So here I am in Amsterdam, completely jetlagged. I’m spending two days in The Netherlands before flying to Strasburg and driving to my final destination in France. The recommendation I had from those experienced in this particular trip was to catch what sleep I could on the plane over, and then NOT SLEEP as soon as I could get into my hotel room. I’ll go to sleep tonight and then I’ll be more or less on the correct time zone.
So a coworker and I, fresh off the plane, wandered Amsterdam today. Friday was apparently the Queen’s birthday, the proper celebration whereof requires massive amounts of beer. The remainder of the weekend was then dedicated to the pursuit of cleaning up all the mess inspired by the beer. So we wended our way past canals full of boats down picturesque cobblestone streets, gazing at all the interesting shops that were closed because it was 9 am on a Sunday morning. A cold rain is falling — a rain for which I and my wardrobe came completely unprepared.
We pondered going to one of the big museums, but a line of umbrellas stretching around the block, very much like the line of Nannies in Mary Poppins, combined with cold blowing drizzle and extreme jetlag, dissuaded us.
Of course, everything’s going to heck in Boston without me. Without my calming presence, the water lines go all kerfluey and break and the entire city of Boston and environs is under a boil water order (yes, that does include my family). My eldest son has contracted a truly nasty cough, which apparently kept him and everyone else us last night, running hot showers (with untreated water…) and applying Vicks. I’d feel more sympathetic, but even with the disruption in sleep they’ve gotten far more than I have. Then again, I figure I have to stay up another 3 hours or so… they’re just starting their day.
It is an odd feeling, to have woken in the morning on continent. To have played frisbee on the town square and eaten a snack at your own table, and in the space of the same waking day — the same change of clothes — to be so very far away in a land where everyone rides bikes and canals are more common than left turn lights in Boston.
I’m not sure how much time I’ll have to keep updated. Sadly, although my meetings will be happening far from their usual locales, it may have less of the local flavor than you might wish. That’s a short way of saying that on Wednesday, we’re going bowling.
But my room has a lovely view of a canal, with house boats and ducks. From where I sit, you can see a turgid, modern windmill on the horizon. The wind whips past my window, but it’s warm in here and I feel infinitely better after a post-flight shower. Tomorrow, we meet with our colleagues here, and then fly that hour South to begin the serious rounds of meetings. And I have slides to Powerpoint before I sleep.
Today, my baby was graduated to the Toddler 1 room. No longer is he a Sweetpea. No, nor does he reside with the babies. He has been officially designated as a Toddler. And it’s true. Thane and cars - modeling fashionable head gear
I’ll start off with confessions. It’s harder to “see” Thane than it was Grey at the same age, or even Grey now. Thane is in constant competition with his brother. One of these people can use words to form interested sentences. One of them cannot. One of them has a high-attention personality. The other of them, when all is well with him, happily entertains himself. So I notice that it’s much harder to focus on Thane, to see him for the delightful wonderful kid he is. Even when I try to set time aside, I find myself either appreciating the silence, or having his brother come up to see what’s going on. It’s hard to get one-on-one time with him. And as is pretty standard with 18 month olds, it can be hard to figure out what to DO together — at least after the 7th round of “Where’s Thane?!!?!” (Thane thinks wandering around with a blanket over his head is HILARIOUS!)
Thane loves his father, especially
The great news is that Thane seems to be flourishing in this environment. If I sometimes rue that it’s hard to focus on my youngest because my eldest requests and requires my attention, that’s not how Thane sees it. Thane’s greatest hero is Grey. He’ll wake up in the night and ask after his brother. He perks up whenever Grey’s name is mentioned, even at daycare. He is unhappy if he knows Grey is nearby and he can’t be with him. When Grey cries (a common occurrence — we’re in the middle of another tantrum period) Thane will insist over and over on going to his brother “Gwey! Gwey! Gwey!” He’ll walk up the stairs and lurk outside his brother’s door, hitting it with tiny fists, calling his brother’s name. It may yet be early in their relationship, but the two of them seem to have a strong bond — each eager to be with the other. Grey found a fun toy in the toybox
This is not to say, of course, that there is no conflict in their relationship. Thane pays so much attention to Grey that it’s inevitable he’ll want to play with whatever Grey has. Although Thane seems to understand that some toys are not his, all chaos breaks loose when Grey is playing with one of Thane’s cars. The filial relationship is not always harmonious, but it’s still painted with overtones of loving and kindness.
Project “Use Your Own Two Feet Already” is meeting with rousing success! Thane is regularly walking from the car to the house (you don’t know what a big difference that can make until you make the trip with: one work backpack, one purse, one coffee mug, one bag of blankets for daycare, one bag clothes for the gym and two lunch boxes for daycare). He will walk about two blocks, nicely, holding hands. He can usually be propelled forward with the old chestnut of “Look, Thane! Grey’s up there! Let’s go get Grey!” He’s made tremendous strides in walking on his own, although if he sees a stroller he is still very interested in getting in it. He really loves being taken on walks, and even in his worst days will sit quietly as we walk through the neighborhood, as long as the scenery changes. Confirmation Class of 2020 all lined up
In further gross motor news, Thane is doing very very well with the stairs. Previous bloody incidents aside, we have great stairs for beginning crawlers — carpeted, not too steep and with landings. Thane walks up and down them holding hands, and can ascend and descend with great speed crawling. My heart always is in my mouth as he approaches the stairs, since he often looks like he’s going to try to walk down them, and his legs simply aren’t long enough to do that without toppling over. He is also becoming an expert at slides. We have a great “first slide” at church, which he gets up and down without any assistance. He likes the big slide at the playground, but I’m too chicken to permit him to use it much. Unafraid of heights
Linguistically, Thane is just about on target. He’s starting to work on the “ABC” song, but doesn’t get very far. He doesn’t have the patience for repetition of the letters of the alphabet his brother had at the same stage. This is ok — he has another 5 or so years before he really needs to have mastered his alphabet. He’s getting much better at mimicry, and will finally say his own name. (It’s really pretty adorable. He thumps his chest and says “Tay”). Then again, he’s also been known to call himself Marilyn (the name of his previous provider in the infant room). He knows a duck says “quack”. He says “genty” as he pets the “gat” (often quite ungently – patient animals!). A complete comprehended list might include: no (in answer to every question), apple, yogurt, applesauce, milk, water, cheese, oatmeal, cereal, blue, yellow, red, Grey, Mama, Dada, Thane, up, down, car, truck, bus, cat, puppy, ball, block, book, balloon, shoe, sock, coat, pants, diaper, bath, duck, quack, dinosaur (da-do), toothbrush (goo-ga), belly, nose, eye, ear, hair, happy, Spongebob (Bob Bob), cough-cough (he does fake coughs so I’ll say it) and probably some others. That’s not a bad list for 18 months old. He probably says many other words we don’t understand. He talks all the time, but much of it I still can’t understand. It's hard to get pictures of his face, not just his golden curls
Thane has exceptional patience and focus for particular tasks (when not hungry/tired/thirsty). Cars are currently the great joy of his life. He loves them. He carries them around and lines them up on any available surface. He LOVES being sat at the table to play with his trucks and toys, and sits quite nicely. He is particularly fond of my grandmother’s bells, which I have on a windowsill. He’ll sit on the old teak chest and ring and line up the bells, gazing out the window. His love-affair with dinosaurs seems only slightly diminished. He still really likes books about dinosaurs, and now points out other elements of interest in them (ducks, balls, balloons, puppies – don’t ask why these are common elements in dinosaur books. You don’t want to know.) But the cars seem the greatest theme to his play. He hasn’t yet started paying attention to screens. He very rarely sees them, since he’s usually with us while his brother is watching them in the living room. I’m just as happy, although I think I’d rather have Grey watching Sesame Street that Cartoon Network and their appalling wrestling-themed programming.
My baby is still the best sleeper I’ve ever witnessed in the age group. For Christmas, Santa gave him a rabbit we named “Mr. Bun”. He was having none of it. That rabbit’s name is and always shall be “Puppy”. You should see the joy and welcome that flash across his face when he reaches out for Puppy. Then he takes one ear in his hand, and while holding on to the ear, sucks his thumb. It’s the only time he ever does so. He’ll lie down, so content in his bed. I tuck him in and turn out the light and leave the room. Sometimes I hear him talking to himself after that, but he rarely needs attention. What do you mean no more cake?
For quite a while he gave the most hilarious kisses. He’d bring his sweet rosebud mouth next to your unsuspecting cheek and blow a very sloppy wet raspberry on it. I loved it, I confess. Made me laugh every time. Now, though, his kisses are taking on an actual kiss-like aspect, to my great regret.
When he’s tired, he’ll lay his head on my shoulder, and rest there for a brief moment. Usually, though, he’s indomitable, fearless, sturdy, adventurous, resourceful, charming, talkative and persistent. The experienced parents reading this list may note that some of these generally excellent attributes can make for, uh, challenging parenting. That’s true too. He’s nearly impossible to pull from an object he desires without simply picking him up. He’s strong, and has not yet learned that hitting is wrong. He can and will throw an epic tantrum when he believes it is called for. Sometimes, he can tire me out. But mostly, he brings me and those around him great joy.
And now, friends, he’s a true Toddler.
Thane, patiently being shorn
Edited to Add:
For my reference (since, let’s be honest, this blog is as much of a baby book as the poor kid gets), here are his stats:
Weight 27 lbs (65th %)
Height 33.5 inches (85th %)
Head circumference 19 in (65%)
I remember the longest hour that ever existed. It was in Mr. Johnson’s math class — geometry, I think. I remember having the time to notice every single thing about that hour — the droning buzz of chainsaws from the nearby hill being logged, the way the sunlight was golden on the fading azaleas in the interstices of the school, the hum of the overhead projector with the thick black pen markings disappearing into scroll-like rolls, the drone of his voice explaining arcane mathematical phenomenon I did not then and have not now mastered, the coldness of the computer room behind the math room with all the proud ’80s era Macintosh computers sitting under dust covers (it was the mid-90s). There was no whirling of time, no speeding by of concepts or ideas, no blurring together of moments. Every single long second, all (60 x 60 x 1) of them had my complete and full attention, without the distraction of, you know, things of interest. I’m not sure why that was the longest hour of my life, but I do believe it was.
Lately, however, I’ve noticed a phenomenon I had been warned about. Time is clearly speeding up. This makes sense, from one point of view. If you consider each hour as a percentage of your time alive and aware, as you grow older it becomes a smaller and smaller percentage. Perhaps that 16 year old me in that corner-classroom was the optimum point between awareness of time and watch-ownership, and percentage of life an hour represented. In truth, I’ve heard that time stretches out when you are confronted with novelty, because your brain has to explicitly save more of it. For example, you’re unlikely to remember every minute of your commute home tonight. Your brain doesn’t need to save that information: it’s just like yesterday’s version and likely very similar to tomorrow’s. So why bother? The first time you scuba dive, however, every single sensation and view you experience is unlike all others you’ve experienced and your brain saves far more of the information. It’s why a new road you’ve never driven that takes 20 minutes is so much longer than your 20 minute commute, or at least feels that way.
Into my fourth decade, I encounter fewer and fewer novelties in my daily living. My brain relies on the tropes, stereotypes and previous experiences. Whole days, I have no doubt, go by without creating a single memory that will endure past the year. No wonder time seems faster, when I remember less of it.
All this is an extremely long lead in to a statement I never thought I’d say in my entire life in New England. But here it is. Where did the winter go? See, I’m totally used to summer flying by in a flurry of sunscreen and “just keep driving” fantasies as I head on Northward roads towards a climate controlled office. Spring is inevitably fleeting. Fall has the enduring quality, but still slips through my fingers like ribbon on a birthday present being opened with eager hands. The five minutes of Christmas when I deeply breathe of the scent of balsam and stare at twinkling lights persists, but the remainder of the month is gone. However, I can usually rely on January, February and March to provide me with the unchanging interminability of misery that is winter. Ah, winter! The one time of the year that you aren’t pressed on all sides by missed opportunities! Winter! The season when you go to work thinking that at least you’re not missing out on anything fun. Winter, that usually returns three or four times after you dare to hope it’s left for good! Winter, when it is what it is and you can’t complain but you do anyway.
This year, through phenomenon unknowable, winter went really fast. I can’t blame the kids — this is Grey’s 4th winter and Thane’s 2nd. I had a mix of old job, time off and new job (which the novelty of the latter should’ve slowed time down, according to my above hypothesis). It wasn’t a supremely easy winter. I shoveled a fair amount of snow. Granted, Spring did come a bit early and it was one of the warmest Springs on record. I’m sure that plays a role. But in previous winters I remember dramatically complaining that my marrow had frozen and there was insufficient heat in the fast-fleeting summer to melt it before the dreaded chill arrived again. This winter, my marrow was barely refrigerated.
With such a scientifically minded readership, I’m sure none of you will go thinking I’m jinxing Spring by talking about it – as though it’s a no-hitter. I, personally, am often bemused by just how superstitious I really am. But it’s almost May. I’m headed to FRANCE next weekend, for reals. It’s a matter of weeks until our first camping trip of the year. The leaves on the tree out my kitchen window are in full spring color and bloom, fast approaching full size! Could even the most powerful of jinxes bring winter back now? I think not.
So here it is, spring. And here comes summer, hazy, turgid and fleeting as it is. May I find enough novelty, enough observation and enough patience to make many memories that endure for colder winters ahead.
Today is Patriot’s Day in Boston. I’m a big fan of made-up holidays, so I have a certain fellow-feeling with the day, tempered only by the fact I don’t get it off. Boston has an excellent tradition of “historic” holidays (usually revolving around some Revolutionary war thingy) that just HAPPEN, though sheer COINCIDENCE to be on the same day as something even the historically ignorant might care about. For example, amazingly Evacuation Day (a holiday for state workers) MIRACULOUSLY always occurs on St. Patrick’s day. As for the coincidence of the Boston Marathon, the earliest baseball game of the year (the Red Sox ALWAYS have an 11 am home game on Patriot’s Day) and the recreation of the Battle of Lexington… well, let’s just say it’s three great tastes that taste great together.
You can tell which companies are Massachusetts companies vs. which companies happen to be headquartered in Massachusetts based on a) whether this is a holiday on the calendar and b) if it’s not, what percentage of people show up for work that day.
My sons’ preschool is a true Massachusetts institution. I work for a global company. This means, of course, that there’s no preschool but I have to work.
I’d actually been waiting for a day like this. I knew one would come. It was very wrenching for me to pull my sons out of the care of a woman they called Abuela – grandma – who had cared for Grey since he was 8 weeks old. But the round trip commute was not possible. I knew that putting the children in daycare in our community was a good long-term solution. Still, I kept my eyes open for just such an opportunity. See, Abuela doesn’t believe in taking vacations or holidays or nights and weekends. She’s taken kids 3rd shift, for days at a time, and over weekends. I knew she’d be up for taking the boys (assuming she had slots) on a day that preschool was closed.
I called her to ask and the joy in her voice was apparent. She’d missed me. She’d missed the boys. Their friends had missed them too. When I asked if she could take them for a day, she sounded super-happy. I felt happy too, this morning, retracing the steps of my habitual commute. I thought about it. The length of time I spent doing that commute ties with the most durable pattern I’ve ever had in my life. For six years I tread those roads, with minor additions, changes and modifications. I’ve only ever lived in one house for six years… all other places I’ve had shorter tenures. I slipped right back in to the habit. It was hard to even think about the fact this was now exceptional, it felt so ordinary and at-home. The glorious brisk, bright morning seemed to make the familiar path into a dance of spring.
As the boys and I walked up the steps to daycare, I thought about the differences in them. Grey has become obsessed with Star Wars — an obsession given to him by his new preschool compatriots. His reading has come a long, long way. He’s asking complicated vocabulary questions. If Grey has changed incrementally, Thane has changed radically. He’s ceased being practically deaf. He’s started talking (oh has he!). He walked up those stairs on his own feet for the first time today. Heck, I pretty much never even put shoes on him when I was bringing him to Abuela’s, since the ice and snow were disincentives to asking him to walk himself. As I waited the (long, familiar) wait for the door to open, I wondered if he’d remember her. Two months — nearly three! — is a very long time when you’re not quite 18 months old. Would he run in? Rejoice? Be afraid? Turn away?
The door opened. Grey ran in with hugs and “I missed you!”. Thane stood at the door, and then pelted in too, to be picked up by a woman who loved him and held him close — happy to see him, marveling at how he’d grown. Then she put an arm around me, too. “I so happy to see you!” And she was. And so was I.
For lunch, the boys likely had Abuela’s rice and beans which is “So delicious. You would love it mommy. It’s not like YOUR rice and beans.” (Hey, I’m trying.) She’s probably noticed that Thane talks non-stop and screeches a lot now. Grey is likely borrowing Pablito’s DS (assuming Pablito’s parents don’t have Patriot’s Day off, which you never know). Isaiah is probably teaching Grey something fun and inappropriate. (Grey: Isaiah knows about EVERYTHING. ME: Don’t I know it!) I have heard that Devin pitched fits for weeks after Grey left, because he missed him so. (This is entirely one-sided. Grey was like “Devin who?”)
I’ll go and pick them up after work, and I’ll practice my Spanish some more to attempt to keep the rust from forming. We’ll chat and gossip a bit.
Before, my last words when I left were always, “Hasta manana” (see you tomorrow) or “Hasta el lunes” (until Monday) or variations on that theme. This time, and every time now, I do not know until when that “hasta” is. Grey has decided, this last week or so, that he has three grandmas. I wrestle with the evident truth of this. She and I share a love of these children and a common history, but little else. Not even a common language. On the other hand, that is so much. Of course I include her in my Christmas cards, keep up with her daughter on Facebook, the easy things. But how can I honor her grandmahood, and my sons’ love of her, while the realities of my life march on? All I’m sure of is that the attempt must be made because there are few things more precious than someone who loves your children and whom your children love — related by blood or not.
I am not a gym rat. I have never had a gym membership. I’ve generally been sort of unsure how they work, except they seem to involve getting up early in the morning and having a wardrobe of specialized clothes for looking good while sweating.
Well, it turns out my new job has an onsite gym. That all my colleagues are regulars at. That costs a grand total of $25/month of which $150/year is reimbursable through my health plan. That has everything you might possibly need, including cable for day Red Sox game. On contemplation, this seemed pretty hard to forgo. So in early April I bit the bullet, wrote a check, and decided to try to figure it all out.
I’d like to take a moment to thank my junior high and high school gym teachers. At the time, I thought it was the height of unfairness that SCHOOL where I was supposed to be GOOD at stuff was making me do things that I didn’t know how to do and was bad at. I had to learn whole new skills like lifting weights, running, stretching, and even doing pushups. Despite my early despair, this education made doing sports seem plausible. And sports taught me how to be in shape and negotiate fitness, in addition to how to work hard at things I was terrible at in order to attain hard-won mediocrity. I went to state in basketball and track (through no merit of my own), and have varsity letters in things other than Knowledge Bowl and Pep Band. I haven’t done an organized sport since my sophomore year of high school, but I have confidence in my ability to do physical things that require sneakers and sports bras. This was not inevitable.
An adult gym seems very different. I mean, there’s the whole subtext of locker rooms. The thing about locker rooms is that you are naked in them. Not metaphorically. So there’s my boss’s boss’s boss, and there’s someone who works in the cafeteria and we’re all getting our clothes on for Zumba class. It’s very equalizing in an “I hope I don’t make a complete idiot of myself” kind of way. There are fitness friendships that spring up far across corporate divisions. And then there’s the issue of unspoken etiquette, which I’m sure I don’t know all about. Does one attempt to hide under the insufficient towels, or is one unafraid as one walks out of the shower? There are brushes on the counter in front of the mirror… do only idiots use them? Are they just for show? Or is it ok for me to use them? And these are my coworkers — people whose opinion is important — so it’s important I not commit huge faux pas.
I suspect I might be oversensitive, since the jr. high/high school locker rooms was the place where “gross” “freaky” and all the other terror-terms of my youth were defined — where being “normal” and “like everyone else” was the height of my desire. Perhaps the payroll coordinator is more forgiving of foibles than was the norm in 7th grade.
Also, among my areas of ignorance is hair dryers. I’ve just never used them, never mastered the art of them. I only own a hair dryer for putting up that plastic sheeting across the windows. A hair dryer is a must if you’re using a corporate gym, because really? Sopping wet hair does not say “professional”. So in addition to Force, Java, an entirely new business, and powerpoint for everything I have to master hair dryer skills? It seems too much!
The good news is that I’m really not in all that bad a shape. I did 25 minutes on an elliptical without trouble. I ran a mile and a half on the treadmill. (I do love those day games!) I’m up to 5 visits. I think this is going to work for me. But I find it like a strange new world with all these rules and customs I need to carefully wend my way through.
What about you? Are you comfortable doing vigorous exercise? Do you have a gym membership? Is it like a second home to you, or a foreign country?
I don’t watch much tv. I have never seen an episode of Friends, Dr. Who, or Glee. Frankly, if it weren’t for baseball, I’d be more or less ok getting no cable whatsoever. (But there is baseball. Do not underestimate baseball.) But on Saturday, a friend came to stay with me while my husband was away with our friends on the Cape. One thing lead to another, and we spent most of the evening watching Deadliest Catch. I have to admit, I love this show. On bad days, it makes me insanely grateful for a desk job with benefits and a practically 0 chance of having 32 degree Bering Sea water dumped on my head. On other days, I reflect on the ties back to a former age. Interspersed with sonar readings and hydraulic cranes are age-old superstitions and an environment where men teach each other to be men in the oldest ways — as men have in the ruggedest environments since they first plied the waters. It’s an interesting environment for a feminist to see. I can tell you this much: I couldn’t hack it. I’m pretty sure that after 20 hours of backbreaking labor I’d be in tears and handing in my resignation. Thane loves the park. It has the BEST garbage!
I figured that as long as he didn’t go around preschool saying, “What the *beep* took you so *beeping* long to *beep* bring me my *beeping* Legos?” this was a pretty good show to watch. The only violence is against crabs. And there’s a truth to it. Of course, now he says he wants to be a fisherman because “It looks like fun.” Clearly he’s not paying attention.
Since I complain plenty when the boys are hard to handle, in fairness I should tell you that they’ve been just amazingly lately. Thane has stopped clinging to my leg like a screeching limpet while I make dinner. Now he’ll play with cars (he LOVES lining them up on a table, taking them down, and lining them up again). He has this Spongebob figure he’s extremely fond of. He, like his brother before him, calls the little yellow guy “Bob-bob”. He’s talking up a storm. He’s extremely interested in whatever his brother is doing. One of his most frequent words is “Gwey”. He’s also recently become obsessed with apples. Normal people will eat a great apple down to the core. With Thane, if he’s hungry, he’ll eat the entire apple. As in, there are no remnants of the apple left when he’s done. Apple is also one of his clearest words. At the height of apple-mania, I believe my 25 pound son (or so) ate about 5 apples in one day. There was a dinner where the boys collectively turned their noses up at pizza and preferred to eat apples instead. I confess that one left me not knowing how to feel. On the one hand, children should eat their dinner. On the other hand, apples are likely much better nutritionally than pizza.
Project “Teach Thane To Walk” has been going extremely well. Thane will now walk considerable distances holding a hand. The other day, he walked all the way down the block with me. This may not sound astonishing, but he has little legs and strong opinions. For him to nicely walk such a distance past so many distractions is real progress. Grey is quite a walker. My friend who spent Saturday brought her pedometer. We walked 3.7 miles that day. Grey walked all of it with us, and with the running around and jumping, much likely significantly more. I look forward to the day when all four of us can walk through the woods together (and not stop every 3 feet for a snack).
Grey has been super and fun and a delight (with one or two exceptions). I’m continually stunned by how USEFUL and HELPFUL he is, and how we can DO things with him. For example, we played several games of “Kids of Carcasonne” and he followed the rules and played correctly. He was also compassionate towards his parents (possibly not getting the idea of a game) and helped us complete our roads. He’s really, truly, honestly reading. I asked him to read a book to my friend, and he read through the entire thing with one mistake. He said “not” when the word was “never”. And it wasn’t a book he knew by heart — he was really reading it. (The book in question is Today I Will Fly). He is superb with Thane… most of the time. It’s a joy to watch him run and jump and play and make friends. And he’s very loving towards me. He’s also really sensitive. The other night he said he was scared. As I carried him to his room, I was talking about all the reasons he should be happy and ended with “And all’s right with the world.” He replied, “No, it’s not. There was that earthquake, and all the people got hurt.” He’s right, of course. All is right in his small world, but not the larger world. I was struck by his awareness that just because everything is good for him, doesn’t mean everything is good. Little boy blue
Monday is Patriot’s Day. It’s a state holiday. While theoretically it’s about some historic thingamajig, in reality it’s a day when Boston shuts down to watch some baseball and then watch the Boston marathon come through. There are some battle recreations in the morning, too, I believe. I have to work, but the boys’ new preschool is closed for the day. So I called Abuela tonight to ask if she’d be willing to take the boys. You know, she sounded really, really happy to hear from me. She really wanted to hear how the boys were doing. She said she really missed them – and I believe her. I’m caught between feeling great and feeling sad. Feeling great because it was such a great relationship for so long. And of course, feeling sad because I don’t see how that relationship can be well continued (although I have suspicions that if the Y takes Patriot’s Day off, they probably take all the other holidays off that I don’t get).
I hope that all is as well and joyful with you out there as it is for us!
Things that need to go out the door with us tomorrow:
1 18 month old
1 4 year old
4 lunches (one of which needs to be microwaved in the morning)
Sheet and blanket for 18 month old
Blanket for 4 year old
2 laptops for work
2 power cords for laptops
Change of clothes for my gym (2x)
Shampoo, conditioner and face clothes for same
Aikido gi & spare clothes
Aikido weapons (wooden sticks)
Purse
Keys
Coffee mug
Coffee thermos (full)
Coats all around, maybe
Bills to mail
Also, since it’s the Monday for it, I need to have sheets out for every bed in the house and a check on the counter for the housekeeper.
No wonder I don’t have short term memory for much of anything these days!
It’s a rainy day here, and that has doubtless informed my music-while-coding choices. I have a playlist on my iPod built from pretty much all the music I loved and listened to over and over again before I graduated from college. That was back when you could only listen to music that was either played on radio, or which you had purchased (or painstakingly bootlegged). This playlist is heavy on the King Singer’s, Peter, Paul and Mary, Faure’s Requiem, “The Civil War” by Ken Burns, Handel’s Water Music and “All the Best From Scotland vol. 2” which is quite possibly the high point of Celtic music ever. Or, more likely, just a trip back in memory lane for me.
I’m sometimes still amazed at just how the music can bring me back to who I was. Each piece is precious in its evocation of a prior me — the child who gazed out the window of her home at tall mountains and dreamed dreams and for whom the world was a simpler place. I’m not surer that all the lessons I have learned since are well learned, or even true. While perhaps the possibilities of magic I learned from Tolkein and Lewis have never been my lot, I’m not so sure that the lessons of CNN and NPR aren’t just as skewed towards the venal, frustrating and cruel. The kindness and exultation of humanity are not news items.
I feel lucky that I have such a consistent and kind way to reach back to who I was and what I felt. I can’t be that person again, but I can remember what it was like to be 12 and in love with magic, mystery and music.
I remember weeping from the beauty of the cello in “Watching the White Wheat”. I had the Canadian Brass version of Pachabel’s “Canon in D” on constant loop on my fidgety portable CD Player as we drove past the ancient winding rivers of Yellowstone — and possibly that was the moment I truly and finally fell in love with my trumpet. We drove across the Missouri river in the dead of night on an impossibly high bridge, my father, brother and I, listening to the Kingston Trio’s lament on the same theme. Lying in my bed with the rhythm of the rain tapping on my windowpane, I longed to assure Paul Simon that by no means did his words “Tear and bend to rhyme”. In one of the last moments of my childhood, driving through a late spring snowstorm coming out of Missoula Montana listening to Therese Shroeder-Sheker’s Geography of the Soul, which would be the theme music of my thesis-writing, and falling in love as thick snowflakes drifted past dark pines on an impossibly distant road.
There is so much beauty there, in those memories.
For someone to whom music is so important, and reaches so deeply, I often feel like I have not maintained my connection. Sure, in the last few years I’ve added in Folk Rock in the form of Steeleye Span. There’s Kate Rusby, who’s released the same album about 4 times. (Or maybe they just all sound the same.) There’s Madeleine Payreoux. I’ve made a few forays which I haven’t ended up loving, as well. It seems like one more way where I am starving my soul of the nutrition it so desperately needs, through my own neglect. But I hardly know where to start, or how.
There is one completely new form/kind of music I’ve fallen head-over-heels for this year, though. It’s so new to me I’m not even entirely sure what genre it falls into. The music is from Symphony of Science
I like the beat. And for me, listening to what I listen to, Auto tune is actually new and exciting. (I KNOW I KNOW!) But what I really, really, really like about this is the poetry and optimism. I’m pretty sure that generally this would be called techno or electronica, but is it standard for techno/electronica to be cheery, uplifting and speak towards the hopeful future of our species? And there is no genre designation for “Good lyrics/uplifting”. So given that I have downloaded/purchased all their existing albums, help me oh great internet. Who else out there is doing this? Is anyone setting poetry to this kind of beat? The good stuff, too. Is there a Donne/techno or a Spenser/electronica? Is there a fantastic lyricist I should track down? How do I expand this newfound fondness of mine? Or, as I fear, is Symphony of Science a unique exemplar of it’s kind?
One of the projects I planted during the winter that is sprouting this spring is setting up my church (Burlington Presbyterian as a farm share distribution point for Farmer Dave’s farm share. I participated in his farm share last year at the Lawrence pickup location (conveniently located in my building!), but changing jobs meant living too far away to pick it up.
We’ve been talking about stewardship a lot lately in church. Sometimes the word “stewardship” is a churchy way of saying “We need more money.” This is often true. But true stewardship means a lot more than that. It means taking care of the people who bring the mission of a church to life. It means fostering the connection and feeling of belonging with everyone who is a part of our church family. It means carefully looking at how the church’s financial resource are spent, as well as how they come in. It also means having careful stewardship of the world entrusted to our care.
This drive to stewardship is therefore affecting things big and small across our church. We had already done some things. For example,we use fair trade coffee, use CFLs where possible, avoid paper/plastic dishes, recycle religiously (get it?), and offer our parking lot for commuter parking with public transit. But we’re trying to take it the next step: installing timed thermostats (apparently we have high voltage something-or-others that make this more complicated) and looking to see if we can install solar panels on our beautiful big roof (if there’s anyone out there who’d like to help us with this drop me a line!).
Offering fresh, locally grown, sustainable produce to the community seemed like an excellent way to contribute to the cause of Stewardship, while also creating a relationship with people who might otherwise not know our church exists. Furthermore, for any shares that aren’t picked up (because the person is on vacation or forgets or something) we’ll be donating those shares to the Burlington Food Pantry. Fresh produce is one of the hardest things for a food pantry to offer.
Anyway, I’ve been pleased and amazed at how the distribution has come together. We’ve ironed out nearly all the kinks, and are now accepting registrations! We’re in a big push now. We need to have a minimum number of sign-ups for the site, or it won’t work. So if you or a loved one lives in the Burlington Massachusetts area and love fresh produce, sustainably grown and harvested the morning it’s delivered to you, please consider signing up!
It’s possible I should upload pictures more often, so that my uploads are slightly less schizophrenic. To which I say: pppffft. You’re lucky I take pictures at all. Cheese!
Anyway, I have pictures for March and April, including lots of playground stuff, pretty much every nice day in the last 6 weeks, Piemas, grandma, Easter, and many silly faces by Grey (which represent only a small portion of the silly faces that have pictures taken).
My Truant Pen 