Disney has just announced they'll refund your money if you bought "Baby Einstein" videos from 2004-2009. Apparently, parents bought the videos with the expectation that they would increase their child's intelligence.
Although I purchased several of the videos I don't think I could ask for a refund. I never thought they were educational so I don't consider myself defrauded. There are lots of toys that bill themselves as "educational" whose claim seems ludicrous. I have occasionally joked that a toy is "educational" because if you throw it, you will witness the physical law of gravity in action.
Putting a picture of a square, a triangle, an oval and a rectangle on something does not make it educational. Nor does making the different sides out of different colors of plastic. As for the videos, the fact that there are toys and creepy puppets filmed against a soundtrack of classical music, in my mind at least, did not make it "educational." The surprising part about Disney's announcement (to me) is that people thought it was.
As I said, I have had the videos. They allowed me to take a shower or make dinner. I know that the American Academy of Pediatrics has recommended no video watching before the age of two, but until one of their members wants to come over and make dinner for us, I have to find some way to get things done. My kids happily watched the videos while I got something done. They didn't watch them all day but I did let them watch them on a regular basis.
I'm not surprised that my 4 year-old isn't doing calculus or speaking Chinese. I am thankful that I had an electronic babysitter to help me get dinner made or laundry in the washing machine, but I never expected the videos to be anything more than that. The fact that it has been determined that the videos are not educational do not make me feel parental guilt- I never thought they were anything other than entertainment for my child.
So Disney, you can keep your money from me. The videos came in handy. If some of the major toy manufacturers take note of Disney's actions and start using the word "educational" a little more judiciously when describing their toys, that'd be great. If they don't, I'll just keep using their "educational" toys to teach my children the law of gravity.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Uprooting the Deeply Rooted
We're currently 2 1/2 weeks away from moving and there are boxes everywhere. The guy who works the Goodwill truck knows me by name. I'm starting to count things down- this is the last time I'll pay this bill or get this magazine or buy toilet paper until we move to our new house. The kids asked to drive by the new house yesterday. We're all excited, but it's a lot of work.
I bought our house 9 years ago when I was married to my ex-husband. I was working full-time and this house needed a LOT of work. There was a hole in the balcony as big as a garbage-can lid and every room was ugly beyond description. Instead of putting time into carefully going through and cleaning out my old house, I came over to the new one after work and painted, prepped, stripped and cleaned. The boxes in the attic, left there from my move from law school, were moved into the attic here. Some of them had been untouched during the 9 years I'd been here.
My husband Nate moved in after we got married in 2004. He already had a house, but we decided we'd live in mine. It was clearly MY house, with all of my artwork on the walls, my furniture everywhere.
Nate sold his house 3 days after he'd put it on the market, a year after we were married. We already had a child at that time and Nate didn't have the time or the energy to go through his things. They joined mine in the attic. I tried to make as much space for his things in my house as I could- I felt he'd sacrificed his home identity when we got married.
We had too much furniture, too many things. Two sets of plates and two coffee makers, eight phones, two standing mixers, three blenders, 12 blankets, 15 towels- we simply had too much.
Both of us tend to be pack rats and I have had to remind myself that just because something has value doesn't mean it has value to me.
There is an emotional component to it too- prior to meeting Nate, I had gone through a divorce which left me feeling like the stuff I'd kept was like the piece of myself he hadn't chipped away. I didn't want to give up anything I still had left. I was not done healing from my divorce when Nate and I married.
When Nate and I got married, Nate had been a widower for 4 years. Tossing out things that had been theirs was like treating his past with disregard- it was a dishonoring of her memory.
We've been married for over 5 years now. We have two children, we've been on 8 vacations; lost a grandparent and a friend; bought two cars; been to the doctor numerous times and to the hospital 5 times; been to a few weddings; welcomed a nephew into the family and gone through the daily and weekly trials and tribulations that a family goes through together. In short, we've both moved beyond our pasts. We carry them with us, for good and for bad, but we don't need the things anymore that were as important to us as they were when we united our households.
We've been going through the boxes one by one. We've had an extra trash pick-up at our house and we've borrowed an extra trash can a couple of times. We've made many trips to the Goodwill truck.
It feels good to clean out and sort and purge the things we have.
We're moving into our house. We chose it together after looking at a LOT of houses. We'll pick out the wall coverings and the floor coverings together because it's our house. I'm excited about what it's going to mean for us as a family.
I still have too much fabric and he probably has more tools than he needs, but neither one of us is moving something into our new house simply because we don't know what to do with it.
That's a very clean feeling.
I bought our house 9 years ago when I was married to my ex-husband. I was working full-time and this house needed a LOT of work. There was a hole in the balcony as big as a garbage-can lid and every room was ugly beyond description. Instead of putting time into carefully going through and cleaning out my old house, I came over to the new one after work and painted, prepped, stripped and cleaned. The boxes in the attic, left there from my move from law school, were moved into the attic here. Some of them had been untouched during the 9 years I'd been here.
My husband Nate moved in after we got married in 2004. He already had a house, but we decided we'd live in mine. It was clearly MY house, with all of my artwork on the walls, my furniture everywhere.
Nate sold his house 3 days after he'd put it on the market, a year after we were married. We already had a child at that time and Nate didn't have the time or the energy to go through his things. They joined mine in the attic. I tried to make as much space for his things in my house as I could- I felt he'd sacrificed his home identity when we got married.
We had too much furniture, too many things. Two sets of plates and two coffee makers, eight phones, two standing mixers, three blenders, 12 blankets, 15 towels- we simply had too much.
Both of us tend to be pack rats and I have had to remind myself that just because something has value doesn't mean it has value to me.
There is an emotional component to it too- prior to meeting Nate, I had gone through a divorce which left me feeling like the stuff I'd kept was like the piece of myself he hadn't chipped away. I didn't want to give up anything I still had left. I was not done healing from my divorce when Nate and I married.
When Nate and I got married, Nate had been a widower for 4 years. Tossing out things that had been theirs was like treating his past with disregard- it was a dishonoring of her memory.
We've been married for over 5 years now. We have two children, we've been on 8 vacations; lost a grandparent and a friend; bought two cars; been to the doctor numerous times and to the hospital 5 times; been to a few weddings; welcomed a nephew into the family and gone through the daily and weekly trials and tribulations that a family goes through together. In short, we've both moved beyond our pasts. We carry them with us, for good and for bad, but we don't need the things anymore that were as important to us as they were when we united our households.
We've been going through the boxes one by one. We've had an extra trash pick-up at our house and we've borrowed an extra trash can a couple of times. We've made many trips to the Goodwill truck.
It feels good to clean out and sort and purge the things we have.
We're moving into our house. We chose it together after looking at a LOT of houses. We'll pick out the wall coverings and the floor coverings together because it's our house. I'm excited about what it's going to mean for us as a family.
I still have too much fabric and he probably has more tools than he needs, but neither one of us is moving something into our new house simply because we don't know what to do with it.
That's a very clean feeling.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
50 First Dates
We just sold our house.
Thank goodness too, because the suspense was killing me.
Every time we had a showing it was like a first date. I never liked first dates- it was simply too stressful. Does he like me? Was this the right perfume? Is my neckline too low? Too high? Was that a good joke or did I just sound stupid?
Then the next couple of days were torture. Did he like me? Is he going to call again? Do I get a second date? I knew I wore the wrong shoes.
Selling the house was the same way. I'd do a last-minute clean-up of the kids' toys and walk out of the house, drive down the street and the questions would start: Are they there now? Do they like the paint color? Is my kitchen showing itself off well? Do they like the yard? Did my 4-year old pee all over the toilet right before we left? And then the inevitable: What did they think? Are they going to call again? Do they want a second showing? Maybe they'll pop the question!!
One time (I am not making this up and am still embarrassed by it) one of our cats threw a hairball on the dining room table, all over the literature about our house AFTER we'd left, but BEFORE our prospective buyers came through. Needless to say, they did not make an offer.
Sometimes we found out why the prospective buyers declined to make an offer and most of the times the reason made sense- they didn't like the ravine abutting the back yard or the layout wasn't conducive to their lifestyle. Sometimes the reason made no sense- one couple said that our kitchen was too small. The kitchen is a showplace room that I spent way too much money on. One of the largest rooms in the house and bigger than any kitchen in any house I'd looked at, the kitchen boasts top-of the line appliances and about a mile of Silestone counters. The kitchen, ugly when I bought it, sold the house to me because my old kitchen was a cramped little space that I couldn't work in. Those buyers made up a reason- their agent called them "crazy."
When we got a rejection, we'd kvetch and speculate about the real reason, much the way my girlfriends and I would kvetch and speculate about the real reason he didn't call back, whoever the he of the moment was.
When the first offer came in, our response was mixed. We were a little insulted by his figure- we'd made every major repair during our 9 years in the house- roof, furnace, A/C, kitchen renovation- and thought our house was worth more. We were part elated- someone liked our house enough to make an offer! And we were part terrified- lay-offs had just been announced at my husband's job and while he was unlikely to be directly effected, we weren't sure how deep the lay-offs would go or what kind of financial concessions we'd be asked to make in order to save jobs. In addition, we would be moving to a new community and neither Nate nor myself likes change- I like knowing where everything is in my grocery store.
We rejected the offer.
And then our buyer came back with more money. He really liked our house. It was going to be a good fit for him. Nate and I joined hands, closed our eyes and stepped off the cliff.
We signed the contract.
We didn't know where we were going to move to but had a couple of houses we were contemplating. We had a couple more we wanted to see. I did not sleep.
We went out one more time with our agent and narrowed our choices down to two.
We decided to make an offer. Again, I did not sleep. We'd made an offer on a house we'd decided was our dream house. It had everything we'd hoped for, including some things we thought we'd never get in one house. We knew other people were also interested in the house. We crossed our fingers and waited to hear from our agent.
This was worse than any first-date jitters I'd ever had. The phone rang and I jumped at it. Our agent! NO! I was NOT interested in taking a short telephone survey! The phone rang. Our agent! Sorry, dear friend, I will have to call you back later. AFTER our agent has called. The phone rang! Our agent! With a signed contract in hand.
Phew. I am so glad that's over. Now we just have to move. Ugh.
Thank goodness too, because the suspense was killing me.
Every time we had a showing it was like a first date. I never liked first dates- it was simply too stressful. Does he like me? Was this the right perfume? Is my neckline too low? Too high? Was that a good joke or did I just sound stupid?
Then the next couple of days were torture. Did he like me? Is he going to call again? Do I get a second date? I knew I wore the wrong shoes.
Selling the house was the same way. I'd do a last-minute clean-up of the kids' toys and walk out of the house, drive down the street and the questions would start: Are they there now? Do they like the paint color? Is my kitchen showing itself off well? Do they like the yard? Did my 4-year old pee all over the toilet right before we left? And then the inevitable: What did they think? Are they going to call again? Do they want a second showing? Maybe they'll pop the question!!
One time (I am not making this up and am still embarrassed by it) one of our cats threw a hairball on the dining room table, all over the literature about our house AFTER we'd left, but BEFORE our prospective buyers came through. Needless to say, they did not make an offer.
Sometimes we found out why the prospective buyers declined to make an offer and most of the times the reason made sense- they didn't like the ravine abutting the back yard or the layout wasn't conducive to their lifestyle. Sometimes the reason made no sense- one couple said that our kitchen was too small. The kitchen is a showplace room that I spent way too much money on. One of the largest rooms in the house and bigger than any kitchen in any house I'd looked at, the kitchen boasts top-of the line appliances and about a mile of Silestone counters. The kitchen, ugly when I bought it, sold the house to me because my old kitchen was a cramped little space that I couldn't work in. Those buyers made up a reason- their agent called them "crazy."
When we got a rejection, we'd kvetch and speculate about the real reason, much the way my girlfriends and I would kvetch and speculate about the real reason he didn't call back, whoever the he of the moment was.
When the first offer came in, our response was mixed. We were a little insulted by his figure- we'd made every major repair during our 9 years in the house- roof, furnace, A/C, kitchen renovation- and thought our house was worth more. We were part elated- someone liked our house enough to make an offer! And we were part terrified- lay-offs had just been announced at my husband's job and while he was unlikely to be directly effected, we weren't sure how deep the lay-offs would go or what kind of financial concessions we'd be asked to make in order to save jobs. In addition, we would be moving to a new community and neither Nate nor myself likes change- I like knowing where everything is in my grocery store.
We rejected the offer.
And then our buyer came back with more money. He really liked our house. It was going to be a good fit for him. Nate and I joined hands, closed our eyes and stepped off the cliff.
We signed the contract.
We didn't know where we were going to move to but had a couple of houses we were contemplating. We had a couple more we wanted to see. I did not sleep.
We went out one more time with our agent and narrowed our choices down to two.
We decided to make an offer. Again, I did not sleep. We'd made an offer on a house we'd decided was our dream house. It had everything we'd hoped for, including some things we thought we'd never get in one house. We knew other people were also interested in the house. We crossed our fingers and waited to hear from our agent.
This was worse than any first-date jitters I'd ever had. The phone rang and I jumped at it. Our agent! NO! I was NOT interested in taking a short telephone survey! The phone rang. Our agent! Sorry, dear friend, I will have to call you back later. AFTER our agent has called. The phone rang! Our agent! With a signed contract in hand.
Phew. I am so glad that's over. Now we just have to move. Ugh.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Project Grace Completed
If you don't know about Project Grace, please read my last entry first- it will save me the time of re-writing it here.
I finished Project Grace a couple of weeks ago. We'd just gotten back from vacation and it took me until tonight to put my hands on my camera so that I could take pictures that would provide the evidence that I wanted.
There were two panels that gave me trouble- one was fairly easy to suss out- it took a couple of hours of research and a new book purchase, but my first attempt revealed the correct pattern. The "Bramble" was indeed "Bramble."
The "Slip Stitch Diamonds" turned out to be a bit harder to unravel. I searched every book I had including two newly purchased ones. I made a practice square- it looked good on the front, but the back was clearly different. It had to be perfect- good enough was not going to be good enough. I was also concerned that as the blanket aged, the difference between Grace's pattern and mine would become more evident.
Finally I went to a local knitting shop and asked the ladies there for help. One of them pointed out a bit of knitting that I would have missed- every fourth stitch had one more row to it- an odd bit of knitting indeed. They'd never seen a stitch like it before- it makes a perfectly flat diamond pattern. It's brilliant construction. Their discovery enabled me to work out the stitch the rest of the way.
The cabling was simply resolved with a little math.
Here's the blanket, in all its glory:
(Grace loved cats, so I let Patches stay and be photographed.)
Here's a picture of the end that I knit:
Here's a picture of the juncture where Grace's knitting ends and mine begins:
I tried to take that last picture at a point where the knitting is the most complicated because I figured that if there was a place where the transition would show, that would be it. I can't tell where she left off and I took over. My goal was for the transition to be seamless, and it appears that I accomplished that.
I'm pretty proud of the work I did and glad that I could do it right. I have a blanket I cherish and I will think of Grace often when I am curled up beneath it, with a cat in my lap. Anyone who knew Grace would know that spending time under a hand-knit blanket, sharing its comfort with a cat is the perfect way to remember Grace. I am lucky to have her blanket (and so is Patches.)
I finished Project Grace a couple of weeks ago. We'd just gotten back from vacation and it took me until tonight to put my hands on my camera so that I could take pictures that would provide the evidence that I wanted.
There were two panels that gave me trouble- one was fairly easy to suss out- it took a couple of hours of research and a new book purchase, but my first attempt revealed the correct pattern. The "Bramble" was indeed "Bramble."
The "Slip Stitch Diamonds" turned out to be a bit harder to unravel. I searched every book I had including two newly purchased ones. I made a practice square- it looked good on the front, but the back was clearly different. It had to be perfect- good enough was not going to be good enough. I was also concerned that as the blanket aged, the difference between Grace's pattern and mine would become more evident.
Finally I went to a local knitting shop and asked the ladies there for help. One of them pointed out a bit of knitting that I would have missed- every fourth stitch had one more row to it- an odd bit of knitting indeed. They'd never seen a stitch like it before- it makes a perfectly flat diamond pattern. It's brilliant construction. Their discovery enabled me to work out the stitch the rest of the way.
The cabling was simply resolved with a little math.
Here's the blanket, in all its glory:
(Grace loved cats, so I let Patches stay and be photographed.)
Here's a picture of the end that I knit:
Here's a picture of the juncture where Grace's knitting ends and mine begins:
I tried to take that last picture at a point where the knitting is the most complicated because I figured that if there was a place where the transition would show, that would be it. I can't tell where she left off and I took over. My goal was for the transition to be seamless, and it appears that I accomplished that.
I'm pretty proud of the work I did and glad that I could do it right. I have a blanket I cherish and I will think of Grace often when I am curled up beneath it, with a cat in my lap. Anyone who knew Grace would know that spending time under a hand-knit blanket, sharing its comfort with a cat is the perfect way to remember Grace. I am lucky to have her blanket (and so is Patches.)
Friday, July 31, 2009
Project Grace
A dear friend of mine died recently. Grace was only 64 and she died of pancreatic cancer. It was a horrible end to a gentle and generous person. I will miss her tremendously.
Grace was a knitter and seamstress extraordinaire. She could puzzle out a pattern in her head and solve other people's mistakes and mis-stitches. She could create patterns and tailor and calculate in her head. Her ability was both fascinating and impressive.
I have had the good fortune to inherit a mostly-finished blanket that was part of her legacy. It's about ten inches too short and it comes without any notes or patterns. This is it:
There are a total of seventeen patterned panels across the front and a border around it.
A couple of the patterns are easy to figure out:
This one is a simple X and O cable with a Diamond Bobble cable in the center
This one is a Trophy Cable on either side and a Seed Stitch Diamond in the center:
And the center section is a simple diamond trellis cable:
Then there are the Mystery Stitches:
Bramble?
Slip Stitch Diamonds?
I think that finishing this blanket without a pattern is the perfect way to remember Grace. I will have to use my head and I will have to be careful. I'm checking my gauge to make sure it will go seamlessly from her work to mine- I'll have to use a larger diameter needle- she always knit looser than I do. I've been thinking about how to recreate the mystery stitches and I've poured through my books. I think I have one of them solved- I found a pattern that looks like it's the right one and I have a swatch knitted up that I'll subject to a close comparison. The "Slip Stitch Diamond" I haven't found a pattern for yet, but I think I've worked it out in my head. I have a swatch of that started too- I don't have it perfect yet, but I think I'm on the right track.
Grace would have it figured out by now, most likely. She'd have loved the challenge.
I love it too.
Grace was a knitter and seamstress extraordinaire. She could puzzle out a pattern in her head and solve other people's mistakes and mis-stitches. She could create patterns and tailor and calculate in her head. Her ability was both fascinating and impressive.
I have had the good fortune to inherit a mostly-finished blanket that was part of her legacy. It's about ten inches too short and it comes without any notes or patterns. This is it:
There are a total of seventeen patterned panels across the front and a border around it.
A couple of the patterns are easy to figure out:
This one is a simple X and O cable with a Diamond Bobble cable in the center
This one is a Trophy Cable on either side and a Seed Stitch Diamond in the center:
And the center section is a simple diamond trellis cable:
Then there are the Mystery Stitches:
Bramble?
Slip Stitch Diamonds?
I think that finishing this blanket without a pattern is the perfect way to remember Grace. I will have to use my head and I will have to be careful. I'm checking my gauge to make sure it will go seamlessly from her work to mine- I'll have to use a larger diameter needle- she always knit looser than I do. I've been thinking about how to recreate the mystery stitches and I've poured through my books. I think I have one of them solved- I found a pattern that looks like it's the right one and I have a swatch knitted up that I'll subject to a close comparison. The "Slip Stitch Diamond" I haven't found a pattern for yet, but I think I've worked it out in my head. I have a swatch of that started too- I don't have it perfect yet, but I think I'm on the right track.
Grace would have it figured out by now, most likely. She'd have loved the challenge.
I love it too.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
My Orange Alarm CLock
I have an alarm clock that goes off every morning sometime between 5:30 and 6, regardless of what I do to silence it. It used to make me a little hostile-feeling, but now I have some compassion for the annoying little bugger.
We have 3 cats, Feisty, Patches and BK. We also used to have Neal. Neal and Feisty were brothers; Neal was put to sleep back in January after being diagnosed with cancer.
In our bedroom, we have installed a pet door that goes out onto the balcony so that the cats can go outside. BK uses it as her main form of ingress and egress from the house. Patches will routinely go out and sunbathe as well. Feisty and Neal used to go out every morning and experience the sunrise from the balcony- they'd lounge out there for about an hour and a half before coming inside.
Feisty is a very dumb cat. Every morning, bright and early, Feisty starts to call out, "Mwrow? Mwrow? Mwrow?" while trying to figure out how to get outside. He'll paw at the wall a little bit. "Mwrow? Mwrow? Mwrow?" The other cats don't have this problem. They go over to the kitty door and nose it open and walk outside without hesitation. Feisty can't figure it out. I don't know if he can't find it or doesn't know how it works- I've tried to teach him countless times, but every morning it's the same drill. "Mwrow? Mwrow? Mwrow?"
I drag myself out of bed and open the kitty door for him (I stick my foot into it and lift the flap and he figures it out and goes outside- I do this every morning.) I used to get aggravated by it and throw pillows at him to try to get him to stop. Nothing worked.
Then I realized that he used to go outside without any problem when Neal was around to lead the way. Now when my alarm goes off every morning, I drag myself out of bed, go over to Feisty and give him a scratch behind the ears and simply open the door for him.
I don't know if he consciously misses Neal. As I mentioned, he's a dumb cat, even bearing in mind that he's a CAT. What I do know is that his life is a little harder for him without having his brother around.
Every morning at around 5:30 or 6, I miss Neal a little bit and I have a bit of extra affection for Feisty. It's not so bad a way to start the day, actually.
We have 3 cats, Feisty, Patches and BK. We also used to have Neal. Neal and Feisty were brothers; Neal was put to sleep back in January after being diagnosed with cancer.
In our bedroom, we have installed a pet door that goes out onto the balcony so that the cats can go outside. BK uses it as her main form of ingress and egress from the house. Patches will routinely go out and sunbathe as well. Feisty and Neal used to go out every morning and experience the sunrise from the balcony- they'd lounge out there for about an hour and a half before coming inside.
Feisty is a very dumb cat. Every morning, bright and early, Feisty starts to call out, "Mwrow? Mwrow? Mwrow?" while trying to figure out how to get outside. He'll paw at the wall a little bit. "Mwrow? Mwrow? Mwrow?" The other cats don't have this problem. They go over to the kitty door and nose it open and walk outside without hesitation. Feisty can't figure it out. I don't know if he can't find it or doesn't know how it works- I've tried to teach him countless times, but every morning it's the same drill. "Mwrow? Mwrow? Mwrow?"
I drag myself out of bed and open the kitty door for him (I stick my foot into it and lift the flap and he figures it out and goes outside- I do this every morning.) I used to get aggravated by it and throw pillows at him to try to get him to stop. Nothing worked.
Then I realized that he used to go outside without any problem when Neal was around to lead the way. Now when my alarm goes off every morning, I drag myself out of bed, go over to Feisty and give him a scratch behind the ears and simply open the door for him.
I don't know if he consciously misses Neal. As I mentioned, he's a dumb cat, even bearing in mind that he's a CAT. What I do know is that his life is a little harder for him without having his brother around.
Every morning at around 5:30 or 6, I miss Neal a little bit and I have a bit of extra affection for Feisty. It's not so bad a way to start the day, actually.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Penguins at the Feeder
All kids say cute things and mine are no exception. I've been told "write them down" more times than I can shake a stick at. Being someone who likes to write, I ponder this advice.
Where? is the first question. I'm not a scrapbooker. I think scrapbooks are neat if you're into that kind of thing, but I'm not. And I'm not going to get into scrapbooking- it'd be another expensive unfinished project category that I'd need to store somewhere. Between my knitting and my quilting I have plenty of that. Besides, I don't have that sort of eye- it's just not my thing.
Why? is the second question. The obvious answer is so that I don't forget. I'm sure I'll forget some things. The other day Ted was wearing just a t-shirt and a pair of underpants. He and Henry were discussing the location of something and Henry queried of Ted, ""In pocket?" Ted responded, "No, Henry, I don't have pockets in these underpants." I laughed at the time and smiled rewriting it here; next week it likely will be a distant memory. If I wrote it down would it be a diary for myself? Perhaps something to read when they're 15 and 17 and driving me crazy?
I don't write a diary. I tried keeping one and didn't like it. Writing here is different because I don't keep a schedule and don't feel obligated. If I get to the point where I feel done I can simply delete the whole blog- there will be no books to discard or for my kids to worry about.
I also like the idea that my memories are not cataloged, not confined rigidly to a book. It seems more natural and right to me- Ted went through a phase where all birds were "chickens." We'd go to the zoo and he'd point excitedly at the flamingos and shout "Chickens, mommy!" There were chickens at the bird feeder and on the wires next to the highway. I realized the other day that Henry's doing the same thing. We were looking at a book of animals and there was a picture of a peacock; Henry excitedly exclaimed, "Penguin!" Since then I have found that there are penguins in our trees and at the pond nearby.
In the future I may confuse who was "chickens" and who was "penguins," but does it really matter? I think I'd rather let my memories be my memories, foggy though they may become.
Besides, it will give Nate and me something to correct each other on when we're older.
Where? is the first question. I'm not a scrapbooker. I think scrapbooks are neat if you're into that kind of thing, but I'm not. And I'm not going to get into scrapbooking- it'd be another expensive unfinished project category that I'd need to store somewhere. Between my knitting and my quilting I have plenty of that. Besides, I don't have that sort of eye- it's just not my thing.
Why? is the second question. The obvious answer is so that I don't forget. I'm sure I'll forget some things. The other day Ted was wearing just a t-shirt and a pair of underpants. He and Henry were discussing the location of something and Henry queried of Ted, ""In pocket?" Ted responded, "No, Henry, I don't have pockets in these underpants." I laughed at the time and smiled rewriting it here; next week it likely will be a distant memory. If I wrote it down would it be a diary for myself? Perhaps something to read when they're 15 and 17 and driving me crazy?
I don't write a diary. I tried keeping one and didn't like it. Writing here is different because I don't keep a schedule and don't feel obligated. If I get to the point where I feel done I can simply delete the whole blog- there will be no books to discard or for my kids to worry about.
I also like the idea that my memories are not cataloged, not confined rigidly to a book. It seems more natural and right to me- Ted went through a phase where all birds were "chickens." We'd go to the zoo and he'd point excitedly at the flamingos and shout "Chickens, mommy!" There were chickens at the bird feeder and on the wires next to the highway. I realized the other day that Henry's doing the same thing. We were looking at a book of animals and there was a picture of a peacock; Henry excitedly exclaimed, "Penguin!" Since then I have found that there are penguins in our trees and at the pond nearby.
In the future I may confuse who was "chickens" and who was "penguins," but does it really matter? I think I'd rather let my memories be my memories, foggy though they may become.
Besides, it will give Nate and me something to correct each other on when we're older.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
And I'm Back
I'm not crabby any more.
I'll post again soon.
I get mad sometimes- I have a pretty quick temper, truth be told, but I'm disinclined to hold grudges.
So I'm not pouting any more and will probably turn out another entry within the week.
It was a tough afternoon though, so tonight I have a date with the couch and my knitting.
Ah, my knitting. Unfortunately, my husband is a man of very simple tastes. I am knitting him a sweater vest and so my knitting will consist of knit on the right side, purl on the wrong. Heaven forbid we have something outlandish, like a cable or some colorwork.
Knit on the right side, purl on the wrong side. In brown no less. Not aubergine or celadon. Perhaps if I came up with a more romantic name for "brown" it would make it seem more interesting. The good news is that he will wear it a lot, simply because I made it for him. It won't take long to make either because it's so simple, so even though boring at least it won't be long and boring.
So I'm off to the couch to knit a sweater vest in "Grizzly." (Did that sound more interesting than "brown?")
I'll post again soon.
I get mad sometimes- I have a pretty quick temper, truth be told, but I'm disinclined to hold grudges.
So I'm not pouting any more and will probably turn out another entry within the week.
It was a tough afternoon though, so tonight I have a date with the couch and my knitting.
Ah, my knitting. Unfortunately, my husband is a man of very simple tastes. I am knitting him a sweater vest and so my knitting will consist of knit on the right side, purl on the wrong. Heaven forbid we have something outlandish, like a cable or some colorwork.
Knit on the right side, purl on the wrong side. In brown no less. Not aubergine or celadon. Perhaps if I came up with a more romantic name for "brown" it would make it seem more interesting. The good news is that he will wear it a lot, simply because I made it for him. It won't take long to make either because it's so simple, so even though boring at least it won't be long and boring.
So I'm off to the couch to knit a sweater vest in "Grizzly." (Did that sound more interesting than "brown?")
Thursday, April 30, 2009
And She's Outta Here
I'm taking a break.
I enjoy writing. I really do. I'll miss it.
But I haven't been writing much lately. I think about it. I formulate entries in my head and don't post them.
I didn't realize when I first started writing how much critical analysis would follow- not just of my writing, but also of my parenting.
It is the fate of my children to have me as a parent. I'm not perfect, but I'm happy with my life; I'm happy (for the most part) with myself.
My kids aren't going to have a million friends through my social contacts.
I'm not perky.
My house is badly decorated and cluttered.
I don't see the need for kids to be taking four different kinds of lessons at the age of 3.
I think that tv is over-rated and most programs are garbage. I think that many books are too.
To me, a day spent at the park is a day well spent and a trip to the grocery store can be just as educational (and more practical) than a trip to many museums.
Play groups make me anxious- they feel like first dates and no one ever calls for a second date. I'm just not that great at small talk. I never have been and I never will be. I'm ok with this for the most part but people telling me that I need to go out and make more friends so that the kids have more social exposure is, frankly, unhelpful advice. Would I like to have more friends? Sure I would. But I would have answered that question the same way just about every year of my life.
I really am doing the best I can as a parent, but there are basic things about my nature that make it impossible to transform myself into Donna Reed, June Cleaver or Claire Huxtable. I'm just not any of those people. My kids are going to have me as their parent, for good or for bad. I've tried many times to be someone I'm not because it seemed that other people were unhappy with who I am and the bottom line is that it doesn't work, it only makes me miserable.
Writing down the anecdotes has invited criticism of all kinds and it just isn't fun any more. I don't post because I don't want the inevitable phone calls and emails. So I'm taking a break.
I posted another entry this morning, one that had been sitting half-finished for a month or more. It'll be my last one for a while.
I enjoy writing. I really do. I'll miss it.
But I haven't been writing much lately. I think about it. I formulate entries in my head and don't post them.
I didn't realize when I first started writing how much critical analysis would follow- not just of my writing, but also of my parenting.
It is the fate of my children to have me as a parent. I'm not perfect, but I'm happy with my life; I'm happy (for the most part) with myself.
My kids aren't going to have a million friends through my social contacts.
I'm not perky.
My house is badly decorated and cluttered.
I don't see the need for kids to be taking four different kinds of lessons at the age of 3.
I think that tv is over-rated and most programs are garbage. I think that many books are too.
To me, a day spent at the park is a day well spent and a trip to the grocery store can be just as educational (and more practical) than a trip to many museums.
Play groups make me anxious- they feel like first dates and no one ever calls for a second date. I'm just not that great at small talk. I never have been and I never will be. I'm ok with this for the most part but people telling me that I need to go out and make more friends so that the kids have more social exposure is, frankly, unhelpful advice. Would I like to have more friends? Sure I would. But I would have answered that question the same way just about every year of my life.
I really am doing the best I can as a parent, but there are basic things about my nature that make it impossible to transform myself into Donna Reed, June Cleaver or Claire Huxtable. I'm just not any of those people. My kids are going to have me as their parent, for good or for bad. I've tried many times to be someone I'm not because it seemed that other people were unhappy with who I am and the bottom line is that it doesn't work, it only makes me miserable.
Writing down the anecdotes has invited criticism of all kinds and it just isn't fun any more. I don't post because I don't want the inevitable phone calls and emails. So I'm taking a break.
I posted another entry this morning, one that had been sitting half-finished for a month or more. It'll be my last one for a while.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Police Officer's Wife
I am a police officer's wife.
Most people have an emotional response to that. The response ranges from empathy to distrust, from compassion to even a little fear.
Sometimes current events evoke a response; such has happened recently.
About a month ago a suspect shot and killed three police officers outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The suspect appeared to have no particular beef with the officers who responded to the call to 911; other than his killing the officers, he'd had no contact with them.
News such as this always makes me grateful that my husband is as careful as he is. It makes me appreciate my friends, some of whom offer their thanks when such news makes headlines. Although my husband had no connection to the Pittsburgh incident, we know that it's a possibility that he may be tomorrow's news story.
I don't often think about that aspect of his job. It is typical that an incident such as Pittsburgh's is random- it happens in response to a simple traffic stop, or while answering a routine call. Since it is so random, thinking about it serves no purpose- the chances are real but slim and I can't let them consume me.
When I was pregnant with Ted I was still working as a police legal adviser for the department he works for. When there was an officer-involved shooting, one of my tasks was to go to the scene and report back to my office- our office was eventually the office that would be representing the city in any subsequent lawsuit. When I was about 4 months along I was called to the scene of an officer-involved shooting.
The shooting happened in the district my husband patrols, during a preceding shift. The suspect was a paranoid schizophrenic who had the belief that police officers were actually space aliens who were going to steal his body. In a previous encounter with a different police department he'd blown his hands off with a hand grenade in an attempt to thwart the "alien." That police officer, a West Virginia state trooper, had saved the suspect's life.
In this incident the officer was responding to a domestic disturbance. The suspect was armed with a WWII era long gun loaded with armor-piercing rounds. The responding officer received a career-ending injury when a round penetrated his torso, just below his vest. The suspect fired several times but was eventually shot to death by the officers who responded. The primary officer involved was in the hospital for many weeks and returned to the job only for a short time- his injuries made it uncomfortable to wear his gear, even after a year of recovery.
Officers' wives pull together under such circumstances. I was one of many who made two meals for the family- we had a schedule that we followed so that they weren't inundated with too much food at once. I'd never met her before, but I knew that it could have as easily been me to get that phone call we all occasionally think about getting. The officer had done nothing wrong. He hadn't been sloppy. He was a good officer with a good reputation who was doing his job the way he was trained to do it. It happened anyway.
My husband and I have an agreement. If he's going to be more than a half-hour late getting home from work he calls me and lets me know. More than a half-hour late and I start to worry that I'm going to get that phone call. I think that maybe he's at the hospital and no one's thought to call me yet. I start to get anxious.
How he leaves for work every night is routine to the point of superstitious: He kisses me good night and tells me he loves me, I tell him I love him too. I tell him "Have a good night" and he walks down the hall and whispers at our children's doors that he loves each of them before heading downstairs and out the door. I have to tell him to have a good night. It's for me- he hasn't asked me to do it, but I feel like something's wrong if I say something different. He has his ritual, I have mine.
Every night for a fleeting moment just after he kisses me goodnight there lingers the the shadow of the prospect of getting that phone call. I expect that other officer's wives feel the same way when they see their husbands walk out the door.
People sometimes tell me that they couldn't do what I do- live with that specter. But I love my husband. He's been a police officer for his whole adult life. It's what he does. I don't want to change him- he's good at his job and those rare occasions when he gets to truly help someone he's reminded why he does it. When he tells me those stories he positively *sparkles*.
I don't think I do anything special just by being married to my husband. I'm happy with my life and I think I have it pretty good. As long as I never get that call.
Most people have an emotional response to that. The response ranges from empathy to distrust, from compassion to even a little fear.
Sometimes current events evoke a response; such has happened recently.
About a month ago a suspect shot and killed three police officers outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The suspect appeared to have no particular beef with the officers who responded to the call to 911; other than his killing the officers, he'd had no contact with them.
News such as this always makes me grateful that my husband is as careful as he is. It makes me appreciate my friends, some of whom offer their thanks when such news makes headlines. Although my husband had no connection to the Pittsburgh incident, we know that it's a possibility that he may be tomorrow's news story.
I don't often think about that aspect of his job. It is typical that an incident such as Pittsburgh's is random- it happens in response to a simple traffic stop, or while answering a routine call. Since it is so random, thinking about it serves no purpose- the chances are real but slim and I can't let them consume me.
When I was pregnant with Ted I was still working as a police legal adviser for the department he works for. When there was an officer-involved shooting, one of my tasks was to go to the scene and report back to my office- our office was eventually the office that would be representing the city in any subsequent lawsuit. When I was about 4 months along I was called to the scene of an officer-involved shooting.
The shooting happened in the district my husband patrols, during a preceding shift. The suspect was a paranoid schizophrenic who had the belief that police officers were actually space aliens who were going to steal his body. In a previous encounter with a different police department he'd blown his hands off with a hand grenade in an attempt to thwart the "alien." That police officer, a West Virginia state trooper, had saved the suspect's life.
In this incident the officer was responding to a domestic disturbance. The suspect was armed with a WWII era long gun loaded with armor-piercing rounds. The responding officer received a career-ending injury when a round penetrated his torso, just below his vest. The suspect fired several times but was eventually shot to death by the officers who responded. The primary officer involved was in the hospital for many weeks and returned to the job only for a short time- his injuries made it uncomfortable to wear his gear, even after a year of recovery.
Officers' wives pull together under such circumstances. I was one of many who made two meals for the family- we had a schedule that we followed so that they weren't inundated with too much food at once. I'd never met her before, but I knew that it could have as easily been me to get that phone call we all occasionally think about getting. The officer had done nothing wrong. He hadn't been sloppy. He was a good officer with a good reputation who was doing his job the way he was trained to do it. It happened anyway.
My husband and I have an agreement. If he's going to be more than a half-hour late getting home from work he calls me and lets me know. More than a half-hour late and I start to worry that I'm going to get that phone call. I think that maybe he's at the hospital and no one's thought to call me yet. I start to get anxious.
How he leaves for work every night is routine to the point of superstitious: He kisses me good night and tells me he loves me, I tell him I love him too. I tell him "Have a good night" and he walks down the hall and whispers at our children's doors that he loves each of them before heading downstairs and out the door. I have to tell him to have a good night. It's for me- he hasn't asked me to do it, but I feel like something's wrong if I say something different. He has his ritual, I have mine.
Every night for a fleeting moment just after he kisses me goodnight there lingers the the shadow of the prospect of getting that phone call. I expect that other officer's wives feel the same way when they see their husbands walk out the door.
People sometimes tell me that they couldn't do what I do- live with that specter. But I love my husband. He's been a police officer for his whole adult life. It's what he does. I don't want to change him- he's good at his job and those rare occasions when he gets to truly help someone he's reminded why he does it. When he tells me those stories he positively *sparkles*.
I don't think I do anything special just by being married to my husband. I'm happy with my life and I think I have it pretty good. As long as I never get that call.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Trouble with PBS
When the thorny subject of television comes up, that is how much and what type of television I allow my children to watch, it is often assumed that I only allow my kids to watch programs on PBS. My kids aren't interested in Sesame Street- they are Elmo impervious, so that's not an option.
The truth is that I don't like most of the PBS programs. Everything has a message- that is true with most kids' programming from what I can tell, but the messages that I often encounter on the PBS programs are messages I don't agree with. The episodes are too watered-down, too politically correct, too sissified I guess. When I explain this, I am met with raised eyebrows.
We just came back from vacation. Normally, I let the kids watch a couple of programs on Noggin or Discovery Kids but neither channel was available, so we watched a little PBS while we were there. I took note of one of the episodes so that I could give an example of what kind of message I take issue with.
The episode was a re-make of The Boy Who Cried Wolf.
The original goes something like this: A boy is charged with watching the prized sheep for a village in the mountains. He is lonely and bored with this task and at one point calls out that there is a wolf threatening the flock. The villagers all come running to help and discover that there is no wolf. The boy is chastised, but the excitement has given him some relief to the boredom. Despite his instructions to not "cry wolf," he does so again, purely for his own amusement. The villagers again come. The boy is again warned. The third time he cries "wolf" there really is a wolf, but the villagers do not believe him. The wolf decimates the flock of sheep. The message is that the alarm should have only been sounded when the threat was actual; sometimes one has to put the needs of the village above one's own amusement.
I don't think there's anything wrong with this story. I think the message is an important one. (And yes, I understand that the wolf is probably unfairly villianized in the original version.)
The PBS program version goes like this.
A boy makes friends with a wolf. He cries "wolf" so that the townsfolk can come and meet his new friend. The wolf has gone off to the bathroom when the townsfolk come. The townsfolk leave before the wolf returns. The boy and the wolf throw a party for the townsfolk so that they can meet the wolf. When the townsfolk arrive the wolf has gone off to retrieve a ball and so the townsfolk don't believe the boy that there really is a wolf. The boy tells the townsfolk that it "makes him feel bad that the people don't believe him. It hurts his feelings and they should trust him." The townsfolk agree and await the return of the wolf. The wolf returns and they all have a party. The townsfolk apologize to the boy for not believing him and hurting his feelings.
In the PBS version we were supposed to find the "super word" from the story. The word had 5 letters, among them were T R U _ _. I was convinced that the "super word" was going to be T R U T H because it was so important to tell the truth. I was wrong- the "super word" was T R U S T because the townsfolk should have trusted the boy.
The program that followed had the message that if you should be unfortunate enough to win some kind of physical challenge such as a race or contest of strength your first thought should not be one of personal pride, but rather of how to make the losers of the contest feel better about themselves. There was even a song to help drive this message home.
Not all of the programs are as offensive to me as the two highlighted above, but there is enough of that type of programming that I am disinclined to turn on PBS for my kids to watch. My kids watch the programs that I can deal with. If it's too annoying for me, they don't get to watch it.
They don't watch what I consider to be a lot of television, but I do use it as a tool to change moods or distract or to give myself a break during the day. I truly wish there was better programing out there for the kids. I don't find it on PBS. Life is hard and you don't always get to win. Sometimes you have to do things that are boring, difficult or painful. Not everyone will be nice all of the time. I give my kids a lot of positive reinforcement, but I don't think that I'd be doing them any favors if I set themselves up to believe that life was going to be rainbows and ponies all the time.
That's my trouble with PBS.
The truth is that I don't like most of the PBS programs. Everything has a message- that is true with most kids' programming from what I can tell, but the messages that I often encounter on the PBS programs are messages I don't agree with. The episodes are too watered-down, too politically correct, too sissified I guess. When I explain this, I am met with raised eyebrows.
We just came back from vacation. Normally, I let the kids watch a couple of programs on Noggin or Discovery Kids but neither channel was available, so we watched a little PBS while we were there. I took note of one of the episodes so that I could give an example of what kind of message I take issue with.
The episode was a re-make of The Boy Who Cried Wolf.
The original goes something like this: A boy is charged with watching the prized sheep for a village in the mountains. He is lonely and bored with this task and at one point calls out that there is a wolf threatening the flock. The villagers all come running to help and discover that there is no wolf. The boy is chastised, but the excitement has given him some relief to the boredom. Despite his instructions to not "cry wolf," he does so again, purely for his own amusement. The villagers again come. The boy is again warned. The third time he cries "wolf" there really is a wolf, but the villagers do not believe him. The wolf decimates the flock of sheep. The message is that the alarm should have only been sounded when the threat was actual; sometimes one has to put the needs of the village above one's own amusement.
I don't think there's anything wrong with this story. I think the message is an important one. (And yes, I understand that the wolf is probably unfairly villianized in the original version.)
The PBS program version goes like this.
A boy makes friends with a wolf. He cries "wolf" so that the townsfolk can come and meet his new friend. The wolf has gone off to the bathroom when the townsfolk come. The townsfolk leave before the wolf returns. The boy and the wolf throw a party for the townsfolk so that they can meet the wolf. When the townsfolk arrive the wolf has gone off to retrieve a ball and so the townsfolk don't believe the boy that there really is a wolf. The boy tells the townsfolk that it "makes him feel bad that the people don't believe him. It hurts his feelings and they should trust him." The townsfolk agree and await the return of the wolf. The wolf returns and they all have a party. The townsfolk apologize to the boy for not believing him and hurting his feelings.
In the PBS version we were supposed to find the "super word" from the story. The word had 5 letters, among them were T R U _ _. I was convinced that the "super word" was going to be T R U T H because it was so important to tell the truth. I was wrong- the "super word" was T R U S T because the townsfolk should have trusted the boy.
The program that followed had the message that if you should be unfortunate enough to win some kind of physical challenge such as a race or contest of strength your first thought should not be one of personal pride, but rather of how to make the losers of the contest feel better about themselves. There was even a song to help drive this message home.
Not all of the programs are as offensive to me as the two highlighted above, but there is enough of that type of programming that I am disinclined to turn on PBS for my kids to watch. My kids watch the programs that I can deal with. If it's too annoying for me, they don't get to watch it.
They don't watch what I consider to be a lot of television, but I do use it as a tool to change moods or distract or to give myself a break during the day. I truly wish there was better programing out there for the kids. I don't find it on PBS. Life is hard and you don't always get to win. Sometimes you have to do things that are boring, difficult or painful. Not everyone will be nice all of the time. I give my kids a lot of positive reinforcement, but I don't think that I'd be doing them any favors if I set themselves up to believe that life was going to be rainbows and ponies all the time.
That's my trouble with PBS.
Potty Training- Dante's Forgotten Circle
We finally got through Dante's Forgotten Circle of Hell- potty training the stubborn pre-schooler. I knew that timing was going to be pivotal with Ted- pushing him too early was simply going to make him intractable and it's not as though one can actually force a child to produce. My bigger problem, however, was going to be Henry.
Henry is a force of nature. He is part hurricane, part tornado, part earthquake and part flood. Leaving Henry alone while giving Ted the time and attention that potty training was going to demand was something I occasionally contemplated and I saw no solution to. I was disinclined to involve family due to the scope of the favor I'd be asking. Henry is tiring. Asking someone to come and watch him for 3-4 days while I worked with Ted seemed a monumental favor.
Then opportunity knocked.
Henry turned 2 on February 12. He received a train set and one of the engines from the "Thomas and Friends" tv series- "Henry." Henry the train is a fine, green engine with a smiling face and a coal tender. Ted coveted Henry the train. Ted would take the engine from Henry and I'd give it back. Ted would take it again and again and again. I'd give it back. Finally I said, "You know what, Ted? If you poop in the potty, I'll take you to the store and you can pick out whichever engine you want."
Henry, upon hearing this, jumped to his feet, marched upstairs and pooped in the potty.
The next day, February 14, I put them both in underpants and didn't look back.
Ted's totally potty trained and about 2 weeks into the process he decided he wanted underpants at night instead of a Pull-Up- he's been completely dry at night. Henry got an ear infection and went on antibiotics. Any mom who's had a child on antibiotics knows what that can do to a child's digestive system and I'll just say that I was glad we went back to diapers for him. He'll probably train again this summer- I'm not worried about Henry. Henry will do it on his own, when he's ready. Henry's a force of nature.
Henry is a force of nature. He is part hurricane, part tornado, part earthquake and part flood. Leaving Henry alone while giving Ted the time and attention that potty training was going to demand was something I occasionally contemplated and I saw no solution to. I was disinclined to involve family due to the scope of the favor I'd be asking. Henry is tiring. Asking someone to come and watch him for 3-4 days while I worked with Ted seemed a monumental favor.
Then opportunity knocked.
Henry turned 2 on February 12. He received a train set and one of the engines from the "Thomas and Friends" tv series- "Henry." Henry the train is a fine, green engine with a smiling face and a coal tender. Ted coveted Henry the train. Ted would take the engine from Henry and I'd give it back. Ted would take it again and again and again. I'd give it back. Finally I said, "You know what, Ted? If you poop in the potty, I'll take you to the store and you can pick out whichever engine you want."
Henry, upon hearing this, jumped to his feet, marched upstairs and pooped in the potty.
The next day, February 14, I put them both in underpants and didn't look back.
Ted's totally potty trained and about 2 weeks into the process he decided he wanted underpants at night instead of a Pull-Up- he's been completely dry at night. Henry got an ear infection and went on antibiotics. Any mom who's had a child on antibiotics knows what that can do to a child's digestive system and I'll just say that I was glad we went back to diapers for him. He'll probably train again this summer- I'm not worried about Henry. Henry will do it on his own, when he's ready. Henry's a force of nature.
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