Arose

I was looking back at last year's Easter post because I am nostalgic that way, and I was comforted that there are no dramatic changes. Harper and I both wore the dresses we wore last year (my wedding dress--the white linen, I noticed, is beginning to yellow a little. I'm going to look a little like Miss Havisham if I keep this up for much longer) and Helena's hair is slightly more voluminous. As you might be able to ascertain from her expression, Harper was not amenable to the photo shoot. In this one, she was pretending to be Brigitta in "The Sound of Music":
I like how she is choosing to disobey me by reading her Gideon Bible. Rich. Hudson was also irate about the memory making:

I don't know why my posture is so bizarre. I also don't know where we are going to take all of our staged group photos at the new place. I'm going to miss this old oak.

We are moving, and soon. To a house that we are buying and not just renting. It's exhilarating and also frightening. It's also possible I'll be posting more as a way to deny all of the packing and cleaning that needs to happen. So far, I've partially emptied one small kitchen drawer and put some winter clothes in a plastic bin. That just reminded me of this description of hell (or maybe it's just eternity?) in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce. I can't remember it exactly. Something about birds moving single grains of sand from these mountains of sand to these other mountains of sand. That's kind of how it feels. Only the new mountain of sand is better than the old mountain of sand, in this case. And not sandy. We aren't moving to the beach, just the suburbs. It seems appropriate to end with a little Bob Dylan:

In the fury of the moment
I can see the Master's hand
In every leaf that trembles,
in every grain of sand.

The growing season

We went to Discovery Green with the S's on Saturday and happened upon an Earth Day celebration. There were tribal dances (descendants of the Aztecs, or so one of the dancers told us), a hula hoop tent, and booths offering vegan cinnamon rolls, among other earth-friendly delights. But the very best thing is that the Houston Parks and Rec Services were there giving away trees! We like trees! In fact, I had picked out a maple and asked the guy if we might have another to put in our new back yard (which is tree-less--more on this later) and he said he was sorry, but that there was a one tree per family limit. Then Harper got so excited about a red oak, he was touched by her Tree Love and said we could have two. Then the heroic Mr. S helped me get my two trees to the car because the husband was off acting in a movie (true).

We also planted corn and cherry tomatoes in some egg cartons last week. I won the science fair in the first grade with this exact project. I wish I could be one of those mommy bloggers who posts perfect how-to photos with my posts, but every time I'd try to get a picture, one of the kids would do something that would entail putting down the camera and digging around to see if Hudson had already put the corn kernel in the slot designated for tomato seeds etc. Plus the tomato seeds were so tiny and there were only 20 in the package (for $3.49! Dear me.) so I had to commandeer the seed packet to make sure there was equitable distribution.

What I suggested Hudson might write in his little notebook: "HYPOTHESIS: That the plants in the eggshells will grow better than the plants not in the eggshells." What Hudson actually wrote in his little notebook: "fiNN MCMiSSiLE."

The innocence project

I ran to the Galleria last week to pick up some summer clothes for the kids (mostly because that morning I'd realized Hudson was wearing a pair of cargo shorts that were size 2T and, though they still fit in the waist, length-wise they were starting to resemble NBA basketball shorts circa 1980) and, after having only a modicum of success (here's where I again insert my rant about the dearth of quality, affordable children's clothes that aren't emblazoned with sparkly logos etc.) I popped into J. Crew to see if I could grab a couple of t-shirts for myself. I overheard a mom talking to her daughter, who looked to be about Harper's age (which is 6, in case you've forgotten) and the mom pointed to a dress on a mannequin and asked her daughter if she liked it. The daughter said she liked it okay, and the mom said, "It's very Betty Draper, don't you think?" I was then overcome with the same judgmental feelings I have when people bring their small children to movies that are clearly for adults. Because Betty Draper is a character on "Mad Men," which is a show that no 6 year old should be watching. Or, even if she doesn't watch it, why would she want her daughter to even be comfortable recognizing cultural references from an R-rated television show? "Sesame Street" does this on occasion too--"Socks in the City" and there was something having to do with "True Blood." Ridiculous. Let kids be kids. Please.

Which reminded me of a novel I read about a year ago. It was written by a Rice University professor and was getting lots of attention. It should surprise you not at all that it was set in a post-apocalyptic not-so-distant future in which the humans that were left were forced to live in these huge, iron-clad structures to protect them from a dangerous non-human (well, maybe I should say vaguely human) enemy. When children were born they were taken to a separate section where they were lovingly nurtured and reared to know nothing at all about the horrifying wasteland that lay beyond the dome. It was like "The Truman Show" for kids. Then, on their 8th birthday, their parents told them the truth. BAM. And their childhood was over and they began studying and training to protect themselves against the enemy. Like a really macabre First Communion.

I guess we have a little of that going on here. The "Truman Show" for kids, I mean. For example, I got the movie "The Sound of Music" at the library this week (after Mrs. S loaned me Maria Trapp's The Story of the Trapp Family Singers, which I read over spring break and really enjoyed) and we've watched up until the wedding and then I stop it because it gets a little Nazi-intensive at that point and I just didn't want to talk about Hitler yet. One reason is that I get really emotional when I try to explain historical things that are upsetting, sort of like when I finally tried to read the crucifixion chapter in the Jesus Storybook Bible out loud one day during our reading time a couple of months ago and I started crying really hard and Harper ran to her room and Hudson went to get me a tissue. I did recover and tell them that the story has a happy ending, and that's part of what made me cry, but I'm not sure they bought it.

I've been recording this Discovery channel series called "The Frozen Planet" because I thought we might use bits of it to talk about science, then I watched a little of the first episode by myself and it is VERY circle-of-lifey (stole that from Ari J.) but beautifully filmed. There is an extremely plucky penguin who manages to get away from a lion seal after several close calls, but the most troubling thing is watching a pack (herd? school? I can't remember) of orca whales maim then toy with a seal until it gives up in exhaustion on a small ice floe, then they slowly pull it into the water and devour it. Orcas are Hudson's second favorite animal (after turtles) and he has a small fuzzy one in his collection of sleep animals. He has a vague idea that they are aka "killer whales" but he's never asked for clarification. He just knows they are very smiley and they make cute noises. I do not think it would be beneficial for him at this point to watch the cruel death dance with the seal. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe on his 8th birthday I'll let him watch it. And the Nazis. And maybe "Old Yeller." And we'll end the day with Where the Red Fern Grows.

Speaking of his birthday, his firm resolution to stop sucking his thumb lasted exactly one day. I told him I sucked my thumb until I was 7 and I think he saw that as some sort of permission to continue. It's okay by me. You should see how cute he is going to sleep.

Well, we got well and now the sickness has begun again. Helena has a cough that sounds like a seal trying to escape from a gang of orcas. I actually found myself getting annoyed at the sound of it today and telling her to "please TRY to stop coughing PLEASE," which I realize makes me a really great mother. I also had a mild psychotic break yesterday afternoon because of all the staying at home and the clutter. Then, as a reward, the biggest roach (he was 2 inches at least) I've ever encountered flew AT my head (that's right FLEW, AT, and HEAD) in the bathroom this morning while I was reading an article about Ted Turner in Garden and Gun. Did I mention that he flew? At my head? I really wanted to slay him, but I lost my nerve and instead opened the sliding door and he flew outside where he is presumably mating and teaching his progeny to torture me in their own special way.

empty nest

Those of you with an eye for foreshadowing will realize that if we were living out good fiction at our house, of course I was too excited about the Cardinals. We were counting our cardinals before they were hatched. And we were duly rewarded (irony) when, on Thursday morning, Harper came into our room for the daily opening of the blinds when we would see what Mrs. Cardinal was up to. We opened the blinds, and there was the nest, listing severely to the left, no Mrs. Cardinal in sight. I went out to investigate and discovered the remnants of an egg (pale green, just as the bird web-site had promised) just under the tree. I'm not sure what adjective best describes how I felt. We'll go with 'leaden' and 'devastated'. Which I realize in the scope of things is ridiculous. It reminded me of the walks I would take when I was big and pregnant with Harper. It was early spring and I cried one day when I saw a smashed robin's egg on the sidewalk. I just felt so sad for the mother robin. Anyway, I did not want to have to go in and tell the kids. Then I realized that there were also a series of holes in the yard. Deep ones. Which is disturbing. So, I called a pest control place and while I was on hold I stood outside and willed Mrs. Cardinal to show up so at least I could know that the eggs were the only fatality. And, after quite a long time, both she and Mr. Cardinal came back to the nest. They cocked their little heads and looked puzzled. Mrs. Cardinal got a twig in her mouth and started to make things right. Then they reconsidered and flew off. I was relieved that they were intact, but I grieved for them. Then a few hours later, I saw Mrs. Cardinal sitting on the fence, her beak full of new twigs. She flew to a yard behind ours. Rebuilding elsewhere. I don't blame her. The pest control guy (Kenneth, he was quite erudite on Things Pesty) told me it might be squirrels or maybe a possum or possibly a raccoon or, and this will be expensive, a SKUNK. Egg eating hole digging VARMINT. If I see you, I will get you with the bear attack spray for ruining my joy.

So the kids handled it pretty well. I, however, was in a rather irrational Deep Sadness for the entire day. In fact, I'm pretty sure I went through all of the stages of grief over the course of the morning (1."Maybe if I just fix the nest, they'll come back," 2."STUPID raccoon/squirrel/possum/skunk!" 3. "If they would just come back, I'll stand vigil 24-7. I WILL!" 4. "Why didn't I wake up earlier? Why didn't I get up when the dog growled? I'm such a FAILURE." 5. "I guess it's better this way. At least Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal are okay.") When I finally walked away from the window, Hudson and Harper were talking about dancing and Hudson said this exact quote: "Well, I don't know HOW to dance. All I know how to do is split jumps and stuff," which made me smile a tiny bit. Then Helena came in and said, "I love Grandmother Pate. (pause) She is my BEST friend. (pause) I love Grandfather Pate. (pause) He is my BEST friend," and maybe I didn't feel quite so melancholy. Then she got this plastic tube thing and started talking into it, which sounded so funny that she summoned up the naughtiest sentence she could think of and she said it in a silly voice: "Hudson poo-poos in the POTTY!" and then I even giggled a little.

Then Helena's two best friends came this weekend, and we took a trip to Bering's this morning on our way to the park and Harper chose these wind chimes:

And we hung them in the tree with the empty nest and we contemplated the Nature of Life as we listened to the gentle chimes.

OR, I had to send Harper inside in tears because she refused to acknowledge that Grandmother Pate bought the chimes for ALL of us and not just her, which meant that she could not forbid Helena from touching them. Then Helena said, "NO, NO, Harper. You are in TROUBLE. You share!" and Harper shrieked, "You are MEAN! You are NOT the MOMMY!" and Hudson said, "I am SO, SO SORRY Harper," and I wished the husband would get home from his philosophy conference post haste and make it all better.

Cardinal rule

Much to our delight, a Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal have taken up residence in a tree (which I'm pretty sure is actually just a shrub that has been ignored so long it has become tree-like) in our backyard. Mrs. Cardinal spends most of the day in the nest, and I've been impressed at the frequent sightings of Mr. Cardinal. Is he bringing her special treats? Giving her wing rubs? Helping her solidify her birth plan? Harper has given considerable thought to how she is going to help protect the babies when they appear. We have a semi-feral neighborhood cat who enjoys our backyard on occasion (which I actually don't mind VERY much because I am 97% certain we have a Mouse Issue under our deck) and the plan is that Harper will be posted near the nest with a spray bottle filled with water. I didn't point out that her very loud voice would likely be plenty to scare off the cat. I'm frankly amazed "exceedingly LOUD neighbors" didn't show up in the real estate listing when the Cardinals were selecting their nesting place. We ran into Mrs. B at Target yesterday morning and she told us that cardinals apparently return to their nesting place each year. Which would be really nifty if we weren't planning to move. Hopefully the new tenants will be as zealous with the spray bottle as we plan to be.

While we were spying on Mrs. Cardinal from the window above my bed yesterday morning, I realized my own nest was in dire need of tending. I took down all of the curtains in our room and Hudson's and washed them. For the first time in three years. So, DISGUSTING. Horrifying. I actually haven't put the curtains back up and it is much brighter. Though the rising temperatures will probably necessitate I put them back sometime in the next couple of weeks or oven-like conditions will ensue.

A couple of weeks ago I grabbed some sushi for my lunch during a quick trip to Central Market. Harper noticed the wasabi and asked if I was going to eat it. I told her I wasn't really a fan of the wasabi and she said, "Mommy! You are JUST like MATER!" and I laughed because I'm pretty sure that's the first time a mom buying herself some sushi at Central Market has EVER been compared to an animated, severely grammar-impaired rusty tow truck voiced by Larry the Cable Guy. In case you haven't seen the movie, there is a scene my kids think is HIGH-larious in which Mater is in Japan and mistakenly thinks wasabi is pistachio ice cream and takes an enormous bite.
Grrr, wasabi! Hudson looks tall in this picture, doesn't he? And that hair is wild. Which reminds me that maybe one of these days I need to update that photo collage up in my header. Hudson was around 6 months old, small, and hairless. The reason I haven't changed it is because I do not know how. The husband did that one and he's been pretty busy for the past four and a half years.

I have decided this is officially the summer in which I really should not wear shorts in public. I feel younger than I actually am, but these are the legs of someone who has no business wearing shorts. Which means I either need to go shopping or I need to stay home any time the temperature rises above 85 degrees. I'll let you know what I decide.

non-linear

Here's a little math equation I've formulated over the last two weeks. I believe it follows the Associative Law for Lunacy:

(rain) + (sick children) + (general lack of planning) = (extremely irate mother) + (very little school work accomplished) + (strong smell of mildew in excessively messy house)

The good news is that the kids and I spent four days in Port Neches with the Grandparents Pate, which is always restorative. There was lots of good cousin time. The Nederland Heritage Festival was in full swing and Harper and Hudson both wedged into a single bumper car with Grandfather Pate (I really wish I had a picture) and it was almost worth the $12 in tickets it cost for approximately four minutes of bumping into cousins and aunts while squealing and giggling (mostly done by Grandfather Pate). Grandfather Pate then left us to go volunteer with his Sertoma buddies where he donned an apron and some rubber gloves and fried up some boudain egg rolls. Tempting, but no, I did not partake. I'm sure Cajun-Asian fusion is the next big food trend though. You heard it here first. Grandmother Pate stayed home with poor Helena, who had her first ever ear ache and was very pitiful for 2 entire days.

When we got home the Daddy had bought a Wii. He has been threatening to do so for several years now and I kept protesting because of my Generalized Technology Aversion Disorder. Then there was an article in the Wall Street Journal a couple of weeks ago titled, "When Gaming is Good for You," and it was chock full of studies and research and general statistics about how "gaming improves creativity, decision-making, and perception" and that was all he needed. So far the kids have just done a few sports games (Harper likes bowling and golf, Hudson LOVES boxing) and the boxing especially seems to be fairly decent exercise, based on the rosy cheeks that ensue. Hudson is MOST adorable while boxing. He moves his fists and feet at a very frenetic pace and lands about one punch out of a hundred:
I'm fairly certain there has been no enhancement of creativity, though I'm really sore from playing a match of tennis three days ago.

Today I decided it was high time we reviewed our history timeline from the beginning, which I've been avoiding because of the noisy protestations of my students and my subsequent inability to deal with whining as a result of the aforementioned Equation. Anyway, I got out the flash cards and Acted Excited and Purposeful and Harper started mumbling and pronounced that it was all SOOO EASY and she doesn't NEED to review because she knows EVERYTHING ALREADY and then she said she would participate, but only if she could recite the timeline backwards. I said, "That's very post-modern of you, but the whole POINT of the timeline is that it progresses FORWARD AND THAT IS HOW WE ARE GOING TO SAY IT." Then Hudson wants to know on every single card who the good guys are: Was Charlemagne a good guy? Who were the good guys in the War of 1812? What about the Alamo? Were the Mexicans the BAD guys?" It is exhausting. Sometimes it is easy. Nero was pretty much a bad guy. Abraham Lincoln was pretty much a good guy. But not as good as Jesus! All good, all the time. But what of Alexander the Great? (mostly good? Unless you were being conquered?) Henry VIII? (mostly bad?) Soldiers in the Confederate Army? (misguided but still brave?). The idea with this grammar portion of the trivium is that you don't focus on the why, just the who and the what and the when and the where. The why comes with the logic phase. Hudson refuses to accept this, no matter how chipper my tone when I try to put him off. How many millions of times will I have to say, "We'll get to that in six to seven years! Now, repeat after me: Justinian the Great, Mohammed and Islam! (Hudson: "Were they good or bad?")"

Helena was sifting through the flash cards and she asked about the picture of the Sistine Chapel that portrays God pointing from the clouds:

Helena: "Who is that?"

me: "Well, that is how an artist named Michelangelo thought God might have looked as He was creating the world. He made you, did you know that? He made you and He loves you!"

Helena: "He made Jesus!"

me: "Um, well."

Helena: "I don't like him. He is scary. I'm going to call him!" (she runs over and gets my cell phone. Harper and Hudson laugh and tell her she doesn't need a phone to call God.)

Helena: "I'm calling Jesus's daddy! (she gets the wooden phone from her play kitchen) God? God? Can you hear me?"


Harper has been outside collecting snails and slugs while I've been writing this. Probably teaching them that Ceasar Augustus actually reigned before Julius Caesar and not after.

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.