over the bridge, up the tree

If you could see what a disaster my little desk is right now you would wonder, as does the husband, how I can stand it. I would take a picture to show you but my memory card is full. Of memories. Like this one:
That's Harper mastering a rope bridge at the Arboretum, where on Monday we discovered a fun sandpit and tree house we hadn't known was there. She picked out her clothes. I get to veto, but I try not to. Because as long as it is modest and weather appropriate, it doesn't really matter, does it? (can you tell this is a little bit of a struggle for me?) Hudson did some karate moves up in the tree house, because, he explained, that is what an army man would do. The kids can't wait to go back. Unfortunately, the mosquito infestation will likely be complete now that the rain and humidity have arrived. It's a very woodsy arboretum here, with hiking trails and bogs; unlike the one in Dallas, which is all rolling hills and grassy expanse and English gardens and lake views. (I feel like I could almost burst into a pastorale here. Or an idyll. I will refrain.)Both lovely in their own way. Helena ate some sand. And then threw up a little.

She is eating so much these days, incidentally, and not just sand. She ate an entire avocado plus two jars of baby food (sweet potatoes and peas and brown rice) AND some oatmeal for dinner tonight! She also loves refried black beans and has, on a couple of occasions, burst into the most pitiful cry you can imagine when she realizes the bowl is empty. Her mouth makes the same little upside-down 'u' that Hudson's used to make when he got Very Sad About Something. Her pronunciation of Harper's name now sounds like "Hah-poo" and it pleases Harper no end to hear her say it. We're still working on Hudson's name. It sounds like "DEH-deh".

Harper and I are on Lesson 29 of Teach Your Child To Read in 100 Easy Lessons (we started working very slowly through it about a year ago, I think) and she read a book by herself this week. That great literary classic Bears in the Night by Stan and Jan Berenstain:

WHOOOOOOOOO!
In bed
Out of bed
Out of bed To the window At the window
Out the window
Out the window Down the tree
Over the wall
Under the bridge
Around the lake
Between the rocks
Through the woods
Up Spook Hill!
WHOOOOOOOOOO!
Down Spook Hill
Through the woods
Between the rocks
Around the lake
Under the bridge
Over the wall
Up the tree...
In the window!
Back in bed
Whooooooooooo.

I don't mean to ruin if for you, but the "whooooooooo" is just an owl atop Spook Hill. You know, what it lacks in literary merit, it actually makes up for in prepositions. I actually don't mind the old Berenstain Bears books (this one was originally published in 1971) nearly as much as I do the new ones. I think they jumped the shark sometime around the time Honey Bear joined the family--the mid-90's maybe?

Harper has also made some real strides in her relationship with Hudson over the last couple of weeks. We still have some unpleasantness (for example,when he wouldn't hand over the soccer ball she said, "Well then Hudson! I am going to take all of the soccer balls IN THE ENTIRE WORLD and PUT THEM IN THE TRASH!") but several afternoons this week, they have played together harmoniously in Hudson's room, creating elaborate scenarios that involve army men and ballerinas. In fact, we had a big discussion about whether or not army men could be ballerinas. Harper was fairly emphatic at first that they could NOT, then she conceded that perhaps there might be an army man or two who could also be a tap dancer in their spare time. And that there might be army ladies who did some ballet on the weekends. After dinner, they've been out in the backyard having what they call their "club." It appears to be the sort of club where there is lots of swinging with no shoes and then see-sawing whilst making very loud noises.

We just got home from an end of the year faculty dinner. The husband was the Business School's nominee for Professor of the Year. We are proud of him.

Wanted

I am dismayed to report that the kids have just finished dinner and they have not eaten a single vegetable today. Which wouldn't be AS shocking if they weren't vegan. (They did watch Veggie Tales today, but I don't think that counts). A more apt label for us this time of year would be "fruit-an" or "grainarian" or perhaps, "pastafarian," because we eat plenty of that. But not even so much as a baby carrot this day. They each had a banana for breakfast, split an enormous mango at lunch, an apple for a snack and a pear at dinner. I cut off the ends and give Helena the core to gnaw on, an experience she heartily enjoys. We had a little something called "lunch for dinner" tonight which basically means I couldn't think of anything to make so I used a really excited voice and we had almond butter sandwiches and I pretended it's a big treat and not just something we eat for lunch approximately 6 days a week.

We took two long walks today because the weather is sublime. Hudson rode his bike and I pulled the girls in the wagon. Sasha did not join us because she has a special gift for entangling her leash in everything, thus making walks involving wheels a special torture for her and me.

I went to Anthropologie yesterday and got two shirts and what may be the most comfortable pair of pants I have ever owned that aren't pajama pants. I have written before about my conflicted relationship with Anthropologie. Which explains why I ended up back there today to return one of the shirts. I just didn't like it as much as I needed to in order to justify the expense. Anyway, just down from Anthropologie an animal rescue organization was having an adoption weekend. I didn't want to go in, then I caught a glimpse of some puppies and I couldn't help myself. I was walking around reading each dog's story (this particular rescue group gets dogs and cats from shelters, then fosters them before finding permanent homes for them) and yes, I did start crying. And then this one dog made eye contact with me. He did. Sustained eye contact, and he told me with his beautiful brown eyes that he had heard about Sasha and he thought we probably had room for another dog at our house. And so I left. And then I got in the car and listened to one of Robbie Seay's new songs called "Kingdom and a King" and I cried some more and I could not stop thinking about those dogs. And then I started crying about foster kids. And orphans. And heaven. And how the Bible doesn't give us many details about it. And how theologians have supposed that perhaps it's because if we knew too much about the glory that awaits, that we, upon conversion, would do something drastic to get there before we were finished with what we are supposed to do here. So there is not much about heaven I am willing to be sure about. But of this I feel certain:

There will be no strays.

No stray dogs. No stray kids. No Father MacKenzie darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there. None forgotten or abandoned or neglected. We will belong. We will belong. For eternity. Just think of it. Until then we are Orphan Annie, clinging to our stray dog and singing "Maybe" in the window, dreaming about what it is going to be like when we are finally home.

Strawberries that in gardens grow

On Thursday we went to a nearby farm where we picked our own strawberries. The kids thought it was tremendous fun and we ended up with ten pounds of strawberries. That's a whole lotta strawberries, even for my kids who eat approximately their weight in fruit every week. They tasted the very best on Thursday, when they were still warm from the ground, and before they had to be put in the refrigerator. We had strawberries with each and every meal until yesterday, when Harper finally decided maybe she would have a banana instead. She and Hudson ate a great many strawberries while they were picking and I let them, because it wasn't specifically forbidden on the sign of rules. I lay awake that night, though, wondering if I shouldn't have let them, or if I should have paid a little extra when they weighed our buckets. The title of the post is from a Robert Burns poem in which he extols the flavor of wild strawberries above those which are cultivated. Apply the metaphor as you wish. I personally liked the strawberries all bug-free and weed-free and lined up in tidy rows, thank you very much. I took the above picture when we got home and I retrieved my memory card from my computer, where it was when I turned my camera on at the strawberry patch to take scores of adorable strawberry picking pictures. Mrs. Rives sent me some that she took, but I have no idea how to put them here. Because I am sad, sad embarrassingly bad at basic computer skilz.

I saw a delivery van with this emblazoned on it last week:
AL'S FORMAL WEAR FRESH HOT TUXEDO DELIVERY (the 'fresh' and 'hot' were in a blazy looking font that I simply cannot replicate)
and I think, that while I would definitely like it if my tuxedo was fresh, I'm not sure I want it to be hot. Maybe they should spell it 'phresh'? Anyway it got me thinking about how rented clothes are weird. We got married outside, under a gazebo at the Dallas Arboretum. Our parents and siblings came. The husband bought a new suit. He still wears it sometimes and I still like it. I bought three white linen dresses; one from J. Crew, one from Ann Taylor, and one from BCBG. I ended up taking back the J. Crew, wearing the Ann Taylor to our tiny ceremony, and then wearing the tiered BCBG when the husband and I went out to dinner by ourselves later that night. I have both dresses stuffed in the back of my closet and they are starting to yellow. Six years is a long time for white linen. The whole tuxedo thing also reminded me that when I was little my parents used to go to this charity ball every year, and every year my dad would grumble grumble grumble about The Monkey Suit. It had an elaborately ruffled shirt, because it was the '70's, and I think at some point the tuxedo place went out of business and he bought one. It is probably in the back of his closet now. Maybe Hudson can wear it to prom.

This morning Hudson stubbed his small toe. In the midst of tears and a hug from me he said, "I hurt my peen-tee toe! Lil' puppy will take care of it," which I thought was sweet. (they call Sasha by her name sometimes and sometimes she is 'lil puppy') Then Harper, in her infinite compassion, chimed in with this, "She is NOT going to take care of it--she is going to NIP IT OFF!"

blossoming

You know, as my friend Lisa noted in the comments on the last post, I think Harper is pretty artistic. She certainly has the Artistic Temperament, by which I mean that she tends toward the moody and temperamental. We are working on changing that, but I'll be honest that this week has not been stellar. Anyway, I too thought her frog painting was fairly impressive considering she painted it without looking at a picture of a frog. Occasionally when I am painting one of the cards that I paint, I will show her what I am painting and she will paint one too. I painted these cherry blossoms for my friend Merry last week, and I thought Harper's attempt was quite good (and it is going to look really familiar to Swanks and Byrds if I can ever get to the post office and send their long overdue thank-you cards..):
That is a very small flamingo perched on Harper's top branch because she just really liked the pink paint and felt like a flamingo would be drawn to a cherry blossom.

I just said this actual statement to the husband: "I'm having trouble hearing you with my shower cap on." It's so romantic around here sometimes that things start bursting into flame I tell you.

I am decided that I will be permanently dissatisfied with my hair. I got my semi-annual haircut a couple of weeks ago and loved it until I had to wash it and dry it all by myself. Seriously, what kind of voodoo magic do those stylists have with their gigantic brushes and fancy blow-dryers? It looked so glossy and bouncy. Now? Parched straw in a drought. Like something the Joad family might encounter in the Dust Bowl. My hair is a Steinbeck setting.

We've had a pretty busy week. Monday we dyed Easter eggs because that is when all of the cool kids do it. There was lots of excitement then significant letdown when the kids realized that it is just not that fun. You'll note that we used a Puppies and Kittens dye kit because, and maybe there is no actual scripture to back this up,but I mean surely Jesus liked the puppies and kittens. Our eggs were too small for the egg wrapper things and the stickers didn't really stick very well because the dye took too long to dry:


Tuesday we went to the Children's Museum and mostly played outside. I would like for you to behold the almost unbearable cuteness of Helena's tiny feet in her new jelly sandals: (she is actually crouching underneath a little hatchery for baby chicks, which were also unbearably cute but I couldn't get them and the shoes in the shot)

She is getting three teeth at once but has not been the least bit cranky about it. Also, she has been waving without any prompting this week when she sees her friends or says good-bye. And she has made up her own sign for milk that involves both index fingers pointing up into the air and making little circles. AND she is saying Harper's name and it sounds like this "AH-fuhhhh."

And that gets us up to Tuesday and I will have to finish this tomorrow because I am sleepy.

trash and treasured

That picture has nothing to do with the post, I just think it's funny how much Hudson resembles the orangutan. Well, we finally threw our mattress out to the curb Monday night because Tuesday was Heavy Trash Pick-up Day. It turns out some folks see heavy trash pick-up day as an impromptu, neighborhood-wide garage sale. So the mattress was gone by Tuesday morning, which I found both fascinating and disgusting. I'm glad, I suppose, that someone is using the mattress instead of it taking 200 years to decompose in a landfill somewhere. The thought of All of the Garbage and Where Does It Go? keeps me up at night sometimes. We slept on an air mattress for two nights, which was about two nights too many, and yesterday bought a mattress that should be delivered any minute now. We did not get a Tempurpedic because we just couldn't justify the expense right now. The plan is to use this one for a couple of years then delegate it to a guest room. Or perhaps we will use it for 15 years and be exceedingly thankful we aren't sleeping on cholera-infested mud like lots of people in Haiti right now.

This morning I realized that I need a new shower cap. Then I put on my SPF 70 moisturizer. And wanted to wear my large floppy sun hat to the zoo, but remembered that it's a touch snug and gives me a headache. Then I realized that apparently while I slept last night, I turned into a main character on "The Golden Girls."

Harper's birthday is coming up in about 6 weeks and for approximately nine months now, she has been planning her party. Here's a partial list of what she wants to see happen on the big day:

1. Take all of her friends to Build-a-Bear at the Galleria.
2. Then go ice skating at the Galleria.
3. Then drive over to Pump It Up (a play place with all of these huge inflatable slides and bounce houses)
4. Then go to the zoo.
5. Then over to the Children's Museum.
6. Then swimming at her friend Izzy's grandmother's house.
7. Then some cake.
8. And cookies.
9. Then a craft where the girls paint hearts and the boys paint monsters.
10. Then we will all go out in the backyard for some star gazing.
11. And finally, everyone, even the parents, will spend the night and we will have s'mores.

Basically she wants to do every fun thing she has ever done at other kids' parties. (Except the ice skating, which she has never done. She pictures herself doing triple axels the first time she laces on skates, however, which could make for a pretty disappointing birthday.) Approximately 58 times a day she starts in, "On my birthday.." I really don't know what we ARE going to do. Perhaps number 4. I wish Carrie lived here and would plan it for me. She has four kids and confesses to LOVE planning all of their birthday parties. There is nothing about party planning that I love. But I do love this girl, who loves to be celebrated. (she does not, however, like to have her picture taken these days. That's a frog and a car she painted yesterday, and a magic trick with a quarter today)

june bugged

Hudson was out playing with the dog today and I heard this squeal/shriek/wail that was so piercing I felt sure there must have been some sort of serious bodily harm sustained. I sprinted out the door and there was Hudson weeping. And squealing. And hopping. And pointing.

At a June bug.

Which had landed on his shirt and was hanging on with an impressive tenacity.

Now, lest you think my boy some kind of bug coward, let me assure you that normally he has a very typical Boy Reaction to bugs. In fact, he was holding a bug habitat in his little fist where he had apparently planned to put the June bug. I think what had alarmed him was the uninvited nature of the visit. And then when he realized that the June bug was determined to stay right there on his dinosaur t-shirt instead of jumping into the bug catcher, he felt a touch Invaded. So I knocked the bug off, and together Hudson and I invited him onto a leaf and put him into the bug catcher. And the universe righted itself.

Some other funny little things about Hudson lately:

1. When he sees a picture of The Cat in the Hat he calls him "MISTER Seuss."

2. He drums on everything. All the time. And he still sings in an unrecognizable key that sounds rather dirge-like. And no real lyrics, he just kinds of scats and "ah's" and "aw's" and "oh's"

3. He likes the idea of sharing, but inevitably the very second he hands something off, with a sweet, "Here you go," he then changes his mind and yells, "HOPPY'S NOT SHARING!"

4. He has gotten so physically confident in the past few months. He conquered the wobbly lilypad/pole thing at the park last week all by himself. His cheeks were so rosy with the heat and his eyes were all sparkly and he said, "I'm a big boy!" and he did it a dozen more times just to make sure.

5. On the way to church this morning, he said that he wanted to show Robbie Seay his new red Crocs (which he pronounces 'trots') but when we got to the Miller Outdoor Theatre (where Ecclesia had its Easter worship) and he realized there were way more people than he was used to, and that Robbie Seay was way farther away than he usually is, he cried a little. Then Daddy picked him up and the universe righted itself.

outdoorsy

For Hudson's birthday the husband planned to take the big kids camping. That was January 27, and every weekend since then it has either been too cold or too rainy. (Which reminds me of a conversation I had many years ago with my friend Yvonne, who is British. I said that in my country, people tended not to camp when the weather was inclement. She retorted that if people in her country felt that way, no one would ever go camping. We also, Yvonne and I, had this little comedy bit we would do when we were teaching together in Hungary. She speaks this crazy mixed up language known as "Scouse," which means she grew up near Liverpool and is thus required by law to use a vocabulary, syntax, and accent vastly different from, for example, the Queen. So when we'd get around a bunch of other Americans, Yvonne would do this little monologue in her native Scouse, then I would stand up and translate. Oh, it was funny.) So anyway, on the promise of a sunny forecast and pleasantly cool temperatures, the campers headed out. Harper felt a touch grim about her ponytail.
They had, by all accounts, a tremendous time hiking and eating and sleeping all snuggled up with Daddy in a two-man tent. Both kids declared the s'mores to be the highlight of the trip. And the deer scat sighting.


The husband's Just So tendencies on full display:

He's already talking about next time. Perhaps Helena and I will join them. We did have a good time by ourselves, the baby girl and I. We went to Buffalo Grille, read some books, took a long nap, then walked to the park with Sasha. Helena got to do whatever she pleased, which basically meant toddling around picking wild flowers and examining very small rocks. She is definitely right smack in the middle of the Taste to Discover phase and was not deterred and, may have even been encouraged by her recent dog food experience. I sensed a certain distrust in her eyes when I was attempting to fish out the eighth pebble from her clenched jaws. Almost as if she thinks I am denying her some great pleasure.

Across from the Children's Museum there is a daycare center called Precious Jewels Alpha Learning Center. Funny. The children, presumably, are the Precious Jewels. It's the "Alpha" that I can't figure out. Are they training the children to be wolves? Are they teaching them Greek? Did they not have room on the sign for "Alphabet"? Plus, near our house there is a new charter school that calls itself, I am NOT making this up, The Harmony School of Ingenuity. It sounds like something out of Ayn Rand. I keep expecting to see rainbows shooting out of the roof when we drive by.