We are glad he was born

The husband had a birthday. He is a whopping FIVE and one half years younger than his wife (me) which he generally only mentions when he wants to think about how cool he would have thought he was if, in eight grade, he had known he would someday be married to a girl who was currently a freshman. In COLLEGE. He thinks that is funny. I think it is a little disturbing.

Anyway, we made a chocolate cake (from the Pioneer Woman, and boy, it is GOOD) and the husband has enjoyed a single piece and I have enjoyed approximately EIGHT pieces.

For his special day, he bought himself a Glock. I started laughing because for his special day I had bought him a book about the history of the Glock. So, if you try to break into my house, the husband will be more than happy to try out his Glock. I am more likely to use the book ABOUT the Glock to knock you on your head really hard. Then, while we are waiting for the police to arrive (with their Glocks) I will force you to listen to the story of "America's gun." And maybe some conservative talk radio.

We also bought him a book Bear Grylls wrote for his sons (whose names are, and you will enjoy this: Jesse, Marmaduke, and Huckleberry. Yep.) and maybe I will not hit you on the head with that one because it is very small and would only make a tiny bruise.

The husband also bought a Mont Blanc pen with the very generous donation the Grandparents Pate always provide on our birthdays. I don't know if it would do much damage if we used it on a burglar. I guess if it were a fastidious type of burglar we could threaten him with a large ink stain on his shirt. And it is a fountain pen, which is fairly pointy.

The take home is don't mess with us. We have guns and also books and pens.

Happy birthday, dearly beloved. You are longsuffering with your lady. And tender and hilarious and patient with those three kids. Also, you are good at the air guitar.

Dusty

I don't like this blogging once a week business because then it feels very Herculean to start back up again. Or maybe Sisyphean. Anyway. I met this mom at gymnastics a few weeks ago after she noticed me grinning as she totally wiped her twin boys down with antibacterial wipes when their class was over. She confessed to being a germaphobe and I confessed to being married to one. I asked her when hers had started (thinking it probably had something to do with twins and a NICU) and her answer was surprising. And sad. And I can't stop thinking about it. In September of 2001, she and her husband lived in New York City a few blocks from the World Trade Center. When they were finally able to move back into their apartment, she said the dust was unimaginable. Then she couldn't stop cleaning. And couldn't stop thinking about what the dust actually WAS. How's that for a lesson in mortality?

Then the husband and I watched a movie called "In Time" which had intrigued me when it came out a few months ago. Yet another dystopian future, but the twist is that time has become the currency. Time is, literally, money. Someone engineered humans to stop aging at 25, at which point they have to begin to earn more time to stay alive. So the really wealthy are hoarding all this time and can basically live forever (the daughter of the uber-wealthy owner of all the "time banks" confesses that her father has banked up "eons.") and the very poor have to work difficult, menial jobs just to earn another 24 hours, plus enough time to buy food (15 minutes for a cup of coffee, etc.) and pay rent and bus fare. It's a fascinating concept. But the kind of thing that puts me in an impressive funk if I think about it too much. Which causes me to waste lots of time taking naps and eating Ben & Jerry's. Which puts me in an even more impressive funk..

Last week was our annual pilgrimage to the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. We happened to be there on Armed Services Appreciation Day which made a certain boy of mine really super excited. We were even on the news--my sweet children looking through the scope of a missile launcher. Awwww!
The kids also really enjoyed the petting zoo this year because there were some extremely adorable lambs and kids and piglets and llamas and even a wallaby!
We let the kids ride a couple of rides, but I think they would have been just as entertained if we had set fire to the $20 bill and watched it burn up. This one was a pretty fun 3 minutes. Helena insisted that that hat she's wearing was a "cowgirl hat" even though Harper would retort, with great tenderness, "THAT is NOT a cowgirl hat! It is a baby beach hat with ladybugs on it!" every single time.

What else? Tooth #3 has fallen out.
The tooth fairy, lazy little sprite that she is, was a touch irresponsible with tooth #2 (she left a wadded up dollar bill under my pillow, oddly enough, which was discovered mid-morning) but managed to get the dollar coin in the tooth pillow for #3. She even left a note.

Hudson is a little sick today and he got really upset when I tried to put some saline in his nose this morning. Which made him throw up. (con) But he made it to the toilet. (pro!) Losing teeth, making it to the toilet before throwing up...what's next? Driving??

What's black and white and read all over?

In honor of Black History Month, I picked up a very heavy anthology of Uncle Remus tales at the library last week. Actually, that's not entirely true. I picked up Uncle Remus THEN remembered it was Black History Month. THEN I realized that Joel Chandler Harris isn't even black. THEN I realized that this particular anthology is a "re-telling" of the stories to try to make Uncle Remus a little less enthusiastic about his status as a slave. So, even though it was all so convoluted at that point, I decided we'd read a few stories about old Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox anyway. Then Harper asked what "Brer" means and I said, "I think it means 'briar,'" and Hudson said, "These stories are not proper English!" and I conceded they really weren't. And then yesterday I heard them playing a game in Harper's room that sounded kind of violent, and they had made up a song to go along with the violence. It went something like "Let's beat UP that TAR BABY and feed him an air sandwich!!YEAH YEAH YEAH!!" and I began to really question my ability to school my own children. Maybe tomorrow calls for a quietly reverent reading of "I Have a Dream" while everyone knits or does watercolors of children who are beige and also brown and maybe even purple.

Harper has been taking a gymnastics class, and we go and wait in the noisy waiting area for an hour and fifteen minutes every Monday while she fulfills her dreams of Real Gymnastics. Her cartwheel is slightly improved and she enjoys the trampoline. She believes she is improving by literal leaps and bounds, which is important, I suppose. Anyway, last week there was a little fellow named Sawyer and another little fellow named Finn in the waiting area. Which reminded me of this skit my friend Jessica and I did in the sixth grade. She was Tom and I was Huck. We wore overalls, painted on some freckles and dirt, and memorized a few pages of dialogue out of Tom Sawyer. We went barefoot and acted it out in front of our class (NOT for Black History Month), using very Southern drawls (which is funny considering a couple of 11 year olds from Port Neches, Texas, probably had plenty of drawl just using our normal speaking voices). The little scene we acted out just happened to have the 'n' word in it. More than once. I still remember feeling distinctly squeamish about having to say that word out loud, even though it was right there in this famous book. And I feel certain poor Mrs. Bennett was rather aghast. At least we didn't beat up a Tar Baby. And then write a song about it.

I did lots of cleaning today and the casual observer wouldn't be able to tell, even though my mouth tastes faintly of Comet (I've been trying to be more natural and use baking soda, but today's filth requires chemicals in large amounts.) It's a pity that the husband really values tidiness, and I really value cleanliness, because there is rarely time for both. I washed sheets and cleaned bathrooms. I swiffered two rooms and did four loads of laundry. I vacuumed. I scrubbed the kitchen sink. And yet, the coffee table is still covered in books. And my desk is a mess of papers and books all piled up. And there are stacks of folded clothes all over our room. You know why Ma Ingalls didn't have a cluttered house? Because everyone had one, maybe two sets of clothes. They each had a single cup, a single plate, and (I think) a fork--maybe a spork? One or two pots for cooking. No sink to clean, no toilet or shower to scrub. Very few (if any) books. Which means there was no need for a dishwasher. Or closets. Or bookshelves. Or a toilet brush. These are the things I think about while I'm loading the dishwasher. I'm reading an Anne Lamott book and she refers to herself and her baby son as "The Joads" when their house is overwhelmingly dirty and messy and it's making her feel especially blue (which is OFTEN). I get that. We are sometimes the Joads.

I'd read this quote somewhere before, but needed Ms. Lamott to remind me of it today: "Boy, was that nutty old Mother Teresa right when she said that none of us can do great things, but that we can do small things with great love." I'm going to repeat it to myself like a mantra: small things, great love..small things, great love.

Those are Hudson's toes. Newly rinsed after a good mud squishing.

What's your point? Wednesday

I couldn't think of a Theme for this post, so be prepared for stream-of-consciousness. I will number the streams for our convenience:

1. On the subject of Theme (or the lack thereof), Harper is writing a story to enter in a contest and I'm having to back away slowly because she refuses to incorporate The Elements of a Good Story. I've tried reading good stories and pointing out Character, Plot, and Conflict. She will smile and say yes, I have always enjoyed Caps For Sale, "Okay, here's my story: Stingray, Fish, and Octopus are going ("wouldn't you rather write 'swimming?'" I ask her. "It's more interesting." She declines and says 'going' IS interesting, Mommy. And now I know how Hemingway's mother felt.) to school. They are going to do math. Then it is time to play. (I suggest now might be a good time for the Conflict. She thinks for a minute) They meet a new friend named Crab. Crab is funny. He puts sand in his mouth and then spits it out!!" And it goes on like that. That quiet yet annoying noise you hear is me gritting my teeth. Her illustrations are pretty adorable though:

2. Hudson has just decided he also wants to enter a story in the contest. It is going to be about a turtle and a stingray who kill a bear. I have a feeling Mater will somehow factor into the plot as well. Someone alert the Newberry Award committee.

3. Helena learned to pump herself on the swing this week! She learned the same way Hudson did--sheer parental neglect. I promised her I'd be right back out to push her, and I got caught up in loading the dishwasher or something else equally industrious I'm sure (because I would never be doing something useless or self-indulgent while my child wanted to swing) and lo, I looked out the window and she was swinging pretty high. I went out and asked the other two if they had given her a push. (Harper's answer was "NO" and the subtext was "as IF") Then I had her jump back on and show me how she'd gotten started. I made a really big deal out of her doing it by herself because I love helping my children discover their independence. My motives are super selfless and have nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I might get a few minutes of quiet while all the independence is happening.

4. I think Helena is going to be right handed. Which makes her odd in my family--both Harper and Hudson are lefties, as are 3 of my 4 nieces who can write.

5. Last Friday at school, our science experiment involved dropping some Mentos into a 2-liter Diet Coke. The geyser that spouted forth prompted Harper to announce, "That must have carbon dioxide just like my Daddy's BEER!" Because Every Guinness is a Learning Opportunity might as well be our family motto.

6. I'm finishing up The Hunger Games trilogy. I have liked them fine. I do find all the fascination with a post-apocalyptic world interesting. Does it make people feel better about the current state of things to imagine that it could be much, much worse--"Well, you know the Democrats/Republicans might be awful, and the economy is tanking, but AT LEAST we aren't battling flesh-eating zombies or mutant vampires, and at least we can still live on the surface of the Earth and not 10 miles below it." Hm.

7. Well, I have promised Hudson I'll help him with The Sea Turtle Conquers the Mighty Bear (and Also Mater Helps), so that will be all for today.

Culture Club: part deux, pas de deux, deus ex machina

We had another Week of the High Culture last week.

On Tuesday we went to a Houston Symphony performance with our Classical Conversations group. The theme was The Science of Sound. The lanky, charismatic conductor was entertaining as always. The kids were attentive, even Helena, though she did get a little wiggly towards the end (maybe Tchaikovsky just makes a girl need to wiggle)and I have a small bruise on my chest where she inadvertently head-butted me right on top of the small silver bell necklace my mom gave me for Christmas. Quite painful. Then we hiked all the way back to the car only to discover that Hudson had left the small stuffed turtle that I (very, very unwisely) allowed him to bring. He couldn't remember WHERE exactly. Then he and Harper both burst into LOUD wailing when I said, as callously as I could muster, "Well, he is GONE because you were CARELESS Hudson," because the turtle was actually Harper's and she had been (uncharacteristically) generous in loaning it to him. Apparently, Timmy the Turtle had whispered to her before we left the house that he really enjoys the symphony. So. We hiked back to the bathroom in Jones Hall to retrieve Timmy the Turtle. Because I am SPINELESS in situations like that. I know.

On Friday we attended another student performance by Houston Ballet students and again it was marvelous. The theme was "Dancing in Texas" and, while the first dance, which involved dancers encased in stretchy knit body bags, writhing around in order to look like primordial amoebas (Carrie, Staci, Shelley--do you remember dancing in these bags??? To "Ghostbusters"? Because we DID.)was deeply disturbing both to me and to my friend Adelaide, the rest of the dances were beautiful and/or rollicking. There were no turtles left behind. Because there were no turtles brought. Because fool me twice, shame on me. Also, Grandmother Pate was able to join us and Helena was on her best behavior watching the "bow-weenas."

Then on Friday night the Daddy and I got gussied up and went to the Wortham for dinner and "La Traviata" with the Swanks and some (very generous) work colleagues of theirs. Here we are in our finery:I stopped at Walgreens to get a new memory card for the camera and I don't know what came over me but I bought some silver eyeliner. I haven't worn much makeup at all since Harper was born six and a half years ago, so she was fascinated by my sparkly eyelids, and asked several times for me to close my eyes so she could get a better view. Anyway, my sparkly eyelids and I had a tremendous time and, though I usually can't tolerate female singers of any variety, especially the very high-pitched variety, for very long, I thought the music and the singing were rather transcendent. I managed not to cry (spoiler alert! spoiler alert!)when Violetta was dying, but I wanted to a little. But maybe it was less about the music and more about the husband and the good company and just the almost overwhelming feeling of Deeply Grateful that I feel at moments like that. Perhaps it was also the cabernet that kept magically appearing in my glass at dinner.

I forgot to mention that in our rush to leave the house to get to the opera on time, I got into a wrestling match with the door to the coat closet, which is always stuck, and when it did finally open, it smacked me in the eyebrow. Hard. Then last night, I had Helena on a chair to help her out of a costume and she did an exuberant leap directly under my chin and my jaw seems to be somewhat swollen and possibly crooked as a result. Quite painful. So, if I lose consciousness in the next few hours, please direct the doctors to this blog post.

Also, Harper has another loose tooth and Hudson got some new running shoes. And he did his first reading lesson today! We're trying Explode the Code with him, along with Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons, I think. Well, that brings us up to date.

Lost.

Harper lost her first tooth on Sunday. It's the lower right, which you should be able to see through the enormous gap in her two top teeth. There was a little drama (the tooth wasn't particularly loose until she inexplicably bit Hudson's shirt tail--I'm told there was a very appropriate reason for this as a part of whatever imaginary world they were residing in at the moment) and I was called home from a shopping trip. Harper had recovered by the time I got home, the Daddy extracted the tooth, and Harper insisted with some urgency that I get right on finishing the Tooth Fairy pillow we had started a few weeks ago when one of her top teeth began to show signs of loosening.
Again, hand-sewn because I'm still not convinced I would use a sewing machine if I had one. The stitches on the pillow would make my home economics teacher from 9th grade weep. And not in a good way. Suffice it to say that my sampler would have won me nary a suitor if I had lived 150 years ago. The tooth fairy left behind a dollar coin in the heart-festooned pocket, and the tooth fairy now has a very tiny tooth residing in a ziploc bag which is stuffed in the side pocket of a tote bag next to her desk.

Today we got in the car to go meet the S's at the park and the song on Christian radio was about a guy smelling like a week-old hangover. So I switched to NPR and Diane Rehm was talking about Komen and Planned Parenthood. So I switched to the classic rock station and there was Billy Joel singing "Piano Man." So, the choice was alcoholism, abortion, or alcoholism. I went with the Billy Joel, believe it or not. Then on the highway alert signs was a message about a child kidnapped in Fort Worth. And this line from a poem went through my head: The world is too much with us; late and soon..and that was all I could remember. So I came home and looked it up. It's Wordsworth:

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 10
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
1806.

For this, for everything, we are out of tune--isn't that something? And even when we are in tune (because the Piano Man has, as I've mentioned before, some lovely melodies) it's sad and it's sweet and we know it complete. And the microphone smells like a beer. Don't forget that detail.

The big kids, while I've been writing this post, have been out in the back yard exacting revenge on a flock of birds that are roosting in our tallow tree and pooping all over our deck and sandbox. And also Harper's jacket. They are fashioning "mud nuggets" which they are then tossing skyward. Of course the birds are not remotely bothered. So, now the deck is covered in copious amounts of liquidy dark purple bird poo and also mud nuggets. AND the piano it sounds like a carnival, and the microphone smells like a beer..

The golden one

Helena is three today on the 3rd, which apparently makes this her "golden birthday." We had blueberry cake for breakfast, because that is one of the two presents she asked for (even though we've never had blueberry cake before--I think she thought it sounded like a happy combination. And it is!) Of course, when I went to take some pictures, my memory card was full. I took a few yesterday, on her last day of two:

I plan to interview her later today at some point. Maybe I'll jot down a few things now, just in case it never happens. She got on my scale this morning and weighs 29 pounds. I don't know how tall she is, but people often comment that she seems tall. She learned this week to really pedal and steer the tricycle all by herself. Is this late? Early? Right on time? I haven't looked at one of those developmental milestones charts in a long time because I think it's kind of pointless. I noticed at church last Sunday that she's alternating feet on the stairs, going up and down. That's new. She's not much of a talker, but when she does, it comes out in sentences more and more. I think my favorite thing she says is "WHAT in the WHEELED?" instead of What in the WORLD. She loves playing dress up, but always wants the costume on top of her regular clothes. She calls head bands "head lamps." She loves to "do ballet" (which she pronounces "buw-WAY"):She is still a terrific sleeper--at least 12 hours at night and a 2-3 hour nap. She puts her index and middle fingers of her right hand in her mouth. She sleeps with around 20 stuffed animals and dolls in her crib. Still in the crib, still hasn't tried to climb out. She has a little brown birthmark on the right side of her torso which she calls her "spot." She enjoys having it tickled by the Daddy, just after her bath. She loves stories. Some favorites right now are Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do you See?, Harry, the Dirty Dog, Good Night, Texas, and Hug. She likes playing with dolls, big and small (she requested a Polly Pocket as her other birthday present. "Blueberry cake and a Polly." she said, firmly, when asked about her birthday wishes.) and swinging very high and changing her shoes a dozen times a day. She likes listening to our memory work cd and gets super excited, every single time, when the lady recites, "Helena, Montana!"

She loves her Daddy, her grandparents, her siblings, her dog, her friends--sometimes in that order, sometimes not. We all love her back. We are infinitely glad she joined us.