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Monday, January 28, 2008Luscious LanguageLast night, I learned a new word. Orgulous. Read it. Speak it aloud. Let it roll off your tongue. Orgulous. Orgulous. Delightful, isn't it? Granted, it's archaic. I doubt you'll hear it in conversation. I stumbled upon it while reading the forward to my Easton Press edition of Pride and Prejudice. As a side note, no, I don't normally read forwards. It's just that I'd finished the novel, and, like a lover reluctant to part from her beloved, I didn't want to close the cover for untold months, until the next beck and call of my favorite author's masterpiece. So, in desperation, I turned to the forward, just to have a few more delicious pages to feel beneath my fingers. That's where Lady Catherine de Burgh was aptly described as "orgulous." Readers of Pride and Prejudice -- or, at the very least, viewers of a decent movie rendition of the same (which immediately excludes the 2006 travesty) -- will be able to deduce the meaning of "orgulous." For those without the pleasure of Lady Catherine's acquaintance: orgulous means haughty. Proud. But doesn't "orgulous" say it so much better? Doesn't the very onomatopoeia of the word spell it out with more depth, more flavor? Orrrrrrrrgulous. Why do the best words in our language die away? Orgulous doctors. Orgulous college professors. Orgulous church ladies. Orgulous administrators. Orgulous female senators. I could really start having some fun here. Naturally, I won't dare to use this word in my writing. For one thing, nobody would know what I meant (except you, my dear readers). For another thing, Eric would ridicule me till the proverbial cows came home. No, seriously. He still quotes some of my absolute-worst, edited-out-sentences from previous drafts. In this house, bad writing dies hard. Orgulous of him, don't you think? And that was my treat for the week. Slim pickings, perhaps. But in my book, a nice, juicy, not-oft-heard word goes a long way. Pun sort of intended. Feel free to share your favorite, lip-smacking words! Friday, January 25, 2008And The Chatty One Goes SilentIt's been a long week. Eric's been out of town with my eldest daughter. I'm feeling the loss of "Mama Maggie's" arms with the baby. I'm feeling the strain of being the only adult in the house. I am so spoiled. Oh, yes -- and it's cold. So my January Grumpies are in full force. Imagine my delight when I discovered a package on the front porch. The doorbell had rung and my reaction was Classic Hermit: "WHO is at my DOOR?" And I tiptoed through the dining room to peek, and saw the mail truck. So then it was safe to open the door, and there sat the box upon my doormat. It was a gift for Molly -- a sweet pair of pink jammies from my cousin in Pennsylvania. Just what I needed on this cold, grouchy, I-can't-wait-for-Eric-and-Maggie-to-get-home day. And in case you haven't noticed, my muse is on her last leg. Someone -- anyone -- remind me that I am a writer. I think that's enough of a whine for today. Have a glorious weekend -- I certainly intend to! Labels: life Thursday, January 17, 2008From The Mouth Of a Five-Year-OldWell, I currently don't have a five-year-old. This is a piece I wrote three years ago, when Spencer was five. Yes, I'm recycling old "stuff" today. But we had so much fun listening to Eric read this aloud to our family last night (including Spencer) that I thought I'd post it today for those of you who weren't devoted, beloved readers back when I was publishing my E-zine. Without further ado: I'VE LEARNED IT ALL FROM MY FIVE-YEAR-OLD Spencer is an unusual child. I know what you're thinking -- how could I possibly raise anything but an unusual child? I can assure you, though, that my youngest has definitely broken the mold. And, of course, I absolutely love him this way.My hazel-eyed dream child with a vivid imagination has a tendency to state things -- all kinds of things -- as if they are indisputable, written-in-stone fact. Not his ideas; not his opinions; not even his suggestions -- but FACT. And since I have, over the past couple of years, been privileged to learn these essential pieces of information, I thought I might do my readers the service of sharing them, so that you, too, can ponder their depth.I am sure you will be as amazed and enlightened as I have been. "Jesus has very long legs." This statement begs for an explanation, and Spencer readily gave one: Jesus has long legs because he lives in heaven but he has to be able to reach down to us. Hence, the long legs. Forget the whole omnipresent, spiritual nature of Jesus -- it's all about those long legs! "It's not okay for parents to be angry with their children." Not ever. Angry parents make their children sad, and that is very, very bad. Of course, one must understand that Spencer's definition of "angry" includes "someone speaking in a firm tone of voice." What Spencer really means is that it's not okay for parents to correct their children's bad behavior. It is also not okay to say "no" to a child or to take away a child's privilege. Such behavior may easily lead to the child calling the police (so I've been told) and throwing the offending parent in jail. It might also lead to said child's never, never, never coming out of the van ever again. "Sometimes trucks smash into cars and that's not okay." Well, sure, that's true enough. I'm not quite sure what has given Spencer the idea that it's only trucks that do the smashing. Eric has done a fairly good job smashing other cars in parking lots with his little BMW over the past couple of months (leading to a doubling of our car insurance rate). Cars smash into trees sometimes, for that matter (as I can attest to), and into anything else that might be in the way. Spencer's main point, though, is that this car-smashing is most definitely "not okay." "When we see a police car we need to sit up really tall so they can see us in our carseats." Okay, I blame myself for this one. I think I went off a bit when Tennessee changed its carseat laws last year, and a certain, small boy was obviously listening with large ears. During the time or two that I discovered, much to my dismay, that Daddy had driven off with the carseat and left me with a carseat-less van, I am sure I lamented loudly over the fact that I would be in trouble if I got "caught" shuttling my five-year-old around in an old booster seat on top of a folded towel. (Come to think of it, according to Tennessee law, I should be in a carseat as well.) "When I grow old and die and go to heaven to live in a palace that looks like a castle, I am going to be a Real King." He's completely serious, too. To top it off, he has already declared that I will be his Queen (you mean I'm not a queen now?). My favorite part is Daddy's role in this afterlife fantasy: "You will be a REAL JESTER!" Spencer exclaimed to a less-than-amused Eric. I tried very hard not to smirk. Okay, I didn't try that hard. Actually, I didn't smirk at all -- I guffawed. "The night is too long." This is a serious issue for Spencer, and I think he's about to take it up with God himself. In fact, the other night he asked me if I would please pray that God would make the night only ten minutes long. I assured him that, while I certainly wasn't going to do that, the night would certainly FEEL like only ten minutes if he went right to sleep and stayed that way until morning. He claims that he feels lonely when he's in bed, and when I remind him that Jesus is always with him, he comes back with, "But I can't see Him." Must be those really long legs of His, keeping His face at a distance. "I am too old to be spanked." This has been unequivocally stated, and I'm sure that Spencer expects me to comply. Most assuredly, my three older children have passed beyond the age of "spankability," and I think that Spencer has assumed that he has been included in this group by default. I'm not even sure what led Spencer to this conclusion in the first place; I can't even remember the last time I had to spank his bottom. Perhaps he has concluded that he has passed out of the realms of spanking by default -- you know, six months of no spanking and you're home free. "Smarshmallows have chemicals. We need to buy organic smarshmallows." A "smarshmallow" is, of course, a marshmallow, and yes, they do have chemicals in them. I have not, however, been able to find the organic variety (okay, I've never even heard of an organic marshmallow), so Spencer is going to have to slum it when he enjoys his homemade hot chocolate (which isn't organic, either, but at least it doesn't have any chemicals in it). "Mommy, you have BEARD growing on your face!" Naturally, this was in reference to a few stray facial hairs that I had obviously missed. I'd rather not comment on this one. "Some people live to be a hundred, and then they are bigger than God." I had to set him straight on this one -- NOBODY is bigger than God. I can't seem to get Spencer to understand, though, that grown-ups don't keep growing taller as they age -- they just keep getting older. He remains convinced that I will one day be "as taller as Daddy." I don't think I'll tell him that my mother seems to have shrunk a couple of inches -- that would really confuse him. "I love you very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very much!" Can't dispute this one -- these are the words every mommy craves. This little guy makes me feel like the most beautiful, treasured star in the universe; and if he's a bit on the quirky side, I'll take him anyway! He brings laughter and joy to my life on a daily basis. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put on my crown, strap Spencer into his Tennessee-mandated carseat, avoid all madly swerving trucks, and go shopping for organic shmarshmallows (while refraining from becoming angry or spanking my five-year-old). Who, me? Charmed by my own son? You bet! Monday, January 14, 2008There's Weird, And Then There's......Barbie giving a weather forecast.  Yes, one of my daughters took this picture. No, I haven't any further explanation. You're on your own. Friday, January 11, 2008Housewife HieroglyphsI just washed my daughter's new shirt. It's not too confusing, after years of laundry experience, to figure out which fabrics and colors require which temperatures and cycles. Laundry, in a sense, is my life, and I swear I could almost do it blindfolded. Still, prudence sometimes calls me to check the care label on a new garment, just to be sure. So I decided to do a quick check on the new shirt. (Mind you, this was after I'd already washed it and was getting ready to lob it into the dryer.) I searched for the tag, but couldn't find it. Ah. There it was. So tiny that it had curled up on itself, bashful of its contents. I uncurled the tag, which was really not a tag so much as it was a narrow-as-a-toothpick shred of fabric. I squinted at what I expected to be tiny words -- you know, things like "Machine wash cold, like colors," or "Tumble dry low." Nope. There were no words on the tag. There were pictures. Four pictures in a tidy little row: A cup with waves across the top, an equilateral triangle bedecked with diagonal lines, a square with a "minus" sign in the middle, and an iron sporting a single dot. And I'm supposed to know what this means? Obviously it has something to do with water temperature, cycle, dryer instructions, and ironing. The iron is the clearest icon of the bunch, but I fail to see the significance of the dot in the center of it. Or is it a period? In which case, does this mean, "Do not iron. Period." Or perhaps, "Iron periodically."? The glass-of-water must refer to the temperature, but goodness knows how I'm supposed to interpret the picture. It's got a dot in the middle, too, so I guess the water temperature is supposed to match the iron temperature. In which case I suppose a few pictures would take up far less room than, "Set washing machine and iron to same temperature prior to laundering this garment." The triangle has me especially baffled. I'm beginning to suspect that there is some sort of housewife code that everyone is in on except me. "Have you done your -- you know -- triangle load today?" Seriously. What does a triangle have to do with laundry? I don't see anything particularly "delicate" or "normal" or "permanent press" about a triangle. Then there's the negative square. (This is sounding more like Algebra than housework.) Assuming that the "minus" sign means "don't do it," this might actually mean "no dryer." Which is unfortunate, since I've already thrown the shirt into the dryer. So by the time I've finished deciphering a hieroglyphic laundry tag, I'm wondering how I'm supposed to have the time and energy to actually complete the laundry. I should have been more careful when I bought the shirt. It was a brand new store, especially for trendy teeny-boppers (not to imply that my daughter is a trendy teeny-bopper). Considering the declining literacy rate in the United States, I shouldn't be surprised that the laundry tag doesn't contain any words. That's assuming that most "teeny-boppers" do their own laundry in the first place. That, to me, is a more ludicrous assumption than the one that led the shirt manufacturer to supply the laundering public with word-free washing instructions. And who dreamed that all those glorious hieroglyphics on the walls of the ancient tombs of Egypt were nothing more than laundry instructions. Kind of changes your mind about Tut and Company. "How to wash your mummy." Right. Time to immerse myself in something more cerebral and less demeaning. And if anyone can clue me in on the translation of the Housewife Hieroglyphs, feel free. Labels: life Wednesday, January 09, 2008Profound Love
 Fingers soft as a butterfly's wing. Eyes with the depth of endless oceans. The scent of love and baby skin and dusting powder and warm, milky breath. I am undone. Labels: baby Monday, January 07, 2008So PrivilegedThe other day, I unearthed a treasure. (What? I've got a blog sitting here on my desktop? Oh, that's right -- I did used to write fairly regularly. And here it's been sitting, waiting for me to rediscover it. But that's not the treasure I'm talking about. "Treasure" being loosely translated in this case.) Anyway, the other day, I unearthed a treasure. It's a royal blue scrapbook, lovingly compiled by four fourth-grade teachers in 1992 at the end of the school year. On its pages are scrawled, in colored pencil, the various heartfelt sentiments of my music students -- my beloved fourth graders. Some included photographs ("This is me!"), some included best wishes for my new baby, one included her home address just in case I might want to write to her. And some simply blew me away. "Thank you for giving me a part in the play. I hope your baby will grow up to be like you!" Poor girl, she didn't realize what she was wishing upon the unsuspecting baby (who is now almost sixteen). Yet what a blessing to bestow -- to wish for a human being to be similar to your music teacher. "After all the years I've been at Scales, you, I think, are the best music teacher I've had." High praise, indeed. Though I'm not sure how many music teachers I was better than. Before I arrived, there wasn't a music program at all. Still, for the benefit of the doubt, let's say there was at least one other music teacher in this boy's life. That makes me the better one. One point for Mrs. Boehme. "I wish that you could stay here. I hope that you have a nice time where you are going." Actually, I went home and stayed there. And I've had a wonderful time ever since. "You have taught us many things and brought the best out of us." Wow. To bring the best out in any child is a high calling. Did I really do that? I hope so. "Thank you for being my music teacher. I liked it most of the time but I had some bad days." Raw honesty. I liked it most of the time but I had some bad days, too. Especially when my ankles were swollen. "You are a really good pianist. You are the best I have ever heard." Methinks she hadn't heard many pianists. "Ever since I've had you as a teacher I've been practicing the guitar more often." Okay, this one's beyond description. He actually practiced more because of my influence? And when, exactly, did I happen to lose this magical touch? I've never seen it manifest itself in my offspring. "Thank you for making my voice sing better than my old voice. I am going to be a great singer now. I know that you will be a terrific mother!" I wish I could hear him sing today. And I'm not sure "terrific" is appropriate, but I know my kids adore me -- possibly even more than my fourth graders did. "I'm sure the baby will be a great singer just like you." Jonathan refuses to sing. He just plays the drums and farts a lot. I guess farting is kind of like an inverse singing, though. Or not. "Did you know Jill means 'see Julia'?" Someone needed to show her how to use a reference book. "The play was great! Thanks for doing it for us! It was a Hollywood hit!" I must've missed that. "You taught me how to enjoy music." Then, for at least one child, I have done my job well. "You will probably get another job or you may retire, I don't know." This one grew up to be a career counselor. "I can't believe you wrote those wonderful songs. They were so good I almost cried." May I use you as a reference? Songwriting isn't the same as novel writing, but still... "I used to hate music but now I love it." This one wins, hands down. She used to hate music, but now she loves it. Think of it! Nine months with Mrs. Boehme and she's changed her mind about music. Wish I could reproduce that for my own children. Then I could write things like, "He used to hate Algebra but now he loves it." "She used to hate cleaning her bedroom but now she loves it." "They used to hate massaging my feet for two hours every night, but now they love it." "I have always wanted to be an actor. Thank you for giving me the chance to be one." Breathless. It really leaves me breathless. "You are a really great music teacher! It is like you understand us kids more than anybody else." Really? That's probably because I never grew up. "I hope you remember the Beathoven [sic] fan club." I don't, but if you learned to love Beethoven (or Beathoven, as the case may be), then it was obviously a hit. "I think it is neat how you can put on a rehearsal with over two hundred kids." It's a good thing I never counted them. "When I think of you, I think of how encouraging you are to me. When I was playing the piano, you encouraged me to keep going hard at it. And when I had to quit because of my baby brother, you encouraged me to start playing again." I actually remember this boy. I was dumbfounded when he told me his mother wouldn't let him practice the piano because his baby brother had to take a nap. The boy was talented. Surely she could have worked out a practice schedule for him instead of squelching his creativity. Ah, well. Who am I to judge? "You've showed me that it's OK to mess up." Okay. That's not possible. I struggle with "messing up" on a daily basis. I give myself little to no grace. I've fought the spirit of perfectionism for as long as I can remember. Certainly I've made progress, but not to the point where this comment didn't slap me upside the head with its resounding howcanthisbe-ness. Seriously -- I showed a child that it's okay to mess up? That it's really okay? I am humbled beyond measure. And absolutely blown away. Because it really is okay to mess up. My head knows that, even if my heart doesn't quite believe it. And I guess I needed a fresh reminder, from the pen of a ten-year-old child. It's okay to mess up. It's okay to mess up! A good thought for the beginning of a new year. Grace in all things, wiggle room and margin of error and all that. I am wonderfully made but I am imperfect. And in my imperfection I am still loved. I guess I needed a dusty scrapbook to remind me of that this week. Perhaps you needed the reminder, too. Labels: life |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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