The Write Way Home

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

August 13, 1988

Today is our 20th wedding anniversary.

Surely I'm not old enough to have been married for 20 years. Surely!

That 80's pouf veil is better left forgotten. I didn't even like it back then. I was talked into it by an overbearing woman at the dress shop.

I wanted a simple, fingertip veil with a small tiara. I was too timid to speak up when she told me that I needed a different kind of veil for the gown I'd chosen.

I know. "Timid" and "Jill" don't belong in the same sentence. You wouldn't have known me in 1988.

I like myself better now.

More importantly, I still like Eric. I think I should keep him, don't you? Especially since he's taking me out to dinner tonight. It's not exactly the trip to England we'd hoped would be the hallmark of our 20th anniversary. Neither one of us expected there to be a sweet new baby in the picture.

So a dinner out will have to suffice.

I am blessed, though. Richly blessed!

Now, what should I do with my hair...

Labels: life, marriage

Thursday, August 07, 2008

Bugs For Breakfast

Breakfast is a special family time for us. I set the table with pretty linens, light our "breakfast candle," and try to offer something better than cereal at least a couple times a week.

Things like spinach and mushroom frittatas, veal gravy over homemade biscuits, and breakfast quiche.

Of course, there are mornings when cereal suffices. And this was one of those mornings.

Naturally we eat organic cereal. Publix carries its own brand of organics, and fortunately their cereals are affordable. So we were munching on a particular variety of Publix Greenwise cereal when it happened.

Maggie held up her spoon and said, "What's this?"

I looked. There was something dark on one of her flakes.

"It looks like a burned bit," I said.

"No. It's not burned."

Jonathan the Scientist leaned forward. He examined the morsels on Maggie's spoon and confirmed my worst fear.

It was a bug.

No, it had not fallen into Maggie's bowl from some far-up perch on our kitchen ceiling. It was a squirmy little larvae. And it had come from inside the box.

Yes. Inside.

And so my children began to examine the bowls of cereal that sat in front of them. And more little squirmy things began to emerge from amidst the flakes and milk.

I would not look at mine. I did not, did not, did not want to know.

I had eaten three spoonfuls already.

Rachel's situation was even worse. She had eaten an entire bowl and was on her second.

I quietly dumped my uneaten cereal down the garbage disposal. I didn't watch it as it went down. Ignorance was bliss.

Then I took Spencer's bowl and dumped it, too. Poor Spencer. He had been in his own world during our entire conversation. He didn't understand why I had just thrown away his breakfast.

He stormed up the steps in a fit of pique.

Meanwhile, Jonathan calmly ate the rest of his cereal. (Is this guy actually related to me?) This was after he retrieved a particularly robust specimen from his bowl and placed it in a container with a flake or two, just to see if he could get it to grow to maturity.

Because, yanno, we all really wanted to know exactly what we had ingested.

To date, I have not been able to bring myself to buy another box of Greenwise cereal. I mean, what if the entire plant has been infested? There's a high likelihood that ours wasn't the only box with little feasting beasties inside it.

I feel ill when I walk past the cereal aisle.

I feel ill when I think about cereal.

I may never eat cereal again.

I can't write about this anymore.

Bleah.

Labels: life, natural foods

Friday, August 01, 2008

Vocabulary, A Badge of Honor

For me, that is. As his mother.

For, you see, on the drive home from my sister's house (which is approximately seven and a half hours long), my sixteen-year-old son used the following three words:

Copious.
Meandering.
Redundant.

He used them in the course of normal conversation. He used them correctly. He used them without thinking about it. He was just, you know, talking.

Maybe that's not very exciting to you. I am admittedly easily diverted. But if I can boast a son who speaks as though he's actually read a book or two, then I am well pleased.

Vocabulary Snobbery notwithstanding.

Maybe I'm grabbing at straws, but these things make me happy. Must be that mom/writer combination kicking in.

Now if he would just remember to take the garbage out...

Labels: homeschooling, life

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

And On The Way Home...

"Daddy, that trucker was signaling to us."

You know how it feels when another driver is wildly gesturing, and you've got no idea what he's trying to tell you? It was one of those moments.

Immediately, Eric feared for the bike rack. It was the first time we'd used one, and he admittedly had spent the majority of his driving hours worrying that it might, you know, fall off. Or something.

The bikes were still clearly visible through the back windshield, though.

"Maybe the bikes are loose." Poor Eric. I could see the tension around his eyes.

We drove for a minute or two, Eric all the while eying the bikes and wondering what the trucker had tried to warn him about. He had pretty much made the decision to pull over at the next exit to check the bike rack.

That's when we saw the trucker. He had pulled over to the side of the road, right before the exit. He waved to us as we passed him.

"Why did he stop?" Eric sounded panicked. "Why was that trucker still waving at us?"

Honestly, I wasn't worried about the overly friendly trucker. If anything, it seemed to me that he was looking out for us.

We pulled into the first empty parking lot we came to. And as Eric pulled on the brakes, our trucker friend pulled into the lot right behind us.

"Why is he following us?!" If I had ever suspected Eric's paranoid tendencies, this clinched it. "Why is that trucker following us? Why did he follow us?"

"Ur, maybe he's just trying to help us." I don't know what made me so particularly calm. It was probably a complete lack of coffee over the past forty-eight hours.

Sure enough. About six or seven miles back, the guy had noticed something blow off our roof rack. Two somethings, actually. He knew we were completely clueless, so he did everything in his power to get our attention. Everything, including following us off an exit ramp.

I wanted to hug him.

It seemed as though my stellar packing of beach towels and bed sheets didn't quite hold up to the 65 MPH sheer winds on top of our van. The garbage bags (yes, garbage bags...I know, I know...) had shot off the rack like overheated popcorn kernels.

"As far as I could tell, they were still intact when they landed," our trucker angel told us.

So. What to do? Were beach towels and bed sheets worth turning around for?

At first, we were less than inclined to do so. In the end, Rachel's emotional attachment to her beach towel turned the tide.

"Let's just go back ten miles," I said. "If we don't see them, we'll give up."

We returned to the highway and began to travel back north, eyes peeled. Three miles passed. Four. Five. Five-and-a-half.

"That's Maggie's beach towel!" We all saw it at once, on the other side of the highway. And not far from it lay the rest of our ejected linens, in a haphazard line on the shoulder.

We exited, turned around, pulled over next to our lost goods. And of course the first thing I thought of was the camera. It's a good thing, really. Because how many of you have pictures like this from your family vacation?

We gathered all but one item -- Spencer's beach towel -- which we were willing to accept as a loss. But just as we pulled out onto the highway again, we spotted the errant towel. It had blown across the road and was nestled against the cement barrier. Eric risked life and limb to retrieve it.

And so we got everything back, and went along our merry way.

I wish I knew who that trucker was, though. Think about how far he went out of his way to help us. It's a redefining of "Good Samaritan," surely. I thanked him profusely; of course I did. But it doesn't seem like enough. He was an amazing example of loving one's fellow man.

It's not that beach towels and bed sheets are irreplaceable. They're not. It's that a complete stranger cared enough about our family to interrupt his own life to honor ours.

And, yeah, I won't use garbage bags next time.

Labels: family, life

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Oh, Vacation, Where Have You Gone?

We've left our hearts in Cape May...

Live Long and Prosper

Legs and arms and a little bit of boy

Frying eggs in the condo

Tell me again how cute I am...

And again...

Date Night

Two enduring loves: My baby and the ocean...

I dare you not to love me

Daddy and son

Final evening...

Labels: family, life

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Cape May Blues: No Longer Mad About The Mad Batter

It used to be one of our all-time favorite places in Cape May, NJ. Now, I'm not so sure.

One of the highlights of our week-at-the-shore is to have a special Dinner Date, just the two of us. Last year we went to The Washington Inn,, which rates high on our list for quality of food (gourmet), excellence of wine list (Sonona Cutre Chardonnay), and ambiance (ahh, romance!). This year, however, we decided we needed to spend a little less on our special date.

The cost of gas on our drive up practically killed us, you know?

Naturally, we were delighted to discover that The Mad Batter, which is just a few doors down from the place we rented for the week, offered an "early bird" special: Buy one entrée, get the second one for half price. Perfect! We simply had to get there by 5:30 in order to qualify.

So imagine the scenario. I kept Molly on Central Time during our vacation in order to avoid a scheduling mix-up once we got home. (Once anal retentive, always anal retentive.) Consequently, her "dinner time" in Cape May was around 4:30 pm. That's bits of food followed by a nursing. I figured I'd be able to get it all done and still make it to The Mad Batter on time.

While she was still sleeping, I did my hair and make-up. Then I fed her and nursed her, all the while watching the clock with sharp eyes and a rapid pulse. Had to finish on time! Had to get to The Mad Batter on time!

Eric was calm as ever, naturally. After all, the restaurant was about forty paces from our front porch. And it wasn't even raining.

By the time I handed off the baby to the nearest older sibling and slipped into my sundress and sandals, it was past 5:20. Almost as an afterthought, we paused on the front porch for a few photos. (I mean, what's the point of dressing up if you're not going to have proof afterward?)

Then, hand in hand, we hastened down the street with just a few minutes to spare. Success!

"Good evening! Table for two?" The hostess picked up two signature menus from the podium as she spoke.

"Yes," Eric said. "Do we get the early bird special?"

"Oh. Um..." She looked behind her, where another woman was standing. "Um, do they get the early bird special?"

The other woman -- the Woman Of Authority -- spun round to face us. "No. No, you don't. It's past 5:30." Short, blunt. Passionless.

Eric pulled out his Sprint phone -- the one that's linked up to the atomic clock, mind you -- and pressed a button. "It's 5:29."

Woman Of Authority craned her neck toward the computer monitor against the back wall. "No. Our computer says 5:33. So, no, it's past 5:30."

"Dumbfounded" does not begin to express what we felt.

"So, you're not going to give us the early bird special, then?"

"No."

We left. Where moments earlier I had been feeling light as souffle, I now felt deflated. Icky inside. Abused, somehow.

Where had my magical "date feeling" gone?

Eric was angry. Indignant. I let him vent a bit as we hurried away from the traitorous Mad Batter. Then, right before we reached our front porch, he stopped.

"I need to go back," he said. "I have to give them a chance to make it right."

"I'm not eating there." Well, that's me in a nutshell. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever. (Mr. Darcy fans, unite.)

"Jilly, I have to go back."

"Well, I'm not coming."

"You have to come, so that I can motion to you to come inside."

"I'll walk back with you, but I'll wait out here where you can see me."

Call it pride, call it mortification, call it I'm-not-setting-foot-in-that-stinkin'-restaurant-ever-again, that's where I was at the moment. So Eric returned, and I waited.

Moments later, he emerged, and his face was dark.

Woman of Authority was under no circumstances going to allow us to have the early bird special. Period. Almost every table on the restaurant's porch was empty, and they could've used our business. But no. Nothin' doin'. She was going to let us walk away over a four-minute discrepancy.

Four lousy minutes. And she lost two customers for the rest of their vacation. And possibly forever.

Interestingly, we met Vickie Seitchik, one of the founders of The Mad Batter, last year while on vacation. At the time, she also owned our condo at 41 Jackson Street, and was often sitting on the front porch as we came and went. She was a kind woman, a bit on the sad and quiet side. She seemed passionate about Cape May and everything she'd invested there over the years.

I don't think Vickie would have turned us away from the early bird special.

Obviously, the Mad Batter's new owners feel differently. Woman of Authority was quick to blame "Mark" for being a stickler about the 5:30 cut-off.

Shame on you, Mark.

At any rate, we had a lovely, albeit more expensive, dinner at The Merion Inn, a beautiful, historical restaurant where you can get plain, simple seafood done the way you like it. I ordered broiled haddock with browned butter.

Delicious.

I'm proud of myself, too, for not allowing the complete lack of decent customer service at The Mad Batter to ruin my evening.

It really felt awful to be treated that way at what used to be one of our favorite haunts.

We've been there for a late breakfast. We've been there for a romantic dinner in the rain. We've been there for a quiet lunch.

We really loved the place.

And see? I'm speaking in the past tense, and I can't help it. Loved. Not love.

I feel betrayed.

Woman of Authority had no idea, of course, that I had purchased a new dress, managed the care and responsibilities and feeding of five children, gotten myself ready in record time, and nursed a hungry baby before hurrying down the street to her doorstep. No, indeed. To her, I was simply the woman standing beside the man who claimed it was only 5:29.

So there it is. I will no longer recommend The Mad Batter to anyone.

I will, however, recommend The Merion Inn, where a phenomenal jazz pianist was playing that evening (in between surfing on his Mac -- I kid you not). I will also recommend The Washington Inn for a truly superb dining experience.

In fact, I will continue to recommend Cape May in general. It is such a special place for vacationing -- as a family, and as a couple.

As for The Mad Batter? I don't know what it would take to win back my loyalty. Perhaps two completely free meals -- a dinner for two, and a breakfast for seven. That might tempt me.

We are, after all, already talking about the possibility of returning to Cape May next June. And Eric is known for his mercy. And nostalgia.

Right now, I'm unbending.

Labels: life, stinky stuff

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

Home, With The Sea In Our Hearts

Are there any words to describe a child's first experience with the ocean? Molly is just like the rest of us Boehmes -- one glance at the blue-gray Atlantic and she was hooked. I could see it in her eyes.

We had a wonderful week in Cape May.

We also spent some cool time with my parents, and had another painfully brief visit with my dear sister. Naturally, I'm going to have lots of Vacation Stories to tell.

They are forthcoming.

For now, there's the First Officially Posted Molly-at-the-Beach photo. And the news that we are, indeed, back in town. Wouldn't it be something if I actually began posting regularly once again?

Do I have any readers left?

Ah, but that was rhetorical. I know you're still there. And I'll be sharing some beach moments and non-beach moments in the days to come.

And no, I don't have a tan. Keeping Baby on her nap schedule makes unlimited sunbathing a tad challenging.

'Tis good to be home! And one of my "July projects" is to purge my office (which, in the past eighteen months or so, has morphed into a storage closet) and to actually find the surface of my desk. Clutter does not lead to productivity. And trying to do anything creative in this walk-in junk pile is nearly impossible.

So. Wish me luck. And stay tuned for what will most likely become a nauseating amount of children-at-the-shore photos!

Labels: life

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

And We're Off.....

....on vacation, that is.

We're leaving at the cheerful and reasonable hour of 4:00 am.

Well, it's just easier to get an early start. For one thing, after the initial excitement, everyone usually dozes off for a while, giving us some quiet miles in the early hours.

Eric is not allowed to doze off, of course.

If everyone doesn't doze off, it's going to be a long morning. "Everyone" meaning "Molly," naturally.

14 hours in a van with a 9-month-old should be interesting. We're well seasoned with this kind of thing, though. And we've got her carseat way in the back between her two older sisters, who are beyond excited about being her primary caregivers during the journey.

Heh. Little do they know.

And so we embark upon another family adventure, and you will surely be inundated with Cute Beach Pictures upon my return.

Blessings to all!

Labels: family, life

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

This Is Not Prophetic

I was lying on the floor of Molly's nursery while she played happily among random toys. After a while, Spencer joined us.

He must have been bored.

This, of course, made a light catnap possible, so I rolled over and got a little more comfortable. Spencer was busy trying to get a Very Old Crib Toy to play its ancient wind-up music. It seemed to have made him a bit nostalgic.

"Did you ever think about being pregnant again after you had me, Mommy?"

"Oh, yes," I said. "I wished for it for a long time."

"I would love to have another baby." Do tell. "What if you had another baby when Molly was three or four or five?"

"Ur, that's a little old for having a baby."

"Well, maybe you could have one sooner."

I continued my attempt at a catnap.

"You could start being pregnant at any minute and only God would know. You could start being pregnant two seconds from now and you wouldn't even know it."

That would be interesting.

"Or you could start being pregnant in a week. Or in two months! Or --"

I desperately wanted to stick a sock in his mouth.

"Then the two babies would be in one bedroom."

"Well, what if it was a boy?" Might as well play along.

"Then we'd paint half the room for a boy and half the room for Molly."

He's got it all figured out, doesn't it? Funny how mommies don't "get" pregnant when children don't know about the *S* word -- they "start being" pregnant. Like, you just lie on the nursery floor, minding your own business, when suddenly, poof! You start being pregnant.

Just like that.

What a frightening thought. I mean, it's been a dream with Molly. I've gone on and on about what a blessing she's been. But...sudden pregnancy on the bedroom floor?

Mercy.

I'll tell you what's really scary, though. When Jonathan was only two and a half and his baby sister was -- well, a baby, he told me that there was a baby in my belly. Smiling, I asked him who had told him that.

His answer? "Jesus."

Guess who was pregnant one month later.

No, we weren't "trying." Yes, I was shocked. Though, to be sure, I shouldn't have been. Because my toddler had given me fair warning. God was sending another baby, ready or not.

So. Do I discount Spencer's pregnant-in-two-seconds rant?

In a word, yes. My sanity dictates that I do so. And anyway, as of tonight, Eric will be permanently moving into the guest room.

Instant pregnancy, indeed.

*shudder*

Labels: family, life

Monday, May 26, 2008

Real, Honest-to-Goodness Friends

Aren't they beautiful?

Maggie invited her "ballet buddies" for a day-after-my-fourteenth-birthday pizza party. Not just any "pizza party," mind you. Eric made individual-sized gourmet pizzas, and we had extra toppings on the table so that each girl could add what she wanted.

It was a hit.

Girls are funny, though. You'd think I'd given them food ration tickets or something, considering the amount of toppings they put on their personal pizzas.

Four pepperoni slices? Three sauteed mushrooms? I could have made a five-quart casserole out of the leftovers.

"They didn't put much on, did they?" Eric seemed dismayed.

"Oh, well they're girls," I said. "You know, it's a girl thing."

He didn't know.

"Well, I mean, women are the same way. When we go to a party, we take a teeny bit of this and a teeny bit of that, even if we really like it. We want to be...dainty."

I don't know why I try to explain these things to Eric. All I know is, if this had been a boy party, my kitchen table would have looked like the remnants of a recent explosion, with little or no leftovers. I'll take a girl party any day.

Anyway, I love these girls. I love that Maggie loves these girls. I tell her often what wonderful friends she has.

When I was fourteen I didn't have friends like this.

These girls are bonded -- bonded through dancing together, bonded through their shared faith. In whatever direction the Lord leads each of them, I believe that they will set out with lifelong deposits from each other.

It's just that cool.

So there you are -- a little tribute to my beautiful daughter and her sweet friends.

Life is good!

Labels: family, life

Friday, May 23, 2008

Blowing Off The Blog

There's no other way to put it, really.

In an effort to make excuses, it's not the only thing I've been blowing off lately. There are emails waiting for responses (I think I've got almost 500 messages to weed through in my inbox -- all of them read, many of them delete-able or file-able, a bunch still waiting for answers.). Then there's that little thing called -- ur -- writing that I'm supposed to be working on daily.

Daily.

Hah!

So maybe I'm learning -- possibly for the first time -- that the seven-to-nine-month stretch of a baby's development is a bit on the challenging side. Not from a behavioral standpoint, mind you. Molly is sweet as can be, and is responding well to the word "no." It's just that -- well, she's awfully busy.

Awfully, awfully busy.

Throw in last week's nursing strike and you can see why I'm dropping the ball on a few things around here.

To be fair to myself, I was not pursuing a career when any of my other children were this age. The only "writing" I did was the occasional thank-you note or a humorous poem for an unwitting family member.

So. Here I am, floundering. But loving every minute of it.

Well, maybe not every minute. This isn't some sort of Donna Reed utopia.

But I do have a husband with enough sensitivity to buy me a scoop of Bananas on the Rum in a waffle cone at Ben and Jerry's during Molly's nursing strike.

And I've actually cleared off enough of the mess on my desk to have room for my left arm while typing.

And...and...and...I think I'm starting to get just the tiniest bit organized. Organized, as in, all I really need is thirty minutes a day to keep myself on track in the writing arena.

Thirty minutes! I've been known to write four solid pages in thirty minutes. Yes, it can be done. Despite diapers and eighth grade Grammar tests and gargantuan loads of laundry and no fresh fruit in the house, it can be done.

And that's where I've been. Blowing off the blog for a bit, with every intention of not blowing anything off again.

It'll happen one day.

In the meantime, thanks for checking in.

Labels: baby, life

Thursday, May 01, 2008

Scenes of Wine and Family

A little glimpse of the Boehme Couple at Arrington Vineyards (if only to prove that we actually made it there)...

And another little glimpse of my beloved parents with my offspring.

What joy it is to keep passing babies into their eager hands. Not that I need to do it again. It's my sister's turn.

Enjoy.

Labels: family, life

Friday, April 04, 2008

Boy Talk In The Kitchen

I'm cutting up a cantaloupe and Eric is standing behind me wearing his head weights. (Chiropractic care -- I highly recommend it).

Nine-year-old Spencer comes downstairs, all morning freshness.

"Hey!" he says to his daddy.

"Good morning, Spencer!"

There are a few seconds of belly-fart sounds. I've come to the conclusion that this strange ritual is some sort of male bonding thing. I'm not sure I'll ever understand Spencer's need to blow raspberries on his father's stomach, but I continue to slice fruit as though the room is silent.

"What's that thing on your chin?" Spencer says.

"Huh?"

"There's something sticking on your chin. It looks like a boogie."

I swallow hard and keep slicing the cantaloupe.

There's a bit of shuffling. Eric walks up to the garbage can and tosses something in.

"So that's where that boogie went."

And I'm supposed to feel like eating breakfast after this.

Labels: family, life

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

Bereft Of Bits and Bytes

In short, my computer has died.

As in...died.

It was acting funky for several days. Slow, in a weird sort of way. And then it froze. Right in the middle of opening an email.

Froze.

Enter Techno-geek Husband. He started my baby up in Safe Mode and backed up all the Very Important Things. Like my email folders. And digital photos.

And, oh yeah. My novels.

Except now I can't access any of it. Because it's -- well, saved somewhere. On a hard drive. And the computer upon which I'm currently tappity-tapping away isn't in any way attached, connected to, or otherwise operably communicating with said hard drive.

So. I am a writer without her work. A rabid family photographer without her photos. A writer without her work. An email-addicted social hermit without her email.

Have I mentioned that I am a writer without her work?

I know my Dear Hubby will grant me access to my files at some point. He is truly irreplaceable at times like this. (Oh, let's be fair. He is always truly irreplaceable.) But in the meantime, I am dead in the water.

Alas! Dead.

Commiserate with me, will you? Or start up a benevolent Jill Needs A Macbook Pro fund.

Or at the very least, send organic chocolate truffles and a few hugs and kisses.

Snif.

Labels: computers, life

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Destined

When we built this house eight years ago, the smallest bedroom was given to our smallest family member. Spencer -- sweet, sweet baby with big, big eyes -- was eight months old when we moved in.

His "nursery" wasn't more than a room with a crib in it, really. The walls were "painter beige." The curtains were recycled from a room in our old house. The diaper deck was the same, rickety piece of pseudo-furniture we'd use for all of our babies.

The only truly beautiful thing in the room was Spencer himself. And, of course, that's all that mattered.

I remember the day he first clambered out of the crib, unassisted. His siblings were playing in the front yard during Spencer's naptime, when one of them informed me that Spencer was peeking out of his bedroom window.

"That's not possible," said I, the all-knowing. "He must be peeking from his crib."

Silly me. Spencer was actually standing on the floor by the window. That night, Eric dismantled the crib for what I was certain was the last time.

My womb wept.

I was determined to transform the room into something more pleasing than a blank-walled nursery. So I painted it (myself) and put up a border (myself) and stuck glow-in-the-dark stars all over the ceiling (myself).

(Oh, you noticed that I'm a little proud of the fact that I did it by myself? If only you knew how un-Jill it is to do those sorts of tedious jobs...)

So the tiniest bedroom remained the domain of our not-so-tiny-but-still-smallest family member.

At one point we talked about doubling up the boys in Jonathan's room and using the smallest bedroom as a sort of crafts room or office space. It never happened.

And though I certainly thought from time to time what I might be able to use that Smallest Bedroom for if we did some room-shifting, I never dreamed that it would one day become my Dream Nursery, housing my Dream Baby.

Oh, she is a delight.

As soon as I knew that she was a "she," I planned the Perfect Nursery. I'd never had one, you see. Not a Perfect Nursery with Coordinating Everythings. And while it wasn't my intention to spend thousands of dollars and choose only the best-of-the-best (I didn't), I knew that the nursery had to be simply...perfect.

It is. Simply perfect, I mean.

Naturally, the only truly beautiful thing in the room is Molly herself. And, of course, that's all that matters.

Still. It's immeasurably satisfying to stand in her lovely little boudoir and think, "Oh. Oh! I have a sweet princess in my life. Pink stripes and hair bows and tiny dollies and ruffled blanket and all."

And my heart overflows with thankfulness.

The smallest bedroom was, all along, destined for yet another blessing.

Who knew?

Labels: baby, family, life

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Reason Number Thirty

I've got a great addition to my 29 reasons for having a baby (and being a writer) after 40: My chances of living to the age of 100 have quadrupled.

I know this because my wonderful mother (who isn't anywhere near 100) just sent me a small article that contained this wondrous bit of news. Men who sire children -- particularly those men who start raising families from a young age -- are also prime candidates for hitting the Five Score club.

In which case, Eric and I will both be driving each other nuts for a long, long time.

Missing from this article, however, are the reasons for this supposed longevity. Why would giving birth after the age of forty afford me all those extra years of wrinkly existence? Does it have something to do with waking up a sleeping uterus and fooling it into producing life-giving hormones beyond its normal capacity? Keeping my cardiovascular system up and running by matching pace with my own toddler right before matching pace with an onslaught of grandchildren?

Or might it be that women who give birth after the age of 40 have a compelling reason to continue to take the very best care of themselves -- for the sake of a tiny person who needs them?

I wonder.

But as long as I'm physically fit and my brain hasn't gone dotty, I wouldn't mind living another six decades. I'll be sure to see all five of my children married by then (since Eric will, of course, make all the girls wait until they're 40). And as long as Eric's not wearing diapers, I won't mind having him around, either.

He is my best friend, after all.

And an extra six decades might be just what I need to get my books published, at any rate. Who knew that having a later-life baby would give the publishing world yet another excuse to move at a rate that only exists outside of our space-time continuum?

Imagine. Fifty-eight more years of "The Write Way Home."

Anyway, thank you, Mom, for boosting my spirits today -- I needed that.

Labels: family, life, writing

Thursday, March 06, 2008

I Could've Sung At Carnegie Hall

On Friday night, my college choir conductor will be directing a concert at Carnegie Hall, in honor of Susquehanna University's 150th anniversary. I could've been a part of the soprano section. Eric might've been one of the tenors.

But, you know, nursing babies and NYC don't go well together. And so we stayed home.

One of my mother's friends has always said, ever since I can remember, that I should play at Carnegie. Naturally, that wasn't going to happen, since my piano skills aren't exactly on par with Alicia de la Rocha. But this choir thing was a shoe-in for the less-than-optimally-talented. I mean, anyone can rent Carnegie these days and call it a "concert," right? And though I respect Mr. Stretansky and would have dearly enjoyed singing under his baton once more, I don't think that having done so would be a mark for the annals of history.

Still. It would've made for pretty cool dinner conversation: "Well, last year when Eric and I performed at Carnegie...what? Didn't I tell you?"

I sent my free alumni tickets to a family friend and have given the concern a mere, passing thought now and then ever since. Eric's taken it much harder than I have (must be that New York blood of his). It's just another one of those things that wasn't meant to be.

Like the time Eric and I were invited to a concert at the Vatican. Yes, that's right -- Rome, Italy. The special guests of the composer, and present for the Pope's birthday celebration.

I had nothing to wear, so we didn't go.

Actually, it was the season of lots-of-very-small-children-with-nobody-to-watch-them. And we missed a truly unique opportunity.

So I've almost done Carnegie and I've almost done Rome.

Doesn't sound too impressive, does it?

I think I'll get back to my writing. I can nurse my baby and wear jeans and Skechers and still get my writing done.

I wonder if any of you have some impressive "near misses" in life. I'd surely love to hear about them...

Labels: life

Friday, February 29, 2008

It's Leap Day, After All...

And I suppose that's reason enough to blog. One can imagine the claptrap that's out and about today, though -- 29 of this, 29 of that, 29 forever. Ad nauseum.

So in an attempt to be slightly more creative (emphasis on "slightly"), I offer you the following list:

29 Reasons To Have A Baby And Pursue A Writing Career After Forty

1. Unless they stand too close, people will assume that I'm much younger and more energetic than I really am.

2. I have two built-in excuses for maintaining my mostly-hermit existence: "I'm nursing a baby" and "I'm a writer." If one of them doesn't cut it, I can fall back on the other.

3. Folks look at the baby in my arms instead of the gray at my roots.

4. Afternoon naptime is a perfect time for getting some writing done. Unless I'm the one who's asleep.

5. Two words: Older. Siblings. Two other words: Built-in. Babysitters.

6. When I'm not having a productive writing day, I can blame the baby.

7. When I'm not having a good mommy day, I can blame it on the writing.

8. Having a cleavage again after 40 is a boost to the feminine ego.

9. Except when nothing fits right. Which is a perfect excuse to buy new clothing.

10. Posting a picture of the baby counts as having blogged for the day.

11. People feel like they need to admire me. Which, though misguided, is their prerogative.

12. I don't feel quite so old when twenty-something puppies land big book deals.

13. I may actually have a picture book in print by the time my baby's old enough to read it.

14. And if that doesn't happen, I won't have to wait too much longer to read it to my grandkids.

15. When I shop at organic food stores, nobody thinks it's weird that I have a baby.

16. I have a husband who's mature enough to regularly help out with the baby. This time.

17. When the World of Publishing makes me feel like going sociopath, I can cuddle my baby instead. The World -- all of it -- goes away.

18. Spit-up working its way deep inside my keyboard is a viable excuse not to write on any given day.

19. Any moment now, a publisher is going to snatch me up as the next hot Amazing True Story Of My Life author.

20. I haven't gotten this much reading done since I nursed my last baby eight years ago.

21. I didn't have any taste in clothing until I was about 39 years old. Now I can shop at Old Navy and buy baby/mama matching clothes. And I'm old enough not to care if someone thinks it looks stupid. (No, really.)

22. We have one more dependent to claim. So I can continue not making a salary as a writer and still say I've contributed to the family income this year.

23. My dad has one more thing to brag about (he's already been bragging about my writing for years).

24. I can watch old family videos without crying about the days-gone-by. The whole diaper-drool-baby-laughter thing is still going on here.

25. I can share baby advice with Very Young New Mommies and they won't automatically assume that there's no way I could possibly remember what it was like when mine were little.

26. It doesn't matter if I smell like baby-stink. I can write in the privacy of my own office.

27. I have acquired a real "business voice," which I can flip into at a moment's notice. So I'll be ready when that Big Phone Call comes.

28. Unless I can't hear my cell phone ringing over the cries of a hungry baby.

29. In which case I will console myself with fine wine and organic chocolate, because I'm old enough to know that they're both good for me, and wise enough to find any excuse possible to ask for them -- like, being over 40, having a baby, and aspiring to be a widely read, beloved, pre-geriatric children's author.

Labels: baby, life, writing

Friday, February 22, 2008

Bright Eyes

I want to look at life this way. Alert, expectant, filled with wonder. Ready to smile at what you show me. Eager to embrace everything I see, touch, experience.

Unconditionally loving everybody who loves me.

With daily sunshine like this, do I ever have an excuse to be grouchy or ungrateful? Any reason to let my heart wander into sad and empty places?

I think not.

Oh, the sweetness of Molly. I'm wrapping it round myself like a fuzzy blanket. Who knew I'd have this huge, tiny blessing at this stage of my life? I think God is chuckling at me -- enjoying my surprised delight.

Have a blessed weekend!

Labels: baby, life

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Another "Kitchen Ditz" Moment

I'm not sure I should even tell this story. You may lose any shred of respect you might have had for me.

Ah, well. What's life if not a vehicle for making others laugh at me?

So. I decided to roast a turkey breast and mash some Yukon Golds for supper. Naturally, turkey isn't turkey without some homemade gravy. And since Spencer had specifically requested the gravy, I poured the fats and juices from the roasting pan and mixed together some cornstarch and milk so that my thickening agent would be ready as soon as the gravy came to a boil.

As I've done dozens of times before, I began to slowly drizzle the cornstarch mixture into the boiling liquid, stirring all the while. It doesn't take long for gravy to thicken, and cornstarch makes it nice and smooth -- not lumpy like flour sometimes does.

Funny, though. This time it wasn't thickening quickly. In fact, it didn't seem to be thickening at all.

I added more. Stirred more. A full three-fourths of the mixture had been added and my gravy was still thin as milk.

That's when I got just the tiniest bit suspicious.

"What's wrong?" Eric peered over my shoulder.

"Ur. My gravy's not thickening. I'm wondering..." I picked up the cornstarch container. "I'm wondering..."

"It's not cornstarch?" I wasn't looking at his face but I could hear the smirk in his voice.

"I'm not sure."

I peered into the container, shook it around a bit. Sniffed it. Then I dipped one nervous finger into the white stuff and touched it to the tip of my tongue.

"Oh, no." I put down the container and closed my eyes.

It was powdered sugar.

"Let's go have a glass of wine," Eric said. He was still smirking.

Having a glass of wine wasn't going to solve the problem of my having used up every bit of turkey drippings for the gravy-that-is-now-a-meat-flavored-dessert-sauce. But upon taking those few minutes to compose myself, I came up with the brilliant plan of adding some flour to thicken the gravy and serving it up, anyway.

I mean, who would know?

So I thickened the gravy and slopped it into the gravy boat.

"Hey," said Spencer as we filled our plates. "The gravy tastes sweet!"

"Oh, does it?" I tried to look casual.

"Yeah! But it still tastes good."

Oh, good.

Then it was Rachel's turn. "Does the gravy have sugar in it or something?"

Okay, I had taken my children for a pack of palate-less fools. There was no way I could pull this one off and get away with it. I was fried.

So I came clean. Told all. I could see Jonathan's brain storing the information for use against me later. And Eric was still smirking.

That's what I get for not labeling my Tupperware containers. Gravy, anyone?

Labels: family, life

Monday, February 18, 2008

From the White House To the Grocery Store

Yesterday, I saw Al Gore.

No, really. Eric and I were enjoying a small lunch at Whole Foods. The lunch bar faces the rows of check out lanes -- not very scenic, but certainly fun for people-watching.

And oh, we writers love to people-watch.

I wasn't paying too much attention, though, at the moment when Eric called my name.

"Jill."

(He never calls me "Jill," remember? So this was already a bit weird.)

"Jill, look."

(Why was he speaking in undertones?)

"Look, it's Al Gore."

That caught my attention. I looked up, and there he was -- Mr. Gore himself, with his wife by his side and nary a bodyguard to be found.

Well, unless they were inconspicuously dispersed through the crowd wearing their best hippie clothes. If only I had had time to jump up and trip Mr. Gore, or maybe fling my bottle of artisan water at him -- then I might have seen some action.

As it stood, the Gores simply strolled out of the store, grocery bags in hand.

Nobody noticed them. Nobody pointed at them. Nobody fell at Al's feet and thanked him for inventing the Internet.

Nope. They simply walked out of the store like two normal human beings.

Then it struck me. I had just watched a former Vice President of the United States and Nobel Peace Prize winner walk by in a crowd of people. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance -- he was overweight, graying, ordinary. He was, in all appearances, an "everyman".

He still had the distinct ability to produce instant nausea, though. Or maybe that was just me.

Is this what happens to former political leaders and makers-into-a-three-ring-circus-of-close-elections? Do they simply glide back into civilian life and go shopping on a Sunday afternoon?

I wouldn't know. I've never seen one in public before.

It was quite a moment. And despite the vitriol I'm biting back with each word I type, I must admit that it softened me a bit. Al Gore is, after all, a man. He dons comfy clothes and takes his lovely wife to the grocery store that's known for using only one hundred percent recycled paper bags instead of plastic. (At least he's consistent.) He didn't do anything to call attention to himself. He was just living his life on a Sunday. Just like I was living mine.

So. Perhaps I deserve a prize for self-restraint. Or perhaps I'll do something more exciting than stare the next time I see a Big Name Person at the grocery store.

Like mention how nice the unseasonably warm weather is.

Okay, I'll stop now.

That was my weekend. How was yours?

Labels: life

Friday, February 15, 2008

Jill?

Yesterday we had our Boehme Valentine Celebration. It's a close second to Christmas around here -- the big Valentine box sits for two weeks on the buffet table, and everyone sneaks love notes and little presents into it. Then, on Valentine's Day, the treasures and treats are distributed and opened.

It's quintessential Family Time.

I was busy nursing the baby while everyone was opening their valentines, so I was pretty much on my own when I got to my pile of homemade cards. The ones marked "Mommy" were the most endearing, of course, and the ones marked -- well, never mind what Eric calls me. I was a bit confused, though, when I picked up an envelope with "Jill" written in cursive handwriting.

Eric doesn't call me "Jill" (unless he's introducing me at an office party) and he doesn't know how to write in cursive. My sister calls me "Jilly" and prefers printing, and my parents' card came in the mail addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Eric Boehme." So, unless a secret admirer had slipped in overnight and deposited the card, this one was a stumper.

I opened the envelope. Nestled inside was a jewel-bedecked card marked "Mommy." The card was from Spencer.

Which leads to the obvious question: Why did he write "Jill" on the envelope?

I didn't realize I was on a first-name basis with my eight-year-old. I thought of asking him about it, but the possibility of a Very Strange Answer has put me off.

Maybe my new, organic, all-natural, anti-vax, drug-free childbirth, chlorine-free diaper lifestyle warrants my being known as "Jill" to my offspring. Sounds kind of "hippie" to me.

"Hey, Jill, can I have the car keys?"

"Jill, will you check my math problems?"

"Jill change Molly's diaper?"

I can just see my parents' faces.

No, thank you. I think I'll just add Spencer's informal Valentine to my ever-growing list of Spencer Oddities.

And next time, I might actually blog about one of my other children. Unless Spencer provides me with fresh material. Which is highly likely.

Labels: family, life

Thursday, February 07, 2008

Vinegar Milk

"Mommy," said Spencer over breakfast this morning, "on New Year's Day we should have had vinegar milk."

Silence.

It pays not to respond too quickly to odd things. For one thing, Spencer tends to be a bit sensitive. For another, it's likely I've not heard him correctly. And since I had absolutely no idea what he meant, I didn't say anything.

Maggie came to the rescue. "Vinegar milk?"

"No, I said vanilla milk."

I smiled. "No, you said vinegar milk."

"No, I said vanilla milk." The words were spoken as if they were straight from the Gospels. No arguing. No negotiating. Spencer hath spoken.

"Spencer, we both heard you. You said vinegar milk."

"I said vanilla milk! You're contradicting me!"

Love is patient, love is kind. I took a deep breath. "Spencer, it's okay. Sometimes our brains think of one word but our mouths say another. It happens to everyone."

"I. Said. Vanilla. Milk."

"Spencer, you said vinegar milk!"

"I-said-VANILLA-MILK! You all need to clean your ears out!"

"Spencer, Mommy and I both heard you say vinegar," Maggie joined in.

Spencer growled, clenched his fists, rose from his seat, and ran away from the kitchen table.

"I said VANILLA MILK!" he called from the stairs.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

"CONTRADICTORS!!"

It took a valiant effort not to backsnort my coffee. Not having been the least bit chastened by the derogatory title (which sounds like it could be the latest action film), I was in the midst of belly laughing over the scene that had just unfolded, when Spencer suddenly reappeared in the kitchen.

Sotto voce: "I said vanilla milk."

I turned to my left, where Spencer had silently approached. He stood, jaw taut, eyes piercing mine, holding a ballpoint pen with locked arms, like an impotent assault weapon, two inches from my nose.

This was getting weird. There's passion, and there's absurdity...and then there's blatant disrespect of one's elders.

So, upon pain of a day-long grounding, I put an end to the vinegar/vanilla debate.

Note to self: Pick your battles.

Labels: family, life

Friday, January 25, 2008

And The Chatty One Goes Silent

It'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

Monday, January 14, 2008

There'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.

Labels: fun, life

Friday, January 11, 2008

Housewife Hieroglyphs

I 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

Monday, January 07, 2008

So Privileged

The 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

Monday, December 24, 2007

The Merriest of Christmases

....to you and yours, from me and mine.

Labels: family, life

Friday, December 07, 2007

Baby Einstein -- The Marketing Coup

Someone out there is brilliant.

For the past few years, I've only been vaguely aware of the Baby Einstein products out there. You know -- stuff for your baby that will make him a genius. Videos and games and toys and whatnot. I didn't pay it much mind; just sort of rolled my eyes and went on to think about something else.

I've reentered the world of Baby Gizmos, though, and I've paid more attention to the Stuff that's out there. And a lot of it is...well, beyond ridiculous.

They said "Mozart makes you smart." So ZING! Out comes the snappiest, Mozart-playing baby videos and baby toys that you've ever seen. And, well, nobody wants HIS baby to lag behind the little smarties who are listening to Mozart whilst watching brainless images float by on their parents' plasma screen, so ZIP! Out Mommy runs to the nearest toy store and stocks up on Baby Einstein for her own budding prodigy.

And another Toy Empire is born.

You know what? I'm a musician. My children have been exposed to Mozart -- and Beethoven and Brahms and Handel and Debussy -- since birth. Not in the form of digitally recorded, primary-colored, developmentally-gauged baby toys. Nope. Just plain ol' CD's in my CD player.

Fancy that.

These days, it's even easier to find classical music, thanks to online music meccas like iTunes. So if you hear someone say, "Hey! Your baby needs some Mozart!" you can choose a few symphonies or chamber pieces, burn them to a CD, and voila! Instant genius.

It's hard for the masses to resist the slick packaging of the Baby Einstein products, though. I should know. I just bought a Baby Einstein toy for my daughter.

You know me well enough to know that my choice had nothing to do with the Baby Einstein craze, or even with an insatiable need to raise a genius. It's a lot more straightforward for me: I hate idiotic "baby tunes" and electronic blippity-bleeps. So when I discovered the blue octopus who plays one Baroque and two Classical pieces and recites eight colors in three languages, I was sold. Not only will my baby be able to distinguish between Telemann and Beethoven, but she'll be speaking French and Spanish by the time she's two.

No, seriously.

Okay, not really. I did buy the octopus because of the music and language choices. But I mostly bought it because of the price: $8.99 at Walmart. That was within my budget. And I've been searching for some sort of interesting toy for Molly's pack-n-play, which gets kind of boring for the poor little girl with nothing but a rattle in it.

And, hey, it's Christmas. It gave me an excuse to put something under the tree for my baby-who-is-too-tiny-to-really-care-yet.

Right. I'm not kidding anyone. The Baby Einstein octopus is for me. I pressed its little face, it started to play a piece by Telemann, and I was hooked. I may share it with Molly from time to time. I might even tell people that it's hers. But make no mistake: Mommy is reliving her childhood, which was completely devoid of brainful toys that played highbrow music and taught her how to say "brown" in French.

How did any of us survive with IQ's above 100?

Ah, well. Now you know. I still think the Baby Einstein videos are a waste of money. You won't find me spending time looking in the baby aisle for classical music choices. Molly's going to have her own CD player with a collection of good music to listen to, just like her sisters.

And I'm not totally without heart for these products. I mean, it could be worse. They could be promoting toys that play John Denver or Boy George or songs from Oklahoma! I'm utterly thankful that I could buy a toy that plays lovely melodies from some of the masters.

So while I continue to roll my eyes and cluck my tongue at the Baby Einstein goofiness, I also whisper a "thank you" for my beautiful, blue octopus.

Ur...Molly's beautiful, blue octopus.

Labels: baby, life

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

No B@@bs? No Admittance!

It's time again to give me your feedback on something. Because, you know, sometimes it's just...me.

Our church has an awesome room for nursing mothers. This past Sunday, I experienced it for the first time: Soft red sofas, dim lighting, and a closed-circuit television piping in the service so the nursing mommies don't miss anything. It felt like a sanctuary -- safe, quiet, peaceful.

Until a man walked in.

Now, I'm pretty much the nurse-anywhere type. I've nursed babies at restaurant tables, in malls, and at the zoo. So it's not like I have a problem nursing around other people, regardless of whether they're male or female.

I do admit to being a little more "private" this time around, though. Maybe it's my age, or maybe it's that I've lost my need to somehow "prove" that I can nurse anywhere. Because I've already been there, done that. It's almost a non-issue.

And, well, I really had a problem with the Man In the Nursing Mothers' Lounge.

He walked in with his wife and two children, neither of whom were nursing infants. They quietly sat toward the back and began to watch the church service on the TV screen.

Now, I can understand a new mommy wanting her husband's help and support while nursing at church. I wouldn't mind if a hands-on daddy accompanied his wife into a quiet corner to help her nurse their newborn. After all, I credit Eric with an amazing amount of support during my early nursing weeks.

But this dad wasn't helping anyone nurse. He was...watching TV.

I didn't even nurse downstairs when my father-in-law was visiting a few weeks ago. Why would I want to nurse in front of a strange male?

And this is coming from someone who ultimately doesn't care. There were other mommies in there, and one of them looked very young and had a very new baby, probably her first. She exuded self-consciousness, swathing herself in a huge blanket and sitting apart from everyone else. And I'm sure she didn't appreciate the appearance of Mr. Hang Where The Boobs Are.

Naturally, I didn't say anything. The guy wasn't sizing up our breasts or asking us personal questions. In fact, I'm fairly certain he was a decent man, a loving husband, a good daddy. Heck, his children were well behaved, and that speaks volumes.

But the question remains: Why did he think it was okay to hang with a roomful of nursing mommies?

"Hey, dude, where're you headed?"

"Hi, Jared. I'm just gonna go hang out with lactating women for a while. Wanna come?"

So. You tell me. Was I having a hormonal moment? Or does a sign on the door that reads, "Nursing Mothers' Lounge, Private" mean that the male members of our church should stay clear?

I await your responses!

Labels: baby, life

Thursday, November 15, 2007

"Baby" Sister Meets Baby

I've never seen my sister so relaxed. And, except for her wedding day, I've never seen her so beautiful. Soft, self-assured, slender, and smiling. (That was a lot of S's.)

Here are a few pictures from her all-too-short weekend visit. All I can say is -- my brother-in-law rocks. Thank you, Tom, for sending my sister to Tennessee when she and I needed it most.

Labels: baby, family, life

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Too Easily Amused

While driving with my husband and daughter to an early appointment this morning, I happened upon a van, sitting at a red light, that sported the name "Twin Brothers Electric." The name itself wouldn't have caught my eye -- it was the incredibly dorky logo that went along with it; namely, two lightbulbs, side by side, with identical, goofy faces on them.

"Look at that!" I tend to sneer too quickly at less-than-clever things, which isn't a good example to set for my impressionable, way-too-much-like-her-mother daughter. "Is that dorky or what?"

Maggie agreed that the lightbulbs were dorky.

I rambled on about the dorky lightbulbs and the fact that I'd never noticed a vehicle advertising "Twin Brothers Electric" before, despite the fact that it was a local company. Eric was less than interested in my early-morning diatribe, but on I went -- until it occurred to me that there might be an actual reason for the company's name. So as we pulled out and drove by the still-waiting van, I craned my neck and squinted my eyes to get a good look at the people sitting behind the front windshield.

There were two identical men inside the truck.

No, I'm serious. "Twin Brothers Electric" really is what it claims to be. The brothers in question were as alike as the dorky lightbulbs painted on the outside of their van.

It was a weird moment.

I gasped. I shrieked. I exclaimed with uninhibited delight, "Ohmygosh they really are twins! They're identical! I mean, they're identical!" I laughed like an easily amused toddler. Then, expecting him to share my glee, I turned to Eric, whose eyebrow was raised in a distinctive, "Do I need to ask you to calm down again?" attitude.

How could he not find this even remotely funny? Am I that sleep deprived?

"Maggie, you saw them, didn't you?" I wanted to make sure I hadn't dozed off and dreamed up the whole thing.

"Yes, I saw them, Mommy."

She wasn't laughing much, either. In fact, I think I was simply hearing sympathetic chuckles.

Honestly. What were the odds of noting the silly company name and then discovering identical twins driving the van?

It's me, isn't it? Yeah, it must be me.

I'm way shorter on sleep than I'd like to admit. Humor me, will you? Tell me how amusing/unusual/interesting/fill-in-the-blank it is to discover twin brothers driving a van advertising electrical work by "Twin Brothers."

Because I'm still not over it. I mean, twin brothers inside a "Twin Brothers" van! Ya know?

Okay. Never mind.

My next blog post will be about something slightly more intelligent. I promise.

Labels: fun, life

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Claiming the Baby

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Jonathan, the girls, and I were leaving the church building via the side door. Maggie was holding Molly in her arms while I walked jauntily ahead of the gang toward our parked Sienna. The sun was shining, the baby was fed, and we were heading home early, sans Daddy and Spencer, so that Molly's next nap wouldn't be trashed.

The extra-large man standing in the parking lot was no stranger to me, though I still don't know his name. He's a kindly soul, hanging out before and during the service to help with parking and general traffic-and-people directing in the church lot. I smiled a casual hello as I walked by, aware that he was watching us as we began to file across the macadam.

That's when he said it: "Whose baby is that?"

I stopped and turned around. Maggie had also stopped; being the baby-bearer, the question had been directed at her. It seemed, however, that she didn't quite know what to say. So I jumped right in.

"It's mine!" I allowed a smile to spread across my face to make it seem like I enjoyed being questioned about my child's parentage. "It's my baby!"

So. Whose baby did he think it was?

The extra-large man, my children, and I were the only folks in the immediate vicinity. Maggie was obviously too young to be the mother, and I was obviously --

I can't say it.

Now, to be somewhat fair, our church is overflowing with babies. Some say it's in the water (Eric won't let me drink it anymore). Some say it's a special blessing on our church family (Eric says we'll have to find a new church). And just about everybody in the fellowship can be seen holding a baby at one time or another, and it may or may not be their own.

Still. If someone had handed me her baby, why would I be leaving the church building?

At any rate, I continued the small-talk-about-my-baby with the Baby Patrol Officer for a minute or so, agreeing with him that it's easy to forget how tiny they are when you've got older ones of your own.

"Mine's twenty," he explained. I half expected him to say, "I'll bet you have a twenty-year-old tucked away somewhere, too."

Because, after all, this couldn't possibly be my baby. Why, I was herding a gaggle of teens-and-preteens out the side door. I was obviously their mother. I fit the profile of mom-with-children-of-two-digit-ages.

And that diaper bag slung over my shoulder? Why, it must have looked like an attache case. Or maybe I was carrying it for the real mother.

Honestly, I got over the "I'm too old for this" by the time I hit my second trimester. I don't feel "too old" anymore, and, unless you get way too close, I don't look too old.

But I'm not delusional, either. I don't have the "spring chicken" look that first-time mommies have when they're in the midst of their twenty-somethings. And despite my refusal to look frumpy or middle-aged, I do have that "mom of older kids" look about me. How could I not? I've got a houseful of them.

Indulge me just a little bit, though. I mean, even if you don't think the baby belongs to the mommy, don't say anything!

Manners 101, you know?

Okay. I feel a little better now. A little better.

And the next time someone asks us whose baby Molly is, I'll just smile sweetly and say, "We bought her in the black market. You won't tell anyone, will you?"

Whose baby, indeed.

Labels: baby, life, parenting

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Sweetie?

October is Get-Your-New-Tags month for the family Hunk. (That's Jonathan's not-so-affectionate nickname for our '98 Toyota Sienna.)

May I just say how much I hate this? It's a pain to go for the emissions inspection and it's a pain to pay for the new tags and registration. I. Hate. The. Establishment.

Several years ago, when my then-only-four children were rather on the young side, I pulled up at the end of a very long line at the inspection station on the last day of October. I had seven dollars in cash and my registration papers -- everything I needed to ge