A Jen Too Many

Once a year, sometime in December before Christmas, The Love of My Life will go out on his day off to fill up the car and come home with chocolate covered cherries. He gets one for each member of the family and hands them out when he gets home, tossing them to each of us, sometimes playing guessing games before handing us our candy.

It's the only time he ever buys those, and the only time we ever eat them. I didn't realize until today, though, when he was standing in front of me, saying, "Pick a hand!", that it's become a tradition for us. (I picked the wrong hand, but he gave me my candy anyway.)

It's not a big deal. It's not something we've ever even talked about. It's not part of our plans when we discuss Christmas. And yet, when I realized he'd brought the candy home, a small voice inside me said, "Oh, good, that part of Christmas is taken care of now."

It's just a quiet little thing, and yet, it's funny how important a part of Christmas this has become to me. A little affectionate gesture that helps to bind our family together, perhaps more important than the bigger traditions precisely because of how small and quiet it is. And, I can't help thinking - how typical that this kind of tradition originated with him. I tend to think of the bigger, flashier things-to-do and rope everyone into participating. He just goes out and does his thing, quietly and efficiently, not making a big deal about it, but bringing all the more meaning to it because of that.

A woman I know slightly has been blogging about some steps she is taking to improve the way she treats her husband. She started off by doing something nice for him. He didn't exactly respond well. In fact, his reaction was to accuse her of trying to lay a guilt trip on him. Unsurprisingly, she started feeling like she was wasting her time. She squashed that reaction, though, and reminded herself that it would take a while for real change to happen.

I posted a quick comment encouraging her and then had to stop myself from hauling out the soap box. "Good luck," I wrote at the end of my comment. "You won't regret doing this." What I wanted to say, though, was more along the lines of this:

We live in world that encourages us to think in terms of profit and loss. We tally up. We keep track. We measure our energy and effort output and compare it to what the people around us are doing. We do this in our friendships, in our work relationships, and sometimes, especially in our marriages. If I do something for you, what are you going to do for me? Have you done as many good things for me as I have for you? Have you paid me for my favors to you, if only in being appropriately grateful for how nice I have been?

It's not a good way to handle a relationship, any sort of relationship. Especially not a marriage.

When I wrote, "You won't regret this doing this," I didn't mean, "This is going to work, and everything is going to be wonderful in your marriage if you just keep it up." I meant, "You will never regret doing the right thing, and in marriage, refusing to keep an ledger of favors done and received is the the right thing. Even if he never acknowledges a single thing you've done for him; even if everything falls apart, you will have the satisfaction of knowing you did what you could to keep your marriage strong and healthy."

(Now, I did not say that to her, because I don't think she needs to hear anyone saying, right now, "Hey, even if it doesn't work out ..." So I'm saying it here, on my personal always-pulled-out-for-easy-access soapbox.)

I was taught throughout my childhood to look to Jesus Christ as an example of how to live. He loved and served others regardless of their ability to "repay". I need to do the same thing with the people I know. It doesn't matter what they do in return. This isn't about their choices. It's about my choices. I have a responsibility to treat the people around me with love and kindness regardless of how they act. Not that I always achieve my goals in that, but I keep trying and like to think that I am improving as time goes by.

Several years ago I had an experience that made me aware of a very simple, but powerful, truth: I have never regretted obeying the Lord.

In all my life, I have never once said, "Wow, I wish I hadn't kept that commandment!" or, "What a waste of time it was to do the right thing!" I have never regretted following the Savior's example. I have never been unhappy that I kept a commandment. I have never been sorry I did the right thing. I have only ever been glad when I did those things.

On the other hand, I have always come to regret those times I have lived down to my worst impulses, or even just my not-so-lofty impulses.

So when I say, "You won't regret this," that's only shorthand for everything I just said in this post.

Travelin' Oma's School Days Seminar - Day 4 Homework

I missed yesterday's homework assignment, as you might have noticed. Busy, busy day. Much to do. Not to mention a nap to take. Wheee!!

~List at least 25 of your unique abilities and qualities. Words that might apply: caring, aware, generous, hospitable, tactful, open, able to teach, good cook, listener, optimist, creative, etc.

1. Good at teaching
2. Earnestly striving to improve
   
3. Smart
4. Good cook
5. Fast reader
6. Good listener
7. Creative
8. Imaginative
   
9. Loving
10. Forgiving
11. Thoughtful
12. Responsible
13. Caring friend
14. Compassionate
15. Good at puzzles
    
16. Like to laugh
17. Resilient
18. Strong
19. Determined
20. Conscientious
21. Loyal
22. Know how to preserve food - canning, drying, freezing, etc.
23. Good at understanding people
24. Independent
25. Writer
    

This was hard to do! I got stuck at 17 and couldn't think of more for a while.

Of all my qualities, I value resiliency, strength, and determination / stubbornness the most. They are the traits that have gotten me through some very tough times.

I've been reading Kira's blog, Kiwords, for years. Not only is she a brilliant writer, it's a fascinating glimpse into life with little boys, something of which I know very little. (The Boy Child was no longer particularly little when his father and I married.)

In Kira's latest post (about triumphing over a video game that had given her trouble) she says:

"Can I try now?" Raphael wanted to know. "Can I have a turn?"

But no, he couldn't because it was bedtime.

I immediately visualized how a statement like that would go over in my estrogen laden household, and I couldn't help but wonder if boys react anything like girls to being told, "Sorry, but it's bedtime. Fun's over. Go brush your teeth."

Is there an immediate emergency siren-like wail of despair? Stomping? Inadequate teeth-brushing as a way of punishing the mean mommy?

Do they lurch as they stomp, physically overcome by the cruelty of the world until they cannot walk without throwing themselves about, reeling side to side, backward and then forward with every step? Are there slammed doors? Is there earsplitting weeping, sufficient to make the dead wince and cover their ears?

Is there prolonged sulking once the initial dramatics are over? Pouting as they throw themselves onto a corner of the couch, staring blankly at the TV screen? Can you see a recounting of past wrongs done to them flickering across their little faces? Do they slump over with groans of despair and anguish to lie obstructively across the couch so that no-one else can sit down?

Do they yell at their siblings?

Am I going through all this because I have girls, or because I have children? TBC was not inclined to dramatics until he became a teenager. If the girls increase the drama by the same percentage that TBC did ...

Wow. Ummm - can I just go hide in a hole when that happens? Please?

Yesterday was Friday, wasn't it? And I spent all day yesterday thinking it was Thursday. But no, it has to have been Friday, because today is Saturday. Which means tomorrow is Sunday, and I haven't even looked at my Primary lesson.

So, no Vintage Photo Friday yesterday, sorry.

Happy 4th of July, everyone! I plan to spend the day letting my children play with dangerous explosives. (Just kidding, darling!)

One of our neighbors goes all out every year with the fireworks. Our little neighborhood has a display almost as good as the city's, thanks to him. So, later tonight, we'll camp out on our lawn with a blanket, admire the fireflies, play with sparklers, set off our own small collection of fountains, and feel smug about not having to fight the crowds at Memorial Park* to see a great fireworks display.
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*Is there a city in the country that does not have a Memorial Park?

Lately, every time I run into an acquaintance I haven't seen for awhile, the same question comes up.

"So, what are you going to do come fall?"

At first I danced around the topic, distracting my questioners by talking about refocusing on my writing career again. I felt like I had to justify my existence, now that my full-time stay at home mom gig was dropping down to nights and weekends. I worried people would think I'd be spending my days lazing around, spending all those school hours watching TV, playing on the internet, and getting fat.*

I've been thinking about it though. As of the beginning of this next school year, I will have spent close to a decade of full-time parenting. That's nearly 10 years of acute sleep deprivation. Nearly 10 years where the longest time I have spent away from the kids was one 24 hour getaway with my husband. Nearly 10 years of being constantly on call.

I have spent whole nights cleaning up after vomiting people, washing load after load of laundry. I have changed more diapers, disposed of more pull-ups, changed more wet sheets than I care to think about. I have talked, talked, talked at my two little ones (I try to make it "with" but it usually ends up being "at"), made them role-play, stood them in corners, and given them time-outs, all in the name of teaching them to get along and play nicely with others, "starting with your sister, kid!"

I have dealt with far too many emergency room visits, involving everything from gushing founts of blood to mysterious tummy pains that had the girl in question writhing in agony.

Mostly, though, it's about being on call 24 hours a day. Let me repeat that:

24 / 7 = Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week = Every second, of every minute, of every day.

All in the service of miniature humans who insist they cannot bear to be separated from their mother for more than a few minutes at a time.

I am tired. And I think I deserve a break.

So here's my official answer to the question of what I will be doing this next fall:

I am going to take a few months and spend them on myself. I am going to finally get to join a fitness club and spend quality time exercising my sweat glands, without having to jump off the machine every few minutes exclaiming, "No! We do not write on our sister with permanent marker!"

I am going to enjoy the novelty of having a house that stays clean for more than 5 minutes at a time. I am going to go shopping by myself. I am going to be the only person in my fitting room when I try on clothes.

I am going to nap.

I am going to play the non-child-appropriate music that I haven't listened to in years, and I'm going to listen to it at a volume that would hurt their tender little ears. In the middle of the day, I will watch whatever TV show I want to watch. Dora and Diego will not be welcome. I will sort toys while I watch PG-13 DVDs, and throw out any toys I deem appropriate, no negotiation required.

I will play loud music in my car whenever I am driving somewhere, and I will sing along with my favorite lines. When I don't know the words I will sing anyway. When I buy birthday or Christmas presents I will bring the presents home openly, not hiding them under bagsful of groceries in the back of the van.

I will rediscover who Jennifer is when no children are around. And when I have done that, then I can go back to writing and being an otherwise productive member of society. But not until then.
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*As if I need to have the kids in school to do all that!

Well, well, well. Guess who signed my guestbook at *one of the many high school reconnect sites*?

Back in 5th grade my family picked up and moved to another state. I wasn't wildly thrilled to move - I left my best friend behind and thought I'd never be happy again - but I started to adjust. Happily for me, a few weeks after school started a new family, with a girl my age, moved into our ward*. Better yet, the girl was going to the same school I was going to. A friend, a friend! We would be best friends and spend all our time together, and have lots and lots of fun! I was so excited.

Yeah. Not really.

We got along OK. For a while. I'm not sure what caused the change, but before long she started picking on me. She got other kids involved. Eventually I found that I had no friends at all, not at school, not at church. People would get up and move away if I sat down by them. People threw things at me, yelled names at me - and here's the kicker: blamed me for the way they were treating me. It was all because I was weird, they said, too weird to be treated like a human being.

She kept this up for five years, the entire time we lived in that town. Anyone new was warned that if they befriended me they'd get the same treatment I was getting. Even going on to junior high school didn't help - she spread more poison there. By the time we moved, I had given up hope, was convinced no-one would ever love or be friends with me, and I was even considering suicide.

Now, please understand - all this is absolutely ancient history now. I don't hurt over those things, and I don't even feel angry with her. I forgave her a long time ago.

Those experiences had a huge impact in making me who I am, though, for good as well as bad, and I've thought about her several times over the years, wondering whatever happened to her. I even tried to Google her a few months ago.

And now, here she is, looking me up. I wonder what she thought when she saw my name on there. Does she ever feel guilty about what she did? Does she even realize how badly she hurt me? When she read my profile was she relieved my life has turned out so well, that she didn't ruin my life? Was she glad for me? Or does she still hate me?

Her profile gave her married name. Yeah, I did a search. I admit it.

She didn't come up anywhere. That's probably just as well. Obsession and stalking - not a good way to hang onto forgiveness and peace of mind.
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*Wards and Branches. Members of the Church are organized into congregations that meet together frequently for spiritual and social enrichment. Large congregations are called wards. Each ward is presided over by a bishop, assisted by two counselors. Small congregations are called branches. Each branch is presided over by a branch president, assisted by two counselors.

You know, I really thought I was ugly back then? What I wouldn't give now to look that again. OK - minus the acne.

Of course, this was my senior photo, the big one, the one that was going in the yearbook! So, I was wearing makeup, and had just come from the salon where I'd gotten a brand-new cut and perm. (And, considering it was the 80s, I'm surprised it looks that good now. What? No BTS?* What was I thinking, looking so sedate?)

Most of the time I went around with my hair looking, well, odd. I never, ever wore makeup.** I had no judgment at all in picking out my clothes and probably looked a mess most of the time.

Unfortunately, a lot of that is still true. I hate wearing makeup, even though I've hit an age where I really can't get away without it anymore. I always forget to put it on in the morning, and it annoys me that I have to keep refreshing it throughout the day. Who has time?

Clothes are still my bane. I desperately need a clothing makeover, with serious advice on how not to look like a bag of rags that's been dragged through a blackberry bush.

But here's the difference between me-then and me-now: putting on makeup and getting my hair done isn't going to make me-now look a fraction as good as that 17 year old girl did.

And I thought I was fat and ugly.

Now, as mother-me, I wonder - how can I keep my beautiful little girls from looking in the mirror and seeing ugly? Right now they see beauty as mostly being in your clothes. Beautiful dress-up clothes makes you beautiful. Oldest Girl Child will come in, dressed in some outrageous combination of tutus, pajama bottoms and winter scarves and say to me, "Mommy, am I beeeauuutiful?" She preens, twisting from side to side as she poses, a pleased smile on my face, knowing that I'll tell her, "Yes, you're very beautiful," because of course, she's beautiful! She has on beautiful clothes!

Youngest Girl Child will dash into the living room, "Mommy, look at my dance!" and then she'll start humming or singing and break into a long, dramatic "ballet" routine, full of posing and leaping. She asks, "Mommy, am I beautiful?" and hardly listens for the answer, so sure of the answer. Of course, she's beautiful. She's wearing a pretty tutu!

Someday, one of them is going to look in the mirror and be the first to say, "Mommy, am I beautiful?" and she'll be talking about her face, her figure, her hair, everything but her clothes. "Am I fat?" she'll ask me. "Do these pants make my rear look big?"

And that? Will be what you call a bad day.
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*Bangs To the Sky

**Too shy. Color on my face made me feel conspicuous like people might look at me. Like boys! Which I both fervently longed for, and was scared to death of having happen.

My sister wrote this in her book review of Under the Tuscan Sun:

This is the kind of writing I want to do. I find it difficult to write fiction because it is, generally speaking, used for entertainment purposes and lacks the power to motivate one's life or stir one's soul. I want to write to stir the soul.

Now, I've never read this particular book, but I've read similar books. They were interesting, but I can't say I found that they had any impact on my life beyond simple entertainment. I certainly can't say they stirred my soul.*

Fiction, on the other hand, has had a profound impact on my life. Writers like Suzette Haden Elgin, J.R.R. Tolkien, Robert Heinlein, Andre Norton, Isaac Asimov, Arthur Conan Doyle, Rudyard Kipling, Louis L'Amour, Zane Grey (and that's just what comes to mind in a without stopping to think about it) all wrote novels that made me think long and hard about the way I saw the world and how I saw myself in that world.

My favorite writers are the ones that provoke me to stop reading and start debating (silently - I do try not to talk out loud during those times) with the author. I might not agree with much of Heinlein's philosophy, but he sure made me examine the way I thought men and women should interact, and how technology fit into human relationships. Reading Sherlock Holmes and Kim made me think about the way I don't pay attention to the world around me, so I started trying to notice the details that would make me a brilliant detective, too.**

The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings made me think about trustworthiness, loyalty and friendship. I found that I really didn't care for Bilbo Baggins. I wanted to be like Frodo and Samwise - not someone who fell haphazardly from mishap to accident, but someone who moved purposely to accomplish my goals, no matter what stood in my way.

Zane Grey's attacks on Mormons annoyed me and made me look more closely into the history of my church. Louis L'Amour wrote about strong, confident pioneer women and inspired in me a desire to be like those women. Norton's Octagon Magic was an 8th birthday present. It showed me how fear can destroy you, and how attempting to overcome fear can give you the strength to defeat it.

Elgin's Native Tongue series was pivotal in awakening the feminist in me. She got me thinking about stuff I'd never examined before. Things that I'd picked up when I was little, things I'd heard my father say over and over again, examples I'd observed while I was growing up - all of that came under the microscope, and I wound up deciding that being a woman meant something different than what I'd thought. I started thinking more positively about being female than I had since I found out that I couldn't join Little League because it was only for boys. I decided there was strength and power in being a woman, a decision that has impacted almost everything I have done since then.

I don't know why it is that non-fiction leaves me cold. Maybe it's the writer in me, thinking how I'd tell the story differently, that makes fiction such fertile soil, whereas true stories don't stir a desire to change the outcome. How can you argue with reality, after all? When I read memoirs and histories, I only find them entertaining, never soul-stirring. Very few real-life people have inspired me to change my life, but I would have a hard time coming up with a complete list of the fictional characters that have influenced me.
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*Which just goes to show that, although we love each other dearly, we really do see the world from very different perspectives. It's nice to have siblings who have such different points of view - it widens my own perspective. Left to myself, I tend to fall into a comfortable rut and stop thinking entirely.

**Says the woman who has been known to walk into walls because she was thinking too hard to notice there was a very large obstacle in front of her.

It's a cliche, yes, but may I just point out that raising two little girls to be strong, independent, confident women is an uphill battle?

Bratz are banned from our house. They have been ever since I became aware of them, which was well before the girls started asking for them. Once the girls realized their existence, I quickly put them in the We Don't Do That, Buy That, or Watch That category and that postponed the pleas. Now, however, they are old enough to question me, and while Oldest Girl Child tends to be one of those really good kids, who earnestly tries to be fully obedient*, Youngest Girl Child wants to have Reasons. Good Reasons. Because Ordinary Reasons? Will Not Do.

She has actually driven me to saying, "Because I said so! Now stop asking!" which I swore I would never do. (Yeah, yeah, yeah - one more myth of pre-motherhood, shattered. You may all laugh ... 3, 2, 1 ... OK, that's enough. Stop laughing now.)

After getting that response a few times too many, she has decided to attack from downwind, by casually dropping this kind of statement on me:

"Mommy, when I grow up, I'm going to let my little kids (whatever action I have forbidden her to do)"

Today, on the way to preschool, she piped up from the backseat, "Mommy, when I grow up, I'm going to let my children play with Bratz."

She's said that several times lately, and I haven't known how to deal with it. How can I possibly explain to a preschooler that I have banned those toys because of what I regard as a highly sexualized portrayal of women? That I don't want her being influenced at a very impressionable time in her life by dolls wearing ... well, clothes that can only be described using language I prefer not to use in front of a little sponge.**

The girls have friends with those toys. They see the displays in the stores. There are ads on TV. They inform me that there is a Bratz website with wonderful! fascinating! games! I don't even know where they heard about the website, except through friends, which highlights for me that they are moving out into the wider world, and the influences there are not what I want for my daughters.

It scares me, and it makes me angry. There are so many destructive messages out there. The idea that to be promiscuous is to empowered. The idea that beauty is the most important thing about a woman. That getting attention, no matter how you have to sell your soul to do it, is the road to happiness. That being regarded as sexy is more important than having integrity. That moral courage is an old-fashioned and outdated concept. That being intelligent doesn't mean anything if you're not attractive. That it's impossible to have an ideal and live up to it, and you shouldn't even expect that of yourself.

So I talked with YGC about how the first priority of the people who make toys and other products is making money through their products. How they frequently don't care if what they make is good or bad for you, as long as they can get you to buy it. How Bratz look pretty, but represent a way of looking at the world that is bad for her, and has the potential to hurt her in the long run.

She asked questions, and I stumbled through answers for most of the drive to preschool. And when we were done, she said, "Mommy, when I have kids, I'm going to tell them that Bratz are not good for you."

I never know how much she understands, or how much she is capable of understanding. Sometimes I try to explain a concept that seems simple to me, but turns out to be completely beyond her capacity. And then sometimes there are days like today. I don't know what was processed through her mind; I don't know if her understanding is what I would want for her on this subject. But I am cautiously optimistic that I got through to her, at least a little bit.

At the very least, I am hopeful that I will be able to stop fighting with her about it.
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*And, I fear, will wake up one fine morning, sometime in the next few years, with the rebellion switch turned "ON" and my life will suddenly become all, "Welcome to Hell: Teenage daughters and why it is All Your Fault"

**It's hard enough fighting the stereotypes that I have allowed (and now kind of regret allowing.) I had no idea that I'd have to talk so fast to overcome the influence of those stupid Disney princesses.

I don't know if it's a consequence of teaching the CTR 5 Primary class, having two small children in school, or The Boy Child working at the local grocery store (although it's probably the fiendish combination of all three) but I have been sick more often this last winter than I've been in years. It's all very annoying.

Last night, my visiting teacher called, wanting to set up an appointment for next week. I had been feeling worse and worse and all day, and by the time she called I had a raging headache and a fever. When she found out I was sick she was full of sympathy, and asked me, "Do you have anyone to take care of you?"

Take care of me? Huh?

No. No, I do not have anyone to take care of me. I'm the mom. I take care of other people, not the other way round. Now, her children are older than mine. Maybe some miracle happens over the next few years. Maybe one day I'll wake up sick and find my children gathered solicitously about me, yearning to take care of my poor sniffly self. But I doubt it. I certainly don't recall ever doing that for my poor mother.

Actually, I am finding lately that I tend to regard my parents somewhat in the same light that I regard my children. I obsess about their safety. I try to take care of them as best I can living this far away. If I don't hear from them for awhile I start to worry something terrible has happened and I have to grab hold of myself to keep from panicking.

The only difference in fact, is that my children are who I teach and prepare them for a wonderful (I hope) future; my parents are the treasure troves of my past who I'm afraid to lose. I care for my children to ensure their future happiness. I care for my parents to ensure my future happiness.

So as much as I'd like to think I've grown out of the selfish child who demands her parents' time and attention constantly, I must admit that I still want my mother when I get sick.

The mother up the street seems to think I am unnecessarily harsh with my children.

A week ago, it snowed. Our first serious snowfall of the winter, only one inch, but still deep enough to sled in, throw snowballs with, and make snowmen. School was cancelled. The girls raced to drag out their snowsuits and headed for the garage where their sleds have been stored since last winter.

Within minutes they were back inside. The new girl (E.) down the street was out, sledding in her yard, which has a much better slope than our yard. Could they, please, please, go play with her?

"Sure!" I told them. "Have fun!" I reminded them of the rules when they are playing at someone else's house and waved them off, thrilled at a chance to have an empty house. A quiet, house. An empty, quiet, peaceful house.

It was heavenly. I cleaned a bit, read a bit, enjoyed the silence a whole lot. And then I started to wonder where my children were. Hadn't they been outside rather awhile?

I ducked outside and looked up the street. Yep, there they were, little red sleds vivid against the snow as they whooped their way down the hill. I went back to enjoying the quiet.

A while later I checked again. Not in sight, this time. I told myself to stop worrying. They're fine, I told myself. Probably just playing in the backyard. Not kidnapped. Not running off across the subdivision to find a busy road to play in. Do not walk up there, Jennifer. Allow them some independence. They're safe. Stop hyperventilating.

I went back in the house and tried to concentrate on the silence again, but worry kept me on edge until I was able to see them in the front yard again, sledding away. I went back to enjoying the empty house.

I repeated this cycle another two or three times, then decided it was time for them to come home for hot chocolate and lunch. I knew if they stayed up there, E.'s mother would feel obliged to feed them and I didn't want that to happen. So, after calling them a few times with no sign that they heard me, I put on my boots and coat and walked up the street.

It wasn't them. As I got closer, I realized that the kids on the sleds weren't my little girls. They were some little boys, playing with E.'s brother.

I didn't panic. Not for more than a second or two. It was easy, after all, to figure out what was up. They'd gone inside, without permission.* I wondered if they'd spent much time outside at all, or if it had been the little boys I'd seen every time I saw the red sleds going down the hill. I started to debate appropriate natural consequences.

I asked E.'s brother to let the girls know it was time to go home (I didn't want to walk up the steep, icy driveway,) then waited. After awhile I realized they weren't coming out any time soon, so I dared the ice. As soon as I was in the door I realized something was very wrong.

My children were taking so long because they were changing clothes.

Have they been playing dress-up? But, wait, those aren't their clothes... Why are my children wearing strange clothes?

E.'s mother came into the front hall from the back of the house, carrying a grocery bag, as the girls started to stumble through excuses.It took me a few minutes and several repetitions from both girls, as well as input from E.'s mom, but I finally figured out what had happened.

I don't allow play makeup or nail polish. I just think they're too young. There's time enough for that later. Right now is the time to be little, without the pressure to be attractive. it bothers me to see a small child dressed and made up like someone 10 or 20 years older. People who still measure their age in single digits just don't need to try to look sexy.

But that's my opinion. Other parents don't see things the same way I do. E.'s parents don't see things the way I do. The first time the girls played over there they came home wearing makeup and nail polish. We had a talk, I explained that in our family that wasn't allowed, and I kept an eye on things after that to avoid having a repeat of the incident.

This day, they'd been playing with nail polish again. Although, as it came out later, it wasn't the first time. In fact, Oldest Girl Child admitted that they'd been putting on nail polish every time they went there. They'd been careful to remove it before they came home, however, so that I wouldn't realize they were breaking our rules.

This time, things didn't go well. They'd spilled a bottle of bright red nail polish. OGC's shirt was ruined. Youngest Girl Child's pants and shirt were likewise ruined, only more so as she had evidently been the one to spill the nail polish. E.'s mother had tried to wash the nail polish out, with as little success as you might imagine.

I explained to the girls that they were in trouble. E.'s mother tried to apologize and take the blame. I told her it was OK. The girls (and here I realized I'd forgotten to breathe and had to stop to take a deep, rather shuddery, breath) knew they were doing something wrong. E.'s mother apologized again, and said she hadn't realized they weren't allowed to play with nail polish. I replied, giving them a stern look, that they knew.

OGC just stood there, head down, face completely hidden in her hair. When she looked up, I could see tears streaming down her face. It would have been more comforting if I hadn't found out later about the long-term scheming to deceive Mommy. We went home in the borrowed clothes, ruined clothes in the bag, tears freezing to little cheeks as we walked.

There were more tears over the ruined clothes (both of them had been wearing their favorite shirts) and OGC ran into her bedroom, from whence issued wails and sobs. YGC didn't seem to realize the seriousness of her circumstances and was soon explaining to me, quite cheerfully, why it was OK for them to use nail polish and go inside when they had been forbidden to do both and how it was all OGC's fault anyway because she was just doing what her sister was doing.

I called my sister and talked until I got my equilibrium back. More than anything else, I was upset and horrified by the fact that they had deliberately and systematically deceived me. I didn't care whose idea it was. It was bad enough that they had thought it was an acceptable solution. It broke my heart to have my sweet little people lie in such a calculated manner.

In the end their father and I decided the most important issue was the lying. The nail polish had been its own punishment in the loss of the favorite shirts. The betrayed trust, however, needed an emphatic statement. So we sat them down, OGC still silently weeping (over getting caught, in her father's opinion, not guilt over her crime,) and YGC still quite cheerful.

We talked about trust and the consequences of losing trust. We talked about doing the right thing, even if the person next to you is doing the wrong thing, even if that person is your sister. And then we told them that we couldn't trust them anymore. Because of that, they weren't allowed to go into anyone's house until we felt like we could trust them again. We didn't know how long it would take to trust them again. Probably months.

They accepted this. I think they were so relieved not to get into immediate trouble that they didn't realize the long term effects of this. They haven't asked to play in anyone's house yet, but I meant it when I said it would be months. In fact, OGC wants to have a playdate with her best friend from school, and she's getting a no - because it would involve going inside the friend's house.

We washed the borrowed clothes and took them back after school this last Tuesday. The girls handed them to E.'s mother, and them apologized for the trouble they caused her. E.'s mother looked at me like I was a monster, which bothered me and made me wonder if I was doing the right thing.

After thinking it through, though, I've decided I did. I've been through raising one teen already, and I know how trust gets strained between parent and child during those years. If I can't trust them going in, if I let them think they can get away with deceiving me like this now, then we're in deep trouble when they're older. There'll be enough trouble with lying later on. Let's not get started early on this.
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*One of the rules about playing at someone else's house is that you may not go play inside without letting Mommy know and getting permission first. There are very few houses where they have permission to play inside. This was one of those places, but they didn't have permission for that day. I wanted them to play outside because I wanted them thoroughly worn out by the end of the day so they'd go to sleep quickly.**

**An especially longed-for result with YGC, since she is a complete night-owl and getting her to fall asleep before 10 o'clock at night is quite the adventure.

Why is it no-one in this family can figure out what there is to eat? Every single member of this family will come and stand before me when they are hungry and ask me what there is to eat. When I ask them what they want to eat, they all say the same thing: "I don't know!" This is pronounced in a tone of voice that makes it clear that I have taken leave of my senses. How could they possible know what they want to eat? That's my job! I refuse, however, to fall into that trap. If I start trying to list things it will take years and cost millions of lives, and we will still never come to an agreement on what they think will taste good and what I am willing to prepare.

So I pronounce ultimatums.

"You can have an apple. If you don't want an apple, you can have a carrot or a celery stick. We also have bread. Those are your options."

It's amazing how quickly the people who couldn't think of anything they wanted, suddenly are full of ideas that don't involve vegetables, fruit or bread - all of said ideas involving work on my part, of course.

I've got The Boy Child and Husband Darling trained to do most of their own cooking* The girls, however, are still young enough that I don't want them using the stove. Oldest Girl Child is allowed to do some cooking with strict supervision and much trepidation on her mother's part; Youngest Girl Child is not allowed near hot burners yet.** The girls do know how to make sandwiches and similar items, however, and we make cookies once a week (learning about fractions, volume, and that unsweetened baking chocolate is pretty nasty when you try to eat it straight.)

My goal is to eventually have everyone in the family responsible for their own breakfast and lunch. I would only have to plan and prepare dinner every night. Currently, TBC is never home at dinnertime, and Husband Darling is rarely home then, so they are excused from cooking it; the girls, however, are going to be taking their turns at making dinner as soon as they are old enough. My excuse is that this is to teach them to be self-sufficient.*** But now you all know the truth. I'm just lazy.
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*Kind of - The Boy Child is trained. Husband Darling will prepare his own food about half the time. The other half of the time he looks pathetic and starving and too weak to move. Then I rush to fix him something and he recovers very nicely.

**She touched a cherry-red burner when she was two, giving herself a third degree burn on her index finger, and I still haven't recovered.

***I knew a girl in high school who used to brag that she didn't know any traditional womanly skills, in particular cooking. Even then, I thought that was pretty stupid; I have never thought that being able to take care of yourself was particularly demeaning. Neither do I find helplessness particularly empowering.

Courtesy of Cannwin (but I think I will forbear tagging 8 other people, since I don't know that many bloggers that well. Feel free to jump in if you are interested, though!)

1. I have a case of mason jars filled with applesauce and another case of jars filled with spiced apple rings, sitting on the floor next to the loveseat. They have been there probably over two weeks, but I'm trying not to think about that. I need to take them to the basement, but they are heavy, and I keep putting it off.

2. I am very good at procrastinating.

3. Case in point: I put off going to the store Saturday until I was almost too tired to care about the fact we needed eggs and milk, among other things. I hate shopping on Saturday because it's so crowded. I like to shop during the times the store is likely to be fairly empty.

4. I like being a stay at home mother because it lets me arrange my schedule so that I can do things like avoid the stores when everyone else is there.

5. The biggest factor in favor of home schooling, as I see it, is that I could arrange my whole family's life so that we could do everything when no-one else is. Sightsee in one of the Big Cities near us, travel to visit family, go to the library or the park.

6. The truth is, I'm just an antisocial hermit.

7. No, really, I am. I think it's part of the whole too-shy-to-say-hi-to-a-friend-in-the-street thing that I have going on. My personal hell would be being famous and having complete strangers walk up to me in the street, saying, "Wow! I know who you are!" And then I would have to be friendly and say, "Hi!" and pretend that I wouldn't really rather melt into the nearest wall to hide my shy self.*

8. Long hair is really good for hiding from the world, if you wear it down around your face. You can pretend other people can't see you if you can't see them.** Unfortunately, I am officially too old for long hair anymore. It accentuates all the recently developed downward drooping lines in my face and makes me look older than I think is fair. So I now have a short I-am-a-middle-aged-woman haircut, which looks OK on me. I guess. I miss having long hair, though.
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*Heaven, on the other hand, would ideally consist of getting to hang out with the people I know and love, in a big, quiet room, with lots of books and interesting conversation. Kind of like an unofficial family reunion.

**AKA "magical thinking".

I ran across the Jitter Bucket pattern quite a while ago and salivated over it for months. I even asked for it for my birthday. (With no luck. I don't remember what I got instead, but it wasn't the bucket pattern.) Then my local JoAnn's held a pattern sale (I love to get patterns at 99 cents each!) and I ran across a very similar pattern.

I was happy, happy, happy! Until I got home and tried to make sense of the directions. Oh, my.

Now, I have been sewing for nearly three decades (and boy, doesn't that statement make me feel old.) I even have a degree in Home Economics.* I know my way around a pattern. In fact, I don't even bother with a pattern 90% of the time anymore. I just measure and cut, eyeballing where necessary. Because I know how to sew.**

But I couldn't figure this pattern out. I have never run into worse directions in my life. I couldn't make heads or tails out of it. So I did what I should have done months before. I made it up. (If you don't like my way of doing this, or if you want an actual pattern, you can find a free one here.

I measured the height of the 5 gallon bucket I was planning on using, doubled the result and added a few inches to allow enough fabric to cover the inside bottom and overlap the outer base. Then I decided to add enough fabric to make a pocket on the inside, too. (I can't give you the actual numbers - sorry - because I made this awhile ago, and can't remember anymore. And I really don't feel like measuring everything again. Besides, whatever bucket you use will be a different size anyway.) I measured around the bucket, then, and (adding an inch for two 1/2" seam allowances) used that as the measurement for my width. I wound up with a large rectangle. (Yes, the bucket tapers. I ignored that. If I had tried to taper the fabric I wouldn't have been able to pull this over the top, which is wider than the bottom. I wanted to be able to wash this, so I made it fully removable. There is a little extra fabric at the bottom, but it's really not an issue.)

The first thing I sewed was a row of elastic that was meant to tuck under the base of the bucket. Then I did some more measuring and decided where to put the outer pockets. (I did all of this on the flat piece of fabric.) I made the pockets out of some leftover fabric scraps and ribbon that I had.

As you can see, I used tucks to form the pockets on the bottom row, and gathers for the upper row of pockets. The pink row of ribbon is hiding a length of elastic that I placed to fit into the top rim, where the lid would ordinarily have snapped on. I wanted something to hold the slipcover up, and help keep everything in place even when the bucket was empty. (If you click on the picture you'll get a better / larger view to see how I stitched everything.) I sewed the bottom of the pockets first, then did the stitching between the individual pockets.

I measured again, and folded up my base fabric to stitch the inner pockets. (I goofed a little on my measurements there, as I found when I went to figure out just where to stitch the bottom.) Then I sewed up the side seam, forming a tube, matching the pockets and ribbon as I went. And then I finally got to put what I'd done so far onto the bucket and gloat! (Always my favorite part of sewing. It's still amazing to me how you can take a 2 dimensional sheet of fabric and construct something so very three dimensional.***)

The fabric didn't exactly meet at the bottom (oops), so I wound up using more of the pink ribbon to make up the difference. I pinned it in place, then pulled the fabric back off the bucket and wrestled the whole mass onto my sewing machine, where I stitched around the edges of the ribbon with brown thread, kind of making it up as I went. (I think it turned out reasonably well. It's at the bottom anyway, so who cares?) As you can see, I arranged the fabric on the bottom so that the seams went from one corner to the other. The idea was to have them make an X shape. Ah, well.

This is the completed bucket. I gave it to my daughters for their multitudinous Barbie dolls. Unfortunately, the Barbies never seem to actually get put away in there, and there are still far too many weeping sessions over not being able to find various essential Barbie clothing accessories. Shoes especially. (I obviously am much better at sewing than teaching my children to be organized. I didn't even have to empty this out to take pictures of it. I just retrieved it from where it was lying on its side, half-buried in toys.****)

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*Yeah. My secret shame. I actually took two years out of my life to get an Associate's degree in Home Economics. It all happened because I thought, when I graduated from high school, that I had to make a decision right then about what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My dad always said that if you made a career out of what you were good at you'd be happy, and I knew I was good at sewing, so... It wasn't until a few years later that I realized I was good at other things, too. Like writing. And scientific research. And designing print layouts, and eyeballing distance / proportion, and estimating job costs, and typing, and organizing everything but my own home. Many of them things that tie into the same skills that make me good at sewing. Only I was young, and too dumb to realize that. Hence the Home Ec.

**Ironically, in all the things that I have learned over the course of my life, the things I have found most useful were things I never expected. Sewing is one of them. Sewing is, hands down, one of my top three useful skills. Especially now that I have little girls, and I can rarely find them clothes at the store that don't seem to be designed for streetwalkers.

***Once, years ago, I was trying to understand topology and I ran into something called a Klein bottle. It's what you get if you take a Moebius strip and add a dimension. Now, being as this was back in ancient times, and there was no such thing as the Internet yet, I couldn't find a picture of one to help me wrap my mind around the concept. So I made one out of fabric. It was very helpful and I was able to grasp the concept immediately. Unfortunately, that was as far as I ever got in understanding topology. While I still think it's all very cool, my brain is simply not equipped to handle that kind of higher math and if I try to push myself melted stuff starts trickling out of my ears, which is very messy and hard to clean out of my hair.

**** Note to self: Find a way to reduce the number of toys in this house, without triggering hysteria. Vitally important not to trigger hysteria. Remember that.

Diane Duane quoted Kipling in her blog recently. OK - a month ago today. I forgot I had her bookmarked until I tripped over the bookmark while looking for something else, and while I was catching up I found the Kipling quote.

I thought the poem she quoted was remarkably apropos of the current U.S. economic situation. (Go - read her post. Follow the link above.)

She already posted the poem on her blog, but I'm going to post it here, too, since I am currently in a state of mind where everything I write is obvious garbage and even a one word sentence, like, "Hello," is clearly the worst thing anyone, anywhere, has ever written, and I should burn all my pencils, delete all my files, and flush (page by page to avoid destroying the plumbing) every spiral-bound notebook whose pure white pages I have ever profaned with my words.*

So it seemed like a good idea to put something up here that is absolutely guaranteed to be fantastic writing.

Jennifer's fantasy of the week: Tattooing the complete poem on the bodies of every politician, banker, and CEO who contributed to this mess.

"we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things" Sheesh. Words fail me, they really do.

The Gods of the Copybook Headings
Rudyard Kipling

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place;
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four—
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

. . . . .

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man—
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:—
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!
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*Actually, I'm not even going to post this. It is going to join the multitude of drafts I have created in the last couple of weeks, which were all utterly trite, meandering, pointless, and stinky, smelly garbage. You are not reading this. It is all an illusion.

1. Touched an iceberg
2. Slept under the stars
3. Been a part of a hockey fight
4. Changed a baby's diaper
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity
7. Swam with wild dolphins
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a tarantula
10. Said "I love you" and meant it
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Stayed up all night long and watched the sun rise
15. Seen the Northern Lights
16. Gone to a huge sports game
17. Walked the stairs to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown and eaten your own vegetables
19. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
20. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Bet on a winning horse
23. Taken a sick day when you're not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Taken an ice cold bath
28. Had a meaningful conversation with a beggar
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Ridden a roller coaster
31. Hit a home run
32. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking
33. Adopted an accent for fun
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Felt very happy about your life, even for just a moment
36. Loved your job 90% of the time
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Watched wild whales
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Gone on a midnight walk on the beach
41. Gone sky diving
42. Visited Ireland
43. Ever bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited India
45. Bench-pressed your own weight
46. Milked a cow
47. Alphabetized your personal files
48. Ever worn a superhero costume
49. Sung karaoke
50. Lounged around in bed all day
51. Gone scuba diving
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Done something you should regret, but don't
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Been in a movie
60. Gone without food for 3 days
61. Made cookies from scratch
62. Won first prize in a costume contest
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Been in a combat zone
65. Spoken more than one language fluently
66. Gotten into a fight while attempting to defend someone
67. Bounced a check
68. Read - and understood - your credit report
69. Recently bought and played with a favorite childhood toy
70. Found out something significant that your ancestors did
71. Called or written your Congress person
72. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over
73. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
74. Helped an animal give birth
75. Been fired or laid off from a job
76. Won money
77. Broken a bone
78. Ridden a motorcycle
79. Driven any land vehicle at a speed of greater than 100 mph
80. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
81. Slept through an entire flight: takeoff, flight, and landing
82. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
83. Eaten sushi
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Read The Bible cover to cover
86. Changed someone's mind about something you care deeply about
87. Gotten someone fired for their actions
88. Gone back to school
89. Changed your name
90. Caught a fly in the air with your bare hands
91. Eaten fried green tomatoes
92. Read The Iliad
93. Taught yourself an art from scratch
94. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
95. Apologized to someone years after inflicting the hurt
96. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language
97. Been elected to public office
98. Thought to yourself that you're living your dream
99. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
100. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn't know you
101. Had a booth at a street fair
102. Dyed your hair
103. Been a DJ
104. Rocked a baby to sleep
105. Ever dropped a cat from a high place to see if it really lands on all four feet
106. Raked your carpet
107. Brought out the best in people
108. Brought out the worst in people 1
09. Worn a mood ring
110. Ridden a horse
111. Carved an animal from a piece of wood or bar of soap
112. Cooked a dish where four people asked for the recipe.
113. Seen a child buried
114. Gone to a Broadway (or equivalent to your country) play
115. Been inside the pyramids
116. Shot a basketball into a basket
117. Danced at a disco
118. Played in a band
119. Shot a bird
120. Gone to an arboretum
121. Tutored someone
122. Ridden a train
123. Brought an old fad back into style
124. Eaten caviar
125. Let a salesman talk you into something you didn’t need
126. Ridden a giraffe or elephant
127. Published a book 128. Pieced a quilt
129. Lived in a historic place
130. Acted in a play or performed on a stage
131. Asked for a raise
132. Made a hole-in-one
133. Gone deep sea fishing
134. Gone roller skating
135. Ran a marathon
136. Learned to surf
137. Invented something
138. Flown first class
139. Spent the night in a 5-star luxury suite
140. Flown in a helicopter
141. Visited Africa
142. Sang a solo
143. Gone spelunking
144. Learned how to take a compliment
145. Written a love-story
146. Seen Michelangelo’s David
147. Had your portrait painted
148. Written a fan letter
149. Spent the night in something haunted
150. Owned a St. Bernard or Great Dane
151. Ran away
152. Learned to juggle
153. Been a boss
154. Been summoned for jury selection
155. Lied about your weight
156. Gone on a diet
157. Found an arrowhead or a gold nugget
158. Written a poem
159. Carried your lunch in a lunch box
160. Gotten food poisoning
161. Gone on a service, humanitarian or religious mission
162. Hiked the Grand Canyon
163. Sat on a park bench and fed the ducks
164. Gone to the opera
165. Gotten a letter from someone famous
166. Worn knickers
167. Ridden in a limousine
168. Attended the Olympics
169. Can hula or waltz
170. Read a half dozen Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys books
171. Been stuck in an elevator
172. Had a revelatory dream
173. Thought you might crash in an airplane
174. Had a song dedicated to you on the radio or at a concert
175. Saved someone’s life
176. Eaten raw whale
177. Know how to tat, smock or do needlepoint
178. Laughed till your side hurt
179. Straddled the equator
180. Taken a photograph of something other than people that is worth framing
181. Gone to a Shakespeare Festival
182. Sent a message in a bottle
183. Spent the night in a hostel
184. Been a cashier
185. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
186. Joined a union
187. Donated blood or plasma
188. Built a camp fire
189. Kept a blog
190. Had hives
191. Worn custom made shoes or boots
192. Made a PowerPoint presentation
193. Taken a Hunter’s Safety Course
194. Served at a soup kitchen
195. Conquered the Rubik’s cube
196. Know CPR
197. Ridden in or owned a convertible
198. Found a long lost friend
199. Helped solve a crime
200. Name one thing we didn't mention: Milked a goat

I may be the crazy reading woman, with 34 books currently on my PDA. I may be known to read while unloading the dishwasher. Some of you might have witnessed me walking into parked cars as I strolled down the street with my nose in a book. (And then, instead of noticing I've walked into a parked car, get confused and wonder why I'm not moving forward anymore.)

But I am not book club material.

I joined a book club once, not long after we moved here, thrilled to have been invited and desperately hoping to make new friends. (I was so lonely right then.) I only lasted a few months. I found, unfortunately, that I like what I like and I don't like reading what other people like. The books the other members selected either bored or annoyed me. The book that I suggested* bored them. They were very nice women, but it just wasn't a good fit, so I quit.

I've just been invited to join another book club. The first meeting (which I didn't attend) was last week, following which I got an email letting me know what books they've chosen for the next seven months.

Wow. Is it just my limited experience, or are all book clubs like this? There are two non-fiction self-improvement type books (Eats, Shoots, and Leaves, and How to Win Friends and Influence People.) There are two classic 19th century romances (Pride and Prejudice, and Jane Eyre.) There is one family saga novel from the early 20th century (The Good Earth.) There are two books that I'd never heard of, but which, when I looked them up, really, really, really did not appeal me. One is series of poems about a girl who accidentally kills her pregnant mother (Out of the Earth), and the other is the autobiography of a woman who survived a horrible crime and put her life back together (Forgiving the Dead Man Walking.)

Granted - when you get a large enough group together, not everyone is going to like the same things, so it's probably hard to find something that everyone can agree on. And this is a group of women from my church, so I can imagine the participants that night felt a certain degree of internal pressure to suggest "appropriate" books. These certainly tend to be very safe choices.

There's a thread of commonality here, though, that turns me off, a sort of grimly educational / good-for-you feel to the selected books. Reading, this list says to me, is a serious business. No time for fooling around! We must be Improving Ourselves! We must be Learning! We must Familiarize Ourselves With The Classics! We must Educate Ourselves!

Ummm, seriously? Is reading that hard to do? I mean, isn't anyone interested in reading for fun? (Not that people don't read Jane Eyre for fun. Not something I would do, but I've heard it's happened.) But it's the same sort of thing, to be honest, that I saw in the other book club. The books were almost all Books With a Message. There were only two exceptions - the one I chose, and The Blue Castle,** by L.M. Montgomery. Both books were received with something less than enthusiasm. I received the distinct impression that they were considered to be rather too light and fluffy. Not serious enough. Not educational enough.***

I read because I love reading. I love stories. When I was a little kid I used to beg my mom to read to me because I loved the stories so much and wanted more of them. I couldn't wait to learn how to read, because then I wouldn't have to wait for anyone to read to me - I could read the stories to myself, anytime I wanted! And when I was naughty? I was punished by having my books taken away. (Fate. Worse. Than. Death. Trust me. A totally panic-inducing threat.)

Books aren't medicine. They're not something you force down, because they're good for you. Books are dessert. Books are hot fudge dripping down over slightly melty vanilla ice cream, with strawberry syrup stuff around the edges, toasty bits of almond sprinkled over it all, and a generous dollop of real whipped cream on the top, with a thoroughly carcinogenic, but oh-so-yummy maraschino cherry in a color nature never invented.

They're the sanity pill that lets you go one more hour without screaming at anyone. They're what you tear yourself away from in order to do important things, like feed your family, and earn your paycheck. They're the delicious treat you hide in your purse and take out when you're supposed to be shopping while your daughter is at preschool. They're the addiction that lets you escape when things are Just Too Much, feeling your muscles and posture relax as you slide into another world, where the problems are only real to the characters, and no threat to your life at all. Because real life has enough problems, and I don't want any more of it than I already have to deal with, thank you.

I'm just not book club material. There's nothing self-improving about ice-cream sundaes, after all.
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*The Beekeeper's Apprentice, by Laurie R. King. Fantastic book. First of a fantastic series. I loooove the Mary Russell series. Pink puffy hearts love it. The only Sherlock Holmes books I have ever liked that were written by anyone other than Arthur Conan Doyle.

**I immediately fell in love with it and it is now one of my all-time favorite romances, right up there with Daddy Long Legs.

***Or, as L.M. Montgomery said in The Blue Castle: "It was permissible, even laudable, to read to improve your mind and your religion, but a book that was enjoyable was dangerous."

You can blame this one on my sister.

1. My PDA
I went for years without a PDA, never feeling the need for one. And then my husband upgraded to a cellphone/PDA combination and I decided to appropriate his old one. I'd been eyeing it for awhile and had started thinking it would be a pretty handy thing to have around.

Thus is a monster created.

I actually wore out the first one I had, and insisted on getting another one of the same model, a Palm M130. It's old, but the faceplates are interchangeable!* And since it's so old I can pick up cool accessories really cheaply, like this portable keyboard that I can keep in my purse for those moments when writerly inspiration strikes. (Cannot write with the stylus. Must have my keyboard. My thoughts go faster than my fingers when I can't type.)

I go everywhere with my PDA It's either in my hand or in my pocket. Although I do tend to put it down in absent-minded moments and then forget where, which leads to me wandering around the house, searching frantically, begging my family to tell me if they know where it is. When my first one broke I practically went into withdrawal and when my second one got dropped in water last night I had to work hard to keep a firm grip on myself. (But it dried out by this morning, and it works, it works!!)

I do have to admit, though, the biggest attraction it holds for me, and what I use it for the most is

2. Ebooks
I discovered ebooks before I discovered my PDA, but as delightful as it was to find all sorts of free books out there, it drove me crazy that I had to sit at my computer to read them. Not a problem anymore! 90% of my PDA use is as an ebook reader. That's why it goes everywhere with me - I'm constantly reading. (Note to self: no more reading while washing dishes one handed.)

Not that I don't have other forms of entertainment. I'm thoroughly hooked on

3. Netflix
I have to admit, our subscription to Netflix is almost entirely for me. For years I never went to movies, and I love movies! Going to a movie when you have a nursing infant, however, is not a fun thing to do. I only tried it once. It ended ... poorly. (Apologies to everyone who was wondering what the crazy woman with the crying baby was doing at The Lord of the Rings.)

It does take two hands, but no more, to count the number of times I've been to a movie in a theatre since Oldest Girl Child was born. I just wait for them to come out on DVD.

The problem with Netflix, though, is that it preyed on my fascination with

4. Loki
I have had a Loki-crush since I was a little girl reading Norse mythology. The other gods were interesting, but it was the stories about Loki that really made me sit up and take notice. As the years went by I read everything I could find that featured Loki. My favorites were the stories that represented him as misunderstood. It's kind of difficult to justify a crush on the Norse god of evil, after all.***

Netflix ties into this because they kept suggesting a series called Mythical Detective Loki Ragnarok to me. Every time I logged in, there they were, in my face, pushing Loki, daring me to try it in spite of the fact that it was

5. Anime
I used to think anime was so stupid. I was familiar with Pokemon, because The Boy Child was heavily into it, and I thought it was cute enough, but, my heavens, the style was so annoying, and couldn't they draw people that actually moved, instead of just using one picture per conversation?

No. No. Never. I would never watch anime without the impetus of a child with whom to watch it.

But ... it was Loki. I succumbed. I rented the first disc. I rented the second disc. I upped our subscription so that I could get the rest of the discs in the series without waiting. I stayed up late watching them, was grouchy with family members who interfered with my watching them, and when I finished the series I sighed with satisfaction and then started looking for more great series.

Princess Tutu? The duck, who turns into a ballet student, who turns into the superhero ballerina princess? Sooo much better than you would think from the description. Really. Not stupid at all. And a really wonderful, sweet

6. Romance
I adore love stories. I first encountered romance novels in high school, where they had a huge display in the middle of the library, chock full of ancient Harlequin romances. Lots of dominant men, stupid women, and fighting as a substitute for passion. What was a 15 year old girl to do? I gave up science fiction, I gave up fantasy, I gave up mysteries, and I got scolded by my teachers for rotting my brain. I didn't care - it was looove! Not to mention hot guys and a discreet amount of heavy breathing that never went beyond searing kisses.****

Even now I love a good romance novel. There's a fairy tale quality about them that appeals to me, especially when life isn't going well. A nice, uncomplicated happily ever after can really lighten my mood at those times. It's hard to find any, though, that don't embarrass me. I really do prefer not to know all the, ahem, details.

Plug for a friend - Cari Hislop - books that are quirky, funny, romantic, and worth

7. Staying up late
I hate sleeping. There are so many interesting things I could be doing instead. Especially since I started this mommy gig. I need alone time the way other people need air, and the only way to get it is to stay up late. If I get up early, so does everyone else. But if I can stay up until they've all fallen asleep, then I can have hours to myself.

Unfortunately, this leaves me pretty sleep-deprived, since my children never let me experience

8. Sleeping in
Oh, lost heaven of waking up without an alarm! Sleeping in anymore means getting up at 7 a.m. instead of 6 or 6:30. To think I used to regularly sleep in until noon on Saturdays when I was a teenager, and resented my parents rousting me out of bed any earlier. Dad always used to call me Sleeping Beauty, which just infuriated me.

Now, on Saturdays, it isn't just my kids dragging me out of bed, it's

9. Yard sales
Hee hee hee. *rubs hands together*

OK. I'll admit, I have to watch myself. I bought a bowl with a hole in the bottom once, just because it was only five cents. What can I say? It was marked down from 25 cents!

On the other hand, I get fantastic stuff, for almost nothing. Especially children's clothing. It's getting harder now, because the girls are getting into the ages where kids tend to wear things out, but every time I find a nice pair of jeans for 50 cents, it's worth the gas spent jaunting around town that day. And I got two complete sets of matching twin bedding for $5 last spring, which is making the girls' bedroom oh! so cute!

Of course, all this stuff just feeds my passion for

10. Organization
You would think this was a good quality. Hah! Well, it just all depends, doesn't it? Me, I am the Mad Hatter of organization. "Move down, move down!"

I tend to accumulate too much stuff (like fabric) and then I have to figure out what to do with it to keep it from taking over the house. So I organize it. I organize my frighteningly large collection of Tivo'd shows I mean to watch someday. I organize my To-Do lists. I organize my food storage. I organize the clothing one child has grown out of and the other child hasn't grown into.

I especially do this when life is starting to feel out of control. Not that I actually accomplish anything. I don't get rid of anything. It doesn't make anything else in life better. In fact, it uses time I should be spending on more important matters. But, it makes me feel better and I wind up with the illusion of some sort of control over things. I might not have working air conditioning, but by gum! I can find any ebook I own, all organized according to author.
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*I found a place online that was selling them for five cents each, so now I have seven, two of them red.**

**It's bright and cheerful. Also easy to find when I forget where I put my PDA.

***Can I help it if I find Trickster types attractive? You have to be smart to be a Trickster, and intelligence is mmmmm, yum. Dearest - I admit it. I married you for your mind.

****Very important since boys still made me fairly skittish. Non-threatening, that was the keyword, if I'd been self-aware enough to put it into words. All my crushes were on boys that looked like they were still pre-adolescent.