Weirder than Weird

Phil and I would like to do radical things--whatever that means. But try as we may, the truth is we're pretty square. Two kids, a doctor and a teacher, we sit down for a family dinner most nights, and dark chocolate chips are one of our greatest pleasures.

This morning Phil said to me, "Is it beyond weird to wear khakis in winter?"

"No," I assured him.

Watch out world. What radical move will we try next?

You do that?

My mom is flying right now. She's on her way to Boston and we can't wait to see her. Philip is out of town for a couple of days and I've busied myself with trying to make our house pleasant for her stay. Many times when she's come to visit me over the years, she's helped me "get organized". I want to be organized when she gets here so that we can enjoy each other in other non-organizing ways.

Mom and I are also planning on sleeping together in the same bed.

She's worried I'll "scream and kick". True, I talk in my sleep quite a lot and often I say very unfriendly things. Most nights I growl at Phil. Then there’s the time my freshman year of college when Ha let her alarm go off for 20 minutes and then snoozed it for another hour...I told her, "Ha, I'm going to get an ax and chop that alarm and if it doesn't stop I'm going to chop on you a little." Then there’s the summer I was living with a bunch of Christians and doing service work and didn't get my daily swearing quota. Apparently, in my sleep I mainly just said, "Shit, fuck, damn," all the time and horrified my roommates. Or the time I was watching "West Side Story" with some friends and fell asleep, only to rise up suddenly chanting, "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay" at a rapid pace. One of Phil's earliest memories of me was when he went into my room to drop off a book he'd borrowed and I started speaking in tongues to him, “Yakalakwakeebbiejeebieweeeewooo.” He was sure that I was imbalanced somehow. So, it is true that I talk (or scream as that case may be) in my sleep. But kick? I stopped doing that at about age 12.

She's also worried that she'll snore. In the next sentence she'll deny that she snores, but if you've slept anywhere within a five block radius of where Mom's sleeping, you'll know the truth.

I’m not worried about it. I think I’ll sleep just fine with Mom.

This morning Phil says, "So, where is your mom going to sleep?"

"With me. In our bed."

"You do that?" he questioned. I do that? As if it is a practice that I engage in regularly.

Sheepishly I said, "Not regularly, but I'm willing to give it a go."

"Wow," he said, "I haven't slept in the same bed with my mom or dad since I was like 12."

So now I am left wondering...do we do that? Can we do that?

The thing is I still haven't caught a mouse, so we kind of have to sleep in the same bed. For safety.

Corralling Your Mama

I'm sitting at the computer, checking my email and getting ready for my day. I know it doesn't look like that to Ramona, but I am. She's in her room saying, "Mom, am I going to miss Corner Coop?"

"No, it's not even open yet," I say.

"Mom, you better put your clothes on and get ready," she counters.

"Okay," I try to put her off.

"We're going to be late," she nags.

She's dressed, she'd eaten, and she's brushing her teeth. I've gotta catch up.

Then she double-checks, "Is the Corner Coop even open yet?" (Not for 40 more minutes)

I've gotta get ready.

Super-who?

I borrowed this from Ha's blog and I had a lot of fun doing it. Take the test and post your results in comments. Here's my result:

You are Wonder Woman

Wonder Woman 100% Spider-Man 85% Superman 85% Green Lantern 80% Iron Man 80% Hulk 80% The Flash 80% Supergirl 65% Robin 50% Catwoman 40% Batman 20%	You are a beautiful princess with great strength of character.
Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz...

The next stage

I didn't sleep great last night, until about 6:00 AM. Usually if I haven't had some good sleep by this time, I'm done for. After 6:00 AM, sleep is a lost cause because Sumner's already up and although he is really quiet my mommy-dar is aware he's no longer asleep and the quality of my sleep changes. (What will I do when he lives half-way around the world from me and is awake when I am supposed to be sleeping?) If Sumner reading in the living room doesn't rouse me, Ramona does. Over the last few months, she's started climbing into bed between 5 and 6 and falling back asleep wrapped around me. When she first climbs in, I am too disorientated to say or do anything to stop her and within a minute she's sound asleep. I keep sleeping, but again, it’s the quality of the sleep that counts. I am annoyed that I let her fall asleep in my bed and I feel trapped. My sleep is tense and troubled.

This morning a small miracle happened. Ramona and Sumner woke up at the same time and it was early...about 5:45 AM. Ramona did not rush into our room to cuddle with me. Sumner read to her for about a half and hour. Then he ushered her into the kitchen, made her breakfast, and moved her chair right next to his so that they could continue reading while eating. Finally he moved them into the living room and turned on the TV (a skill Ramona does not possess) and they watched it for a half an hour. And now for the real shocker: they shut off the TV and played together for another 20 minutes or so. I heard them wake up at 6:00 and on some level I was aware of the rooms they were in, but I slept peacefully. I wasn't worried a battle would break out. I wasn't fretting that they needed to be fed. I wasn’t anticipating my sleep being disturbed. I slept until 8:00. It really was a miracle.

This signified to me the beginning of a new stage of parenting. This stage includes sleeping in. It includes my kids learning to serve themselves and clean up after themselves. It includes my kids entertaining each other and themselves.

A sidebar: It also includes the word piss. The four-year-old Sumner still wore diapers, but he didn't know about other names for pee. I had to get up when he got up when he was four, but he also didn't shout "pissin'" it in the middle of a walk in the Arboretum, which he did last week. This was embarrassing, yet then was a part of me that wanted to smirk.

Sumner proved that he is getting older and wiser tonight. It was near bedtime. I was tired. I had a short fuse. Ramona flung something away from her where she was sitting and under my foot. I tripped and shouted, "RAMONA!!!!" Then I took a breath and said, "I am sorry, but you can't just throw stuff about like that."

Sumner was supposed to be taking his dirty clothes to the hamper. He paused and said, "Can I just explain to Ramona that you're not that mad? Ramona, Mom's not that mad. It's just bedtime and she's grouchy," he said while rubbing her back. Could this be the brother that murmurs about wanting to “break her to bits”? Did he really just hand out how-to-manage-you-mother advice?

Hello, glimmer of maturity. For years my mom has been saying that I am more mature than her. Is that what the next stage is all about? Will they both gang up on us and revolt? I better brace myself.

Boy Humor

Philip and Sumner were talking about "The Making of Star Wars Part One" the other day. Sumner wanted to watch it right away. Phil couldn't accomodate for some reason (like it was time to go to school or it was bedtime).

Sumner: Dad, I want to watch the "Making of Number One".

Philip: Well, you can't watch that, but if you follow me in the bathroom right now I can show you the making of number two.

Sumner: But Dad we don't have a T.V. in the bathroom and there's no "Making of Number Two".

Philip: The making if number two? Get it? Heh, heh.

Sumner: Heh, heh.

Philip: Heh, heh.

Sumner: Heh, heh.

My Mom Used To Say

This ought to be the real name of my blog.

I write about my mom mainly because she doesn't have any quams about me putting her story (as I see it) out there on the internet for you to read. I also write about her because she made a profound impact on my thinking and my living and I think the gospel according to Annabelle may be something others can benefit from.

So I now wonder...what will my children say about me on their blogs? Philip and I were discussing residency options, talking about the possiblity of living in the Northeast for three more years, when he said, "That's just not in the script of my life." He has an idea of where his story is going and he never thought it'd be here.

I see what he means, but I don't think about it in terms of a script. I think of it in terms of Sumner and Ramona's freshman dorm conversations.

Where will they be from? What will people think of them based on that fact? When Phil and I said we were at Columbia, saying you are from Louisiana or Oregon made us different. Not only was Phil wearing white jeans and I had on Berks with wool socks and a jingling anklet in a sea of students in J. Crew and basic black, we also really loved where we were from and identified with out battleground states. When people ask us where we're from we still say Louisiana and Oregon, even though we haven’t lived either of these places for a long time.

What will our kids say about us as they step out of their own for the first time? That's a real question. My mom's my good friend. My mom's a kook. My mom's an accomplished career woman. She sleeps in the nude and exposed all of our secrets on her blog, but she never made us make our beds.

The other day my friend, who reads this blog, told me that she doesn't order Scholastic books from school fundraisers for her daughter, because they can just get them from the library. I guess she's been pretty firm on this. As she was explaining this to her daughter, she thought: this is something Emily's mom would have done and Emily would remember it for the rest of her life.

My mom let me order Scholastic books, but I get what she means. 1. She knows my mom just from reading the blog. 2. How are the little things impacting out children?

What lessons that we taught them will they remember? What things are we repeating too much? What are we not saying enough?

I know that I say "because we're a family..." alot. Because we're a family...we compromise, help each other, pick up, be nice, and sometimes just shut up. I know I say, "I am so tired of no one helping me around her." I also know that I make clear my dislike of Toys R Us and Cartoon Network quite clearly. What about church? Will they hate church because I make them go or will they get something out of it? And their teeth? Will they brush everyday? Floss too? I just don't know.

I want to watch my words, but things just bubble over.

What is the script I have written for my kids? Where will they be from? What have they taken? Where will they take it?

Mousey Mousey

I hesitate to make this public because my mom just decided to come and visit in a couple of weeks and she will probably cancel her trip when she hears of this.

We have a mouse.

Of course we don't have a mouse, we probably have a family of mice, but it is comforting to imagine just one little Stuart Little inhabiting a cozy (did you hear that Mom, cozy, they're cozy!) little mouse hole somewhere. But I'd be naive to think that and you'd be deranged to believe it. The problem is that now that I have admitted to a mouse in my house, my mom has multiplied this number in her imagination to 100 and she's not even read to the end of the blog.

Mice are common in Jamaica Plain. They come in when it gets cold. Each year they appear and then I go on the offensive, their droppings disappear, and I am satisfied that they are gone and we move on. I have plugged holes with steel wool, I have stuffed poison into all sorts of nooks and crannies, and I have used the dreaded glue traps to catch a few furry fellows.

Our food is secure. The mice over the last three winters have not been as bold as the first winter. In the winter of 1999-2000, the mice chewed into chip bags and oatmeal cylinders and pretty much seized our pantry. We fought back. Now all of our carb reserves (matzo, cereals, pasta, rice, etc.) are in the food safe, a huge plastic container with a metal latch. No one's getting in there.

The thing is I hate mice as much if not more than my mother. In the winter each time something blows against the window, the VCR clicks, or a piece of paper uncrinkles my heart skips a beat. I clap my hands three times before I walk into the kitchen and rush through it anytime past 9:30PM (which is the well-known hour when mice begin to dash about).

Since I graduated from high school and left home, all but two of the seven places I have lived have had a mouse problem. In three of those places I never saw evidence of mice in my room or apartment, but they were there in the walls, in other people's places. I should be used to this.

Phil takes it all in stride. He thinks I am overreacting. He claims that these pests just don't bother him. I'm not kidding. For a long time I thought that he just didn't believe me that we had a mouse family living with us, but just last week he admitted to seeing one. Big-deal-so-what is his attitude. I think he'd probably like to set up a little water dish and food bowl for them under the stove and give them names. The more hyped up I get, the cooler he becomes.

So I've already put some poison out this winter, but tonight I am getting more aggressive. I have set out four glue traps. Last year we learned a new glue trap trick. The common practice is to put glue traps under things and behind things. Not in our house. A friend advised us to put them wherever we've seen them, right out in the open. I just did that.

Now I am waiting and blogging and I am scared, really scared that I actually might catch one.

Play by Play

I usually don’t give play by play blogs, but it feel somehow right tonight.

I finished my final final paper on Friday. I am done with my master’s work. It was a big accomplishment. Not because the paper was really good or the last one, but because of the process through which I went to write it. For one, I submitted it at like 2:15, hours before I had to turn it in. That’s a personal record. There were no late late nights or early early mornings involved in writing my paper. When I finished I didn’t have to panic because I had to regroup for a whole week to get the rest of my life back in order. And best of all, this paper pulled a whole bunch of parts of my life together. The paper’s about my work at Sumner’s school. I pulled references I had used in almost every big paper I’ve written to use in the paper and they dovetailed together nicely. What a learned each semester built on the semester before it. My writing has A LONG way to go, I realize that, but I am developing a way of going about doing it. I am looking forward to being totally in charge of my own learning.

I also had a gloriously slow weekend. Phil was gone and that was a bummer, but the kids and I had a lovely time—only a couple meltdowns. We went swimming on Friday afternoon and then out to eat to a place I wanted to go. We shared some edamane, Sumner ate pork dumplings and rice, Ramona had chicken on a couple of sticks and rice, and I had sashimi. We got the table by the fish tank and we played “Guess What?” while we ate. I only had to ask Sumner twice to sit up and Ramona to turn down the volume of her voice about half a dozen times. Sumner asked to try the sashimi and I gave him a bit of raw tuna. He loved it.

I said, “Yeah, it tastes great. It’s just that it feels a little different.”

He did a typical Sumner-ponder and came back with, “Yeah, it does feel a little like a slug,” and asked for another taste.

They also ate their whole meal with chopsticks. We don’t eat out very often and usually it’s for pizza or brunch or pizza or pizza. Yet when I offered a fork they refused and actually somehow figured out how to use the chopsticks.

I put them to bed and watched “Annie Hall” for the first time ever. I brewed and enjoyed a perfect cup of tea and ate some chocolate.

Then I watched some bad TV and went to bed.

The weekend has followed a similarly slow pattern and I like it. I’m off for a bath with Joan Didion and then some more TV. Life’s not really going to slow. I can just be more in charge of my own time for a few months. That means more blogs...

Last night I ran into a friend who I hadn't seen in a month. She asked if I wanted her to come over a blow chunks all over my house. A blog reader, she knew Sumner had the stomach flu and that Ramona fears I'll talk too much to Sumner and that I over-analyze my Christmas getting and that I think of sewer rats everyday. What more is there to say? Oh, lots, I never run out of things to talk about...but it is weird to be in one way communication with someone. It's not like Ha and Cha. They blog and I blog so I get the gist of their life and visa versa. Or like Alex, a committed blog reader. Since she's Ramona's teacher I see her several times a week so I don't feel so naked in front of her when she reads my blog...I can undress her daily.

So today I got one of the best emails I have ever received from a very, very dear old friend. She wrote that she reads my blog, which I didn't know, and she wrote...

I wanted to tell you that just now i felt this bump on
my neck and of course i thought I would pick at it and
guess what? It is that never-ending pore that you
used to squeeze the dickens out of! I pulled my hand
away and had this huge amount of digusto my finger!
Its still there and rip roaring!

I thought you would enjoy that update. Take care

And I do love that update. So raw. It's only fair.

Like Mother and Father, Like Daughter and Son

Now there's Sumner, as in Sumner Hans Skelding, the little guy who lives with me and there's Classic Sumner, the nuclear family that I grew up with.

As with most families, it is comforting and disturbing for the adult-me to be with my parents and my sibling and see myself in them and them in me and them in each other.

For instance, when Dad leaves a message on someone’s machine he says, “Jim Sumner here...” and he goes on to greet each person living or even possibly visiting our house, “Hello, Emily, Phil, Sumner, Ramona, Ara, Aarti, Julie, Aaron, Moses.” Then he gets to why he is calling. In the last five years we’ve begun to get messages on our machines that say, “Jake Sumner here...” and the quality of his voice is just like Dad’s. It is funny and creepy. Funny because it makes me smile and creepy because it seems like the process becoming our parents is inevitable and unstoppable.

Ten days with them was enlightening.

That’s just freaky. I even like my parents. I’d be proud to be either of them (minus the bald head and without the neat streak). The thing is, it just undermines my sense of self-determination when I stand in my kitchen wearing an apron, which suddenly seemed like an accessory I should be using, with my hands on my hips shouting a wild story with lots of hyperbole and serving tea and little cookies on little tiny plates because it all seems so cozy. I mean: hello, Annaemibellely.

Being with my family, especially my brother, brought this evolution to my attention again and again. The night I arrived at my brother’s apartment, he took Phil and I on individual tours of his house, pointing out little things he’s just obtained and explaining why he likes them. My mom always gives me this tour of her place, “What do you think of that? Isn’t this cozy? I got that at...”

I sat down to unwind in his most comfortable chair and chatted with Miranda, his wife. Jacob walked past me and in one smooth motion grabbed the afghan (a word only my mom uses) off the back of his couch and laid it over me, tucking it carefully under my legs and feet. I did a double take...how did my dad get in here?

Lunch with Ramona

Ramona and I had a quiet lunch today. Mac and cheese and a carrot dipped in olive oil and balsamic for her and an open-faced tuna and green olive sandwich for me. She had a lot to say.
I was reading the paper a bit and NPR was on. There was a story about the rebuilding New Orleans plan playing.

"Mom, I had a dream about New Orleans. We were walking there with the stroller and when we got to Mema and Pop's house it was flooding and so Mema and Pop came and walked with us and lived with us." Her eyes were big and serious as she told me about this "dream". It affects us all.

Later we were discussing what kind or dairy-free, wheat-free birthday treat she's like to share with the kids in her school. One girl, we'll call her Karen, has contact allergies to milk and Ramona is fascinated by this. Ramona can't sit by her if she has dairy in her lunch. We talked about our options, but no decisions were made.

About 10 minutes later she picked up a squishy ball we have. It is rubbery, almost gooey. She announced, "This ball is made of soy."

"Really."

"Yeah. Karen can play with it."

Sumner on Johnny Cash and Movie Ratings

Sumner: Mom, that Johnny Cash movie that's coming out is going to be PG.

Me: Really. Why?

Sumner: Because they are going to use computer nonsense to make it look like he falls into a burning ring of fire and little kids won't know that it's fake.

Ramona: I will.

Sumner: How?

Ramona: Because you just told me.

Sumner: Well, there's also the part about the indian [Ira Hayes] and taking your guns to town. That's not for little kids.

Later, when I told this story to my mom she said Sumner’s right. Johnny Cash's life was not for little kids.

"This is like Abu Ghraib"

As I type this, I am wearing a chemical mask. What am I protecting myself from? Sumner's chocolate chunky puke, which is covering our pillowcases and bedsheets.

As I type, Phil is in the bathroom, rinsing the really big chunks of puke off of the sheets into our bathtub. Oh, the sufferings of those who have no utility sinks. The chunks are too big to make it through the washing machine or, for that matter down the bathtub drain. Without this pre-rinse, we'd have a puke-sheet-milkshake in the washing machine. With this pre-rinse, Phil is going to have to gather the biggest chunks out of the drain and flush them down the toilet. There was only one chemical mask, so Phil's wearing a bandana over his mouth, like a cowboy. He just shouted, "This is like Abu Ghraib."

"What?" I asked.

"Torture. Absolute torture," he shot back.

I better go back in there for the assist before I get caught in here.

New Orleans Resolutions

I ran across this article from the Times-Picayune (which I am sure few of you read) while trying to write a final paper for my final class at HGSE. I thought it was appropriate in light of my last blog and I don't have the time to write something fresh...

Resolve to do the right thing

Sunday, January 01, 2006

Today is traditionally a time for making a fresh start, a day to pledge to make yourself slimmer, smarter -- better -- in the new year.

Resolutions are usually a private matter, and each of us has to decide how our lives need to change. There are people who put themselves in the public eye, however, and their habits are very much our business. That is especially true as this area rebuilds after Katrina.

There is no room in 2006 for me-first, do-nothing public officials. There is no room for equivocating or fabricating or skimming something off the top. There is no room for indecision or hand-wringing. And the so-called Louisiana Way of politics needs to be retired for good.

With those things in mind, here is The Times-Picayune's annual list of resolutions for elected, appointed and self-decreed policymakers in our midst.

I, Gov. Kathleen Blanco, resolve to be decisive. I will not appoint a study committee to study the 2004 study committee's report on study committees.

I, Senate President Donald Hines, promise to remember that the New Orleans metro area is essential to the economic well-being of Louisiana and give it the attention and resources it desperately needs. I, House Speaker Joe Salter, resolve to do the same.

We, the rest of the New Orleans City Council, pledge to be more like Councilman-at-large Oliver Thomas. He showed courage in rescuing stranded New Orleanians from floodwaters. He embraced the need for change after the storm: arguing for a regional, professional levee board. And, unlike some council members, he is willing to compromise.

I, Mayor Ray Nagin, resolve to stick to one message. I won't say one thing in Atlanta or Houston or Washington and another thing in New Orleans.

I, Jefferson Parish President Aaron Broussard, resolve to admit my mistakes promptly and cheerfully.

We, the city officials of Kenner, promise to go at least one day a week without embarrassing our constituents.

I, San Antonio Mayor Phil Hardberger, resolve to keep my grubby hands off the New Orleans Saints.

I, Kimberly Williamson Butler, resolve not to make as big a mess of citywide elections this year as I did after Hurricane Ivan.

We, the many levee boards of greater New Orleans, resolve to go away.

We, the Orleans Parish School Board, resolve to go away.

I, former Federal Emergency Management Agency director Michael Brown, resolve to go away.

We, the Not In My Back Yard bunch, resolve to sympathize with the thousands of people in greater New Orleans who no longer have a back yard.

We, the residents of this great community, whether living here or in exile, resolve to mask for Mardi Gras, line up for crawfish bread at Jazzfest and cheer for the Saints and the Hornets. We promise to prepare ourselves better than ever for hurricane season and to help our neighbors do the same.

Above all, we resolve to be grateful for what Katrina spared, respectful of what was lost and dedicated to making this place we love even better than it was.

I (sometimes) Hate New Year's Resolutions

Gold and Silver, Toots is playing.

Most of the time, it depresses me to hear New Year's resolutions. When zealous friends tell me what they’re going to do differently in the New Year, I think: yeah, right, while saying, “Sounds good.” I do want those better things for my friends, but I think it takes more than just announcing it.

The pressure of holidays generally irritates me. I like the rituals and the chance to rest, but I do not like when holidays turn into mothers spinning a perfect day for their families. I do not like it when later these mothers are found lying, dizzy and stressed, in a puddle after the storm has passed. That has been me. I don’t like it when all of us are bound by expectations.

Why do we have to eat turkey? Why do we have to bake cookies? Why do we have to cut out red hearts? Why do I have to buy fireworks? Sometimes I just don’t feel like it.

Philip and I try to not put on the pressure for birthdays and Valentine’s Day and all the rest. I just wish we could show each other how much we love each other everyday, not only on the holidays. That’s the shame of New Year’s resolutions. Why not make resolutions when you are at a time and in a place to actually make change? Like on April 13 or June 31?

Philip actually made some good resolutions this morning. He wrote them on the back of an envelope and passed them over to me for a looksy. I was reading my newspaper and drinking my tea, a sacred moment in my day. I read the 75 to 100 words he had scrawled and without a comment or an eyebrow raised, I passed them back to him. He needed a little more and demanded it. “They’re great,” I said and they are. And they are even do-able. They are things he’s already working on in an effort to be a better person. I told him I’d like to tattoo them to my hand and read them back to him when he needs a pep talk.

It got me thinking that maybe I do like New Year’s resolutions—just not the frustrating ones. So I thought and thought about what I should resolve to do. Then I wrote on my hand in black pen: SEEK GOD. TRUST GOD. SURRENDER. Then I showed Phil. He nodded and smiled.

This has been a pattern for us. When we talk about our life’s goals or our priorities or the essence of life we will go on for a while about things like justice or happiness or joy or contentedness or accomplishment or something. However nerdy it may seem, we like to take notes on these conversations. He’ll write a treatise on the topic. I will maybe write a few bullet points and then I will say something like, “It all comes down to glorifying God with your life. I could just write, ‘Glorify God.’” This drives him nuts. It seems like an over-simplication to him, but to me it is a unification of all of these ideals.

Maybe that’s why I don’t like all of those typical resolutions. It seems like a lot of toiling and striving and frantic, busy behavior with no really meaningful end. Of course, Phil’s resolutions this year would fall under a “Seek God” column, so they’re alright.

Getting It

Girl from the North Country, Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash

Philip and I are doing some of that digging deep that the blog’s title claims we’re doing. It is really hard to write about, because I am afraid that if I write something down I am committed to feeling that way. This process doesn’t work that way. There are ups and downs.

We’re trying to make up our minds about how we want to rank the programs he’s applied for. Basically, we are trying to decide (for the fourth time in our marriage) where do we want to live? And, by extension, what kind of life do we want to lead?

When we moved to Oakland our thinking was: so we’re getting married and having a kid, let’s at least stick with part of our plan, which had been to go to the Bay Area. When we moved to London our thinking was: we’ve got the funding to live in London for a year, why not? Oh, and let’s have a baby while we’re at it. When we moved here our thinking was: Harvard has a great medical school and Boston’s not so bad.

Residency is going to be a bitch and so for a couple years we have been saying that our thinking is that we’d like to be where we will have a strong support system. That has meant that we’ll either stay put or move near our families. So, we’ve been mulling over these choices for the last year. The day when we submit the rank list is approaching. We’re still somewhat up in the air.

The hurricane had nudged us towards New Orleans. When most people hear this, they are confused and puzzled. People nod, because they can hear the words we are saying, but they are anything but encouraging. We have to spend a lot of time explaining ourselves. I don’t know exactly why people are puzzled, but I think I can guess what may be going on in their minds: But you are Harvard...you can go anywhere (why choose there?). Why make life hard on yourself? Schools for your kids? More hurricanes? The heat and humidity? The South? Too much inequity. Where will you live? Toxins and pollution? Too many unknowns.

I can understand all of these reservations. I have most of them myself. Philip asked me the other day to explain to him logically why we should move to New Orleans. I told him that I couldn’t. It is a visceral-spiritual-gut feeling that feels right. I can imagine myself in Boston or Iowa or Oregon too, but those fantasies just don’t feel exactly right. Most of the time, when I surrender my fear and worries, New Orleans beckons.

When I am out and about, I am not talking as much as I usually do about our decision making process. If people ask, I say a little something, but I leave a lot up in the air. It is too discouraging to share what’s on my heart.

Last week my sister-in-law, Miranda, and I sat at her kitchen table in Chicago sipping hot chocolate. We don’t get enough time to chat on the phone and so when we see each other there’s a lot of catching up to do. Out of nowhere she said, “I totally understand what’s drawing you to New Orleans.” We weren’t even talking about it. She just came out with it. I looked up and smiled and my eyes got teary. It was such a relief to have someone “get” me. It was simple to her: you want to help and you have a connection down there. For her, what more is there to ask?

I wish there wasn’t anything left to ask. But there is... But you are Harvard...you can go anywhere (why choose there?). Why make life hard on yourself? Schools for your kids? More hurricanes? The heat and humidity? The South? Too much inequity. Where will you live? Toxins and pollution? Too many unknowns.

Chink? Kink? Crimp?

On December 27 I wrote, “There was another chink in my plan.”

As with many of my typos I am sure you asked yourself: chink? One brave friend emailed me:
Isn't it a "kink" in your plan? It is my understanding that "chink" is a derogatory word for a Chinese person.

For years I used to say, “Let’s play it by year.” I also put an x in espresso. I type "web sight" often. When I edit my writing I read it aloud to myself first. Believe it or not, I catch a lot of things that way. Next I spell check. When a word comes up spelled incorrectly, I often cannot see the difference between the misspelled word and the correct word. I have to take it one letter at a time to see the mistake. I hate this. I still make TONS of errors. I need an editor. I hate this. And yet, I am an English teacher.

So I did a little research on chink. And kink. And crimp. I think I can get to the bottom of the chink error.

Yes, chink is a derogatory term for a Chinese person or, for that matter, any other East Asian person. Chink is also two other things, thus the confusion. According to my Concise OED a chink is “1. an unintended crack that omits light or allows attack. 2. a narrow opening.”

You see, about a million years ago, at the pinnacle of my acting career, I played the part of Puck in “A Midsummer’s Night Dream”. At the play’s conclusion, a ragtag (is that the right word?) theatre troupe put on a play. In this play within a play (now within a blog) a chink in a wall is a central part of the story. In the prologue, we are told:

And through the Wall’s chink, poor souls, they are content,

To whisper. At which let no man wonder. (5.1.132-133)

Most of the action of the little play happens through this chink. The wall in which the chink is found is actually a character in the play. This was my first understanding of the non-slur meaning of chink.

Then I had a little boy (and a husband) who like(s) knights and castles and such things. Through this association (many call it marriage and motherhood), I learned the phrase, “chink in my armor”, which is the weak place in a kinght’s armor where he can get impaled.

That’s what I was trying to say about a chink in my plan. It was not some sort of racial-slur that might bring to mind an image of a smallish, cartoonish East-Asian running across the screen of your imagination destroying my carefully laid plans, all the while muttering high-pitched Chinese-sounding syllables. I meant that my carefully laid plan was like armor protecting me or a brick wall which I had built like a fortress around me. Phil going to the toy store exposed the weak point in my armor or the crack in my wall. Thus, a “chink in my plan.”

The thing is people don’t say that. I did a google search of common saying web sites (not sights) and could not find “kink in my plans” or “chink” in anything. Then “kink” started to sound funny to me. I started to think it was supposed to be “crimp in my plans”. No results from the common saying web sites on crimp either. So I tried a different tactic. I googled “‘kink in my plans’” and got back 395 results. Then I googled “‘chink in my plans’” and got back 17 results. I guess others make mistakes. Finally I googled “‘crimp in my plans’” and got back 645(!) results. So which is it? Obviously not chink.

I have decided that “chink in my plan” in a pun. Phil at the toy store wasn’t really a kink or a crimp, which are both some version of a rigid wrinkle. The toy store visit exposed my weak spot. So, I’m sticking with chink.

Don’t talk to Santa

Ramona hates it when I get “wisiting” with a friend of mine (or a friend of hers or a woman in the grocery line or her father or my mother, etc.). She furrows her brow, puts her hand on her hip, and tells me “we need to get going” or “your playdate’s over”.

I try to wind things down and move on, but I like talking SO much. It’s hard sometimes.

On Christmas Eve she didn’t want to go to sleep. She was having too much fun and she wanted to see Santa. Grannabelle (the Truthteller-no-longer), Papa, Philip, and I wove a web of lies to convince her to stay in bed and fall asleep. “Santa’s in Kansas making his way here, you need to get in bed so he can come. He’s not going to stop here if you’re awake.”

With wide-eyes she listened and bought it hook, line, and sinker and got into bed. As I tucked her into bed, she started with the questions, “Mom, don’t all the grown ups need to go to bed too so Santa can come?” She calls me “Mom” if she has something serious to talk about.

“Well, Sweetie, Santa doesn’t care if I am awake. He just wants the kids to be asleep.”

“Okay. Well, Mama, don’t talk to Santa when he comes. Because you might get in the mood [to talk too much] and then he won’t make it to other children’s houses. Don’t talk to him.” She calls me Mama when she wants to talk me into something.
I took a vow of silence and she finally fell asleep.

Christmas is for Getting

Getting all the right presents. Getting to Chicago. Getting to Iowa City. Getting to Grinnell. Getting the food ready. Getting the presents ready. Getting yourself and your children ready in some nice or at least presentable clothes. Getting to church. Getting along with your family for two whole days. And, finally, getting the gifts you want.

It may seem simple to get gifts for kids. It is anything but simple. Philip and I tend to over-think the whole process. Somehow we feel that the gifts we give to our kids are indicative of our core values, our worldview, and our priorities.

When we were new parents, we bought Sumner nothing for Christmas (and we deprived him of sugar). He had lots of stuff already and got lots of stuff from family and friends and we were playing at minimalism (and, like with the sugar, he didn’t know any better).

We steadily increased our intake of toys. Essentially Phil and I wanted certain toys to play with, with our kids. So, Sumner starting getting more stuff for Christmas. The year we lived in England we bought our first Christmas gifts, mainly because we were living in 500 square feet with about 7 toys and we wanted more entertainment.

The last two years, Philip and I have been shopping down to the last minute.

Two years ago on Christmas Eve we were sitting on the floor of Toys R Us at 11:45 PM deciding between three toy castles. The wooden one? So Pottery Barn, cool colors, no movable parts. The Playmobile one? German (thus still cool even if it is plastic), a few moveable parts, fits with Sumner’s fleet of Playmobile knights, painters, airport passengers, and horses. The Fisher Price one? Not cool, lots of moveable parts, fits with nothing we have, good battle-play options. The moveable parts won out. When I was a kid, I had a lot of toys that grow-ups thought were cool. I was redoing my childhood by buying the Fisher Price junk. Sumner and Phil loved it and still play with it.

Last year we went round and round trying to make the best decisions and we took it down to the last minute, which included several calls to Alaska to a guy (who was selling Millennium Falcons with five Star Wars action figures at a very discounted rate) to make sure he shipped Sumner’s gift on time and several hateful trips to Toys R Us. In the end we were frustrated that we wasted so much time acquiring a bunch of things we’d be spending 2005 cleaning up. The kids were wide-eyed on Christmas morn, but we were anxious because it was obvious we overdid it. So we vowed to do things differently next year.

This year Philip instituted the new way of making three Christmas lists: One of things you’re thankful for, one of things you’d like to give to other people, and one of the things you want to get (see my blog from a few weeks ago). This was a great start to a new and improved Christmas getting season. The second great start (so I thought) to the season of getting was that I bought everything online one afternoon. No crowds, no babysitters, no long debates with Phil over getting just the right thing, no shuttling across town to get the best price, no paying for parking—just me in front of a computer screen two weeks before Christmas getting the job done. Phil was napping.

After I bought all of this stuff, the coaching began. I started to remind the kids, pretty much daily, what they wanted to get for Christmas. I stayed on-message everyday, even when I spotted in store windows things that looked better. Sometimes I had to review my amazon.com list of “to be shipped items” so that I could carefully target my propaganda, convincing them so they get things they wanted. Ramona was an easy sell. I whispered “suitcase, binoculars, leotard, watch, puzzles, books, suitcase, binoculars…” to her each night as she slept and she regurgitated the same list each day.

Sumner was a little trickier. When I ordered the gifts he really wanted an Icee maker, suddenly Imaginex action figures and Yu-gi-o cards were his hearts desires. I reminded him that he really wanted a suitcase, he looked at me blankly, acknowledging nothing, and said that he also wanted a new Lego set. There was more whispering at night and more explicit reminding during the daylight hours. Still, his list changed, nearly daily. Maybe last minute shopping has an upside.

All this coaching reminded me of a story. A few years ago one of Sumner’s friend’s opened up a Christmas gift and squealed. Turning to her mother, she said, “Look, Mom, just what you wanted me to get for Christmas.” What is a mother to do?

There was another chink in my plan. Phil visited a toy store. Suddenly the nap I thought he appreciated getting and the few free weekend and evening hours he had free and had been able to relax (instead of spent shopping or masterminding Christmas shopping) were not gifts. Me taking care of the shopping was no favor. In the toy store he saw things that he wanted to play with. He felt cut out of the deal, robbed of the chance to consume and take part in the material aspect of Christmas. I even selected and bought my own Christmas gift from Phil. I love it.

Christmas is for getting—so much pressure to get it right and make people happy.

The kids spent several nights making gifts for family members and they made some pretty cool stuff. They get into giving this year and that’s a good thing. In the end the kids loved their gifts—even the Icee maker. We didn’t get too much and we didn’t get too little. Philip thought I did good and I think he’s happy he didn’t have to spend a couple Saturdays in Toys R Us. He just he wants to be involved in the process. I understand that.

I am enjoying this season. It wasn’t too rushed or too stressful for me. I did less—I went to about half of the parties I was invited to. Christmas dinner is simpler and our tree isn’t worthy of Martha Stewart. Less is more. Getting less gives you more.