.

We finally started eating at restaurants when Harper was around 4 1/2. I think we went to Freebirds first. The kids eat black beans, rice, vegetables, and tortillas at Mexican restaurants. We usually end up eating out about once a week now, usually Mexican food. We'll go to P.F. Chang's on occasion (because I don't actually like Mexican food, which I think I've mentioned) and the kids eat vegetable dumplings and rice and a little tofu and steamed vegetables.

I wish I could say my kids are super enthusiastic about healthy food. They really aren't. They grumble about broccoli. They are right this moment grumbling about the lentils I'm making for dinner tonight. They love when the husband works late and I make macaroni and cheese from a box (organic--but still, FROM a BOX) because I'm too tired to make anything else. One of my ongoing goals is to be more creative with spices and recipes in order to make what we DO eat seem more appealing and delicious. However, I pretty much loathe anything that has to do with food preparation (because I'm historically really BAD at cooking and also I'm afraid of most kitchen utensils. Especially knives. And the grater makes my teeth hurt just thinking about it. I'm so, so afraid of grating some part of myself) so that's a major hurdle. The real goal is to include the kids more in all aspects of their meal preparation. Fun for them, but SO much work for me. Like most things that are worthwhile at this age.

I really hope that when they have more freedom to make their own choices about what to eat, they don't eat every meal at McDonald's. But, they might. And they might blame it on the deprivation they experienced in childhood. Or maybe there is something to the fact that we are shaping their tastes for something better, and maybe the junk will never hold much appeal. I hope so. I'll make sure to post a photo of our Thanksgiving tofurky.

It's true. We don't have Barbies.

I'm thinking I might do a little series detailing all the weird stuff we do (or don't do, as the case may be) here at our house. Of course, my history with writing a series of any kind is rather disappointing. But maybe this one will interest me enough to keep it up.

So, Barbie dolls. I had an interesting conversation with a friend whose daughters love Barbies. Her older daughter asked me a few months ago why I won't let Harper have Barbies. I told her, honestly, that we don't have a specific prohibition against Barbies, but that we actually don't have any Barbies because Harper has never asked for one. If she or Helena ever DO ask, I'll probably direct them to dolls that look more like human children. Like my dolls from childhood, Mandy and Jenny, who Helena loves, and Harper likes on occasion:
As you can see, their wild hair is also something my kids can directly relate to. Incidentally, we received an American Girl doll catalog in the mail a few weeks ago and all three kids spent an inordinate amount of time studying it and finding many things they would very much like to have. Harper especially liked the American Girl that had her own horse (sold separately) and the American Girl that had a pet dog (sold separately). I think the American Girl dolls are adorable, but I probably can't ever, in good conscience, BUY one because they are approximately ONE MILLION DOLLARS apiece, as are their animal companions. Plus, it might hurt Mandy and Jenny's feelings.

So, I don't know that I believe all the hype about Barbie giving young girls an unhealthy attitude about their own bodies. I played with Barbies and I don't remember ever thinking I was supposed to look like them. Though my friend Carrie and I did alter, shall we say, some of her Barbies one time (Carrie--do you remember this??) to make them less buxom. Though I think that might have been more about enjoying the act of destruction and less a sign of some sort of rebellion against a body ideal we could never hope to personally attain. But who knows?

Here is what I know. My philosophy with toys is pretty much my general philosophy regarding the whole of life. I ask myself, "Is this the best thing for my family?" I guess if I had to dissect the Barbie thing, I would prefer my kids have toys that encourage imaginative play that is child-like, not adult-like (though Hudson does get to play with toy guns and knives--this is a possible contradiction. I'll let the husband defend that one. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to explain his reasons). It's why we don't read certain books yet. It's why we don't watch most television shows or movies. I just want them to be able to be little kids for a good, long while. I want to be able to inculcate a right standard of beauty that isn't predicated on a fancy ballgown or golden hair cascading down to a teeny tiny waist. Which is, I realize, easy to say when I happen to have daughters who have never begged, much less asked for, a Barbie. It's always easy to be steadfast when you haven't been tested.

We also have some things I think are probably neutral (but others might disagree). If they really want a toy that may not qualify as "best" (Squinkies, anyone? "Cars" characters that are 4 times as much as Matchbox cars) I'll let them have it (especially if they are spending their own money) as long as my only reasons are things like, "Well, I think those are silly and cheaply made of possibly toxic materials.." or, "You realize you are responding exactly as those evil marketing geniuses at Disney/Pixar have programmed you to respond by insisting that you MUST have the slightly altered Lightning McQueen that appears in 'Cars 2'??" Maybe those are moral issues too, and I should probably think more deeply about them. And perhaps I will.

Did Jesus have germs?

This was our topic of conversation over lunch today. I let them debate amongst themselves because I am sick (again--but I think it's been a couple of months, which is great) and it hurts to talk (and breathe and cough and also to stand up and sit down because my head feels like it really is going to explode every time there is an altitude shift. I mumbled that my head did feel like it might actually explode and Hudson said, "REALLY Mommy?" with grave concern in his voice, so I had to cut back on the melodrama). Anyway, it has been decided that Jesus probably had germs, but God decidedly does not. God is also the only one who can see individual atoms, according to Harper. I don't think there is any heresy in that logic. I am certain that if Jesus had germs, he did not complain about his head imminently exploding from the sinus pressure while young children were listening.

Well, we had a swell time with the Grandparents Pate. We went to the homecoming game at my high school. The drill team I was in for two years was having a 60-year reunion, and though it was poorly attended by anyone from my decade, I got to spend some delightful time with a few dear friends, and the husband and kids got a real bang out of seeing me and Mrs. Young perform the special Indian Fight Song Dance that the Indianette officers do down on the track during the third quarter. Would you like a look at Lieutenant Patti? Here she is:
Sometimes Batman calls upon her special powers of chanting "Scalp 'em, Indians! Scalp 'em!" while pretending to draw an invisible arrow from her invisible quiver:

I was really hoping the kids wouldn't ask about the whole Scalp 'em! thing because the explanation is pretty macabre, and also a touch racist. They did not.

You might be wondering where you can buy your very own purple and white Indian headdress emblazoned with your name in sparkling sequins. The heartbreaking truth is this--such unique splendor is not for sale. I made it with my own two hands the summer between my junior and senior years of high school. Here's how you do it: get a black felt skull cap, use copious amounts of hot glue, feathers, sequins, white rabbit fur, and some fishing line, and VOILA. You should try it. I'm sure there is a tutorial somewhere on Pinterest.

We went to a birthday party for my friend Carol yesterday afternoon, and an older gentleman, (who happens to be their family doctor) came over and asked if Hudson belonged to me. He then proceeded to tell me that Hudson reminded him of a young Thomas Jefferson. He'd been watching Hudson dance and stomp (there was square dancing) and interact with other kids, and his rosy-cheeked, curly haired musical exuberance coincided with what he and his wife had discovered about Thomas Jefferson as they read and researched during a road trip to Monticello. Future statesman?

That's probably more Teddy Roosevelt than Thomas Jefferson.

That will be all for today because I keep having spasmodic coughing attacks that make it feel like my alveoli have actually burst into flames. Blasted germs.