Christmas

So, it has been a big week for the postal service and my household. I've been holding off blogging, even though myriad interesting and bizarre occurrences have occurred, because I was waiting for something.

My birthday present.

My precious.

The little laptop that Spouse promised I could get.

I ordered it late Saturday night, and the days just d-r-a-g-g-e-d on between then and this morning. This beautiful, sunny, muggy, perfect morning when the hunky and debonair (ok, not really, in fact the guy didn't even say hello and was kind of a twit and a little dumpy looking. love is blind.) FedEx man brought me a big brown box that had shipped from New Jersey. And in that box, that the green grass grew all around all around, was my laptop. And I liketh it so muchly.

Also this week, the baby's little wooden rosary came, and the netflix movie, and the baby's replacement doll-toy-thing because I lost the one he was given by his grandmother. The only thing Mr. Postman owes me now is the $50 Target card that I expected to have come a week ago. So there you have it.

I'm blogging from my own hardware again! Yay!

Tech Update

I discovered yesterday that V loves being carried around on my arm while I'm crawling--something like the Mommy Gorilla version of babywearing. I have christened this the (go figure) "Mommy Gorilla" and so far the novelty hasn't worn off for either of us. I will tell you, though, that the size ratio of real mommy gorilla-to-baby gorilla is not quite the same as mine-to-V. V will outgrow the Mommy Gorilla soonly.

Anyway. Mommy Gorilla fell asleep yesterday afternoon with the phone in her hand (not unusual), and her hand under her body (not unusual) and when she woke up, the cell phone did not (unusual). Sooo, Mommy Gorilla took the phone to the Verizon guy, who said, "Yep, it'll never wake up again." An hour (!) later, Mommy Gorilla had stolen Daddy's upgrade date (an interesting Verizon perk on family plans) and had herself a new phone with all the data from her old phone restored...except, alas Horatio, the Bejewelled Twist game. It could not be salvaged. My all-time score had to be well above 4,000,000,000. My level achieved was sixty-something, or Twistmaster Omega. I was rockin' that sucker, man.

Probably not a bad thing that I lost the game when the phone died. And there you have it. Awesomest feature discovered so far on the phone--the charging cable is simple a USB, which plugs into a USB port on an AC wall plug when you want to use it for actual charging. Otherwise, the phone speaketh freely to the computadora. Hurrah!

Left, or Something Like It

So, now I'm genuinely stumped with a couple of my students. Both of them, to one degree or another, are starting to have serious problems telling their right hand from their left. The first one I'm not as worried about, because he doesn't do it when he's relaxed. It seems like he gets stressed and defaults to playing with the right hand (or, if I ask him to move his left hand, he almost always moves his right hand). Not a huge worry.

This other one, though, the girl. So strange.

She will transpose a line of music (to the correct set of notes! this is what blows my teeny little mind!) from the left hand to the right hand, or from bass to treble clef if you prefer, and back without batting an eyelash. I cannot for the life or me figure out where this habit comes from. It is because they are used to using just one hand at a time for the duration of a piece? Am I making them that nervous?

Granted, she is coming to me from a couple of years' experience playing the clarinet (nothing else before that) so the concept of reading one line at a time is throwing her for a loop. Perhaps running back to a "single line" mentality is begetting this hand switching. The one-line thing is funny, too, by the way. Today she kept pausing in the oddest fashion, in strange places, and I finally stopped her and I'm like "Child, why are you stopping?" And she said, "I'm counting the rests!"

Sure enough, every time she got to the end of a line [in the treble clef] she went back to count out all the bass clef rests that had been going on during the right hand melody, as if each individual line of the grand staff were to be read like single-line band music.

I'm figuring it out. One half of my brain at a time.

Momicure

Nothing like cutting your finger [and toe--yuk!!] nails over a trash bag in the front seat of a car while heading down the interstate. There just wasn't time to do it before. I was busy cutting other people's nails.

Spent a fun, packed weekend up in the Deep North, after declaring at noon on Friday, "Quick, let's go before I change my mind." Too much there to blog at the moment.

Am annoyed that the traffic feed does not allow me to adjust settings to ignore my own IP. This is irritating, as it shows every time I visit my own blog, which would be just about every time I open my browser window, as the blog happens to be my homepage. If I can't figure out how to recify that problem, I'm going to delete the fun traffic feed because the issues are just, well, annoying.

Also, I cannot believe it is June. I mean, wowie zowie. Last year at this time I was back in Tennessee, I think, for a little while before I came home to spend a couple weeks with my sister. I only stayed a week, as I recall, before Joeba called and demanded that I return to Fort Sill (which I did, posthaste). We were here long enough to go for a couple bike rides, and for me to visit the doctor, but that was pretty much it.

So, my buddy Betsy (sniff sniff - I miss you already!) tagged me for this extremely prestigious award, and let me know, and yesterday afternoon was the first time that the post in question (i.e. the one explaining what the tagging referred to) has appeared to me when I visit her blog. Soooo, not sure what's up with the time delay and me and Betsy's blog, but oh well. At worst, it makes me look like a procrastinating doofus. Which would not be a crime, nor would it be particularly misleading.

Anyway. Here's what happens as a result of my getting the Circle of Friends Award:

1st of all, thank the dear award giver, no "speech" required. My no speech goes like this: "THANK YOU! I'm SOOOO honored!"

And then, since this is all about spreading the love, I've got three objectives.

1) Save the image above so you can upload it on your own blog without direct linking.

2) List 5 things you absolutely love to do

3) List 5 friendly bloggers, and comment on their blogs to let them know they've received an award!

Thus, I begin:

1. I love to hang out with my husband. This goes without saying, I hope, but it's so true. This is a guy that "gets" me, gets the jokes, makes the jokes, goes along with the jokes, and is absofreakingHILARIOUS when he doesn't get the jokes. I'm all like running around laughing hysterically and he either (a) gets a sweet look on his face like "Aww, look at my child bride outperforming her ritalin" or (b) gets mad and goes internal because he doesn't like to be laughed at. I'd say the reaction pool is split 50/50. We travel, we chill out, we fall asleep in the middle of the afternoon, we text each other while both in the house, and so on. We also enjoy much more meaningful and serious things, but those are the bloggish things.

2. I love to have people over, especially my family (meaning, my biological family, his biological family, people I've known so long they seem like family). For one thing, I don't feel bad about greeting my brother at the door and saying "Hey! Come help me move this big heavy thing!" We grew up as a team, all working together and knowing who has what job and how to be efficient and stuff, and whenever some of my original family comes over, it's like getting back on the court or something. I am slowly assimilating Joe's brothers into my team...

3. I love to make music, in pretty much any fashion. This used to be the defining "thing" about me. Now it's still very important, but I'll be honest (and sad) and admit that less musicness goes on now than used to. I'm getting back into the swing, though.

4. I love to travel. 'Nuff said.

5. I love to make stuff. Unfortunately for me and the closet in the spare room, this love is not accompanied by a love of finishing projects that I start. Draw your own conclusions, but you can imagine, I guess. Quilling, sewing, stamping, knitting, drawing, origami, stitching, papercutting, sculpting, painting, jewelry making, and scrapbooking have all at one point or another been "the thing." I go back to all of the above from time to time, but the clutter police would "poop rainbows" (must whisper, because the guy I like to hang out with hates phrases like that) if they saw that closet.

Ok, and now my bloggers, in no particular order:

1. Sheila - Yet another one of those fun people who are with it enough to post photos and step-by-steps of food making projects. I don't know how you do it, people. I just don't. Also, Sheila is the faithful friend to whom I can go running and say, "Help! I have a bachelor's degree in English, but I don't remember how to spell weird! How do you spell it? And Which is the "its" I want to use, is it "its" or "it's"? Aaaack!" And Sheila will tell me the answer.

2. Conquistadora - Newly minted military wife and B-R-A-V-E soul, poor Coriel seems to get the short end of every stick they've served up since she joined the club. I think this is the "rough patch" at the beginning, when you're still trying to change your name and your address and everything else the government wants to meddle with. I like to read her blog, because she describes things so, well, right. And I've been there, for some of these things...

3. Meredith almost makes me feel, well, backward in a way, because she's do darn SMART. She speaks like about five languages and translates freely between/among them all the time. Also, she understands all that crap that I was supposed to have learned in college about poetry and poetics. Sigh. Reading her blog makes me happy, because I can just hear her voice saying the stuff, especially reading the poetry. I wish all these people weren't in California...

4. Seraphic is not a "friend" in the I've-met-her-before-and-we-be-chillin' kind of way, but her blogs are really fun. The original is mostly informative, based I think out of her book and its following. The blog about her married life is (typically) quite funny. I do just giggle out loud at it sometimes, eh wot?

5. Finally, I'm cheating on the last one, and giving love to my past at the old Quid Hoc Est? This was the blog my two roommates and I, and Joe and his two roommates (yes, all six of us) started during our first semester at college. We've gone many ways since this blog (two of us are now married to another two of us, too) but I like going back to the earliest of earlies and reading from time to time. They are the dearest of friends, are memories.

:)

The Briefest Possible Outline of My Day

Wake; drink juice; check news; retrieve now awake child; put cat food back on floor for starving pet; change child; shower; dress; change child again; load car; forget books; go back for books; awful base traffic; Morning Colors; awful base traffic; promotion ceremony; DEERS; feed baby; rain; lawn & garden center; "How can you not have hammers in a tool department?"; main exchange; realize forgot cookies; missed phone call; feed baby; rush from main exchange; terrible base traffic; stuck behind a 7-ton; Combat Engineers School Officer's Course Graduation Ceremony; rain; lunch; feed baby; education center; back to house; rain; change baby; change baby again immediately; start laundry; return phone calls; teach 1 lesson; baby bust gums on coffee table; cancel second lesson; blood; crying; less blood; change baby; feed baby; leave soundly sleeping baby in his bed; frog in house; out of trash bags; reschedule lesson; wait for dishwasher to finish.

And yes, writing a blog post just seemed like the thing to do at this juncture. Thank you very much.

I'm on a roll!

Three days in a row with a post! Don't get used to it. I got approved for financial aid for my master's program, so that will hopefully be starting in the fall or late summer, and I added three new students last week. However, comma, I am re-quitting Facebook at the end of the month, so maybe that will keep me on here a little more. Whatev.

I'm posting this morning because I figured it would be good to go over, again, why exactly it is that I (a female, married, straight mother) have a masculine online entity name thing. It helps a little to note that when I created my id ye long time ago, most of the people that I hung around were complete and total music nerds of the first order--the clientele has changed in the last couple years, though, and I find that fewer and fewer of my friends will catch allusions made to Beethoven's one opera. So, if you "got it" the first time and don't need to know, then pray read no further. If you didn't "get it," well here you go:

Fidelio

Composer: Ludwig van Beethoven

ACT I. Spain, eighteenth century. In a prison, Marzelline, daughter of the jailer, Rocco, rejects the attentions of her father's assistant, Jacquino, who hopes to marry her. Her heart is set instead on the new errand boy, Fidelio. The latter, a hardworking lad, arrives with provisions and dispatches and is distressed by Marzelline's interest in him, especially since it has the blessing of Rocco. Fidelio is in fact Leonore, a noblewoman of Seville who has come to the jail disguised as a boy to find her husband, Florestan, a political prisoner languishing somewhere in chains. When Rocco mentions a man lying near death in the vaults below, Leonore, suspecting it might be Florestan, begs Rocco to ; ha take her on his rounds. He agrees, though the governor of the prison, Don Pizarro, allows only Rocco in the lower levels of the dungeon.

As soldiers assemble in the courtyard, Pizarro learns from the dispatches brought to him that Don Fernando, minister of state, is on his way to inspect the fortress. At this news the governor resolves to kill Florestan, his enemy, without delay and orders Rocco to dig a grave for the victim in the dungeon. Leonore, overhearing his plan, realizes Pizarro's evil nature and the plight of his victim. After praying for strength to save her husband and keep up hope, she again begs Rocco to let her accompany him to the condemned man's cell - and also to allow the other prisoners a few moments of air in the courtyard. The gasping men relish their glimpse of freedom but are ordered back by Pizarro, who hurries Rocco off to dig Florestan's grave. With apprehension, Leonore follows him into the dungeon.

ACT II. In one of the lowest cells of the prison, Florestan dreams he sees Leonore arrive to free him. But his vision turns to despair, and he sinks down exhausted. Rocco and Leonore arrive and begin digging the grave. Florestan awakens, not recognizing his wife, and Leonore almost loses her composure at the familiar sound of his voice. Florestan moves the jailer to offer him a drink, and Leonore gives him a bit of bread, urging him not to lose faith. Rocco then blows on his whistle to signal Pizarro that all is ready. The governor advances with dagger drawn to strike, but Leonore stops him with a pistol. At this moment a trumpet sounds from the battlements: Don Fernando has arrived. Rocco leads Pizarro out to meet him as Leonore and Florestan rejoice in each other's arms.

In the prison courtyard, Don Fernando proclaims justice for all. He is amazed when Rocco brings his friend Florestan before him and relates the details of Leonore's heroism. Pizarro is arrested, and Leonore herself removes Florestan's chains. The other prisoners too are freed, and the crowd hails Leonore. (taken wholesale and without permission from the Met)

Recycled

Not only do I steal other people's ideas, I steal the ideas of even other people from some third party's blog. Thus, I present: a book review from a failed blog that I'm euthanizing today.

Basic Montessori: Learning Activities for Under-Fives

David Gettman
1987, St. Martin's Press

Essentially, the book is everything that the average seller summary claims: a summary of the Montessori Method in it's most basic and easy-to-understand form. I've always liked Montessori, since her philosophy about life is compatible with my own. She was Roman Catholic, and few of the bizarre ideas which modern philosophy and psychology have brought to the educational table are found in her work. Besides all that, it works. I know Montessori kids.

Gettman takes his own personal experience and study with the method and creates a two part book. The beginning is simply an overview of Montessori theory itself. He details the life and studies Maria Montessori completed, and takes her findings as the basis for a "worldview" on early childhood education. Everything about Montessori is, essentially, about holistic something--learning, teaching, thinking, developing--and Gettman is a sincere and devoted subscriber to those ideals and theories.

The second half of the book is divided among the five Montessori learning modules, with each section containing a good sampling of traditional Montessori "work", along with Gettman's very helpful instructions on how to carry out each learning project. I appreciated, more than anything else, his enthusiasm about the method. One often encounters Montessori teachers who are extremely stuffy about the method, and who would never dream of suggesting that anyone but a fully qualified instructor should even attempt to impart Montessori lessons to a child. Gettman has no such delusions of grandeur, but rather strives to convey to the reader that they, too, can give their child or children a valuable exposure to Maria Montessori's carefully-crafted educational system. Speaking from the homeschooling "dark ages" of the 1980s, to hear his voice telling parents to take the reins into their own hands is a surprising thing.

Best part: detailed instructions on creating Montessori materials, environment, and on how to carry out a wide variety of the "classic" Montessori activities

My take away: Helping a child develop is a full-time job, but not one that requires your mouth to be moving or your hands to be interfering. The time that a child spends simply imitating your initial, careful, precise behavior is the time you don't realize he's benefiting from.

Funny thought: Reading this book and seeing how a poor demonstration of technique leads to bad technique in a child, it's no wonder that today's children are unable to properly use the English language. The only time they [might] hear it spoken with precision is in the classroom, meanwhile they've already spend four or five years of their life immersed in an environment of dropped consonants and twangy vowels.

In Real Time

I took this photo, literally, a minute ago. The webcam is an awesome and powerful entity. My child is part Mynock (google it, people--it's a Star Wars thing) and so the kitchen benches are now playing defense for the University of Keep the Baby Out of the Power Cords. I'm behind the line and he wants to come over here. I do not comply with the repeated grunts of request, and so he stays mad at me. However, since the strong association of Gramma comes with the sight of the webcam, I got a huge smile from him when I pulled it out, even though the standard face from beyond the defensive line is, well, "pissed," to use a local expression.

Forgot to mention yesterday that I "discovered" (Thank you, Michael!! I love you, man!) Grooveshark on Friday. Oooooooh lah . I love it. You should discover it, too.

Duty

Again. So, no spouse at home means an extra day all to myself. Yuk.

We went to the airshow yesterday, all of us with my dad and my brother. It was pretty good fun, despite my brining home a souvenier pair of very sunburnt calves and us walking nearly three [needless] miles to find the car because I took us into the wrong parking lot. The shows were good, my little boy was very brave and didn't mind any of the loudest noises, though the effect of prop-driven aircraft doing performance maneuvers was not his cup of tea. Very hot, very sunny, very much the stuff of my memories growing up. :) During the Blue Angels show, part of the announcer's bit is detailing what aircraft the team has flown over the years--this is their 24th season flying the F-18, which is the longest they've flown any single aircraft since they began in the 1940s.

My dad turned to me and said, "Wow! Jen, we took you to one of the first shows during their first season flying the F-18. It was such a big deal!" Terriffic. I'm like, about 85 in airplane years.

Also this weekend, I'm broadcasting from my "home base" once again. Dad brought his bag of tricks and nuked the hard drive on the desktop ("my" computer), brought it back to life, and has it all functioning again. It's nice to have my electronic space back, though I won't keep it for much longer, I don't think. Despite being new and clean, I think I want something smaller, with fewer cords for my baby to go after.

Child is awake. Goodbye.

Listening to Musak

Have I whined on here about how all I ever do is wait for stuff? ALL I ever do is wait for stuff. (Right now, for example, I'm waiting for a student to come.)

Waiting for financial aid to call me back, waiting for it to be a mealtime so I can eat (sooo darn hungry, all the time), waiting for it to be tomorrow so my spouse will be here, waiting for after 1700 so I can call my dad and see if he's coming this weekend, waiting until I feel like it so I can start practicing Mass music, waiting to register for class, waiting for the baby to talk, waiting for a payraise, waiting for the water to boil, waiting for this duty station to be over, waiting for the deployment to begin, waiting for the deployment to end. And so on. (Obviously my priorities are not in order. Never mind that.) It's like I'm on hold or something. Listening to elevator music, which isn't particularly good but it's better than nothing at all.

I'd like to be doing something, other than sitting at the computer and trying to see through the [very stubborn] cat's [opaque] body. I'd like to be doing many things, but I don't feel like doing any of them. The only stuff I'm motivated to do, I can't do yet because I have to wait. Something tells me that this is my problem, and not the space-time continuum's problem. But there you have it.

I'm waiting for the school year to end so I can add these four new students and shift the afternoon schedule earlier in the day so I don't have to be teaching at 5pm. I'm waiting for a Netflix movie. I'm waiting for tomorrow's mail to see if my gift card is in it. I'm waiting till I save up my own money to buy a notebook because I swore the only way I'd do it (because I really don't need it) was if I saved my own monies and didn't use "the family" monies.

Dude. I got issues, and having the cat's behind in my face while typing is definitely not the most significant of the bunch...it's just the one that's getting me off here at the moment. If she wasn't so cute, I'd yell and she'd leave for good, but a purring and happy little kitten who wants to give you head butts and loveys is a hard animal to yell at.

Rollin', Rollin', Rollin'

Well, he learned to crawl on Friday night, with Uncle B and Aunt M's help. They were both (posh, sophisticated NYCers that they are) down on their hands and knees bribing him with a DVD and elaborately demonstrating proper crawl technique.

It worked. Nothing in my house is safe, including me.

We've reached that interesting stage, too, where my baby is old enough that people are now giving me advice not just on how to care for him (much wanted and needed) but also how to raise him (also possibly needed but not wanted quite so much). My poor grandmothers, bless the dears, would be appalled at some of the hippie methods I have adopted in the raising department--so I don't spend a lot of time telling them that the baby sleeps in my bed. As does the cat, sometimes. And I let my baby "walk" if he wants to, even though they say it will give him bowed legs. Oh well.

Aside from the wee babby, not much going on this week. I was supposed to go up to VA and be present as someone's Confirmation sponsor, but I've been unable for a week to shake this really unpleasant and foreboding feeling about making the trip. This is unlike me. It isn't really that far, there are all these reasons to go, etc etc etc. But I don't feel peaceful about it. The family told me under no circumstances to feel obligated to make the trip if I was uncomfortable. I think I've decided pretty much not to go, but I have until tomorrow lunch to make a final decision. Never been so wishy-washy about things like this before. Heck, I traveled 18,000 miles last summer.

Still, never disobey the icky stomach feeling. It could save your life.

First Friday

Hmm. Lots of things going on this week and last week. Besides poor Snug, I had Joseph down with strep throat, and V down with extreme post-vaccination crankiness. This week, my mom and sister had a very close call with a kitchen fire, so there's been all the long-distance participation in the aftermath of that. Cleaning of curtains, cleaning of dishes, solemn burial of stove and coffeepot, and of course much email of pictures so I can really get the full experience. They've been pretty brave about it all...not fun to come upstairs and find that, rather than minding its own business, the handle of the teakettle decided to melt itself into a stupor, touch the burner, and go all roman candle on everybody.
This week, less of interest. The piano student scene underwent some dramatic shiftage, which ended me with an almost identical schedule but two students PCSed and two new ones on the roster. Interesting. I double booked two of them, though, for next week so I have to make a phone call. Which I am putting off. I am not a good businesswoman.

Also this week, the "sinful side" of my baby, which Fr. Logan assured me at Easter would come out much sooner than I expected, is showing itself. Mr. Baby now knows that he can resist things being taken away, that he can cry or scream if I give him something he doesn't want (as an exchange for the dangerous/dirty/otherwise inappropriate item I took away), he can throw things, and that he generally can have an influence on his surrounding. It does not bode well for the coming 16 years or so. I'm already worn out and I opened the last can of Patience this morning.

But then, occasionally, he sleeps.

Mr. Snug

(Why yes, now that you've asked, my last post does read rather harsh and callous now. But hindsight is always 20/20.)

It turns out that poor Mr. Snug was not ill from drinking toilet water. We don't know what really was wrong. But whatever it was, it was so wrong that he did not come home with me from the vet's this morning. Monday he was strange, yesterday he was downright ill. He was a suffering, dying cat this morning when I took him in. His body temperature was so low that the thermometer wouldn't give a reading--given the option to spend much time and money running tests, I chose to agree with nature that, in fact, Snug was all done being a kitty. Not a difficult decision, which surprised me. I just decided, and was at peace. Still, it's not nice to come home and realize he's not going to be sleeping in the tub any more, or eating my plants, or making water spots on the couch from licking it.

I miss my buddy.

Shocked

I had no idea that two days could make me so tired. Just two days! Haven't been this tired since the weekend that I spent in labor.

This won't be a particularly nice post, or a cohesive post, or really anything worth existing at all. But I can't go to bed until the dryer finishes, and there's nothing really interesting happening on the internet right now. Well, ok. That isn't a true statement, probably, but nothing interesting is happening on the bits of internet I keep refreshing. (This perhaps, is something akin to reading just the 1st and 28th pages of David Copperfield and expecting the love scene to just APPEAR on them if you read long enough. But oh well.) SO I'm waiting on the dryer, Joe and V are sleeping.

We had three of the nephew/niece crowd come down for the weekend. It was a blast. We saw the Silent Drill Platoon perform, went out for pizza, Joe took them to fireworks, I stayed up for an hour with one last night while he was "sick" in the bathroom, I stayed up for another two hours waiting for either (a) the first one to decide he was so sick he wanted to be returned to his parents, who are three hours away, or (b) a second one got sick. Neither happened. In fact, he felt so much better that he had two bowls of cereal and a glass of milk for breakfast today. Nothin' wrong with that boy. We also went to Mass, went to the beach, played Scrabble and Cranium, and had pizza again.

Maybe it's the not sleeping between 0230 and 0545 this morning. Maybe it's that Friday night was spent frantically running through a horrible dream in which I lost my baby in a shopping mall. Maybe it's that God designed us to gradually build our families up from one to four. Maybe it's that the week included all of my piano students on schedule for the first time in a month. Maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's the return of last spring's demonic allergy thing where I have a wheezy throat and unstoppable cough. I don't know.

But I've never been so tired in my life.

I take them back to their parental units tomorrow morning. Throwing up notwithstanding, it really was a lot of fun! (Oh, and the cat threw up because he'd been drinking out of the toilet, and I'm like feeding the baby and the rest of everyone is all out there going "Jen! Jen! Aunt Jen! Jennifer!" and so I come out in the hall and all three kids--and Joe--are standing over this teeny little cat barf like it's a dead animal. So I say, "Oh, it's fine. I'll get it. Relax. Move on, citizens!" and most of them do. But my niece is standing halfway in the bedroom doorway, a little in the shadow, like someone should keep vigil with the body or something. Sigh. I'm thinking, Ok. It's a puddle of cat spit that, yes, is a remarkable yellow color but I'm pretty sure I told everyone you needed to be putting the seat down every time, and flushing, and there's also a piece of grass in the puddle. He's a cat. He barfs all the time, and he eats grass like it's his job. Maybe this will teach him to drink from the commode. Go to bed.)

Five more minutes on the dryer.

TwoFootOnion

Interestingly enough, the worst part of New York City was the condition of the roads. Then again, they probably weren't designed for you to be going more that 5-6mph on them. On Sunday mornings when the traffic isn't awake yet, though, one gets up to 35. Then slows abruptly because the roads are so bad. Oh well.

I left with a little milk-drinking baby, and came home with one that wants to eat everything he can get his hands on. The grandmas are telling me "don't add too many new foods at once!" Perhaps I did, but then he developed such a strong preference for sweet potato, that I kinda laid off everything else. So hopefully there's no irreperable damage to my small childing. This makes his nutritive development simultaneously more and less simple. On the plus side, others can feed him. On the negative side, he can (and does) decide not to eat. I'm also discovering the monster I've created in letting him nurse to sleep. Oops. Oh well. It makes me happy, and the first one's always a trial run anyhow, right?

Also, when I went back to the commissary yesterday to retrieve the bag that the bagger had failed to put in my cart, I did not realize that the other thing she had left out was the expensive baby juice--a purchase which I felt was ill-advised and silly, but had made anyhow because I thought "just once" wouldn't hurt. This makes me, for some reason, SOOOOOOO ANGRY that I can't stand it. I'm really, really upset. I was less upset over the milk, butter, cream cheese, sausage, and cinnamon rolls. But it was a whole day ago, and I can't really go back now.

Return to the Dark Side

Yes, I got back on Facebook. (1) To check up on babies and marryings. (2) Because my husband kept yelling at me for using his account to stalk people. If I "unfriended" you at my return (which I did to over 200 friends) please don't be hurt. I was trying to take off people that I don't ever, ever, ever talk to you. If you were purged, just refriend me. I won't ignore you. I promise. I probably didn't mean to unfriend you in the firse place. Please forgive me!!!

Ahem.

Happy Easter and such. I've got family visiting this week, then we're off on a Griswold journey to NYC (ugh) and other points north the following week. After I get back, hopefully I'll have a few moments to detail the finer points of liturgical minor-disaster that befell the poor chaplains this weekend. Like I always say, never leave the choir unattended.

Guns 'n' Roses

So, it's been getting a little busier around here lately, with the advent of piano students. I built it, they came, and now there's four little munchkins in and out of the house every week. Two of them I like a whole lot, and the other two are going to be a challenge. It's tough to be seven and eight years old, and it's tough to concentrate on anything after a long day at school, and it is really tough to not be bored by your piano teacher when your brother is sitting on the couch across the room playing with your Nintendo DS.

Oh, and their favorite band is Red Hot Chili Peppers. It's going to be a great ride.

God's Call

My mom wrote the following for a talk she's giving to the Ladies' Group at home. I liked it, and wanted to share. (Some bits are taken out that mention some people by their full name.)

-----

Good morning. Thank you for the opportunity to speak about my experiences as the mother of a seminarian. Sharing this experience with you is a honor that I accept humbly.

When Michael was considering his decision to discern God's call at seminary, I was given a First Class Relic of St. John Vianney, the patron of parish priests. I have brought the relic with me today. I pray that St. John Vianney will lead my words, and through them, bless all the seminarians and priests of our diocese.

Michael has always shown an interest in the priesthood, - always attentive to serving Our Lord and the Church. Never did he miss an opportunity to serve on the altar. From his childhood, Michael's heart was set on becoming a military pilot and then a military chaplain; his world and his education evolved around that goal. Hence, I worked to help him achieve his goal.

Upon high school graduation Michael received a full Naval ROTC scholarship to Auburn University; was selected as an alternate candidate to the United States Coast Guard Academy; and he received an appointment to the United States Naval Academy. It all seemed too much to hope for, for me especially. I had homeschooled Michael for 12 years and to receive such honors was an incredible achievement.

Days before the Naval Academy appointment letter had to be accepted, Michael grew more and more anxious about his decision. We were on the phone a great deal with the Chaplain at the Academy. Archbishop Edwin O'Brien, who we know through the Military archdiocese, even called Michael personally to help ease his mind. Finally after a few emotional discussions with me, my husband was in Iraq at the time, Michael decided to request a meeting with our local Bishop. He came out of their meeting at peace. He had decided to act on God's invitation first. However, declining the appointment was one of the hardest things either of us had ever done. It has meant sacrifices for Michael, as well as for our family. Yet, we willingly accept them and support Michael's decision. I knew that God was calling him to serve, I did not expect that path to be at college seminary.

Now, he is in his 3rd out of 8 years of education and formation, yet already our family is a part of the Catholic community in a new way. We are having to learn to be patient and learn to let go in a new way, different from seeing a son go to regular college, yet it is a joy to see Michael in action serving God. - It is a humbling feeling to iron your son's clerical collars and cassocks. Getting those collars white after he has been wearing them for half a semester can be tricky! He is still the same Michael, yet there is something different about him. In a sense, it is like he is in a long engagement to a distant bride. We know God has plans for him.

Besides a full class schedule, Michael plays soccer, football, and basketball; has been class president; performed a leading role in Twelve Angry Men; cantors; and is sacristan for the college division. He has worked in a Day School for the mentally challenged, and currently teaches Religion to 1st and 7th graders in a Philadelphia Diocesan school. He has taken more than the required number of courses, excelled, and was recently inducted into the National Honor Society.

I am proud of him and hope that he will endeavor towards ordination. Every day I ask myself: "why me? How could I possibly deserve this grace?" That fact is that: I don't. Yet, Our Lord in His perfection has been merciful and blessed me and my family beyond any accolades the world can grant. He has given me the opportunity to say: "This part of me is truly for You. I give him to you knowing you will give him back to me a hundred-fold."

The priesthood truly is a man's total giving of himself to God's service. Michael has chosen to pursue this path and our family is humbled by his selfless commitment. We all feel a great sense of anticipation in being able to see Michael prostrate before the bishop and accept his call to the priesthood.

Odds and Ends

You've heard about the controversy surrounding the Mother Theresa stamp--and the virulent anti-Catholic hatred that's been swirled up into public eye once again. There's a petition to sign at CatholicVoteAction.

Lead Me Lord, Lead Me Lord, La la Llaa Laaaa Laaaaaaaa...

So, just got back from Confirmation. (Supposed to be changing clothes as we speak, so we can leave and attend a party for one of the confirmandi, but leave that aside for a few moments.)

Ahem.

"Praise" music is, to be blunt, not created equal. There is, in fact, a distinct hierarchy within the realm, which runs as follows:

1. Most Crappy

2. Less Crappy

3. Least Crappy

4. Genuinely Good Music

A song need not be in Latin, or be 1000 years old, or have been composed by a monk in order to be beautiful, sacred, or orthodox. However, the percentages of modern music which fall under the above categories are, well, not encouraging. Roughly 80% of music composed for Catholic liturgical use within the last 40 years is Category 1 music. Another 17% is Category 2. Draw your own conclusions.

Granted, as our wise friend Father L said just the other day, "there was abuse before 1960. What you heard in Mass was indistinguishable from what you heard at the opera, except that no operas were being sung in Latin. All we've done, in many cases, is trade old kitsch for new kitsch." I don't point fingers. I put them in my ears.

How can people who are clearly trained musicians stand to even sing some of this stuff? It really, genuinely, isn't any good. They wouldn't play a 17th century piano ballade if it weren't any good, would they? I mean, we've all heard of Chopin, but who was Frederick Albinez? My point exactly.

Just ranting. I'm in a hurry, my ears are still ringing, and the baby is crying. Must change clothes. Keep opinion to oneself. Hope that the choir member who introduced herself to me this morning doesn't make good on her offer (threat?) to come sing at the Latin Mass.

Happiness

The piano tuner is here! Such a happy event. I'm not sure if the man (he's so sweet, and so old, and so awesome) remembers us from the first time he tuned this piano. We'll see how the morning progresses. If he doesn't remember on his own, Joe will probably converse him into a recollection. Besides, we pride ourselves on having a very memorable piano.

Lace, dimnity, and Unbounded Domesticity

If cats' accidents are TMI for you, then read no more.

You've been warned.

Got home late Sunday night, after a grand and glorious tour of the mid-Atlantic and Pennsylvania heartlands. Good times, nice visits, etc etc etc. Here at home, I've been struggling (and suceeding) to stay off the computer and accomplish things. So far so good, with the downstairs of the house almost completely conquered and the attic well on its way. As a matter of fact, I was so enegerized that I decided to open up the baby's closet and clear out all my stuff that doesn't belong in there.

Working, progressing, working, progressing, until the little cat jumps on the desk and knocks over the little Christmas candle decoration that I'd set up there. *Crash* [say the cymbal] and there's little bits of glass on my desk and in the floor 'round about. So, I think, "Hey, let's go ahead and strip the bed/shake out the comforter and just vacuum the whole room. It needs it." So I get my shoes, the vacuum, and come back to tackle this worthwhile project. Unfortunately, while stripping the bed down I came upon a progressively more distinct odor of kitty, um, well, "pee pee." Yuk. When I got through the brown/green sheets to the white matress pad, the distinct color of kitty, um, well, "pee pee" was also unmistakable.

Yuk.

My memory wafted back to Monday morning, when my catsitter told me about "finding the little cat locked in the baby's room! Wonder how long she'd been in there? Silly thing." [Be it known: I am not angry at the cat. I knew before I left that she has the ability/habit of locking herself in rooms by accident, and I didn't make sure that the door was propped open. It's my fault. She was considerate, too, in not going in the crib or on the carpet, both of which would have been much more permanent problems to have to deal with. And more expensive.]

So, into the washer with bleach goes the [stinky] mattress pad. Into the garbage goes the unsalvageable [stinky] foam mattress-make-feel-nicer thingy. Out comes the adjustable wrench, and into the garage goes the ruined-but-already-falling-apart box [stinky] spring/mattress itself, and into the shed go the rails, headboard, and footboard. I've been wanting to rid myself of the wretched bed anyhow (didn't go together properly due to long use and mis-sized bolts) and this was my chance.

Out came the vacuum, into it went the glass, the dust, the fur, the paper shreddings, and the dirt. Onto the computer goes I, to take a break. Now the sheets and comforter are calling my name, but I don't have any color safe bleach yet. Curtain.

Choreographed Mayhem

So, day three at Family North headquarters. Lots of people in the house, lots of noise being made by the people in the house. Dog, three babies, brothers, silly string, dinner. It's been intense, so intense that the baby had to be taken out of the house for a ride in the car in order for him to get to sleep. Waaaay too overstimulated otherwise.

File Under "Other"

Found this great video linked on Meredith's blog. The next generation of filmmaking at Christendom (no offense to the Handycams and Cybershots of my class and before) is just, well, amazing. And funny. :) Too bad the billions aren't in hand to make full-length features.

Also, we've reached new lows in the world of sports. As a cranky mommy who doesn't even want her kid to play football until he's fifteen or sixteen, this is just silly.

Bought a book from The Strand today, in honor of big brother. Hope it comes on time.

Finally, don't get creeped out by all this. Only 16 hours (give or take a day, darn embark schedule) before my spouse is supposed to be free to come home. So I'm killing time. Really killing it. It's infuriating for him to be that close and yet still not close enough.

Brave Chicas Club: The Rules

So, another insane young woman who has decided to tether her horse to the military wagon called me yesterday. Not only does she love and cherish her spouse, she's willing to move cross-country with him while eight months pregnant. She wants to know "did I like the doctor that delivered my baby?" I did. The photo is not related to that fact. (Partially because the doctor pictured is, in fact, a dentist. A dentist did not deliver my baby.)

The photo goes with the insane young woman who emailed me last week. She wants to know "if I have any advice for getting married right after graduation and going straight into the Marines?"

So, this is for her. I present: The Rules

#1: Always have a sense of humor. See photo.

#2: Never fall in love with the plan.

#3: When you have fallen in love with the plan after all, retain a sense of humor when it screws you over.

#4: Assume your husband forgot it, didn't know about it, or failed to make a copy of it.

#5: Don't buy any furniture that you can't move alone (even while pregnant).

#6: Oh heck, don't buy any furniture at all.

#7: Make many accquaintances within the unit--if they don't become your BFsF, that's fine.

#8: Thank God for the random person with whom you did happen to become good friends.

#9: Learn everything you can about your husband's job (even if this is very little because he's doing Secret Squirrel Stuff).

#10: Learn how the military system works on your own (i.e. without spousal aid), including the acronyms, the bureacracy, the benefits, the drawbacks, the free stuff, the complementary programs, and how to correctly spell bureaucracy.

Stay tuned for details on each rule. And more dentist photos, if I can find them.

Apropos, perhaps.

The final paragraph of my Christmas present and new favorite book:

"Americans are proficient at war the same way they are proficient at work. It is a task, sometimes a duty. Americans have worked at war since the seventeenth centuery, to protect themselves from the Indians, to win their independence from George III, to make themselves one country, to win the whole of their continent, to extinguish autocracy and dictatorship in the world outside. It is not their favoured form of work. Left to themselves, Americans build, cultivate, bridge, dam, canalise, invent, teach, manufacture, think, write, lock themselves in struggle with the eternal challenges that man has chosen to control, and with an intensity not known elsewhere on the globe. Bidden to make war their work, Americans shoulder the burden with intimidating purpose. There is, I have said, an American mystery, the nature of which I only begin to perceive. If I were obliged to define it, I would say it is the ethos--masculine, pervasive, unrelenting--of work as an end in itself. War is a form of work, and American makes war, however reluctantly, however unwillingly, in a particularly workmanlike way. I do not love war; but I love America."

--John Keegan, Fields of Battle

Deeply Saddened

Perhaps it's no excuse, but "real life" got in my way this past month (that is, husbands coming and going, babies growing and changing, moving, traveling, cancer in the family, etc etc etc) and I freely admit that I didn't really vet Scott Brown for my own personal information. I knew he was campaigning against a woman Democrat, a woman Democrat who has readily and easily behaved as instructed by the political powers-that-be in her party, and that Scott Brown was campaigning strongly against the health industry takeover being orchestrated by the Democrat-controlled Congress.

I did not know, point blank, that he was not pro-life.

I did not know until after the election was over, and I now feel like I was cheated by the man. At the very least, the mainstream coverage of him was not so complete as to mention his stance on abortion. The wiser among you would rightly respond, "He's a Massachussets Republican. What do you expect?" One does not make headway in the bluest of blue states by touting conservative social opinions. I should have known. Still, I feel cheated. Here was a "good man" who was setting an example of clean living and honest campaigning--he defeated the bad guys and stood in the way of millions of babies being killed on the American taxpayers' dime.

He just doesn't stand enough in the way. He's standing alongside the train tracks, throwing rocks at the train wreck that is our social amorality run amok. He ought to be standing on the tracks, letting the machine know that more innocent children will be slaughtered in this country over his dead body. That's where we all ought to be. Last week, several hundred thousand of you were out there on the tracks, marching down the National Mall. Kudos, but you can't write laws, and you can't change the ones that are written. Bigger men must collaborate to change the status quo in the country. Why do all of our big men have small hearts?

But back to Brown. Was a vistory won? Or are we teaching American politicians that "good enough" is, well, good enough? It isn't. Thinking abortion shouldn't be paid for with tax dollars is NOT good enough. (They already are paid for, by all kinds of back-alley government social projects, but let's not go there right now.) My own baby means everything to me--I made Joseph promise when we went to the hospital that if it came down to me or baby, well, the answer was "baby." When I look at my baby, when I see his face twist in fear at a bad dream or hear his anguished cry at finding himself alone, I cannot feel in my heart that any politician in office who supports abortion is a politician who shouldn't be there. No pro-abortion "victory" is ever a victory. Babies are dying. Abortion is frightening to them--they are terrified, aware of what is happening, and they are terrified. Such a horrible thought...my little baby's cry at a bad dream (a cry which usually dissolves into hysterical laughter, thank goodness--I have a versatile little dreamer) breaks my heart. How can knowing that hundreds of thousands of babies' cries go not only unheeded, but are actively caused by the decisions of their mothers and the behavior of their doctors, not break my heart as well?

It does break my heart. But it doesn't help me answer in my own soul what to do in cases like that in Massachussets last month. Was stopping healthcare takeover worth it? I understand fully the prinicple of double effect, and the discussions like Judie's at ALL are not opaque to me. But I'm still uneasy. I probably would have voted for him, because I truly feel that the prevention of large-scale evil is a good thing. And I certainly did not will the evil of his pro-abortion opinion. But would it have been right?

Sigh. What a sick world. I want to enjoy my life, my child, and my country in peace. No such luck.

Hame agin.

Only one cat had a bathroom episode on this trip--appropriately enough, just as we got in the door of the house. So we cleaned the cat, the carrier, and the kitchen floor.

More later. Sigh.

Not Your Nana's Sales Representative

Once upon a time, those persons who are paid to help you spend money you don't have were trained about how to do their job well. This training included, but was not limited to, teaching young persons how to arrange sellable items in appetizing fashions. Falling until "not limited to" were things like personal appearance, attitude, customer interaction, and ability to do subtraction without a computer.

The last went the way of the dinosaur about the time Cortez discovered Disneyland, but the other items in the list lasted until more recently. I thought. After all, I learned them when I worked in retail, and that wasn't too long ago. However. Comma.

After a fabulously enjoyable two days of shopping with my mom, I've decided that only grumpy, overly-made-up, poorly clothed, English-butchering chicks are hired by retail entities. No eye contact? No smile? No "Hello!"? No "What the fajita can I do for you?"? Nope. No nothing, in fact, but my being treated to the conversation above mentioned chick is having with her companion chick (sometimes a man-chick, which is a subject for another post) about hail, nails, altering surgeries, school grades, or whateverthehellelse she wants to talk about.

Sigh. My Nana would not approve.

*Cue Sarcastic Violins*

So, while completing my morning toilet, I was struck by a series of thoughts I wanted to post on the blog. They were good thoughts, and halfway through them would have been the bracketed indication: Cue Sarcastic Violins. Unfortunately, that bracket is all that still remains among my synapses. Can't remember a thing about the rest of my thoughts for the post. Oh well.




Cue sarcastic violins.

Wond'rous Strange

So, I decided to get off Facebook, effective the end of the month. No one that I've talked to, so far, has attempted to dissuade me from this resolution. I find this an interesting [tacit] commentary on Facebook itself--no one thinks it's so good for me that I ought to continue using it as a means of social networking. Having been pregnant at the time, I have no memory of how I voted during the Facebook debate last semester, but I think that (except for my continued effort to vote based on the debate presented and not necessarily my actual opinion) I think I would have been pretty down on it had the vote been offered me right now.

Of course, it doesn't necessarily have to be about Facebook itself. It's mostly about me, in fact. It seemed, honestly and truly, like I was in to Facebook because of a sense of personal fame that it gave me. There's a pride in seeing your status liked, or your photos viewed and commented upon, and I decided it wasn't for me. Besides, when you're sitting around on Facebook actively thinking, "You know, I'd really like to go do X project," but you never do it because you're sitting around on Facebook...well, it's time to quit.

If people want to email me, I'll email back. I'll return to the blog. Mary Beth has inspired me to only write something worth, well, writing. While I doubt I'm as capable of writing meaningful things as she, I know for a fact that I'll put more effort into it if it's on the blog. A status (or a tweet, or anything like it) just takes too little time. A blog post takes some thought. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. And if I'm narcissistic about the blog, well by golly, at least I'm being prideful about something I actually put effort toward.

Finally, the whole thing is funny because I do this as I begin a spring full of scheduled responsibilities (i.e. raising child, teaching piano, caring for husband, going on travels) and I just know deep in the heart of my self that the blog will fall by the wayside as it always has. But oh well. Facebook, farewell. And good riddance.

p.s. I will continue, dear listeners, to utterly fail in my proofreading of blog posts. They are always ended upon the occasion of (a) the phone ringing, (b) the doorbell ringing, (c) my husband returning, or (d) the baby crying. I never finish a post a couple minutes before disaster strikes, so that I may carefully check for errors before A-D happens. I always finish because A-D is happening. And who's going to proofread during all that?

Grumble Grumble

Well, we might not have 20+ inches of snow on the driveway like most of the Eastern US, but it's still nice and chilly outside. Not only is it chilly (upper 30s/low 40s), there's this massive body of water out in the back yard that keeps it respectably damp at all times. Feels very chilly.

I'm sick. As a consequence of this fact, we've been turning off the heat at night to help alleviate the dryness/sore throat part of my sickness. This works pretty well, since everyone but the big cat tends to share a bed at night, and we stay mostly toasty. Joe turns the heat on when he gets up for work, and it's all good. However, "nice and chilly" having arrived, this is a less-perfect solution all of a sudden. Additionally, on mornings like this when I have to get up early to go to Mass, I'm out in the rest of the house before it has warmed back up. Specifically, the office/nursery/guest room is FREEZING COLD AT ALL TIMES. I climbed (stupidly enough, in socks) onto the nice smooth changing table top this morning to open the vent even further, but I think the real culprit is these stupid windows. They don't seal well, methinks.

But this is where the action is, including my sewing machine at the moment, as I was working feverishly to finish the tree skirt last night before Joe got home with the tree we had picked in the afternoon. This mad dash for project completion, however, ended with a fizzle. Turns out, the tree stand substitute (or, if you like, "plastic bucket") we had intended to use will not work after all. That was the first problem. The second problem is that, after much phoning and driving, we learned that there was not a tree stand to be had for love or money in the whole metropolitan area. [Interesting digression: Ever thought about what exactly "love or money" means? Naughty, naughty.]

So, the tree is still all wrapped in her traveling garb, standing rather awkwardly in a bucket of water in the corner of the living room. She will be unfurled later this week, once we've made our already-scheduled trip to Wilmington and have obtained a tree stand. Why, you ask, did we even get the tree without making sure we had a stand that worked? Well, I answer, that just wouldn't be like us...

A New Woman

And now, Best Beloved, I begin my new life! In the new house at last, with my new desk, in possession of a new and pristine daily planner for the next year. I'm like Sally Forth or something, completely coordinatedly equipped to tackle everything life can throw at me.

We'll see how this works out...so far, so good. The last 48 hours have not been a total loss. In fact, I learned a new introit and made two kinds of cookies. I'm on a roll. This is, of course, aided by the freak sleeping cycle of my son, which is running in 5-6hour spurts for some unknown reason. These blissful days are numbered, I know, but while he's doing whateveritis that makes him so sleepy, I'll take what I can get.

In the meantime, Advent is flying by at a breakneck pace--much faster than any year previous. This is the time that usually drags on awfully for me, but not now. Oh no. Granted, Gaudete falls (frustratingly) right in the middle of Advent, almost, since Christmas itself falls so late in the week, but having that pink candle aglow on the kitchen table is still such a great sight. We're almost there.

Almost there.

New Life

They weren't kidding. When a baby actually arrives, post-utero, at the house, it does rock your world. You have a whole new life. One characterized by many tears, much leaking of fluids, and countless coos, smiles, and laughs. And we haven't even started talking about the baby yet.

Joseph was on the range all week, leave between 0230 and 0330 every morning, so not much happened other than surviving here around the house. Last week we were out every night doing things that just couldn't be put off, like going to Wilmington for Five Guysl The week before that, his mom and sister were here.

Blogging simply isn't a priority now. Of course, it never really was, and the eldest readers out there can vouch for the fact that I've always been hit-or-miss, at best. Now that the little man is here, I'm probably more miss than hit. And of course stupid Facebook takes its toll...

BFF

The piano tuner is here today. Who knew? A little WD-40 and a hair dryer, and viola! The whole action actually functions now. Oh, and we got more of the wax off because the tuner took the action further apart.

Of course, the poor instrument is still badly in need of physical therapy and other medical attention, but just hearing all 88 notes was a thrill this morning. At the very least, we'll easily get our investment back if we decide to sell.

Not much else going on...the other baby (the real one, the important one) is going to come on Saturday with professional assistance, if he doesn't come on his own before then. My mom has been heroically walking with me in the evenings/afternoons, but so far no go. As dear Mrs. H. says, "Mr. Gravity is our friend." We'll see what happens with that project over the next couple days. I'm carefully watched, like unto a bomb, but nothing interesting to report as yet. Ugh.

Poor small cat is suffering from the cold...the heat is just now coming on in the house (long story, don't ask) due to a miscommunication with maintenance, and she's just dying. Sixty degrees indoors just isn't cutting it for the little girl. Thankfully, she's got lots of people to heat leech on in the night.

Randomnimity

First of all, I've developed an awful habit which is rendering three hours of my day practically useless. I listen to the radio. Joe paid for the year's subscription and our AM (to put it plainly) is nonexistent, so I turn on the computer and stream Rush from noon to three. This is problematic because I get started listening to him and looking up or reading the articles and news items he references. And nothing happens except that I become informed on how wrecked our world is. No laundry, no packing, no chores. Too much trouble to move the computer every time I switch rooms.

Second, I honest to goodness have eaten junk food for most of today's broadcast. Banana and yogurt for breakfast, good, good....then it all goes to the dogs about 1315, when I found the half box of Milk Duds. And a coke. And some sun chips. Wow. Poor Baby is probably going to have a sugar attack, too, because I don't ever go through sweet junky stuff like that. Ick. Oh well. Maybe I'm more upset over this FEX than I thought. 12 days left...stupid Braggistan. Also, I ate cereal for dinner last night, because I wanted to. But it was healthy cereal, with lots of folic acid and fiber. (I'm a big fan of fiber these days. That and apples.)

Finally, the small cat likes to blog. She sits upon my tummy, ruining my spelling and kneading away at my neck and left shoulder. Life as a kitten (okay, an almost grown up kitten) must just be the schnizzle. So cozy, so relaxed. Except for having the pee-diddlies scared out of you by things like clocks, twist ties, and the completely inanimate carpet.

Wif Our Baby...

Okay, this is our baby, at least for the next two weeks. (Then the other one will be here and we'll have two high-maintenance items in the house.) After spending several known months in a NC garage, and several undocumented years being treated (quite obviously) as a piece of furniture and who knows what else, this Model R is now happily taking up the better part of our living room. Built around 1928 by the Premier Grand Piano Company of New York, she needs a LOT of work and care in order to be back in playing order. But hey, who are we to turn down a piano, right? Check out what $150 and some heavy lifting will get you:
Baby with her insides all out.

Cleaning the lid--GROSS buildup of pollen and dust on the entire box.

Vacuuming under the sound board, which is in miraculously good condition.

Wax inside the action of one of the bass octaves (yes, the whole octave worth).

Wax -0, Jennifer - 1. This is just what came from the box. I got another 1/2lb or so from inside the action, and can't reach the rest without dissasembling the hammer assembly (something I'm not about to try).

The action lying in state upon our dining room table.

OPSEC

Just thoughts today...

First, please don't be confused or feel left out if I fail to mention things about my life or schedule that you know are going on. I might have just forgotten, it might be a question of keeping myself secure by not mentioning (for example) when Mr. Bird might be away from the next. I might have just forgotten.

Also, many kudos to the famously-stuffy IOC for denying Chicago the 2016 Olympics. Hurrah! I mean, I'm sorry for the Chicagoans who have genuinely been excited by the prospect. I remember how it was the greatest thing to have the Olympics in my own back yard during 1996--good times, so many things to see! It was awesome, and I'm sorry for people between 7 and 18 who are now sad. But poo on the heads of the people that run Chicago, and go Europe for putting them back in their place. Such ego, such self-confidence and self-importance....wasted.

Epic fail. I love it.

Natum Videte!!

It's that time of year again.

Okay, fine. It's that time of year for 7.8 out of 12 months in my case, but still...I can't wait for Christmas! Part of the problem is that I'm sick to death of Halloween decorations in stores, and part of the problem is that a few places already have their red and green and fir-scented line out on the shelf. Most of the problem is that I'm always like this, with Christmas music playing whenever no one is around to hear it.

Does this ruin my enjoyment of the season? Don't be silly. In fact, I'm finally learning how to channel the Christmas Blues into something productive--I make Christmas gifts! This way, I feel like I'm actually getting something done and, at the same time, get to enjoy a Christmas -themed afternoon. Thus my table has been covered with red paper and x-acto blades for the past several days. There are little angels and fun latin phrases stuck all over the mushy ridges of my cerebral cortex...ahhhhhhh.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Waiting until the full moon

Well, let's hope not. The next two available full moons do not fall during optimal baby-having times. I'll wait for the new moon, though. That's acceptable.

So, had an interesting week. Spending 48 hours in the hospital does, as the wise man once said, actually destroy an entire week. I'm starting new this morning (slowly, obviously) at exactly the point I left off last Monday. Well, maybe a little ahead. Father came over and blessed the house yesterday, so that's progress at least.

Hospital staying is not something I recommend. For one thing, at least if you're me, it exacerbates whatever might or might not have been wrong with you in the first place. I went in to see if I had the flu (I didn't), and ended up staying for two days so that they could make sure I had neither suffered a heart attack or was going to throw an embolism. All this, basically, becaus my heart rate stayed above 135bpm long enough that they were able to justify an EKG, then ultrasounds of my legs and heart, then a CT scan, then chest x-rays. And so on. And so forth.

The poor doctor (whom I liked very much, btw, and whom I will hear no ill words against despite my belief that perhaps my trama was treatment-induced) wanted very badly to know what was wrong with me. He, in fact, spent a very long hour out of his busy day talking to me/Joe about my condition, what could be wrong, why he recommended certain treatments, etc. All of the poor doctors were frustrated that nothing clear cut could be said about me. Still, they gave me a list of meds, I declined one right off the bat and went home with the rest, and agreed to get a meter to check my blood pressure and pulse twice a day--as a compromise, for my loving family was greatly afeared for me.

So far, in the peace and tranquility of my own home, my heart and my blood pressure are very cooperative. No hypertension, no sinus tachycardia. Just me, my baby, and a nagging head cold (which two days in the hospital failed to fix, interestingly enough). Still, I have to go back today for them to test baby for stress, and I have to go back Wednesday for the new OB to have a look at me, and I go back for both every week from now until the party starts. In a way, I feel silly that I went in last week and put myself (and poor, poor Joseph!!) through all that, but oh well. I've got 7-day benchmarks, which ought to make the time go faster. That's just the best way to look at it.

Time Eaters

There are many, of course. House, chores, husband, bills, pets, appointments, phone calls, etc. However, number three seems to have sucked away every extra second between here and two weeks ago, without effort and certainly without me noticing. How? Well, besides the week in PA, how?

I don't know. Maybe I'm still getting as much done as I used to, but he creates "stuff" that needs to be done that I'm not yet ramped up to take care of yet. For example, I know that I'm still doing laundry on a regular basis, but there's twice as many dirty clothes around all the time. I know that I get up at a decent time, but breakfast doesn't get eaten until after nine. I know that the downstairs bathroom was clean when I left here, but...

All this is, I realize, shades of things to come. Soon there will be two people on his team, and still only one of me. There will be two laundry factories, two trash machines, two time eaters. Will I get only 1/3 of everything done? Sigh. My mom's solution to this problem is to Never, Ever, Ever create messes of her own. There are no mom-produced chores to address, only those the others in the house have come up with. It's a thought, you know? Her next step in the brilliant plan was to raise us up in the fear of the Lord [and Mother], so that we more or less cared for most of our own messes ourselves. We made beds a lot of the time, we took our own dishes from the table almost without exception, we took out trash in the early thursday mornings just because running out the driveway in pajamas and bare feet was fun.

But one cannot raise up an infant in the fear of oneself. He does not change his own diaper, he does not wash his own clothes. He definitely does not do his own dishes. And my husband has already been raised up, but he only fears the Lord, and forgets about most everything else. ("What dishes? Oh, that's where I put them! I was going to put them in the sink...") I'm trying to instill a fear of something into the two cats in the meantime, since they're the only living things around that I think I might have an effect on. So far, no good. They still start crawling around on me about 0545, ready for breakfast. The little one still follows me around he house crying until I sit down, then climbs up on my stomach to take a bath. The big one still throws litter all over creation every time he uses the box.

Sigh. Time to do the chores.

A Complete Set

So, Mr. Bird comes back within the hour...man, it has been a long summer. :) Stay tuned for the fall, though. You never know what I'll decide sounds like a good idea to try.

The Nest: Revisited

For anyone who only reads the blog and doesn't actually talk to or with me (or have Facebook, which is practically the same thing)--the air conditioner was leaking because a lead line was busted, they fixed it, it still doesn't cool the house, but I had two window air conditioner units installed and life is much more livable. So there it is.

Also in nest news, though, are some good things. With the motivation of someone special coming home, as well as the helpful presence of my mother, I've been finishing all the other little projects around the house that have been wanting done since we moved in six [freaking] months ago. There are now curtains in the bedrooms, for example. I am not using my night stand to hold the silverware. Little things like that, you know. The place looks like real people might live here now, and I'm so happy. Only a week and a couple days left...

Spent yesterday morning washing all kinds of teeny tiny little clothes. Can you just imagine the convenience of being able to wash every item of clothing you owned in a single load through the washing machine?? It was amazing. His whole wardrobe cleaned in an hour and ten minutes. Unfortunately, I'm told that he'll go through the whole wardrobe at least once a week, so maybe there's not so much to be thrilled about there. Still, imagine putting everything Joseph owns into the machine at once. Ha. The dryer would have a hernia.

p.s. Posting once a week? Every two weeks? Is this is future of my literary career? I dunno...I've had company or help in the house every day for three weeks, so not a lot of time is spent communing with the virtual world. Then again, who cares? :) September is coming. I'm so happy.

"Edema"

It's a fancy name for retaining water, and not really in the sense of "oh, wow, I feel fat today" but in the sense of "the climate is confusing my body so bad that my fingers and knees don't bend properly because of how edemic I am." The more you drink, of course, the less trouble you have with this problem. The human body is a funny thing. Somebody's RN mother explained to Joseph that my getting dehydrated could cause premature labor, and he asked me if that was why I drank so much water. I said yes, but if I got so bad that that was an issue, there was a serious problem. I'm still stuck, I told him, at the stage where I drink lots of water so that my fingers stay skinnier than my ankles.

Also swelling, by the way, is the number of people my very own age (or younger!!) who are having babies, going to have babies very soon, or have had a baby within the last six months. Among those I know in the college classes immediately above and below my own, I can name over a dozen mommies without even thinking--and a bunch more if I dig deep. This is cool, and wierd, and wonderful, and wierd. Joe said that he realizes a lot more just how un-normal it all is, though, from being around the other Marines. One of them told him the other day that we "were the first people he really knew personally, his own age, who were having a kid." Wow. And for us and our school perspective, we're actually "behind" the curve by about four months. How funny.

Smellin' Coffee

Always a bad thing--I'm trying to make coffee this morning, but (a) I have no chart for measuring the stuff and (b) I don't drink it so I wouldn't know nasty from nice. My company usually makes their own, for safety's sake, but I'm trying to be brave this morning.

So, this pregnant memory loss thing is really funky. I am unable, even whilst swearing upon the phone book, to remember anything about conversations I've had in the last month. I forget whether I locked the door. Two seconds ago. Spelling and typing are olympic events. However, all these great memories from the first two years of college are positively flooding my mind! It's wonderful! I mean, I remember down to colors and smells these snapshots of life when I had first met all my friends. I remember really early conversations with Joseph, I remember "first seeing him again" after those long, long, long mid-term breaks. I remember choir things, I remember the presidential election and staying up all night in the chapel to pray about it. I remember walking out toward Guardian Angel and back between Sunday choir and Mass, saying morning prayer with Joseph. I remember my first van run to town. I remember my first trip to Shoe Show with Cass and Laura, and my first trip to Winchester with them (on which we also bought shoes). All that stuff is coming back to me, at the expense of dinner, which I forgot was in the oven.

I'll take the memories. Such sweet things.

"Hey, great reception in here! Like, four bars!"

So, I vicariously lived the life of a woman's handbag last night, thanks to a special friend (you know who you are) who toted me through the length and breadth of O'Hare last night on her way to a flight. It was delayed, else we would never have made it in time. I went through the x-ray machine, I went to the restroom, I sat on the floor while she checked in, I stood in line while cappucino and danish were ordered, I waited on the seat while carry-on items were safely stowed in the overhead bin. It was great--and at the end, I knew exactly how one's purse feels. There to hear every conversation, there to endure every long wait and line full of cranky people. I enjoyed even (and especially) the conversations that the human has with herself as she tries to find the correct gate after an airline switch.

Who knew that you could run a phone through the x-ray machine and not drop the call, anyway? That was the coolest part. I could hear the machine running, then all the voices and people and bumpings of baggage as I came out the other end. Now we know.

Also, found out that "vicariously" has the same root as "vicar." A substitute or representative.

Treble Without a Clause

Feeling a bit schizophrenic today...Joseph has gotten me started on all these little projects that involve networking, getting in touch with people in one's field, etc. The obvious rock in my path is that I don't have a field right now. However, the networking website forced me to invent something, so I examined my life and decided, fairly enough, that I'm currently a self-employed researcher. I'm not paying myself anything at the moment, but I'm certainly undergoing a very eclectic, fairly rigorous set of tasks that involve researching things.

All kinds of things, of course, and that's what renders this exercise a little silly-feeling. After all, I have a grand plan in mind, but it's hard to explain what a Montessori handbook, neuroscience study, leadership manual, and Blink have in common. The only clue to my strategy, which is now sitting in the "to read" pile in my office [the dryer] is Classical Education at Home: Strategies and Systems for Teachers Learners to Learn. Taken broadly, I'm learning how to educate, all on my own. So, that's what I'm up to these days. I had no idea.

The Great Pumpkin

So, another interesting divergence of viewpoints on holidays. This time, though, it's more a funny story about my next door neighbor (whom I know does not read the blog--she has dialup) than a diatribe about the raising of children.

Due to an ongoing renovation project, a continual shifting of families from their [old] house to a [still old but nicely resurfaced] new house is taking place within my immediate neighborhood of about 60 homes. My neighbor and I are in Phase Eight homes, which means we'll be moved into resurfaced homes in October. (Phase One households were supposed to get their resurfaced homes by July 31st, though, and it didn't happen. I'm personally not holding my breath for October.)

Anyhow. For reasons which continue to cramp my drinking style (this is funny if you know me) and my fashion options (this is funnier if you've seen me in the last month), I am not excessively thrilled by the prospect of moving "sometime in October." Especially since I'll have a spouse in the field during most of the month. Moves, even moves financed, boxed, carried, and unboxed by the government, are things which one hesitates to do while nine months pregnant. I am not happy about moving in October, and I religiously waddle down to the housing office once a month to (a) let them see me waddle and, (b) find out if "sometime" has been narrowed down a bit. It never has, but I usually walk away thinking that it could be worse. I could be having twins. My housing lady is apologetic, but more or less useless. Things will not change, they will only continue to change on a weekly basis (this is funny if you know anything about the military).

My neighbor, on the other hand, is no tame woman. She's a steely-eyed sailor-swearing she-man. (Whom I like, kinda, in a keep-your-distance kind of way.) As I relayed the scuttlebut from most recent waddle, she became steelier eyed. She glinted. She tossed her mane and dragged a hoof across the linoleum menacingly.

"You know," she said, "I'm going to have to get myself down there and talk to those people. I mean, if I have to get in her boss's face and get serious with him, well then I'll do that, too, but she has got to understand. Being told we're moving 'sometime' in October just does not work! I mean, I have a child! I am NOT about to ask him to be moving the week of Halloween! No, I am not. No, there are things that have to be done that week, things that I re-fuse to have screwed up by their stupid moving schedule!"

Location, location, location.

A Mystical Body Part

New blog in the sidebar: an admirable friend's journey toward convent life. "Engaged to Christ," and what a beautiful way to put it, too. I told Joseph once, a long time ago at school, that it must be simultaneously humbling and motivating for young men to know that Christ, too, is a Lover who is after the hearts of young women of faith (well, all young women, but the context of the conversation really only included us more or less religion-minded dames). After all, being Perfection, you just know he'd be the best boyfriend ever. ;) Talk about competition.