I have been suffering from keyboard coma, so today I am cleaning. The Monkeys are off... I don't know, somewhere with Dad, to return probably late. There are some things hanging around the house that need to go out, but without the Monkeys seeing them march out the door. Like, the boppy pillow, the baby bathtub, the baby swing, a Halloween costume that is supposed to light up but the battery pack came off and it has been sitting on Dad's workbench pile with other battery operated toys to fix, ...
The boppy pillow and the tub and the Halloween costume (which is a spider web of wires) went in the trash can. The swing is out on the curb with a FREE sign on it. I held my breath as I took it out, fearing a neighbor would call out, "You get rid of that, you're gonna get pregnant you know!" Well, I thought so when I gave away my maternity clothes, the infant car seat, the big baby car seat, the Bjorn, and the crib. I really don't see how the swing will do anything after all that. Fortunately no one was outside. But hopefully someone will come by and take it.
Oh, and boxes. Just empty boxes... the bread machine box, the crockpot box, the demised crockpot box, the coffee grinder box, the big salad bowl box, the salad spinner box, ... everything that moved into this house in a box, plus ones acquired here. Upon consultation with my husband, we are keeping the computer boxes, and for the Monkeys, a couple of wardrobe boxes because they are good for playhouses.
H'm. Not bad for keyboard coma.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Under a Rock
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.
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.
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.
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