One Thanksgiving morning my cousins and I engaged in a debate over the importance of eating breakfast. I had slept over at my cousin Connie's house, and, as our central preoccupation involved the quantity of food we would be able to consume at the afternoon feast, we were concerned with how eating breakfast would impact our ability to gorge ourselves later. It was determined that, contrary to our gut feeling, eating breakfast would actually enable us to eat more of our Thanksgiving dinner, because the morning meal would stretch our stomachs. Fasting would only hinder our gestational goals.
Remembering this debate, I am struck by how, as children, we approached Thanksgiving with the sole goal of becoming full. How we approached the day with the will and desire to feast on the things that were offered us. As an adult, my approach to Thanksgiving has changed. Achieving fullness takes a back seat to food preparation, calorie counting, and making polite conversation with company.
I'm glad that Thanksgiving is more than just a day to consume vast quantities of food. But still, I wonder if there aren't lessons to learn from my childhood approach to the day. Lessons like deprivation only promotes deprivation. Lessons like viewing the table set before you as abundant and enough to satisfy. Lessons like the only way to achieve fullness is to partake of the things that are offered to you here, now, today.
The difference between feast and famine is so often perception. The bounty of our table is so easily diminished when we focus our gaze on our neighbor's spread or await in vain the more elegant entrees that will be served next year. The difference between living an empty or a full life depends less on what our life contains and more on our attitude toward and about those things.
My table is so full. And I hope to approach it in the same eager way my childhood self approached the Thanksgiving table. So I'll loosen my belt, take an extra helping of mashed potatoes, and squeeze in that third piece of pumpkin pie. But first, I've got to eat breakfast...
Happy Thanksgiving!
Recently I heard a poem on NPR written by Elizabeth Bishop that I really liked. I checked out her anthology at the library and had Bubba read the poem as well, convinced that he too would like it. To my dismay, he not only disliked it, he strongly disliked it. He thought it was the most depressing, awful thing he had ever read. This awful poem, titled "Breakfast Song", reads:
My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue.
I kiss your funny face,
your coffee-flavored mouth.
Last night I slept with you.
Today I love you so
how can I bear to go
(as soon I must, I know)
to bed with ugly death
in that cold, filthy place,
to sleep there without you,
without the easy breath
and nightlong, limblong warmth
I've grown accustomed to?
—Nobody wants to die;
tell me it is a lie!
But no, I know it's true.
It's just the common case;
there's nothing one can do.
My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue
early and instant blue.
Okay. I'll give him that it may be depressing. But the funny thing is, he recently purchased a song on iTunes that seems strangely similar in tone to this poem. The lyrics, in part, are:
She says "If I leave before you, darling
Don't you waste me in the ground"
I lay smiling like our sleeping children
One of us will die inside these arms
Eyes wide open, naked as we came
One will spread our ashes round the yard
My question is: is there a material difference between these two? Is it reasonable for Bubba to despise one and cling to the other?
And, more importantly, who do you think is right?
Riding on cars with boys - Yesterday after I dropped Bubba off at work, I was driving down Hohman Avenue (a fairly busy thoroughfare), and noticed that there was a woman sitting on the hood of the car driving next to me! The sight of a woman nonchalantly perched upon the hood of a moving car made my think, "what the?," and then I immediately called Bubba to have someone to share my incredulity with.
Goose on the Loose - I don't know if geese lawn ornaments are endemic to Northwest Indiana, but I certainly don't recall ever seeing so many of these lovely home accents anywhere else. My favorite part is that people actually dress these ceramic geese when the weather turns cold - take, for example, this specimen decked out in witch hat and cape. I'll know I'm really turning into a Hoosier when I purchase one of these geese for our own doorstep.
Free? Credit Report.com - Who would have guessed that checking your credit report on freecreditreport.com isn't really free? Okay, probably most people. Maybe the company's catchy jingle lulled me into stupidity and forced me to skip over the small print, but I swear when I checked both mine and Bubba's credit reports on the site I didn't see anything about enrolling in a $14.99 per month credit protection program. So, our free credit reports ended up costing $30 and a very annoying phone call to cancel our membership in the program. Stupid misleading jingle.
Mixed-up Marquee - The message on the marquee for Munster Christian Reformed church has me all confused. It reads: "Christ will turn you life "upside down" - displayed upside down. Does this baffle anyone else? I do not think the sign means what they think it means. To me, the phrase "upside down" connotes catastrophe - as in, "our finances are upside down," or "the divorce turned her life upside down." I think the better phrase to use here would be "rightside up." Unless, of course, I'm missing something. Maybe I'll have to attend the service to find out...
Let me see your toilet roll - Why is Henry completely fascinated with throwing things into the toilet? The other day I went in the bathroom to find this - a brand new roll of toilet paper soaking in the toilet. I swear the thing weighed 10 pounds and had absorbed about 2/3s of the the water. It wasn't as bad as the day I went in to see him dipping Bubba's toothbrush into the bowl and then brushing his teeth. Yuck! Now that's something that really makes me go hmmm.....
If the question "Play cars?" doesn't fill you with a sense of impending dread, then you've probably never been the parent of a two-year old boy. Like many boys before him, Henry has recently developed an obsession of sorts with playing cars. I categorize his affinity for the activity as an obsession because his requests to play cars are insistent, persistent, and resistant to the suggestion of any other activity. I have been awaken in the morning more times than I care to count by Henry thrusting a matchbox car into my hand and pleading "play cars?"
So, how does one "play cars", you ask? The activity sounds harmless enough. Normally all it involves is sitting next to Henry, holding the car he selects for you, and scooting the car around the ground. Henry is quite deft in detecting the difference between when I am just sitting there and when I am indeed moving the car around. If I disengage for only a moment, he'll instantly notice and demand "play cars!"
For me, playing cars is like watching a sporting event: I enter a sort of time-warp where the minutes pass slower than I thought humanly possible. I tell myself, "yes, I can play cars for 20 minutes with Henry," and after engaging in the activity for what seems like hours, I look at the clock and only 5 minutes have passed.
Despite how boring I find playing cars, I really think it is good for Henry. It seems to be an activity that exercises his imaginative and verbal skills. He talks a lot when we're playing cars. He'll say funny things like "Hey car, what you doing?", or exclaim "Oh no, my wheels hurt!" when a car turns over. Playing cars is definitely better for Henry than just sitting on the couch watching the tube all day.
If only I could convince myself it's good for me, too.
I just received a call from a very polite gentleman informing me that I'd won a $1000 gift card.
He informed me that I was eligible for the prize because I have either a Mastercard, Visa, Discover, or American Express card. All I had to do was confirm which of the cards I carry and verify the card number....
I have a feeling I'm really going to enjoy spending that $1000....
This Labor Day weekend we enjoyed a little slice of heaven in Yachats, Oregon. Bubba's mom discovered the place several years ago, and they have been vacationing there ever since. From the pictures below, you can see why. It is absolutely breathtaking!
My stomach felt firm today. It felt almost the way a pregnant abdomen should - tight and round and swollen. It's not the way my stomach has felt for weeks - soft and squishy, like the Pillsbury Doughboy's. It seems I noticed the softening almost immediately - the pregnancy test came back positive, and then my stomach went soft. I guess you could say that was the first sign of life.
The difficult thing about the first trimester of pregnancy is the absence of signs of life. The uncertainty that, yes, you are harboring a life within you. Sure, I've had food aversions and nausea and extreme fatigue. I've experienced the bouts of absent mindedness they say accompany pregnancy - I locked myself out of the apartment and left my wallet at Target on the same day. Surely these are signs of something, but life? They seem more to be indicators of my imminent and sure demise.
Nausea and fatigue and food aversions aren't enough. I want more certainty. And so at my pre-natal appointment, as the doctor runs the monitor across my abdomen, I silently, urgently plead: "detect a heartbeat, detect a heartbeat." And for a moment there is nothing, and the doctor mumbles something about sometimes not detecting a heartbeat until the 12th week, and then, there it is, the rhythmic whooshing of the Doppler, providing audible waves of relief. "It's a good, strong heartbeat," the doctor declares, and I like the sound of it so much I repeat it in my mind. A good strong heartbeat. There's an almost certainty in the detection of a good, strong heartbeat.
As a pregnancy progresses, the signs of life increase. I've already begun my nightly treks to the bathroom. At night I am surprisingly alert, and I find myself remembering my first pregnancy - living in a studio apartment in London, padding and then later lumbering down the glaringly bright hall to the community toilet. The toilet was in a room no bigger than a small closet - and the window was always open, leaving the seat cold against my thighs. And then back to our room, with the blue drapes that covered the window at the head of the bed, drapes that provided surprising insulation from the cold London nights and the ceaseless drone of ambulance sirens. I, with hands on the insulated incubator that was my stomach, would wait patiently for a sign of life, and then...
Movement. Such a curious, alien, wonderful sensation, to feel your baby move inside you. Such a certain, positive sign of life.
And so I wait now for those next signs of life, accepting my expanding waistline as assurance that the life within me is indeed still there. Even still, every now and then I find myself drumming my fingers against the tabletop, ta-tum, ta-tum, ta-tum, mimicking the rhythm detected by the Doppler, hoping that that heartbeat remains as constant and steady as my own.
I didn't want to like it. I don't know why, exactly, but I considered myself immune to its appeal. I was one sucker who wouldn't be sucked in by a teen-vampire romance. But, the truth is, I finally read Twilight, and I liked it. A lot.
My sister Traci described Twilight as literary junk food, and I think she's right. You know how it is when you pop the lid to the Pringles canister or tear into a package of Oreos - you can't stop eating them, those empty-calorie, high-sodium, trans-fantaculous, utterly irresistible treats. That's what reading Twilight was like - once I cracked open the spine of the paperback book, I couldn't put it down. I brushed aside the book I was currently reading - The Post-American World - a real meat and potatoes kind of book - and feasted my eyes on something far less nourishing but infinitely more enjoyable.
I think I've been too hard on Stephenie Meyer. The truth is, Twilight won't win the Pulitzer Prize, but still, it takes a lot of talent to create a compelling story. In fact, it's been a long time since I've read a book that I didn't want to put down. It's been a week since I finished Twilight, and I'm only on page 105 of the aforementioned Post-American World. I think I was on page 75 when my task was interrupted by Twilight. Sorry, Fareed Zakaria. The decline of America's dominance as a superpower just isn't as compelling as Bella and Edward's love life.
I may not finish The Post-American World. I've heard there are a few more chronicles in this vampire series, and you know how it is with junk food: once you pop, you can't stop.
Monday night the greater Chicago area (that includes little old Munster) was hit by a severe wind and thunder storm. Having grown up in the deserts of Utah, I have been impressed by the sheer amount of water a Midwest storm can produce. This storm was particularly damaging. Fortunately, the only damage we sustained was almost 3 days without Internet, cable, or telephone service. As you can see from the pictures below, others in our neighborhood weren't so lucky:
The front left blinker on our car isn't working. I don't know how long it's been broken, but I suspect it occurred around the time the rodents attacked our electrical wires. Because the day I picked up our car from the mechanic and turned the blinker to signal left, the clicking sound was going double time.
I realized the blinker wasn't working last week when I was turning left at a four way stop. My blinker was clicking at double time, and it was my turn to go, but the woman in the car across from me gave me a nasty look when I turned. So I inspected the blinker and, sure enough, it's not blinking.
Since I've discovered this defect, I've become a paranoid left-hand turner. Sometimes I try to compensate for the defect by rolling down my window and signaling my intention to turn by hand, like this:
Only, when I signal by hand, I'm not on a bike, and my arm is not so straight and direct. Actually, I'm pretty embarrassed about signaling by hand, an embarrassment which leads me to only roll the window half way down, and to weakly thrust my arm out of the window. This sorry attempt at signaling left doesn't seem to be working.
It's funny, because before, when I didn't know that my left front blinker was broken, I had a lot more confidence when turning. I was blissfully unaware of the fact that my double-time blinker wasn't really signaling anything to anybody. It's a discovery of sorts to find out that the message you were trying to broadcast isn't being sent at all. And it's made me think about other signals we send each other, not when driving, but when communicating, and how at times they can be terribly misread.
For example, when I first moved to London, I became friends with two women in my ward. All three of us confided in each other that we were hoping to become pregnant soon. Shortly after, the first woman announced her pregnancy, and shortly after that I announced mine. But the third woman remained announcement-free. As the months and the pregnancies progressed, I noticed that this third woman seemed a little withdrawn. As me and the other woman happily discussed our pregnancies, her face looked sour and pained. I read her behaviour as evidence that she was saddened that she too was not pregnant. So I avoided talking to her about anything baby-related.
And then, months later, she confessed to us that she was pregnant, almost four months along, but hadn't said anything because she had had some complications and was worried that the pregnancy was not viable. And suddenly, I had to rewrite history and correctly decipher all those signals she had given over the past few months.
There is an older gentleman who lives in the building next to ours who is usually very friendly to us. Lately he has started commenting that he thinks Henry needs more room to run around. I usually smile and concur with this statement. Then, a few weeks ago, he asked me quite bluntly if it isn't time we bought a house yet. I smiled and said nothing, instead of asking him in return if it wasn't time he minded his own business. To put the final nail in the coffin, a few days ago he actually stopped us and told us that he had found a house for rent a few streets over, and strongly urged us to consider renting it.
What is this man trying to signal to us? It is very possible that he is just trying to be kind and helpful. But I have a hard time not interpreting these messages as intrusive and rude. Why does he seem so intent to drive us out of our apartment? Are we annoying neighbors? Or is he sincerely concerned about our welfare? I don't know.
I guess people, like cars, sometimes have faulty wiring. It's not always possible to determine what, exactly, they are trying to signal. All those nasty looks that were cast my way when I thought my left blinker was indicating my intention to turn were cast in vain. Because I DID think I was signaling left. So I guess I should give my neighbor the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he's trying to signal left and doesn't know the wiring's disconnected.
The conversation Bubba and I had this morning while I drove him to work reminded me of something my sister Traci had told me about the 3 most offensive words in the English language. She had taken some sort of psychology or sociology course in college, and her professor had actually spoken these 3 offensive words in class. And I was reminded of them today, because (although Bubba may protest), we were both in kind of foul, early-morning, grumpy moods, and because we used all 3 words in our communication with each other this morning.
So... prepare yourselves. Because I'm about to recreate part or our morning dialogue, and it might get a little offensive.
Here goes:
Bubba: (As I am slow to notice the traffic signal's change from red to green) "You ALWAYS are slow to go after the light changes."
Bubba: (As I ask him for his American Express card, because I reported all of my cards lost or stolen last week, because my wallet(which was quickly recovered), could not be located for a few minutes) "You SHOULD have waited before you cancelled all of your cards."
Me: (Feeling unjustly harassed) "You NEVER say anything nice to me!"
What? You're surprised? You were expecting some profanity? You see, the 3 most offensive words, according to my sister's college professor at least, aren't what you would expect at all. If you really want to excite your partner, if you really want to escalate an argument, skip the swears. "Always," "never," and "should" will do the trick.
Think about it. How many times have you almost flown off the handle because your partner says you should lose some weight? Or you should keep the house clean. Or you never clear the dinner table. Or you're always late picking him up from work. Or you should be making more money. Or you never help with the baby. Or, etc, etc, etc.
I think the reason these words are so offensive is because they immediately cause the receiver to go on the defensive. None of us is consistent enough to always or never do something. So I always am slow to go after the light turns green? What about that time last month that I ran the red light? Huh? How bout it? That time I was so fast, I didn't even wait for the signal to turn.
And none of us like to be told what we should do. Because, the truth is, we probably know it without being told.
The funny thing is, these 3 words don't have to be the most offensive. They could just as easily be used to mollify a situation, to show concern and sympathy. When's the last time you told your husband that he's been working so hard, he should just kick up his feet and watch t.v? When's the last time you heard that you always look beautiful? Or were told that you have never cooked a bad meal?
I'm still not completely sold on the idea that should, never, and always are the most offensive words around. But, it might be useful to avoid using these words as much as you might avoid using other profane words. Because if used too often in the wrong way, they might be more damaging than those other 4 letter words.
"Nakee" in his toy basket
Coloring with friends Ian and Easton
Carpeted Kitchens - Why was carpet ever considered an acceptable flooring option for a kitchen? It's one of those interior design ideas where form trumps function - only the form stinks. The only condition I can imagine where a carpeted kitchen would be a good idea is ... okay, I can't think of one. It is never a good idea - especially when you reside with a toddler who finds crunching crackers into the floor an immensely pleasurable activity.
The only thing worse than a carpeted kitchen is a carpeted bathroom - and believe me, I'd know since we've had the privilege of living in apartments with both. (For more evidence of the ills of carpet, read http://janelwilliams.blogspot.com/2008/05/who-put-carpet-in-bathroom.html).
Gas Prices - What's worse than paying $3.89 for a gallon of gas? Paying $4.09 for a gallon of gas. Last Tuesday, the price of gas at the gas station we patronize jumped 20 cents in one day. Who did kill that electric car?
Two-piece bathing suits - I hold nothing against two-piece swimsuits - especially my own body. Which is why I can't understand why every single swim suit I saw at Target was a 2 piece. Am I the only seeker of swimwear who doesn't want to expose her abdomen? Does no one else have something to hide? Give me some other options, please.
Having a new-born is perhaps the closest most women will ever come to being a celebrity. When you enter a room with an infant in arms, it is usually to the accompaniment of a chorus of "oohs" and "aahs". Shoppers at the grocery store kindly smile as you navigate the cart with baby aboard down the aisles. At the airport,you get to board the plane first; on the bus, fellow passengers readily offer you their seats. At restaurants or shopping malls you become accustomed to receiving adoring compliments from passing patrons. You know the compliments are directed at the baby, but you relish in them as if they were intended for you. The kindness of strangers is overwhelming, abundant, and extremely gratifying.
I was recently at Navy Pier with my family. Henry was tired of being confined by the stroller, and so we let him out to stretch his legs. He immediately took off, racing past the shops and restaurants, and I dutifully pursued him. As I captured him in my arms, I noticed a young couple watching the scene. Expecting the kind remarks I usually receive from strangers,I wondered what compliment they might offer me. Perhaps they would remark on Henry's astonishing speed. Or maybe they would comment on the adorable way his long, blond hair fell across his beautiful face. As they approached me, I eagerly awaited their praise, only to become crestfallen when the man smiled and said, "Now that's good birth-control."
What has happened to the kindness I have come to expect from strangers? I have begun to notice a change in tone in the way people respond to me and my toddler. At the grocery store, shoppers' smiles are increasingly replaced by looks of sympathy, or worse, unsolicited advice, as I struggle to contain Henry, and our groceries, in the shopping cart. The last time I boarded a plane, I noticed many of the passengers look down as I proceeded down the aisle, uttering urgent prayers that we were not their assigned row-mates. At the library, as Henry races about removing books from shelves, I can sense the librarians perceive him as at best an annoyance and at worst a threat.
My brief-lived near-celebrity status is coming to an end. As a mother of a toddler, I am more often viewed with the pity that one has for Brittany after her custody battle or Lindsay after rehab.Of course, the kindness of strangers has'nt disappeared completely, although its intensity has become somewhat diluted. It is the frequency, not the quality, of the compliments that has changed. As Henry becomes a full-fledged toddler, he can be more adorable than he ever was as a new-born: he can give big bear-hugs, laugh and smile, and even attempt to say "I love you." But with these new developments also comes kicking, biting, and full-on temper tantrums.
As far as I'm concerned, these difficulties are a small price to pay as I watch Henry's personality emerge and develop. But with the terrible twos fast approaching, I'm aware they'll more likely be heralded by the dissonant symphony of kicking and screaming than the adoring "oohs" and "aahs" from strangers.
...your son's favorite toy is a disembodied stuffed bear called Little Bear. You can't decide whether to be amused or disturbed by the fact that Little Bear has to turn the pages when a book is read, eat at the dinner table, and take walks with the family.
Henry enjoying the Budget's pool
"Much madness is divinest sense, to a discerning eye", and so begins a poem by Emily Dickinson in which she illustrates the fine line that exists between sanity and lunacy. Certainly many brilliant ideas initially sounded like the product of an unsound mind: antibiotics, flight, the inter-web, the entire family of Ronco devices. Bubba has an idea of his own that has led to an on-going debate between us over which side of the sanity line it falls. His idea? The Catapult.
The Catapult was originally conceived among Bubba's friends (ie, the Clann) in high school. The concept is a little blurry and changes over the years, but the basic gist is a Clann owned restaurant/hang out that would cater to the college crowd and serve specialty donuts and hot chocolate (preferably Steven's Gourmet Hot Cocoa). A catapult would in someway be central to this dining institution, whether by design (the building would be in a shape of a catapult), by function (customers would receive their order via catapult), or some other yet to be imagined way.
Bubba is especially fascinated with the concept of food service via catapult. When I have, quite sanely, pointed out that this method of food distribution would be disastrous, he's suggested that other creative methods could also be considered. Alternative solutions include, but are not limited to, service of food by conveyor belt or the implementation of tube-technology similar to that of drive-through banking.
To whom does the discerning eye belong? I have always claimed to possess it, arguing that establishing a restaurant based on a novel means of food distribution is doomed to fail. But the opening of an "automated" restaurant in Germany may force me to forgo my claim. The restaurant, called Bagger's, is described as "automated" because it doesn't employ any servers. Instead, customers order their meals on table-top touch screens. Their orders are then moved from the upstairs kitchen to their tables via gravity operated ramps. Below is a picture of the joint, and I have to say, it looks pretty cool.
Maybe Bubba was right. Maybe one day the Clann will run a successful hip hang-out. Then I'll not only have to eat food served via catapult, I'll have to eat my words, too.
