I picked up the diocesan Catholic newspaper last week because the front page featured a large photo and article about Monkey1's school's "Culture Day." She had gone to school that day out of uniform, wearing a traditional cultural dress of Germany called a dirndl (well, not a real dirndl, but simplified, made in a week, and close enough for the situation), and she came home with a little passport book stamped with several different countries she had "visited" and learned about that day. Apparently in Germany on the first day of school, the children receive a paper cone stuffed with treats. After school, Monkey1 shared with Monkey2 the remaining sweets, but the paper cone became much a coveted item. Seriously, it was a half circle of paper, taped into a cone!
I leafed through the newspaper, skimming the articles, but was caught by a quarter page ad announcing a pilgrimage trip to Rome for the beatification of Pope John Paul II. I had to read it several times. Really? He was about to be titled "Blessed"? He died the week before Monkey1 was born. I had "met" him at two World Youth Days, Rome in 2000 and Toronto in 2002, but as a Catholic reporter had been watching his comings and goings all during my twenties. However, I was a reporter by job only; off hours, I did not follow the news or breathe current events. So when I left television, radio, and print media behind, I lived under a safe rock while I raised two babies at four different addresses in two and a half years.
However, as the Monkeys skip off to school, or drag their feet as I stuff them pajama-clad into the car, the world seems knocking again. I need to know things so I can inform or protect my children.
Of course, the next issue of the weekly Catholic newspaper featured a phone app on the front page. Yup, slow news week. Somehow I don't think I missed that much living under a rock.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Extended
Car in the shop. Nothing in particular, just the 100,000 mile checkup, 7 weeks and 2300 miles late.
"Nothing in particular" came to quite a long list of things actually, when the shop called me an hour later with an estimate. Gulp.
"Should I itemize it out for you, so we can do some today and some of it later?" the mechanic asked me.
"No, do it all today!" I answered.
So at 2:15 I was dragging Monkey2 out the door to catch the city bus, to get Monkey1 from school. We made the bus and made the transfer, the right bus number but the wrong direction. I called the school while waiting to catch a bus back to the transfer point, to tell them I was having car trouble, taking the bus, "But it's going to be awhile... put her in Extended Day." Hopefully Mom not arriving would be a survivable trauma.
An hour after I had expected to arrive, Monkey2 and I reached school. I ran into a friend who pointed out, " 'Extended' is the thing they always beg for... I bet she's loving this." For children with prompt pick-up parents, Extended Day, the after-school care, is the holy grail. For children whose parents can not come at the usual school dismissal time, Extended Day is detested.
Indeed, Monkey2 had hated staying for Extended Day when I was coming back from Classical Conversations with Monkey1. She had called it "staying all week."
Monkey1, while glad to see me, had obviously had a wonderful time with her unexpected stay at Extended. Even better, we snagged a ride back to the auto shop with one of her classmates, comfortably sandwiching three kids in appropriate safety seats in the middle row of a SUV.
At the shop, no doubt impressed at my financial dedication to my nine-year-old 100,000+ mile car, the mechanic said he was looking forward to seeing it roll over 500,000 miles.
"Sure, why not?" I asked.
When I got in the Golf, I remembered why not... Monkey1 and Monkey2 are running out of leg room and putting their feet through the front seats.
"Nothing in particular" came to quite a long list of things actually, when the shop called me an hour later with an estimate. Gulp.
"Should I itemize it out for you, so we can do some today and some of it later?" the mechanic asked me.
"No, do it all today!" I answered.
So at 2:15 I was dragging Monkey2 out the door to catch the city bus, to get Monkey1 from school. We made the bus and made the transfer, the right bus number but the wrong direction. I called the school while waiting to catch a bus back to the transfer point, to tell them I was having car trouble, taking the bus, "But it's going to be awhile... put her in Extended Day." Hopefully Mom not arriving would be a survivable trauma.
An hour after I had expected to arrive, Monkey2 and I reached school. I ran into a friend who pointed out, " 'Extended' is the thing they always beg for... I bet she's loving this." For children with prompt pick-up parents, Extended Day, the after-school care, is the holy grail. For children whose parents can not come at the usual school dismissal time, Extended Day is detested.
Indeed, Monkey2 had hated staying for Extended Day when I was coming back from Classical Conversations with Monkey1. She had called it "staying all week."
Monkey1, while glad to see me, had obviously had a wonderful time with her unexpected stay at Extended. Even better, we snagged a ride back to the auto shop with one of her classmates, comfortably sandwiching three kids in appropriate safety seats in the middle row of a SUV.
At the shop, no doubt impressed at my financial dedication to my nine-year-old 100,000+ mile car, the mechanic said he was looking forward to seeing it roll over 500,000 miles.
"Sure, why not?" I asked.
When I got in the Golf, I remembered why not... Monkey1 and Monkey2 are running out of leg room and putting their feet through the front seats.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Pews in Time
So the school morning routine goes like this three mornings a week: drive to school, park, get both Monkeys out of the car with their backpacks, walk along the sidewalk as far as the church entrance, kiss Monkey1 good-bye on the hand (as in The Kissing Hand book), and let her walk to the school entrance as I turn off into the church entrance with Monkey2. In the warm building, Monkey2 and I sit on the sofas by the parish office and read books for until the doors to the preschool open, 20-35 minutes later, depending on our arrival time. Walk around to the preschool side of the building, remind Monkey2 through her morning arrival routine: flip over her name tag (attendance), put her snack bag in the basket, empty backpack of any folders or papers to be delivered, put her coat and backpack in her cubby, and play. I always tell her good-bye, but I'm not sure she'd notice if I did not.
Today was the Feast of St. Blaise, and a school Mass day. Monkey2 and I watched the students file in the church, the younger classes paired with older classes. The kindergartners each have a sixth grade "Buddy" that sits with them during Mass, someone that will be with them until First Communion at the end of second grade and the then eighth grader graduates off to high school. Monkey1 beamed and waved at us, and excitedly pointed us out to her Buddy, who politely smiled and waved at us also.
Mass started, and I walked Monkey2 over to preschool, and then came back, ducking in at the back. So many years ago, I sat in pews up near the front, wiggling in a school uniform under the watchful eye of teachers (nuns, brothers, and laity) and a guitar-playing nun principal, and no doubt my mother sat in the back pews with other parents and the daily Mass crowd. Today, different uniforms, no religious as teachers, and the guitar accompanying the day's Mass was held by the many-hatted middle school math teacher/ parish youth minister/ father of one of Monkey1's friends. But it's the same... except I'm the mom now.
Today was the Feast of St. Blaise, and a school Mass day. Monkey2 and I watched the students file in the church, the younger classes paired with older classes. The kindergartners each have a sixth grade "Buddy" that sits with them during Mass, someone that will be with them until First Communion at the end of second grade and the then eighth grader graduates off to high school. Monkey1 beamed and waved at us, and excitedly pointed us out to her Buddy, who politely smiled and waved at us also.
Mass started, and I walked Monkey2 over to preschool, and then came back, ducking in at the back. So many years ago, I sat in pews up near the front, wiggling in a school uniform under the watchful eye of teachers (nuns, brothers, and laity) and a guitar-playing nun principal, and no doubt my mother sat in the back pews with other parents and the daily Mass crowd. Today, different uniforms, no religious as teachers, and the guitar accompanying the day's Mass was held by the many-hatted middle school math teacher/ parish youth minister/ father of one of Monkey1's friends. But it's the same... except I'm the mom now.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Obi
Even in preschool, Monkey2 has homework. Each Thursday she brings home a little bag with a letter attached, and Monday she has to return it to school with an item beginning with the new letter of the week. This weekend we are to find the letter "O."
She has decided she will bring "Obi."
Alas, not Obi Wan Kenobi.
From her description, an Obi looks remarkably like the gecko we saw last week at the zoo. Except he is "small, like me, my size" she says. The gecko was small, but definitely not her size. Her Obi's size is in comparison to Ana's Obi, which is quite big.
Ah, the fantastic friend Ana. Ana lives in Paris, sometimes. Ana has done everything, seen everything, knows all about everything. Ana, with her Obi, lives on the beach, with a house near a palm tree. Monkey2 showed me a picture of the beach, from an REI Adventures catalog, on the Family Trips page: Costa Rica. Monkey2 insisted that we must go today to get her Obi from Ana's house.
After fuddling with the world map -- where is Costa Rica? -- Dad enlightened us. And he told Monkey2 that she couldn't go there because she doesn't like to sit more than an hour in the car.
"How many days of a one-hour drive would it take for us to get there?" I wondered aloud.
"A YEAR!" my husband answered.
Hopefully Monkey1's idea of a picture of "Oma & Opa" will do as second-best since Obi will be staying in Costa Rica.
She has decided she will bring "Obi."
Alas, not Obi Wan Kenobi.
From her description, an Obi looks remarkably like the gecko we saw last week at the zoo. Except he is "small, like me, my size" she says. The gecko was small, but definitely not her size. Her Obi's size is in comparison to Ana's Obi, which is quite big.
Ah, the fantastic friend Ana. Ana lives in Paris, sometimes. Ana has done everything, seen everything, knows all about everything. Ana, with her Obi, lives on the beach, with a house near a palm tree. Monkey2 showed me a picture of the beach, from an REI Adventures catalog, on the Family Trips page: Costa Rica. Monkey2 insisted that we must go today to get her Obi from Ana's house.
After fuddling with the world map -- where is Costa Rica? -- Dad enlightened us. And he told Monkey2 that she couldn't go there because she doesn't like to sit more than an hour in the car.
"How many days of a one-hour drive would it take for us to get there?" I wondered aloud.
"A YEAR!" my husband answered.
Hopefully Monkey1's idea of a picture of "Oma & Opa" will do as second-best since Obi will be staying in Costa Rica.
Tough Love Days and Nights
Wednesday night Monkey1 refused to go to bed. There was a screaming fight, and I'm surprised Monkey2 didn't wake up. Monkey1 lost "staying up" privileges for the rest of the week. Usually I put both of them to bed, and once Monkey2 is snoring, Monkey1 creeps out and I read her another chapter of "Story of the World."
...
Thursday morning Monkey1 refused to get dressed for school. She was dressed; she always dresses herself immediately in play clothes upon getting up for the day. After a few reminders, I put her school jumper, shirt, and shoes in a bag, and propelled her out the door. Once in the car and pulling out of the driveway, she realized she did not have her glasses.
"Where are they?" I asked.
"I threw them in the pink room." She knows that glasses throwing makes me mad; I don't want them to break.
"Well, when I get back home, I'll look for them."
Big tears, "But I NEED them!"
Maybe not so much if you were without them for the last half hour without noticing, I thought, but there was no way I was letting her back in the house for another show-down over who knew what.
I made her change in the car once we got to school. She complained about my choice of shirts (long sleeve vs. short sleeve) and my choice of shoes (brown Mary Janes vs. white sneakers), and both times I reminded her that if she gets dressed at home, she can make her own choices on these items.
...
Friday morning Monkey2 decided she wanted to wear her mermaid bathing suit. I have no time to search for out-of-season, not to mention too-small, clothing on a school morning, and promises to look for it after Monkey1 was at school were not acceptable. So she walked out the door this morning in underwear, a jacket, and boots. All the way down the front sidewalk to the car, she was tugging at the hem of her jacket, trying to make it longer. She refused to go back for pants. I prayed that any passing cars would not make any phone calls about the bad parent on the block. It was 20 something degree weather.
...
Hours later, mermaid bathing suit under fleece pants and shirt and jacket, Monkey2 set her heart on a "Hatchling Pterodactyl" and tantrumed about it staying at the store for 15 minutes in the car and then another 45 minutes at home. I kept waiting for her to fall asleep. The ferocity of her upsetness seemed to warrant a nap trying to overtake her, but it never came.
...
Friday night Monkey1 went to bed, then snuck down in the basement where Dad was playing video games. I took her back upstairs, trying a trick from a friend. I told her that since she didn't want to stay in her bed, I would, and she had to stand. And so she stood, in the dark, in her room, while I lay down on her bed. After awhile she admitted she was tired and wanted to be in bed. I gave her a kiss and exited.
...
...
Thursday morning Monkey1 refused to get dressed for school. She was dressed; she always dresses herself immediately in play clothes upon getting up for the day. After a few reminders, I put her school jumper, shirt, and shoes in a bag, and propelled her out the door. Once in the car and pulling out of the driveway, she realized she did not have her glasses.
"Where are they?" I asked.
"I threw them in the pink room." She knows that glasses throwing makes me mad; I don't want them to break.
"Well, when I get back home, I'll look for them."
Big tears, "But I NEED them!"
Maybe not so much if you were without them for the last half hour without noticing, I thought, but there was no way I was letting her back in the house for another show-down over who knew what.
I made her change in the car once we got to school. She complained about my choice of shirts (long sleeve vs. short sleeve) and my choice of shoes (brown Mary Janes vs. white sneakers), and both times I reminded her that if she gets dressed at home, she can make her own choices on these items.
...
Friday morning Monkey2 decided she wanted to wear her mermaid bathing suit. I have no time to search for out-of-season, not to mention too-small, clothing on a school morning, and promises to look for it after Monkey1 was at school were not acceptable. So she walked out the door this morning in underwear, a jacket, and boots. All the way down the front sidewalk to the car, she was tugging at the hem of her jacket, trying to make it longer. She refused to go back for pants. I prayed that any passing cars would not make any phone calls about the bad parent on the block. It was 20 something degree weather.
...
Hours later, mermaid bathing suit under fleece pants and shirt and jacket, Monkey2 set her heart on a "Hatchling Pterodactyl" and tantrumed about it staying at the store for 15 minutes in the car and then another 45 minutes at home. I kept waiting for her to fall asleep. The ferocity of her upsetness seemed to warrant a nap trying to overtake her, but it never came.
...
Friday night Monkey1 went to bed, then snuck down in the basement where Dad was playing video games. I took her back upstairs, trying a trick from a friend. I told her that since she didn't want to stay in her bed, I would, and she had to stand. And so she stood, in the dark, in her room, while I lay down on her bed. After awhile she admitted she was tired and wanted to be in bed. I gave her a kiss and exited.
...
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
About Cars
"So what are the good cars these days?" I asked the auto shop driver.
He looked at me carefully.
"The Golf is getting expensive to fix," I added.
The driver is also a mechanic. He is either at the bottom of the pecking order or the only one who will drive the courtesy minivan (the one with the child seats tucked in the bench seats) that ferries carless folks either back home or to the nearest metro station. I think the courtesy Cadillac Escalade has a different driver.
This driver has been ferrying us for more than three years. I can understand his accented English, he is from Bolivia, much better now. Both of us remember the time Monkey2 screamed the entire 2 miles from shop to home in the infant carrier car seat; he was quite amazed that she did not, as his children and now grandchildren, calm down as the vehicle accelerated. I also remember that he noticed the first time Monkey2 did not scream, when she was a bit older. Today he noticed I was missing Monkey1, and he rightly guessed "Kindergarten."
"For you, and the babies," (he always refers to the Monkeys as babies, to their mystification) "Nissan. Quest. Or Sentra." He went on to describe the mileage he's seen on these vehicles and the sort of maintenance required: "oil changes, tires, that's it. Easy. Good cars."
Amused, I mentioned that last summer we had rented a Nissan Armada while on vacation.
"Big? No, no, too much gas."
Well, also clumsy. My husband said it was like driving a mountain. The only part he liked about the vehicle was the back-up camera. I liked the part where I hopped out and then made him back out of the parking garage.
I promised to take a good look at the Nissan. Meanwhile, the Golf was in the shop; the car alarm had suddenly, randomly, taken to going off and then silencing itself after about a minute. During the day this was confounding enough, but when it happened at 2 a.m. in our driveway, I had to get it checked. Of course no one could figure out what the problem was, so at over 100,000 miles, this car is just developing the personality quirks of age.
He looked at me carefully.
"The Golf is getting expensive to fix," I added.
The driver is also a mechanic. He is either at the bottom of the pecking order or the only one who will drive the courtesy minivan (the one with the child seats tucked in the bench seats) that ferries carless folks either back home or to the nearest metro station. I think the courtesy Cadillac Escalade has a different driver.
This driver has been ferrying us for more than three years. I can understand his accented English, he is from Bolivia, much better now. Both of us remember the time Monkey2 screamed the entire 2 miles from shop to home in the infant carrier car seat; he was quite amazed that she did not, as his children and now grandchildren, calm down as the vehicle accelerated. I also remember that he noticed the first time Monkey2 did not scream, when she was a bit older. Today he noticed I was missing Monkey1, and he rightly guessed "Kindergarten."
"For you, and the babies," (he always refers to the Monkeys as babies, to their mystification) "Nissan. Quest. Or Sentra." He went on to describe the mileage he's seen on these vehicles and the sort of maintenance required: "oil changes, tires, that's it. Easy. Good cars."
Amused, I mentioned that last summer we had rented a Nissan Armada while on vacation.
"Big? No, no, too much gas."
Well, also clumsy. My husband said it was like driving a mountain. The only part he liked about the vehicle was the back-up camera. I liked the part where I hopped out and then made him back out of the parking garage.
I promised to take a good look at the Nissan. Meanwhile, the Golf was in the shop; the car alarm had suddenly, randomly, taken to going off and then silencing itself after about a minute. During the day this was confounding enough, but when it happened at 2 a.m. in our driveway, I had to get it checked. Of course no one could figure out what the problem was, so at over 100,000 miles, this car is just developing the personality quirks of age.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Sold
One way I get news from home is the crumpled up newspapers that are used instead of packing peanuts. The Christmas boxes brought headlines about a laundromat's new "green" dry cleaning machine, an ice hockey tournament for local adult leagues, the return of soldiers from Afghanistan, Eagle Scout achievements, upcoming gun legislation, ... it's so nice a read a small town paper again. And then a small piece from the Associated Press filled a small bottom corner: "College to move next spring." I read on with interested, though my heart lurched before finishing the first sentence, "... college is poised to move into the former headquarters of the state's Catholic church."
The state's Catholic church is the secular way of saying the Roman Catholic Diocese that geographically encompassed the entire state. (Not all dioceses are entire states; some states have so many Catholics that there are several dioceses.) The headquarters in question were an 1800-something building, an orphanage in previous generations, that looked over the lake.
I interned in that building during my college summers and upon graduation landed a full-time job there, as a reporter, television producer, web designer, and general press relations assistant. Our part of the building bridged the old and new sections, where the heat was blasting and the air conditioning non-functioning. A mouse ran under the chair I was sitting in once. Popping floor boards were attributed to ghosts, as well as lights that turned off. Though the lights may have been the former secretary of a past bishop; she had apartments between some of our offices, and if we stayed too late working she would come out and turn off our lights. On Mondays the building had a picketer, someone who had lived there decades ago as an orphan and wanted restitution for something. The weather moods of the lake were there any time we walked the many-windowed hall. My director said the lake view was the perk that compensated for the poor pay.
The people that worked in the diocesan building were as varied as any job-based television show could muster: the bishop and his dog, the confident secretaries, the bored secretaries, the too-smiling secretaries, the tiger secretaries defending their boss's door, the priests who were trapped behind a desk wishing for a parish, the priests who were better behind a desk than in the pulpit, the data entry clerks who never smiled except at the mention of their planned Disney cruise, the nervous seminarians, the multi-tasking directors, the all-talk directors, the harried handyman, the whistling janitor, ...
Where are they now? I left ten years ago this summer, so many have already retired, but some have not. With the disappearance of the central building, necessitated by around $20 million in lawsuits centering on the activities of a priest serving the diocese during the 1970s and since then formally defrocked, what has happened to their jobs, the ministries they served? I know that the department I was part of has disappeared from the website roster.
Recently I came across a T-shirt that my coworkers made me as I finished my first summer internship: "I survived ... [building name]." Survived indeed.
Now the building will have a different name, and be home to a growing small college. Better use perhaps, after all the grief some claimed it represented. But for me, the sale is... like home is gone.
The state's Catholic church is the secular way of saying the Roman Catholic Diocese that geographically encompassed the entire state. (Not all dioceses are entire states; some states have so many Catholics that there are several dioceses.) The headquarters in question were an 1800-something building, an orphanage in previous generations, that looked over the lake.
I interned in that building during my college summers and upon graduation landed a full-time job there, as a reporter, television producer, web designer, and general press relations assistant. Our part of the building bridged the old and new sections, where the heat was blasting and the air conditioning non-functioning. A mouse ran under the chair I was sitting in once. Popping floor boards were attributed to ghosts, as well as lights that turned off. Though the lights may have been the former secretary of a past bishop; she had apartments between some of our offices, and if we stayed too late working she would come out and turn off our lights. On Mondays the building had a picketer, someone who had lived there decades ago as an orphan and wanted restitution for something. The weather moods of the lake were there any time we walked the many-windowed hall. My director said the lake view was the perk that compensated for the poor pay.
The people that worked in the diocesan building were as varied as any job-based television show could muster: the bishop and his dog, the confident secretaries, the bored secretaries, the too-smiling secretaries, the tiger secretaries defending their boss's door, the priests who were trapped behind a desk wishing for a parish, the priests who were better behind a desk than in the pulpit, the data entry clerks who never smiled except at the mention of their planned Disney cruise, the nervous seminarians, the multi-tasking directors, the all-talk directors, the harried handyman, the whistling janitor, ...
Where are they now? I left ten years ago this summer, so many have already retired, but some have not. With the disappearance of the central building, necessitated by around $20 million in lawsuits centering on the activities of a priest serving the diocese during the 1970s and since then formally defrocked, what has happened to their jobs, the ministries they served? I know that the department I was part of has disappeared from the website roster.
Recently I came across a T-shirt that my coworkers made me as I finished my first summer internship: "I survived ... [building name]." Survived indeed.
Now the building will have a different name, and be home to a growing small college. Better use perhaps, after all the grief some claimed it represented. But for me, the sale is... like home is gone.
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