Things I've Learned Lately

• When I began the 48-Hour Book Challenge I piled up the recent library books on the stairs and just pulled volumes off as they appealed. One that I had also picked up, not for the challenge, was Elizabeth Zimmerman's Knitting without Tears. It's one of those books that you hear about all the time. It's not one of the pretty new knitting books with lots of pictures; it's all just practical advice. And I learned that not only did I learn to knit wrong, I purled wrong as well. This sort of makes sense, as she explains it. Somehow my "German" needle-holding technique led to the wrong-way purl, which makes the wrong-way knit almost necessary. So now I know how to purl the right way, it makes knitting the right way easier. Sometimes the secondary technique is actually the one that matters.
• I'm not good at following the rules right now. So while I did indeed start the notebook described here, I have not yet used it in the way she describes.
  
• I think the not-following-rules thing is a function of age. It began just as I entered my forties. I remember one morning standing up to Nick's preschool teacher, who didn't like how long it took us to say good-bye in the mornings ("Y'all linger," she said disapprovingly). I ignored her, figuring I could take as long to say good-bye to my baby as I --and he-- wanted. That didn't bother him, but he did get upset with me when I didn't cross the street at the crosswalk and backtalked the security guard who gave me a hard time about it. I was ok with Nick wanting to follow the rules--that's appropriate for a four-year-old, after all. But I sure wasn't going to let a guy in a uniform tell me I didn't know how to cross an empty street, holding my son's hand.
  
• The thing is, I was like Nick long into my adulthood. Rules matter. I like rules: they tell you what's expected, they simplify decision-making, they provide order and continuity in what can be a disordered world.
  
• But maybe what I really like--and certainly what Nick liked at that age, and still does--is ritual. The calming certainty that things will be done the same way as before. Nick's good-bye ritual at age three was a fascinating thing to behold (and worth its own essay, another time); one of my favorite things about it was that it seemed such a child-sized reflection of my own need for order and consistency.
  
• I've become one of those people who says "when I was your age" or "when I was younger" even "at my age." This, too, is obviously a function of age (middle).
  
• When I was younger order mattered to me more. I need to think about this for a while, but I'm seeing the signs everywhere--not just in petty defiance of preschool functionaries, or the refusal to follow directions in a writing book. In unpaid bills and missed deadlines (not so good); in messy creative re-thinkings of previous projects (maybe ok).
• At a party the other evening I found myself saying "at my age" and being called on it. Turns out no one there believed I was over forty (or at least they were really really flattering me, for no particular reason). I think I might start telling people I'm fifty just to hear the flattery. (Yes, I'm aware of how this one might backfire. So probably not.)
  

MotherTalk Blog Book Tour: Writing Motherhood

I began reading Writing Motherhood on Monday evening, and Tuesday morning I went out and bought the notebook I'd been eying for months. I had a little notebook in my purse already, but it's littered with to-do-lists, dimensions of the refrigerator we replaced last fall, lists of books to read, knitting patterns, the model numbers for the bionicles Nick most wanted for Christmas—well, you get the idea. It is, in fact, a mother's notebook par excellence. But it's—mostly—missing what I most want to have in it: my writing, daily reflections, ideas for further exploration. Inspired by my reading of Lisa Garrigues' new book, then, I got a bigger one, one that can hold all I'm already carrying around and my own words as well.

The Mother's Notebook is only one of the helpful ideas in Garrigues' new book, but it's probably the central one, the one on which everything else depends. Once you get the Mother's Notebook going, you've got invitations to write, inspirations from other writers, reminders that you're not alone, and suggestions for ways to share your writing. It's almost a parent-writing class in volume form: just add students and stir. That's not surprising, as it comes out of Garrigues' experience as a teacher and workshop leader. It gives the book a useful structure: one really could just work through it, preferably with a group, and jumpstart a writing practice that had gone stale, or get one off the ground for the first time. But it can also be a useful reference tool, a resource like other writing books, to dip into for inspiration and useful reminders. The writing prompts Garrigues crafts—she calls them "invitations," which makes them sound, well, more inviting than "prompts"—are mostly linked to motherhood, but little in the book would be foreign to any writer, especially any writer who does something else, whether paid or unpaid work. (And, really, how many writers don't do "something else"?) What motherhood adds to the writing process, then, in addition to great material, is a sense of balance: other writing books may assume all you do, or all you want to do, is write, but Garrigues knows you've already got a lot on your plate. Fifteen minutes a day is all she asks, for starters; then she adds play-dates and time-outs as well as regular writing group meetings, making it all seem manageable and even fun for a time-pressed parent.

Here's what I wrote in my notebook:

Tuesday morning, conversation w/Nick, ruling out causes for his stomach ache. I ask if he's pooped lately. Yes—so no constipation, I say. "If you got constipated, would you throw up, or would you just explode?" he asks. Much hilarity.

Ah, potty humor. It never loses its appeal. Maybe that's not the most interesting conversation we've ever had—indeed, I know it isn't. But it is representative of our conversations lately—equal parts true curiosity and nine-year-old gross-out. And I know I wouldn't remember it if I didn't write it down.

Will it ever make it out of the Mother Notebook? Well, it just did, didn't it? But no, I doubt I'll use it in a story or essay. Garrigues reminds us, though, that writing begets writing, and that paying attention is one of the skills both writers and parents need to cultivate. I may not need to remember our conversation about constipation, but I do need to listen, and writing things down helps me do that.

Now that I've finished reading the book I want to go back and reflect on it as well, pay attention to the parts I read through quickly, make a plan for how best to use it. This book came to me at a great time: as summer begins I'm thinking already of how to jumpstart my writing, and I have several projects I plan to work on through the next academic year. Inspired by Garrigues, I'm thinking of trying to get a small local writing group going (leave me a comment if you're in central VA and think that might be fun), and I'm making a resolution to write in my notebook every day.

Check out the conversation with Lisa Garrigues here, and the other posts in the blog book tour here.

Kindergarten readiness?

(Cross-posted from the other blog...)

Lots of posts out in the world today about yesterday's NYT article on kindergarten readiness. The take-home lesson I got from it was that if you can afford to think about "red-shirting" your child (keeping him--and it's most often him--home for a year when he's technically eligible for kindergarten), then whether you do or not, he'll probably be fine. That is, school "success" is primarily a socio-economic, not an age, issue. If you need the free day-care, and your kid isn't really ready for school, you'll send him/her anyway and s/he may not "succeed" as well as one might hope. If, on the other hand, you don't need the free day-care, you can probably provide what your kid needs.

Yes, this is reductive. But note that all the "red-shirt" success stories are from people who didn't need free day-care.

Anecdotes:

I was a young starter: with a February birthday I should have started kindergarten at five, but since I knew how to read, I started at four. (I was briefly "held back" when we moved, but then started first grade--in another school--at five.) At my recent college reunion I kept reminding people I was a year further away from fifty than they were. Nice. (Hmm, maybe those social skills still need work?)

I probably should have taken a gap year between high school and college. My parents wanted me to, but I was academically ambitious and up for the challenge. Emotionally/psychologically, maybe not so much, but I got by ok and I don't feel scarred by the experience. As a nerdy kid, I was used to being a bit on the outskirts of things socially anyway--I'm not sure age had a whole lot to do with it. I did take three years between college and graduate school, and that was an absolute necessity, in my case. I think grad school would have chewed me up and spat me out at 21, but at 24 I had supported myself for three years, moved across the country, and figured out that I was both employable and at least marginally date-worthy. I no longer thought my only successes would be academic, and that made grad school's pressures much easier to bear.

Mariah, with her December birthday, is one of the older kids in her grade. One of her best friends, three months older, just graduated from high school; Mariah's got another year. She's academically at the top of her class and seems to be holding her own socially/emotionally. She could have skipped at one point, but we opted for a multi-age grouping (in a Montessori middle school) instead. She doesn't seem to have any regrets, and is considering taking a gap year between HS and college even though this would have her turning 20 as a first-year college student. (I wish all my students would take a gap year...)

Nick, with his early August birthday, is one of the youngest kids in his grade. He's not markedly smaller than other boys--this is the year some are shooting up and some aren't, and he's still right in the middle--nor is he particularly delayed socially as far as I can tell. (He does sometimes cry more easily than other kids, but is that his age or just his temperament? Hard to say...though it's true that his mother was a big cry-baby in elementary school.) Academically, he's doing more than fine. According to "conventional wisdom"--which is that boys mature more slowly, so should redshirt if anyone should--he should have been held back and Mariah sent ahead, but we actually did benefit from the free day-care (public preschool at age four) and never really thought seriously about holding him back. Will he struggle in college? If he's like his sister, maybe we'll suggest a gap year at that point. Right now, though, he's fine.

One more anecdote: when my younger brother was tested for kindergarten, he was asked to draw a man, but drew something else--maybe a table?--instead. He was a bit young (November birthday) but pretty bright. The teacher or principal or someone called my mother and said he wasn't ready, he couldn't draw a man. My mother, though, talked to my brother who said he just didn't feel like drawing a man--and convinced the school administration to take him anyway. Years later he admitted that he really couldn't draw a man--but he did know how to game the system!

So there are my anecdotes. I find myself wishing more and more for flexibility in schooling, for some kind of readiness-testing that looked at the whole child rather than just the age or just a test or two. Obviously that's what home-schooling gives people, and that's absolutely what's most appealing about it. But for those who can't or won't take that option, for whatever reason--what to do?

knitted wire bracelet

This is a gift for a dear friend's daughter, the first of our cohort to graduate from high school. It's knitted out of 28-gauge wire with glass beads strung randomly on the wire. Easy and fun.

Saturday accomplishments, family edition

• One batch of chocolate chip scones, made and partially eaten
  
• Three SAT II tests, taken
  
• Two hours of club penguin, snuck in there before I noticed
• One cd collection, cleaned, dusted and organized
• 18 songs, burned to the "Nick's favorite hits" cd
• Two bathrooms, cleaned
• One water-damaged wall, partially restored
• One picture, reframed and hung
• (assorted kitchen equipment mildly damaged during picture restoration)
• One graduation gift, completed (photos above)
  
• One trip to the pool, planned for noon, accomplished by 4:30
• Six chicken thighs and assorted summer squash, marinated, cut up, and grilled
• One family, reasonably satisfied with the day
  

weekend update

Mariah and I spent the long weekend (ours started Thursday) in Boston and environs. I had a conference, she wanted to look at colleges. It seemed we could do both, and we (mostly) did. The conference was huge, but the children's lit papers were good and it was helpful to get some feedback on my paper and catch up with some folks. We were in a great location, too--we could walk to the things pictured here.

The Make Way for Ducklings Statue

The Swan Boat (made famous, at least for us, in The Trumpet of the Swan.)

It is a great pleasure to travel with Mariah, who loves children's literature as much as I do, and who took all the pictures here.

True graffiti:

On Sunday we had a little blogger meet-up with Becca and her daughter M before we had to get on the plane to come home. That was truly lovely; we'd met before, Becca and I, but in our pre-blog years, and it was great to catch up in person. M and Mariah hit it off instantly, and Becca and I fell into the kind of conversation you have with a friend you know well but don't see often enough. A perfect end to a great weekend.

I'm sure there's more to say--about the waitress who snapped at me, "When I get to it, OK?" when I asked for more water, about the cabdriver who spent the entire drive to Logan airport motioning as if to run his hands through his hair, but three inches above his head, about the good talks we heard, the great food, the lovely (if surprisingly warm) weather--but you'll just have to imagine it. Mariah's back at school (the attendance lady called to tell me she wasn't, though she actually was), and I've got so much paper piled on the dining room table that the table is invisible. Sigh.

maybe this is only funny to me

Apparently not everyone's been paying attention to the altered rhythms in our house lately. As we got in the car to go to school this morning, Nick said to me, "Where's your bag?"

"I'm not going in to the office, so I don't need it."

"Oh. Is your school out already?"




(Graduation was May 14.)

more on boys and danger

Jody over at Raising WEG has a great post about the title and marketing of The Dangerous Book for Boys. Of course she's right, and I'm sorry I didn't really address it in my earlier post. I was interested in thinking about danger and kids in general, and the way that has played out with my particular kids--which has gender implications, but I didn't raise the implications of the book's title itself. It is, as Jody says, a problem to suggest that only boys are interested in dangerous stuff, or that you're not a boy if you're not interested in dangerous stuff (or not a girl if you are). So go read her; she's smart about it.

I was also thinking about stereotypes and gender yesterday when I went to the last of Nick's four dance performances of the weekend. (I was also backstage mom for one, and went to the second one with the rest of the family.) The kids were spectacular. For the opening and finale there were 700 (give or take) kids on stage, all dancing more or less in synch. They smiled, they clapped, they stomped and turned and bounced and swayed. I loved every minute of it, and as far as I could tell so did they. Nick liked it so much he's trying out for the advanced program, which involves a lot more ballet technique (and a lot more performance).

So on the way out I was more than annoyed to hear this exchange between parents. There were two couples, and the mom from one said to the dad from the other: "Wouldn't you be proud if your son got picked for the ballet?" Only, from her tone, it was clear that she didn't think he would be--that, in fact, it would be somewhat embarrassing to have a boy in the ballet. She followed up a minute later with, "well, ballet and soccer, I guess they balance each other out." (Doesn't she know soccer is European, and European men aren't manly, either? Oh, never mind...)

How you could walk out of the performance we'd both just seen and assume that somehow dancing wasn't quite manly enough for boys stymied me. (Never mind that nine- and ten-year-old boys hardly ought to be aspiring to manliness anyway...)

Luckily Nick doesn't think dancing isn't manly. Well, he wouldn't: his tae kwon do instructor, whom he reveres, danced with the ballet for years. And breaks cinder blocks with his hand. Take that!

Mother Talk Blog Bonanza: Danger!

Yes, here I am, participating in another blog bonanza, related to another book I haven't read. (Disclaimer: the MotherTalk Blog Bonanzas are linked to topics raised by certain books in the news, but not necessarily to the books themselves. So the not reading thing shouldn't be an issue.)

Anyway. I've been thinking a little about boys and danger lately, mostly because Nick has had two black eyes and more than a few bruises and scrapes in the last three weeks. This came as a shock to me because he was my cautious baby. Mariah threw herself into things as a little one: she started walking at ten months, before she really knew how to stop. So she fell a lot, she ran into things, she tripped. And she got back up again, and again, and again. We had a tall metal slide near our apartment in LA, and I remember my dad being shocked at how boldly she climbed up it, grabbed the overhead bar, and flung herself down it, thumping her feet HARD as she came down.

She did break a wrist doing something similar in our basement a few years later, but for the most part she was fine. And at some point she became a little more cautious, a little more like her mother.

Nick, though, was slow to walk, and careful when he did it. He looked behind himself when he sat down, making sure he had a clear spot. He crawled downstairs backwards, carefully. We did have an emergency room visit with him, but it was pneumonia, not a broken arm. Because he was such a careful kid, we stopped worrying about him, stopped insisting he wear a helmet when he scootered or skateboarded, let him play outside with friends without supervision. (And yes, we live on a reasonably busy city street--it's not New York, but it's no suburban cul-de-sac, either.)

Somehow, though, he's gone the other way from Mariah: as she got more cautious, he got less so. Is this a gender thing? Or did her early risk-taking teach her fear and caution, while his early caution gave him confidence? In either event, I've seen a range of behavior from both kids, none of it so terribly dangerous that it gives me pause, though some of it might not quite pass muster with the safety police. Since I grew up playing in a vacant lot (where, yes, I did once get snagged by barbed wire and need a tetanus shot), walking to school by myself, and riding the bus to the end of the line for fun, I wish for more freedom for my kids, not more rules. So far they seem like they can handle it.

(The book I'm --loosely-- talking about here is The Dangerous Book for Boys, by the way. I'm intrigued, I must admit...)

On buying bourbon at mid-day

Mark didn't think it was a good idea, going into the ABC store at mid-day, but I thought it was fine. Growing up in New York I remember Mom putting a bottle of scotch or vodka into the cart along with the rest of the groceries--there it was on the shelf, and it was no big deal to buy a bottle now and then. When we lived in LA the Safeway across the street from us sold "Fresh Fish" and "Liquor," according to the signs outside--to us it always looked like they were advertising "Fresh Fish Liquor" and we used to refer to our occasional booze purchases as such. Buying booze at the grocery store seems so wholesome and normal.

The ABC store, though, with its haze of stale cigarette smoke and even staler regrets, does feel a little seedy, especially at mid-day. But I wanted bourbon for a marinade (really! 1/4 cup each bourbon and low-sodium soy sauce, 2 tbl. brown sugar--a great marinade for two one-pound pork tenderloins) and I braved the atmosphere. There was a well-dressed guy in a bow tie picking up some good gin, and I brought my bourbon to the counter proudly, ignoring the tiny bottles of schnapps that sit next to the counter, like packs of gum in the grocery store. Does anyone just throw a couple into the cart at the last minute, as they might the gum? I don't know.

So all was well until I went to sign the electronic signature pad, and my signature came out looking like I had the shakes. I tried to laugh it off: "my signature always looks terrible on these things" and the clerk said "everyone's does" with a mixture of condescension and, um, was it derision? Did he think "everyone" had the shakes? Doesn't he know my signature looks just like that at the grocery store, too? (Where, sadly, they don't even sell beer and wine, let alone bourbon or fish liquor...)

But even that would have been ok. I know, after all, that my signature always comes out weird on those things. Backing out of the narrow parking lot--really, just keeping my foot on the clutch and rolling--I was thinking more about my signature than the telephone pole which I, therefore, bumped. Rather gently, but still. It's pretty scarred up, that telephone pole.

I guess a lot of people are buying bourbon at mid-day.

Black Belt

Here's Nick receiving his black belt yesterday, after his successful test. Even before he tested, he had to submit two essays on martial arts topic for approval. Here they are:

VITAL SPOTS & THEIR USES
by Nick

What are vital spots? Vital spots are the unprotected parts of your body. They are also more sensitive than other parts therefore you are caused more pain when you are hit in a vital spots.

The main reason for martial artists to know vital spots is so they can get away from a fight before they get hurt too much. Martial artists use vital spots because we're not in a fight to hurt somebody, we're in a fight because we were attacked and we want to get away as soon as possible. This means we hit somebody so we can run away before we get hurt too much. I know that sounds like cowardice, but "He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day." Also vital spots are different with different weapons (empty hand, blunt weapons, etc...). With a blunt weapon, you would aim for the bony parts of the body, such as skull, top of the hand, knee, or top of the foot. But with something with a sharp edge, say a sword or dagger, you would aim for the fleshy parts, such as stomach, bicep, or thigh. With empty hand you can aim for both. If you're using a palm strike you aim for blunt weapon vital spots, but if you're using a punch, you aim for the sharp weapon vital spots. This may make vital spots sound confusing but you only need to know the main ones, such as: solarplex, shin, chin, nose, and ear.

Meditation
by Nick

What is meditation? There are at least two different kinds of meditation, but martial artists only use one. The kind we use is used to stimulate chi or ki (energy*).

When meditating, you are supposed to clear your mind and relax. But there's more to meditating than sitting down and closing your eyes. There is a proper way to meditate and an improper way to do it. The proper way is to sit up straight, have your hands palm up in a giving/receiving position, with your tongue at the roof of your mouth. Breathe in seven counts, hold it four counts, breathe out seven counts, hold it out four counts. Also when meditating, you should breathe through your lower diaphragm, meaning when you breathe in, your stomach inflates and when you breathe out, your stomach deflates.

Meditation is to relax your mind, but also to focus your body. When you meditate before your martial arts practice, it will help you loosen up even though your body is still focused. This combination of relaxation and focus is what you need to stay calm so you're able to keep control of your movements and aim your strikes.



*Chi is important to martial artists because it helps us focus but it also is our energy, and how would we defend ourselves without energy?

bad mother award

Nick went to school last week with a black eye. He got it playing baseball out in the front yard with the neighbors. It was a plastic ball--something like a whiffle ball--but he got it right in the eye at close range. Mark and I were in the back yard and heard screaming, and it took us a minute to register that it was 1) Nick and 2) pain. Mark ran out of his shoes as we both pounded up the sidewalk to find out what was going on. We got ice right on it and it subsided after really only a day or two of bruising.

This evening Mark and I were in the back of the house and we heard a pounding on the front door. Nick has a habit of going out the back door and then pounding to be let in the front, and I was a little annoyed as I walked up to let him in. He almost fell inside, dropping his scooter on the front porch and holding his hand to his cheek. I had him in the kitchen for ice before I asked him what had happened. Face plant while attempting a trick on the scooter. Ouch. I felt bad for being annoyed when I heard the pounding.

The ice seems to have kept the swelling over the eye down, again, but the road rash on his cheek is --well, it's there. It's big. It stung when he showered and it'll definitely be there for a few days, maybe even until his dance performance next week. Let's hope not. I had a little thought that maybe some safety equipment while scootering would be in order...but then again, how do you protect your face?

(Nick says, "I'll definitely look like a settler, not like a Londoner." His dance performance tells the story of the Jamestown settlement. I think he'll be ok.)

is this thing still on?

I know, I know. I never post anymore. I don't write, I don't call.

But the grading, it is done (all but the final, no more changes, actually turn them in bit). And I can again turn to my life.

The only thing is, I'm much more interested in blogging about books than about my life. My kids' lives are increasingly their own and not mine to talk about (I know, they always were, but somehow this feels different), and I'm now an academic on sabbatical rather than a working mom (again, as soon as that button is pressed), so I'm feeling a bit...blogged out about life.

I may do a few MotherTalk things here and there, and probably some posts about food (now that I have time to cook again) but mostly I think I'll be over at the other blog for a while.

on the X-chromosome...

I think Natalie Angier had a lot of fun with this article. Just check out this one paragraph:

Yet the X chromosome does much more than help specify an animal’s reproductive plumbing. As scientists who study the chromosome lately have learned, the X is a rich repository of genes vital to brain development and could hold the key to the evolution of our particularly corrugated cortex. Moreover, the X chromosome behaves unlike any of the other chromosomes of the body — unlike little big-man Y, certainly, but also unlike our 22 other pairs of chromosomes, the self-satisfied autosomes that constitute the rest of our genome, of the complete DNA kit packed into every cell that we carry. It is a supple, switchbacking, multitasking gumby doll patch of the genome; and the closer you look, the more Cirque du Soleil it appears.

Little big-man? Gumby doll? Cirque du Soleil? What's going on inside me, anyway?

A lot, it would appear. Fun piece.

MotherTalk: Fearless Friday

Today is MotherTalk's Fearless Friday, a blog bonanza in recognition of Arianna Huffington's book, Becoming Fearless. I've been thinking all week about fearlessness, trying to come up with a good story of when I stepped out of my comfort zone, took a risk, challenged my usual fears.

I'm a pretty timid person, it turns out.

That is, I'm physically pretty timid. I didn't learn to ride a bike 'til I was 12, never really got into sports, still feel awkward on a dance floor. I heard a colleague speak the other day about her love of extreme sports and I gaped open-mouthed at her as she spoke. Launch myself down a mountain with thin pieces of wood (fiberglass? plastic?) strapped to my feet? Jump off a mountain, or out of a plane? Forget it.

It's not really that I fear pain--though I do, I think, have a healthy instinct for self-preservation. It's more about looking foolish, about humiliation, about failure. One way or another I think the fear of failure has motivated me more often than I like to admit in my lifetime. One can achieve a certain measure of success by fearing failure--I do tend to do the things I do rather well. But the older I get the more I realize that without risk is no true success. I urge my students to try harder things; I ask for edgy thesis statements, even if they're wrong, rather than the safe ones they all (we all) aim for at first. I ask for experimentation rather than regurgitation, exploration rather than recapitulation. And I am trying, increasingly, to practice what I preach.

I think I talked about this earlier this year, when I got my green belt. But it really goes back much further. Being a parent, for me, is all about living with fear. There are the productive fears of birth defects and accidents that have us complying with our prenatal care routines and installing car seats. These don't, we know, guarantee "success," but they help us cope. Then there are the unproductive fears--of strangers, of random violence, of the unspeakable--that we simply can't allow to control us, though events occasionally bring them to the fore. We can, of course, convert those unproductive fears to something useful by taking on a cause, by urging change. I watch Elizabeth Edwards, who has faced one of my greatest fears--the loss of a child--and now can gracefully face her own mortality, seemingly fearlessly, at least in part because she has something to work for. And my own efforts at fearlessness seem timid and small in comparison, but they're what I've got.

Becoming a parent is teaching me fearlessness. I will fail, I do fail. We all do. But it's in our hard-earned failures, not our easy successes, that we grow.

drive-by

I'm feeling a little frazzled with the normal end-of-semester stuff. Both kids have stuff they are doing at the end of the year, too (though they still have almost two months of school left) and so it's busy. Not flat-out busy, just not-quite-on-top-of-things busy. (Don't even ask me about the taxes. They're done, but --well-- let's just say I made a somewhat expensive mistake. Sigh.)

I did, however, get to see Lilian the other day, and to meet her husband and see her lovely kids. Sorry it wasn't longer--that would be me with the busy-ness again--but I'm really glad they took the time on their way home.

I'm also just loving the occasional rehearsal where I get to watch Nick dance. This is just so awesome I can hardly stand it. Mandatory dance class for fourth graders--do you just love it? (I do, so if you don't, you can just be quiet about that.)

The weather is almost too hot but I hear it's cooling off (and raining) later today so I'm going to be quiet about that, too. Especially after complaining about the cold, which I maybe (in a rare show of restraint) didn't do on the blog but I've certainly done out loud more than once. Shh.

The weird thing about being busy is these random bits of unscheduled time. They don't feel long enough to start anything important, but they're too long just to completely veg out. Perhaps this is where blogging comes in.

what to say?

It's been a surreal few days. Sunday a neighbor reported on a mugging in the neighborhood--no one was hurt, but the mugger waved a gun and that's always scary. Monday I came in to the office and one of the women who works in my building told me a dreadful story of a pickup truck driver run amuk. Twice the guy nearly killed her, speeding and running red lights. Looks like he might have killed someone else instead. Then of course the news came from VA Tech. Because I live in a cave, I didn't hear until mid-afternoon, when a friend walked in to my office and said, "So, we're not ever sending our kids to college, right?" But here we are on a college campus, a campus not that far from Blacksburg, a campus --like Tech's-- noted for its safety, its security.

We are not safe. We mostly don't think about how not safe we are, because if we did we'd be paralyzed. So we do what we need to in order to protect ourselves --get out of the way of the speeding truck, choose the lighted streets and a couple of companions when we're walking home, park under a streetlight, lock the doors-- and then we try to forget why we're doing it. Every now and then we are reminded.

In Blacksburg everyone's been reminded, just as in Baghdad, Darfur, and Chad, everyone's been reminded. Just as we were reminded in 2001, and again on New Year's day 2006. It's not a safe world. But if we act on fear, if we allow it to take over, we allow ourselves to be diminished. The stories that I have most wanted to read from Iraq and Darfur have been about ordinary people living their lives --NPR did a lovely one by an Iraqi translator whose wife was pregnant, for example (sorry, can't find a link). They live their lives.

Jo(e)'s candles help. The student reporters at VA Tech help. Teaching, and talking, and writing, help.

Thinking Bloggers

(cross-posted at the other blog)

One of my favorite bloggers has awarded me a Thinking Blogger award--thanks, Caroline!

So now I get to pass it on. And there are lots of blogs that make me think, but many of them have already participated (some twice!). So here are some I haven't seen yet:

• Becca's posts at Not Quite Sure are about mothering, baking, reading, the Red Sox, music, and whatever else she feels like, but they all make me think.
• Tricia, of The Miss Rumphius Effect, focuses mostly on children's literature and teaching future teachers. She has an encyclopedic knowledge of books useful in classrooms, and always thinks about interesting things to do with them.
• Julius Lester's Commonplace Book is a wonderful blog, filled with his original photos, his thoughts about reading, writing, and living, and--right now--a lot of terrific guest posts about books changing lives. I am still working on my response to that one.
• I read the Yarn Harlot whenever she updates, and it's never often enough. Even if you don't knit, you'll love Stephanie Pearl-McPhee's way with words (and, occasionally, with Mr. Washie. Check it out.)
• Writing as Jo(e) has great pictures and wonderful stories about teaching and raising kids.
  

(And if I can add a nepotistic sixth, I'll suggest you check out Dad's blog, too! Beowulf, writing, gardening, libraries, words, he's got it all.)

So, now, here are the rules to keep this thing going:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think,
2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme,
3. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (here is an alternative silver version if gold doesn't fit your blog).

Finished Object

I've been reading up a storm--more details on that in the other blog. But I also finished the big knitting project I've been working on since February. Wore it Friday, in fact.

Details, for those who care:
The pattern is Marilyn's Not-So-Shrunken Cardigan, from The Garter Belt. (Also on the designer's (Wendy Bernard's) website, Knit and Tonic.) Slight modifications in that I knit garter stitch borders instead of hemming the bottom and sleeves. It's knit top-down, in the round, on a circular needle for the body and double-pointed needles for the sleeves. The ruffle is crocheted on when it's all done.

The yarn is Blue Sky Alpaca's Alpaca Silk, in blue. I think I used about six skeins. In fact, I have a skein left over, and it's just so soft, I've got to use it for something lovely. But not right now.

Hip Mamas

I'm afraid I'm too old to be a Hip Mama, but my little sister (!) isn't: check her out here, with her essay "The Cookie." (mmm, cookies!)

(Note: the Hip Mama site can be a little slow; be patient!)

door to door

Have you ever sold stuff door to door? I haven't. The closest I've come is cold-calling for newspaper subscriptions, something I did very briefly when I was just out of college and my job didn't pay well enough.

I was terrible at it. I agreed with the people who hung up on me, the people who listened politely and said no. I hated to do it. In fact, I was supposed to cold-call in my day job and it was always the last thing on my to-do list, the thing I "forgot" to do all week long, the thing I most hated.

I'm an introvert, after all.

But the door-to-door kids are something else. They have their spiel, and they seem to do it reasonably well. The last one I listened to had a great line: you don't need these books or magazines, he told me, so my dad has arranged for the children's hospital to get them instead of you. You're making a charitable donation and helping me get to college (or Disneyland, or whatever it was). He was so persuasive, I told him to come back if he didn't make his quota. He did, I guess-- I haven't seen him again.

Tonight a young woman knocked on the door. I was making dinner, and Nick came to get me. He'd peeked through the door curtains and seen her-- it's one of those kids selling magazines, he told me. I opened the door and, before she could start her spiel, told her I was making dinner. Maybe you could come back later? I said as I closed the door.

Will she? I don't know. I do know that I feel bad when I tell these kids--all of them are black in my neighborhood, and most of my neighborhood is not--that I can't afford their products. I can, of course. I choose not to. I choose to get my magazine subscriptions more cheaply, more directly. I choose not to help them with whatever it is they think they're getting.

I've read some horror stories lately about the door-to-door kids. Should I invite them in, ask me to tell them their real story? I don't. I close the door and go back to dinner prep. But I worry.

Random Bullets (and pictures) of Easter

• Easter is my favorite holiday, I think. I love the springtime, for one thing; Easter usually means flowers and light, even if (as it did Saturday) it snows. I wish I'd gotten a picture of the snow on the dogwoods, but it was almost melted by the time I thought to get out the camera.

• Snow may actually have been appropriate. After all, Easter is about rebirth, resurrection, life out of death. The brief blanket of snow on Saturday reminded us that we weren't quite there yet.
  

• We had the world's best houseguests with us again. It's becoming an Easter tradition, almost--they were with us two years ago for Easter, anyway. (There were only three of them then.)

• Caroline made this fabulous lemon cake, which involves boiling and pureeing whole lemons but still didn't look like too much work. She says she'll post the recipe soon.

• As often happens, we started our meal planning with dessert. Then we bought various things and made them, and we turned out to have a pretty great Easter feast. For example:

Roasted spring vegetables: asparagus, shitake mushrooms, shallots, broccoli. There were green beans, too, but they were on their own plate and were not photographed. And then there were potatoes.

• There was also a pork tenderloin (sorry, no photo) for the carnivores among us, roasted with garlic, olive oil, and rosemary. Yum.

I realize I've never photographed the rosemary filoncino before. So here it is now.

• And one more dessert: Mariah's first chocolate guinness cake.
  

• I had to show her how to use the bottle opener. How does one get to be 17 and not know how to use a bottle opener? (I know, I know, twist-offs. And she doesn't drink soda. Or, apparently, beer.)

• Nick has the flu, which slowed him down somewhat for Easter festivities. He stayed home from church Sunday morning, but I brought him treats from coffee hour and his cousins shared their egg-hunt goodies with him. Still, he was pretty pathetic. And today when I got him to the doctor we learned that tamiflu is only effective if started within 48 hours of the onset of the flu. Since he really came down with this Friday afternoon, no go. The pediatrician told us he'd seen four cases today; apparently the flu vaccine only lasts four months, so people vaccinated in October and November are now susceptible. Which puts the rest of us at higher risk as well. Great.
  

• Our houseguests are on their way home, and Mariah and Mark are off to do some college visiting this week. Nick will be hanging out with me. (At home, mostly; see above.) I think we'll be eating leftovers all week. Anyone want to come over for cake?
  

Good Friday

Hot Cross Buns, from The (1975) Joy of Cooking
(these are better than the much more complicated ones on epicurious, by the way. Nigella has fancy ones, too, but these--which are basically the Joy's Parker House rolls with a few additions--are easy and delicious.)



PS: we have no phone or internet at home right now--and until Easter Monday at the earliest. I'm posting from the office. Sigh.

Back

I got back from the fabulous conference on Sunday, but it's been go go go since then. Am I really too busy to notice I'm busy? I did actually watch the NCAA men's final on Monday night, and I went to bed early last night (cause-effect?). (And, with no cable, I couldn't watch the women's final...)

I'm prepared for my classes, the house is reasonably clean, and the kids are fed. But I have a sense of looming deadlines (this may actually be illusory) and much to do. My desk is a mess. But maybe I just need to turn around, look away from the computer, and move through the day. Yes, that's the ticket.

On my way

I'm off to a conference this afternoon. I'm having the usual pre-travel jitters: how early do I need to be there? Is the conference really this weekend? Really in Nashville? (Somehow I keep thinking maybe it's in Memphis and I've bought the wrong tickets. I haven't.) Will my paper go all right? Will anyone be there to hear it?

Am I really this needy a traveler? I look at my ziploc bag full of liquids and gels. Is mascara a gel? And why is my little bag so full? How many hair products do I need for four days, anyway? (Don't answer that, especially if you see me every day...)

I try to relax. I remember that I like to travel alone.

I like to travel alone. And I like coming home, too.

Spring (ish)

Last year I started talking about the cherry tree outside my window on March 22nd. It had bloomed the day before, and then snow had fallen. I got pictures on the 28th. More importantly, I posted Dad's cherry tree sonnet on the 25th.

Last Friday the tree outside my window was black and stark against the sky, though it was a lovely warm day. This morning it's chillier, but the tree is blooming.

Here's one of last year's pictures. The camera batteries are (surprise!) dead again.

a forgiving cake

I made the chocolate-banana cake the other night. Or, I meant to. I started making it, and then realized I didn't have enough sour cream. Ah, well, no worries--I had buttermilk. So about 1/3 of a cup of each seemed to do the trick.

Then I was out of cream before I got the icing made. So I stretched that too, with some milk. I ran out of vanilla (didn't I just buy vanilla?), but I had almost enough, so I just let that one go.

Then I was somehow just, well, stupid, and I had the oven 100 degrees higher than I was supposed to. 425 instead of 325. I figured that one out when I smelled burning instead of bananas after about 25 minutes.

Guess what? The cake was fine. A little crispy on top, but perfectly fine, and done 20 minutes earlier than expected.

Gotta love a forgiving cake recipe. But, hmm, why am I not baking all my cakes this fast? There must be a catch...

49% Yankee

My parents will be disappointed, but at least I haven't gone completely over to the other side.

Take the Yankee or Dixie quiz here

[link fixed 3/21/07--sorry about that!]

St. Patrick's Day baking

I guess most people drink (green beer?) for St. Patrick's Day, but I bake. On top, Nigella's chocolate guinness cake; below, easy Irish soda bread (no caraway seeds).

Our neighbors have a St. Patrick's Day party every year, which gives me an excuse to bake. (We won't discuss how most weekends I have no such excuse, but bake anyway. I have started to notice how much butter I've been buying and I've decided...not to notice any more.)

A few notes from the weekend:

• the cooking class Nick took is paying off. He made chocolate chip-banana muffins this morning. Now if he could only do so without waking me up first!
• it is actually possible to watch basketball for over eight hours straight. I'm not sure it's a good idea, but it's possible.
• knitting while watching basketball improves both activities.
• I am working on a sweater. I last made a sweater with sleeves about twenty years ago, for Mark, before I had heard of the sweater curse. (I'm not the Libby cited in the article, but my story is similar.) Mark's sweater was too short and too wide, and the sleeves were too long--it might have been a nice fit on an orangutan, but it really didn't work for him. Still, he wore it once or twice and only recently asked if he could give it to Goodwill. So anyway this sweater is for me, it will have sleeves, and I am just a little nervous about it.
  
• we got to watch the VCU game at the party. The hometown crowd got very excited as regulation ended and we had tied it. You haven't lived until you've watched a hometown basketball game on TV with about a dozen ten-year-old boys. I think my hearing will come back eventually.
• having baked the cake there are still five bottles of Guinness left in the fridge. Somehow I don't think they'll go to waste.
  

awesome

In a rare all-family outing, we went to see/hear/feel the Kodo drummers last night. Everyone loved it.

by the way

If you haven't read the comments on this post yet, you probably should. (I read blogs using google-reader, which I love, but I do miss out on comments unless I'm reminded. So this is for other feed-readers, mostly.)

quick spring supper

Remember this? Of course you do. You read, thought "ick," and moved on. Fine, then. (Actually, apparently some people didn't, including a recent commenter. Thanks, Misti! )

The other night I did something a little different, only a little, and somehow I know it doesn't sound quite as weird. So maybe you'll try it.

Really it's almost the same as the first one. Whisk together 1/2 cup olive oil, juice and zest of a lemon, and a lot of garlic (I think I used about a tablespoon) in the bottom of a large pasta bowl. Boil up a pound of long skinny pasta--linguine works well. Fry up some bacon (or, in my case, microwave some turkey bacon--I used six slices). Finely grate 1/2 cup to a cup of parmesan.

Toss a clamshell package full of baby spinach leaves in the pasta bowl with the dressing. Break the bacon up into bite-size pieces and toss that in, too. When the pasta is done, drain it and toss it with the salad. Sprinkle parmesan over, toss again, and serve.

See, doesn't that sound good? Now go and try the sausage one another day. It's really pretty much the same thing.

Here's what I saw...

..on the way to work at 7:30 this morning:

• a half moon, hanging brightly halfway up the sky
• daffodils in the across-the-street neighbor's front yard
• a jogger vaulting over the next-door neighbor's recycling, awaiting pickup on the curb
• more daffodils
• a well-trimmed bush, lit up red, green, and gold with Christmas lights
• even more daffodils
• my toes, peeking out from my sandals, hoping the weather-guessers are right and it will warm up today
  

parenting boys, parenting girls

I read another one of those posts, recently, about how easy it is to parent boys, about how they're just puppies and you just throw them outside periodically and that's all there is to it. (To be fair, I think the post went on to talk about how the writer had re-thought some of that.) I'm not linking to it because 1) I don't really remember where I read it and 2) there are so many of them and 3) I'm about to get nasty about it so I don't want to link to any specific person. There.

Even when I read it, I had to disagree. But I know so many people who say the same thing, or something similar! So many women who, secretly or not-so-secretly, yearned for sons during their pregnancies, or when they dreamed of children. They said it was because boys were easier, or because boys are less complicated, or (my favorite, really) because there's no love like a son's for his mother. I remember hearing this one from a colleague when our kids (her boy, my girl) were both three or four, and her son jumped in her lap at a party and told her he loved her. The fact that my daughter did the same thing routinely was somehow not considered evidence of her superior love for me.

Forgive me if this all sounds like internalized misogyny. Why are girls the "difficult" and "complicated" ones? Tell me, for example, who gets in most of the fights in the world. Who wrecks the most cars, starts the most wars, rapes the most women? Still thinking boys are uncomplicated and easy?

Now, before you jump up and down on me: I don't hate men. I'm married to one, sister to two, daughter to one, and mother to a son. I love them all, and I have great colleagues and friends who are men, too. (They may stop speaking to me soon, but I still like them.) Most men, like most women, are neither violent nor cruel; nonetheless, patriarchal privilege still (mostly) exists, and still (mostly) tells boys/men they can do things girls/women can't or won't do. This can, of course, make parenting girls hard: it's hard to deal with institutionalized oppression, even if we don't call it that, even if it doesn't always seem like that's what it is. It's hard to deal with airbrushed pictures in magazines, eating disorders, manipulative clique-ishness, and all those aisles of pink toys in the toy store. But not harder, I'd submit, than dealing with a culture of violence, with airbrushed pictures in magazines, bullying, and all those aisles of guns in the toy store.

I have a son and two nephews who hardly fit the "puppy" model of parenting I outlined above. They are sweet, sensitive, weird (in a good way) little kids who can be both rambunctious and kind, who are fascinated by both cooking and firetrucks. In this they are not all that different from my daughter as a younger child: they are complex and interesting, and I look forward to seeing them grow up. They're certainly not the same as the girls they know, but easier? Harder? I just don't see how the terms apply.

well trained

I was awakened at 5:30 this morning by an absence: Anna the cat, who usually wakes me up at 5:30, was not yowling by my pillow or jumping on my feet. I lay there for a few minutes wondering whether I should worry, then I got up and looked around for her. No sign. Back in bed, I lay there imagining all the places she might be. Finally at around 6:00 I got up and made coffee, and by the time it was brewing Anna was twining herself around my legs looking for breakfast.

Because, you know, why not get that extra half hour of shut-eye while your well-trained human gets herself moving in the morning?

Sigh.

Before the memory fades

I made the onion soup from a recent NYTimes Sunday Magazine last weekend. (edited to fix the link: thanks, Lilian!) I knew I wanted to make it as soon as I saw it; we had really great French onion soup while in England--the kids surprised themselves by loving it despite the onions--and I had wanted to make it ever since. Usually in restaurants it's too salty, as Mariah and I have discovered to our disappointment, so I looked with favor on a recipe that wasn't based on (salty, salty) beef stock. And then Becca said S. made it, and I knew I had to do it, too.

It did not disappoint. Well, Nick didn't eat it. He objected to the consistency, which is much, much closer to pudding than soup, it's true. But the rest of us just loved it, and I ate it for lunch twice this week, and it was still good. And it's really, really easy. (Though I may just need these goggles. In the old days, when I wore contacts, chopping onions never made me cry. Then I had lasik surgery, and I can see when I wake up in the night, or in the morning, or under water, but not when I chop or even cook onions. I sliced these in the food processor and had no problems, but the 15-20 minutes while they were cooking all by themselves was worse than reading Bridge to Terabithia.)

Sad Books

SuperBowl Sunday. We're sitting on the couch, nine-year-old Nick between Mark and me. I'm knitting, Nick is reading; only Mark is giving his full attention to the game. At some point, I look over Nick's shoulder and see the arresting illustration from Bridge to Terabithia: a silhouette of Jess's father holding his shattered son, who has just learned of his best friend's death. I put my arm around Nick.

"It's sad there, isn't it?"

read the rest over at LiteraryMama.com

(cross-posted at the other blog)

More on Moms Rising

Check it out.

Oh, yeah, the New York Times caught on, too. Cool. (Should I be annoyed that it's in the Fashion & Style section?)

Who is the Tooth Fairy? And why does she have pesos?

Last night, around 10 p.m., a voice from Nick's room. The light is out; he's supposed to be asleep.

"I need a tissue..." trailing off.

I bring him one.

"Thanks, Mommy."

"Why are you still awake, Nick? It's late."

"It's my loose tooth. It's really hard to sleep with a loose tooth."

"Well, try to ignore it and go to sleep, OK?"

He can't. Through hard work and concentration, he manages to pull it out. The tissue is bloody; he is triumphant. We get the tooth wrapped in a (clean) tissue, and placed in a small box I find on my dresser. (There used to be a little gingham pillow for the tooth fairy, but who knows where it is now?) He rinses out his mouth, marveling at all the blood, and returns to bed. But before I leave the room:

"Mommy, S. and J. think your parents are the tooth fairy."

I shrug. He looks at me, hard.

"Mommy, tell me you're not telling me that you're the tooth fairy."

I can answer this honestly. "I'm not telling you that I'm the tooth fairy."

"I think maybe some kids' parents are the tooth fairy. But I know you aren't. You didn't even know there were golden dollars until I got one from the tooth fairy!"

"That's right, I didn't." [small lie]

"M. thinks her mom is the Tooth Fairy because once she asked her if she wanted Russian or American money. But I wouldn't care, because I don't spend the money the Tooth Fairy brings. Unless it's quarters!"

"Good night, Nick!"

After several more such exchanges, I turn the light out again and he settles down.

=======================
My alarm goes off at six. It's dark. I tiptoe into Nick's room with a 2000 peso bill (um, that may have been a mistake. The currency converter tells me it's worth $181. 458. Can this really be? Why has it been sitting in my jewelry box for untold years? Can I possibly get it back?) and four quarters in my hand. No time to get another golden dollar late last night.

I slip my hand under Nick's pillow. He's in the top bunk, and I can't reach to the far end of the bed. He shifts, and I duck down, hoping he doesn't see me. Can't feel the box. I try again; he shifts again; I leave.

=======================
After my shower, I try again. I write a left-handed note (Nick can identify hand-writing now) from the Tooth Fairy.

Dear Nick, Where is your tooth? I heard that you had lost it while I was travelling in Mexico, but I can't find it in your nest. Please leave it again tomorrow night. Love, T.F.

I wrap the note around the bill and leave it under his pillow, figuring I'll work out how to get him the quarters somehow tonight. I'm afraid he sees me, but I creep out and dress.

=======================
As Mariah and I prepare to leave the house for her bus, Nick comes down the stairs, looking sleepy and distraught. I ask him if the Tooth Fairy came and he bursts into tears.

"I couldn't sleep all night! And I wanted to write the Tooth Fairy a note, so I took the box out from under my pillow, and then I saw Daddy with his hand under my pillow! But I don't want Daddy to be the Tooth Fairy!"

The tears fall freely now. I sit down, mouth to Mariah that I'll take her to the secondary bus stop (this buys us ten minutes), pull Nick onto my lap.

"Nick, I can promise you, Daddy is not the tooth fairy. He couldn't be! He didn't even know you lost your tooth--he was asleep when you lost it. Do you think maybe you dreamed it?"

"No, I know I saw Daddy. Or I think I did. I felt a hand under my pillow, and I saw a face, and I thought it was Daddy. And I don't want [voice rising to a wail] I don't want Daddy to be the Tooth Fairy!"

"Nick, where's the box now? Did you check to see if anything happened? Was there anything under your pillow?"

"I put it under the lamp on my dresser. But then I put it back under my pillow, just now. I didn't look in it. I don't want Daddy to be the Tooth Fairy!"

Mariah is sympathetic, takes over with Nick while I go upstairs to see what has transpired. As I walk upstairs I hear her reassure him that Daddy is not the Tooth Fairy.

I look into the bedroom, give Mark a quick update on the situation, and come back down with the box (grr! If I'd only known he'd put it under the lamp!) and the note. He is taken aback by the note--and the bill. He reads it slowly.

"See, Nick?" Mariah says. "She did come. That note's not from Daddy."

We have to leave or we will miss the bus at the secondary stop, and I don't have time to drive her all the way to school this morning. More hugs, more kisses, while Nick begins to explain to Mark (who has just made it downstairs) what has happened.

===========================
In the car, Mariah finally laughs. She's been holding it in. But it's a kind laugh, a nostalgic laugh. "He's so cute!" she says. "I don't remember it being that big a deal for me." She thinks she's convinced him that he had a dream, that there was no Daddy with a hand under his pillow.

============================
Not long ago--maybe last Easter?--Nick figured out that I was the Easter Bunny, but insisted that I was neither Santa nor the Tooth Fairy. He saw his grandmother accepting thanks from Mariah for a present clearly marked "from Santa." He asks, and then he rejects the answers if they aren't what he wants. How long can this go on? How long should it?

Motherhood Manifesto

Caroline's been watching movies again, and thinking about them. Here's a taste of her latest column:

Bread making, like childrearing, isn't particularly complicated. The ingredients are cheap, the process is simple. But they both require time and attention. Childrearing of course wants very focused time and attention; it can't be squeezed into intervals of free time like bread making.

meta

I awoke this morning from a dream in which I was transcribing a dream.


(Alas, I do not remember the dream I was transcribing.)

birthday cake

What happens on the baker's birthday? In my case, people say to me, "You shouldn't have to bake your own cake." They take me out to dinner. They ply me with gifts.

These are all good things, don't get me wrong. So last night we went out to dinner, to a lovely spot where--for some reason--cake was not on the menu. (The choices were chocolate mousse, apple crisp, and banana creme brulee, which seems to be the "it" dessert of the moment: it's been on the menu everywhere lately. I had the crisp.) Last year we had Japanese for my birthday dinner--again, not really a cake kind of a cuisine.

This is all fine. But today I baked a cake. Because, if I want cake on my birthday (or thereabouts) (and I do), I'm not only going to have to bake it, I actually want to. I like my cakes. I like to bake. Where's the problem here?


(Mississippi Mud Cake, from New Recipes from Moosewood Restaurant, aka "The White Moosewood.")

Valentine's Day

As usual, I'm not quite up to speed for Valentine's Day. Nick went to a cooking class (!) Saturday, and decided to make the peanut butter brownies for his class, so he did not do the laborious one-valentine-for-each-child dance. (Score!) I have a little something for the family later, but it's still a secret. And I teach until dinner time, anyway.

Still, we'll talk about (bad) marriages in Dickens in my Victorian literature class, and we've got intriguing family dynamics in the writing class readings for this week as well, so that'll be fun.

And if Valentine's Day is really all about sharing the love, here are two opportunities:

One, the Camel Bookmobile: check it out! This is a project sponsored by the fabulous Masha Hamilton--her novel of the same title comes out later this spring. This is a great project to bring books, as Masha says, "traveling through the remote desert on the arched backs of camels, like notes from another world sealed in a bottle and tossed into a sea." Share some.

Two, Save Darfur. I know, you've heard about it on the news or read it in the papers, and it seems too big, too intractable a problem. Last Sunday, though, I heard the Rev. Lauren Stanley, Episcopal missionary to the Sudan (currently unable to serve there due to the violence) speak about her adopted country and people. And she says signing the petition really can make a difference, that the Sudan really can be helped by American support and American prayers. So sign the petition, send it to some more folks, and spread the love. It's a start.

Breathe

I called the nice lady at the insurance company the other day to add Mariah to our auto policy. We talked for a while about which car she would drive, and what coverages we should increase, and then I agreed to give her all our money, and it was all fine.

As we hung up, she congratulated me on having a new driver in the house. "I have two boys," she said. "For a while you just hold your breath a lot, but then you let it out."

***

So Mariah drove on her own today for the first time. She called me when she got where she was going. It is only ten minutes away and she's driven there with me many times, but we both wanted to know she made it there safely. And I breathed again.

***

Earlier this morning I went to a funeral for the 23-year-old daughter of a colleague. (No condolences for me, please. I didn't know her, and the colleague isn't someone I know well, though she's been kind to me over the years. But no one should bury a child without as much support as possible.) The daughter in question was, all agreed, a handful. She was living in a group home when she died in a freak accident. I wondered how often her mother had held her breath, waiting to know how she was, where she was, who she was with. And I knew she'd rather still be holding it now.

in the grocery store

I don't usually take Nick to the grocery store if I can help it. There's usually too much dawdling, too much wheedling, too much...everything. It's just quicker and easier to do it myself. But there we were together yesterday, and he was terrific, really. He did find things to stand and look at, and a notebook that he just had to have, but he put it carefully in the cart and announced that he was paying for it. (He has money left over from Christmas.)

As I was unloading the cart at the checkout, I noticed him looking through the candy selections. Nothing unusual there. Every now and then he'd hold one up and ask if I liked it. I have a pretty reliable sweet tooth, but nothing looked that good to me, and I said so. He put a box of Junior Mints (movie-snack-size) on the belt anyway. When I gave him a look he said, "I'll pay for them. They're for everyone to share."

"Why do you want to buy candy for everyone?"

"Well," he explained, "I have money burning a hole in my pocket. And usually when that happens I buy something just to spend the money, and then I'm disappointed. So I thought if I bought something for everyone to share, I'd get the fun of spending the money and I wouldn't be disappointed. I think that's what you should do if you have money burning a hole in your pocket: buy something for everyone."

I couldn't argue with that. The Junior Mints came home with the rest of the groceries.

Skipping Parent-Teacher Conference Day

Nick has no school for teacher conferences and he's coming to class with me. I'm not going to see his teacher. This is the second conference of the year, the second one we've missed. Poor Nick: this sounds like classic second-child treatment. But it's really not. We know his teacher (she taught Mariah seven years ago) and we see her in the mornings when we drop him off, as well as on the occasional afternoons when she accompanies the kids outside for pick-up. We e-mail with her. She knows us, and we know her. We have casual daily contact, and that gives us a lot of confidence about what's going on when we're not there.

But even if we didn't, I'm not sure we'd get a whole lot from the conferences. Neither does Emily Brazelon, and she has an interesting idea (not original with her, but still) about how to make them better. One thing that's missing from the article: the cost of missing work to attend a conference. Can everyone afford to take a personal or sick day to meet with their kids' teacher? (Of course, if that Texas legislation had passed, one could weigh that against the cost of missing a conference: a $500 fine! Now that's a solution...)

slightly cockeyed cupcakes

I started knitting these cupcakes from One Skein before Christmas, as a gift for my foodie nephew. And then I just couldn't stop! He got four, then I made another one and gave it to a friend who seemed to need some whimsy, and then...well, actually, then I was commissioned for four more! That was fun. So here they are, a little off-kilter but very amusing. Each one takes me 1-2 hours to knit (someone really skilled could certainly do it more quickly) and they use up odd bits of yarn so nicely. Funny, I very rarely make real cupcakes, for all the baking I do; somehow they seem to be all about the icing, and I'd rather just have cake. But knitted cupcakes, now they are satisfying.

Random Bullets of Monday

• These waffles really are that good. (No, I didn't make them on Monday. It was Saturday, and I'm still happy about them.)
• What was with the commercials yesterday? OK, Coke had some beautiful visuals, and the Snickers ad was…something. But GoDaddy.com? Please. Stop. Please, I beg you.
• On the other hand, bad commercials made for more knitting. I'm working on a fabulous scarf (sorry, can't find the link!--edited to add: found it!) and it is so much fun.
• I don't like getting up in the dark. That is all.
• How can February be the shortest month? It already feels long.
• Read this if you're skeptical about "virtual reality." Or if you're not.
• And read this, too. We had a dog in the 70s-80s whose mother was a Lab, and whose father was (best we could guess) a Scottie. For some reason we didn't go around touting her as a cool hybrid (a Scotador?). In the article cited (which, yes, Jenny Davidson linked to first, and to the one above as well) the details about pugs are particularly, um, revelatory. And not in a good way.
• I'm sitting with my back to the window and there are patches of light falling on the wall in front of me. Shadows of the steam from the radiator are racing up the walls, steam that is invisible when I turn around and face the blinding light from the window. Maybe getting up early isn't quite so bad.

I love my LYS

(Local Yarn Shop, that is.) The Yarn Lounge is a fun place full of nice people, good advice, and great yarn. And they take better pictures of my stuff than I do (scroll down).

In Memoriam, Molly Ivins

The tributes are all over the internet. Becca has one, and Dawn, and of course Dr. B. has one with lots of good links. The pictures are great, aren't they? And the stories. I hope the stories keep coming.

[Edited to add:] They do keep coming: here are a few more, from Susan (great picture!) and Caroline and Elizabeth.