So I was at the Y last night, doing my usual 30 minute workout on the elliptical machine. I'm pumping away at that thing, moving twice as fast as anyone around me. Sweat is saturating my hairline, beading my forehead, dripping down my back. I'm averaging a pace of about 9.5 miles per hour. The calorie counter shows I'm well over 300 calories for the workout so far. And the sensors on the machine that monitor my heart rate tell me that I'm registering a rate of... 82.
What can I say?
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Not the Best Mom
It pains me to share this, but it has been revealed to me, by my youngest child, that I am not the best mom. This revelation was made in the car on the way home today, during a conversation about show-and-tell. Chase missed his show-and-tell opportunity this morning when he attempted to find his prized wind-up frog at the last minute and had to be hustled out the door, sans frog. There were many tears on his part, and admonishments on my part that if he would put his toys away where they belonged, he'd be able to find them more easily.
So, on the way home today, I asked him if many kids brought something for show-and-tell. Maren almost never brought anything when she was in preschool, but to hear Chase talk about it, nearly every child assigned to Monday as a show-and-tell day had something to share today. After listening to him list all the kids' names, I helpfully pointed out that he didn't necessarily have to bring something to show for show-and-tell. He could just TELL the class something. Like, he could tell everyone what a great mom he had! That he had the BEST mom! That his mom takes such good care of him, and cooks him good food, and makes cookies, and etc. etc. etc. And Chase looked at me in the rear view mirror and said, "You're not the best mom." I was undaunted... so far... so I challenged him: "If I'm not the best mom, who is?"
And Chase said, "Tacy."
No reason why. She just is.
Fine, then.
PS: Tacy, if you're reading this... I don't think you can be my friend anymore.
So, on the way home today, I asked him if many kids brought something for show-and-tell. Maren almost never brought anything when she was in preschool, but to hear Chase talk about it, nearly every child assigned to Monday as a show-and-tell day had something to share today. After listening to him list all the kids' names, I helpfully pointed out that he didn't necessarily have to bring something to show for show-and-tell. He could just TELL the class something. Like, he could tell everyone what a great mom he had! That he had the BEST mom! That his mom takes such good care of him, and cooks him good food, and makes cookies, and etc. etc. etc. And Chase looked at me in the rear view mirror and said, "You're not the best mom." I was undaunted... so far... so I challenged him: "If I'm not the best mom, who is?"
And Chase said, "Tacy."
No reason why. She just is.
Fine, then.
PS: Tacy, if you're reading this... I don't think you can be my friend anymore.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
A Perfect Weekend
Life doesn't get much better than this on a mid-winter weekend in Minnesota. Saturday morning, after enjoying a satisfying family breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon (a nod to CTP), I settled in to read the newspaper while savoring a couple cups of coffee. Around 10:30, I put on my 19-year-old pair of Sorrels, a couple of sweaters and a pair of gloves, and head out for a nice long walk with the doggie. We tramped along some of the trails and across some of the lakes under a Yukon-blue sky, the temperature hovering in a comfortable 30 degree range. On the lakes, I was able to let Hunter off the leash and watch him savor his freedom by bounding across the snow-packed ice, then back to me at full force, and off again as soon as he circled me. The wind had blown the snow into hard, low ridges spaced erratically along the lake, and I was amused to notice that our footprints virtually disappeared when we traversed those ridges, only to reappear a few feet later. It was as if we had been plucked right off the earth and set down somewhere else to resume our walk. In all, we walked a good five miles, and by the time we returned home we were a little weary but relaxed and happy. Ahhh.
While we were walking, there were minimal distractions from my own thoughts. I've found that one advantage of deefness is that I'm not tempted to plug myself into a radio or iPod to be entertained or diverted in any way. During my downtime, whether it's on a long walk or during the numerous car trips I make for work, I like to scrape off a little brain lint to examine and ponder. Brain lint is the stuff you pull up from the far reaches of your mind, where you store nearly-forgotten memories. The brain lint I scrape up usually is colored by a specific theme. On this particular walk, my brain lint came from long winter walks I've taken on lakes. Given that we lived by lakes only the first 7 years of my life, there was limited content to ponder. I remember thinking as a kid how big Paul's Lake was (HA!) and recalled the time Susie Christensen and I walked all the way across the lake, rang the doorbell at some stranger's house, and asked for a drink of water. (I'm surprised we didn't ask for lemon drops, as was our custom at the Erickson's at the end of the road). That trek across the lake, and eventually back again, seemed soooooooo long, and I didn't think we'd make it home, and instead would perish on the ice somewhere between the island and the shore. I don't remember being so tired when we walked across another lake, the one by Hernberger's, to go sledding on the big hill on the far side. Maybe that's because Hernberger's lake was smaller and we didn't have to go straight across, but kind of diagonally. I know some of the bigger kids were with us, although who "us" even is, I don't know. The cold, the snow, the size of the hill, and the expanse of the lake are the details I've retained.
A walk that produces some warm, fuzzy brain lint is enough to make any weekend a good one, but this weekend had even more delights. Caleb's basketball team played in a tournament in Wayzata, and we drove out there three straight evenings. Wayzata was the only team to beat Woodbury in B level competition this year. In the second tournament of the season, Woodbury played against them in the championship game, and was leading most of the game. At the very end, however, Wayzata caught up, and squeaked past Woodbury with a basket that won the game by one point. What a heartbreaker. As you can imagine, Woodbury had revenge on their minds, and what better place to get that revenge than at Wayzata's own tournament? The two teams were placed in opposite brackets so they could meet in the championship game, and that's exactly what happened. Jeff, in particular, was obsessed with avenging the earlier loss, and our 6th graders didn't disappoint us. Within the first few minutes they shot ahead to a 12-0 lead and never looked back, winning the championship 45-25. Caleb scored 7 points, so his haircut must still be doing it's job. It was particularly gratifying to win when we saw a few of the Wayzata players taking out their frustration by shoving their elbows into our players or hitting them on the back when the refs weren't looking. Most of the players were good sports, though, and it was an exciting, well-played game. And boy, revenge is sweet. THAT was the icing on the cake of my perfect weekend.
While we were walking, there were minimal distractions from my own thoughts. I've found that one advantage of deefness is that I'm not tempted to plug myself into a radio or iPod to be entertained or diverted in any way. During my downtime, whether it's on a long walk or during the numerous car trips I make for work, I like to scrape off a little brain lint to examine and ponder. Brain lint is the stuff you pull up from the far reaches of your mind, where you store nearly-forgotten memories. The brain lint I scrape up usually is colored by a specific theme. On this particular walk, my brain lint came from long winter walks I've taken on lakes. Given that we lived by lakes only the first 7 years of my life, there was limited content to ponder. I remember thinking as a kid how big Paul's Lake was (HA!) and recalled the time Susie Christensen and I walked all the way across the lake, rang the doorbell at some stranger's house, and asked for a drink of water. (I'm surprised we didn't ask for lemon drops, as was our custom at the Erickson's at the end of the road). That trek across the lake, and eventually back again, seemed soooooooo long, and I didn't think we'd make it home, and instead would perish on the ice somewhere between the island and the shore. I don't remember being so tired when we walked across another lake, the one by Hernberger's, to go sledding on the big hill on the far side. Maybe that's because Hernberger's lake was smaller and we didn't have to go straight across, but kind of diagonally. I know some of the bigger kids were with us, although who "us" even is, I don't know. The cold, the snow, the size of the hill, and the expanse of the lake are the details I've retained.
A walk that produces some warm, fuzzy brain lint is enough to make any weekend a good one, but this weekend had even more delights. Caleb's basketball team played in a tournament in Wayzata, and we drove out there three straight evenings. Wayzata was the only team to beat Woodbury in B level competition this year. In the second tournament of the season, Woodbury played against them in the championship game, and was leading most of the game. At the very end, however, Wayzata caught up, and squeaked past Woodbury with a basket that won the game by one point. What a heartbreaker. As you can imagine, Woodbury had revenge on their minds, and what better place to get that revenge than at Wayzata's own tournament? The two teams were placed in opposite brackets so they could meet in the championship game, and that's exactly what happened. Jeff, in particular, was obsessed with avenging the earlier loss, and our 6th graders didn't disappoint us. Within the first few minutes they shot ahead to a 12-0 lead and never looked back, winning the championship 45-25. Caleb scored 7 points, so his haircut must still be doing it's job. It was particularly gratifying to win when we saw a few of the Wayzata players taking out their frustration by shoving their elbows into our players or hitting them on the back when the refs weren't looking. Most of the players were good sports, though, and it was an exciting, well-played game. And boy, revenge is sweet. THAT was the icing on the cake of my perfect weekend.
Gene Pool Guessing Game
At left is a photo taken by Maren's first grade teacher of Maren and some of her classmates on Valentine's Day. Note Maren's considerable height compared to her peers. Is this the product of her mother's genes or her father's? Maren's long, lean build would indicate she takes after her 6'4" dad, but don't discount the dominance of the Stocking genes. I towered above the kids in my class for years due to some weird accelerated growth pattern, then watched everyone else pass me up after 5th grade.
So, play "Who Has the Dominant Genes?" Make your wagers... and wait another ten years to find out the winner.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Family tidbits
A sample of the enlightening conversation I have driving home from work:
Chase: Mom, why don't you put fruit snacks in my lunch anymore?
Me: Because you told me you were sick of them.
Chase: No, I didn't.
Me: Yes, you did.
Chase: No, I didn't. I said I was tired of them. I didn't say I was sick of them.
Me: Being sick of something is the same as being tired of something.
Chase; No, it isn't.
Me: Yes, it is.
Chase: No, it isn't.
Me: So, what does it mean when you're sick of something?
Chase: When you're sick of something you don't want it anymore.
Me (anticipating victory in this crucial argument with my 4-year-old): And what does it mean to be tired of something?
Chase: Being tired of something means you don't want it... for awhile!
An example of my family's appreciation for my efforts to cook dinner every night:
Maren: Can I see what we're having for dinner?
(I lift the lid of the crockpot to show her).
Maren (politely): I'm sure it can still taste good even if it doesn't smell good.
Chase: Mom, why don't you put fruit snacks in my lunch anymore?
Me: Because you told me you were sick of them.
Chase: No, I didn't.
Me: Yes, you did.
Chase: No, I didn't. I said I was tired of them. I didn't say I was sick of them.
Me: Being sick of something is the same as being tired of something.
Chase; No, it isn't.
Me: Yes, it is.
Chase: No, it isn't.
Me: So, what does it mean when you're sick of something?
Chase: When you're sick of something you don't want it anymore.
Me (anticipating victory in this crucial argument with my 4-year-old): And what does it mean to be tired of something?
Chase: Being tired of something means you don't want it... for awhile!
An example of my family's appreciation for my efforts to cook dinner every night:
Maren: Can I see what we're having for dinner?
(I lift the lid of the crockpot to show her).
Maren (politely): I'm sure it can still taste good even if it doesn't smell good.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Compassionate Update
It was with great relief today that I returned Compassionate the Pig to preschool. He can go torture another family for a week now.
Not that I was very tortured. Chase's initial excitement about having CTP at our house lasted less than 24 hours. We brought CTP home on a Monday, and by Tuesday night he was lying, sad and discarded, in the front entryway. I *compassionately* moved him to a chair in the living room to keep the dog from sampling him, and he was ultimately shoved aside and came to rest wedged between the chair and one of the end tables. He pretty much stayed there until we retrieved him to go back to school.
We hadn't written anything in CTP's journal since the first night he came home, so I sat in the preschool parking lot before picking up Chase, scribbling a bunch of journal entries about CTP's wonderful adventures at our house. I hope they don't ask Chase about these tomorrow at preschool, because he has no idea what I wrote. Maybe I can prep him on the way to school tomorrow.
Having CTP at our house has reminded me how undigitalized our family is compared to the large majority of the American population. We have no working digital camera in our house, and no cell phones at all, much less a picture-taking cell phone. In a half-hearted attempt to get some kind of visual record of CTP's visit (and to keep up with all the Joneses at preschool who taped multiple pictures of their little darlings into the journal), I gave Maren a disposable camera on Monday to take some pictures of CTP doing "stuff" around the house. I don't know all the pictures Maren and Chase took, but at least one of them has CTP posed like a ninja. It was a wasted effort, though, because I was too lazy to get the film over to Target to be developed before it was time to bring CTP back. There are still a few pictures left on the camera, and then if we want to retrieve any of them, we'll have to get all those CTP pictures developed as well. Guess I'll just chalk this one up to the price of... what? Laziness? Backwardness? Being stuck in the 20th century?
Not that I was very tortured. Chase's initial excitement about having CTP at our house lasted less than 24 hours. We brought CTP home on a Monday, and by Tuesday night he was lying, sad and discarded, in the front entryway. I *compassionately* moved him to a chair in the living room to keep the dog from sampling him, and he was ultimately shoved aside and came to rest wedged between the chair and one of the end tables. He pretty much stayed there until we retrieved him to go back to school.
We hadn't written anything in CTP's journal since the first night he came home, so I sat in the preschool parking lot before picking up Chase, scribbling a bunch of journal entries about CTP's wonderful adventures at our house. I hope they don't ask Chase about these tomorrow at preschool, because he has no idea what I wrote. Maybe I can prep him on the way to school tomorrow.
Having CTP at our house has reminded me how undigitalized our family is compared to the large majority of the American population. We have no working digital camera in our house, and no cell phones at all, much less a picture-taking cell phone. In a half-hearted attempt to get some kind of visual record of CTP's visit (and to keep up with all the Joneses at preschool who taped multiple pictures of their little darlings into the journal), I gave Maren a disposable camera on Monday to take some pictures of CTP doing "stuff" around the house. I don't know all the pictures Maren and Chase took, but at least one of them has CTP posed like a ninja. It was a wasted effort, though, because I was too lazy to get the film over to Target to be developed before it was time to bring CTP back. There are still a few pictures left on the camera, and then if we want to retrieve any of them, we'll have to get all those CTP pictures developed as well. Guess I'll just chalk this one up to the price of... what? Laziness? Backwardness? Being stuck in the 20th century?
Sunday, February 17, 2008
The Samson Antitheses
Story 1: Once upon a time there was a 12 year old boy who liked to play basketball. However, lately he had been in a shooting slump, making only one or two baskets each game. One day his mother noticed that his hair was not only getting long, but rather lank. "When was the last time you washed your hair?" she asked. When the boy told her, "Three days ago," and she thought of all the sweaty practices and hat hair that had happened in that time, she said, "Ew, gross." So the mother got out her clippers and cut off all but half an inch of the boy's hair. That very same day, the boy played in three basketball games against (supposedly) more skilled teams. In the first game, the boy made 3 three-pointers, and the team won 52-39. In the next game, the boy scored 8 points, and the team won 45-21. In the third game, the boy scored another 8 points and the team won 45-18. And in the last game the next day, the boy scored 7 points, and the team won the championship 41-26. As was the custom of certain family members of her generation, the mother took all the credit for the victories. And everyone rejoiced.
Story 2: Once upon a time there was a kind, humble woman who did not cut her hair for 30 years. In that time, she raised a family and did many good deeds, and they all prospered. Then one day the woman decided she was sick and tired of long hair and wanted to get it cut. Members of her family expressed fear and trepidition that cutting her hair would bring great suffering...to them. Not being one to make a hasty decision, the woman thought about the haircut for 10 more years. Finally, she became fed up and ordered that her hair be cut. And it was good. The world did not end, and the woman has not run off to Las Vegas to be a showgirl... yet.
Story 2: Once upon a time there was a kind, humble woman who did not cut her hair for 30 years. In that time, she raised a family and did many good deeds, and they all prospered. Then one day the woman decided she was sick and tired of long hair and wanted to get it cut. Members of her family expressed fear and trepidition that cutting her hair would bring great suffering...to them. Not being one to make a hasty decision, the woman thought about the haircut for 10 more years. Finally, she became fed up and ordered that her hair be cut. And it was good. The world did not end, and the woman has not run off to Las Vegas to be a showgirl... yet.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Bye-bye, Pooh!
Tonight I literally stripped one of the last vestiges of my children's babyhood out of our lives. Or, technically, off the wall: we're finally getting rid of the Winnie the Pooh wallpaper border that we put up over 12 years ago in anticipation of bringing home baby numero uno. Maren has been pestering us for awhile to get to this chore - she claims she's too embarrassed to have any friends come up to her room with that nursery relic on her wall. I would have thought I'd be sad getting rid of Pooh, but I'm not. I'm definitely ready to say good-bye to all things baby and am looking forward to having ALL school-age children. When Chase starts kindergarten next year, not only will we be able to stop investing one of my monthly paychecks in childcare, but I'll also get something even more valuable: time. No more dropping off and picking up at daycare or preschool day after day after day. For the first time since I had children, I will be able to drive straight to work and straight home every day. And if I happen to be sick one day, I won't have to drive my kids ANYWHERE before I can wallow in my misery at home. I'll just wave them out the door to the bus while standing in my pajamas and holding a nice hot cup of coffee. Just the thought of this buoyed me through the wall-stripping process.
Not that I really needed to be buoyed. There is something innately satisfying about pulling long strips of wallpaper off. It reminds me of when I was growing up and would get one of my annual sunburns and Terri would offer to peel my back. Yeah, ew, gross, but pulling off anything in one long, continuous strip until it finally breaks off is...rewarding, even when it's dead skin you're pulling. In fact, my dead skin and I can probably take credit for sparking Terri's interest in pursuing a wound-care career. You're welcome.
Not that I really needed to be buoyed. There is something innately satisfying about pulling long strips of wallpaper off. It reminds me of when I was growing up and would get one of my annual sunburns and Terri would offer to peel my back. Yeah, ew, gross, but pulling off anything in one long, continuous strip until it finally breaks off is...rewarding, even when it's dead skin you're pulling. In fact, my dead skin and I can probably take credit for sparking Terri's interest in pursuing a wound-care career. You're welcome.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Valen"times"
Valentine's Day, circa 1975: students decorate shoe boxes with foil, hearts, lace, doilies and whatnot, cut a slit in the top, and bring them to school to collect valentines from classmates. The class has a party, with homemade cupcakes and cookies brought in by the room mothers, and the students open the valentines. If you're very lucky, the students might get a few treats in their valentine boxes, but mostly, they just get cards... that they actually read.
Valentine's Day, circa 2008: students decorate a valentine holder at school to collect the candy, pencils, tattoos, small toys, and, oh yes, the cards that are passed out. Handing out only a valentine with no extra loot attached is considered passe. No one is allowed to eat homemade goodies made by the parents, for fear that a revengeful mother has hidden razors or arsenic in the treats, or at the very least has brought underbaked cookies teeming with rapidly-multiplying bacteria. So the students munch on the candy they received, while watching "Charlie Brown's Valentine" or some other valentine-related film. Does anyone read the cards anymore?
Sigh. I'm feeling a little nostalgic.
Valentine's Day, circa 2008: students decorate a valentine holder at school to collect the candy, pencils, tattoos, small toys, and, oh yes, the cards that are passed out. Handing out only a valentine with no extra loot attached is considered passe. No one is allowed to eat homemade goodies made by the parents, for fear that a revengeful mother has hidden razors or arsenic in the treats, or at the very least has brought underbaked cookies teeming with rapidly-multiplying bacteria. So the students munch on the candy they received, while watching "Charlie Brown's Valentine" or some other valentine-related film. Does anyone read the cards anymore?
Sigh. I'm feeling a little nostalgic.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
21st
Jeff went to a seeding meeting for all the 6th grade basketball coaches around the state (but mostly from around the metro area) to rank the teams for the upcoming state tournament. After being probably 125 out of about 150 teams last year, we were happy to see our team has moved up to being ranked 21st this year. That's 21st out of ALL the 6th grade teams, A and B and C, that participate in the state tournament. The Woodbury A team was one of the top five teams and were placed in the bracket with the top 16 teams. The Woodbury B team is in the second 16-team bracket.
Needless to say, we're feeling more positve about our team's prospects in the state tourney compared to last year, when:
1. We were cut from the first state tournament after we lost our third game in the final 45 seconds. We were AHEAD by 5 points with 45 seconds left in the game... and lost. Ouch.
2. We placed dead last in the second state tournament. (In case you're wondering, the two state tourneys are run by two different basketball organizations). Here's the kicker with these tournaments: if you win a couple games and then lose, you're out of the tournament. But if you lose your first game and keep on losing, you play MORE games than if you'd won the first few games. It seems like a cruel and unusual punishment, especially when you're driving to the far opposite end of the seven-county metro area to compete in the loser's (excuse me, "friendship") bracket for a second day.
Incidentally, the second state tournament last year was when Jeff had his vertigo attack (or "vertical" as he's prone to calling it, although there's nothing vertical in his posture when this happens). We had to leave the team to play - and lose - their second game in Delano while I drove Jeff to the emergency room in nearby Buffalo for the IV medications he needed. Wheeling him into the emergency room, holding a bag of vomit, seemed like an appropriate finale for that weekend.
Needless to say, we're feeling more positve about our team's prospects in the state tourney compared to last year, when:
1. We were cut from the first state tournament after we lost our third game in the final 45 seconds. We were AHEAD by 5 points with 45 seconds left in the game... and lost. Ouch.
2. We placed dead last in the second state tournament. (In case you're wondering, the two state tourneys are run by two different basketball organizations). Here's the kicker with these tournaments: if you win a couple games and then lose, you're out of the tournament. But if you lose your first game and keep on losing, you play MORE games than if you'd won the first few games. It seems like a cruel and unusual punishment, especially when you're driving to the far opposite end of the seven-county metro area to compete in the loser's (excuse me, "friendship") bracket for a second day.
Incidentally, the second state tournament last year was when Jeff had his vertigo attack (or "vertical" as he's prone to calling it, although there's nothing vertical in his posture when this happens). We had to leave the team to play - and lose - their second game in Delano while I drove Jeff to the emergency room in nearby Buffalo for the IV medications he needed. Wheeling him into the emergency room, holding a bag of vomit, seemed like an appropriate finale for that weekend.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Lutheran Preschool + "The Lion King" =
Chase, in the car on the way to preschool this morning, after an evening of watching "The Lion King": "Mom, you know, God is watching over you." Pause. "And so are the great kings of the past."
Monday, February 11, 2008
A Blog, 10,000 Steps and Compassionate the Pig
The subtitle of this post is "Chains."
First, there's this blog. Here I am, chained to the computer, after obsessing throughout the day about what I'm going to possibly write. Let's hope it gets easier. My husband warned me, though. His words: "Don't start a blog, because then you'll have to write in it." He knows me.
Then, there's the 10,000 Steps program. For the uninitiated, this is a program for which you can sign up through your insurance company, committing to a certain level of exercise. I signed up last year, found out I wasn't as committed as I thought I was, dropped out and routed all the friendly email reminders about recording my steps straight to my junk mail box. But this year the minimal financial incentive ($65? or something like that) appealed to my "something for (almost) nothing" greed, and I signed up again. So now I'm not only chained to the computer, but I'm also chained to the pedometer, and the two aren't exactly compatible. To make matters worse, in a moment of weakness I thought I may as well join the 10,000 Steps competition at work. For this, we team up with other staff to compete for the most steps each week until spring break. Add yet another chain: the expectations of staff member I barely even know, but can hardly disappoint by being apathetically lazy.
Finally, to ratchet up the stress levels, we are now chained to Compassionate the Pig at our house this week. (BTW, ratchet isn't really a verb, but it should be). Compassionate the Pig was waiting in Chase's cubby at preschool when I went to pick up my youngest child today. The killjoy in me inwardly groaned when I first saw the dingy stuffed pig and then listened to Chase exclaim excitedly, "Mom! Mom! Look! Look! We get to bring Compassionate the Pig home!" Waiting with CTP was a journal in which we record all the lovely adventures we will enjoy together. The journal is already filled with photos and accounts of how CTP has joined Chase's preschool classmates at dance classes, played on the Wii, watched them get their nails done, and even hosted a sleepover with all the girls from a dance class. Unfortunately, in comparision, CTP will lead a very boring life at our house. No Wii! No dance classes! No sleepovers or playdates! No karate or football or soccer! No appointments to get one's nails done! He will just play, and maybe watch Caleb play a basketball game or two this weekend. And why is this stressful? Because I look at that %^$*^&%* journal and can't help feeling I must be depriving my children in some way by coming home most nights and not going ANYWHERE or planning ANYTHING. We just relax, eat dinner together, play, and go to bed (except for me - I have to post my blog). How boring.
And no, I don't know where the name "Compassionate the Pig" came from. But I can tell you that Maren brought home Lovely the Alligator, or something like that. I've treid to repress the memory.
First, there's this blog. Here I am, chained to the computer, after obsessing throughout the day about what I'm going to possibly write. Let's hope it gets easier. My husband warned me, though. His words: "Don't start a blog, because then you'll have to write in it." He knows me.
Then, there's the 10,000 Steps program. For the uninitiated, this is a program for which you can sign up through your insurance company, committing to a certain level of exercise. I signed up last year, found out I wasn't as committed as I thought I was, dropped out and routed all the friendly email reminders about recording my steps straight to my junk mail box. But this year the minimal financial incentive ($65? or something like that) appealed to my "something for (almost) nothing" greed, and I signed up again. So now I'm not only chained to the computer, but I'm also chained to the pedometer, and the two aren't exactly compatible. To make matters worse, in a moment of weakness I thought I may as well join the 10,000 Steps competition at work. For this, we team up with other staff to compete for the most steps each week until spring break. Add yet another chain: the expectations of staff member I barely even know, but can hardly disappoint by being apathetically lazy.
Finally, to ratchet up the stress levels, we are now chained to Compassionate the Pig at our house this week. (BTW, ratchet isn't really a verb, but it should be). Compassionate the Pig was waiting in Chase's cubby at preschool when I went to pick up my youngest child today. The killjoy in me inwardly groaned when I first saw the dingy stuffed pig and then listened to Chase exclaim excitedly, "Mom! Mom! Look! Look! We get to bring Compassionate the Pig home!" Waiting with CTP was a journal in which we record all the lovely adventures we will enjoy together. The journal is already filled with photos and accounts of how CTP has joined Chase's preschool classmates at dance classes, played on the Wii, watched them get their nails done, and even hosted a sleepover with all the girls from a dance class. Unfortunately, in comparision, CTP will lead a very boring life at our house. No Wii! No dance classes! No sleepovers or playdates! No karate or football or soccer! No appointments to get one's nails done! He will just play, and maybe watch Caleb play a basketball game or two this weekend. And why is this stressful? Because I look at that %^$*^&%* journal and can't help feeling I must be depriving my children in some way by coming home most nights and not going ANYWHERE or planning ANYTHING. We just relax, eat dinner together, play, and go to bed (except for me - I have to post my blog). How boring.
And no, I don't know where the name "Compassionate the Pig" came from. But I can tell you that Maren brought home Lovely the Alligator, or something like that. I've treid to repress the memory.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Valentines
It was a good weekend to hunker down, what with the windchill dropping into the double digits below zero. Weather like this makes one supremely grateful for having a roof over (and four solid walls around) one's head. We spent Saturday completing valentine-related activities: baking and decorating valentine cookies and getting valentine cards ready for the upcoming class parties.
As a sixth grader, Caleb doesn't do the whole valentine exchange thing, but Maren and Chase both brought home lists of all their classmates' names. We had already bought the necessary cards. Chase asked for Transformers cards, which have incomprehensible messages like "Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, Valentine." Never mind that Chase doesn't have a Transformer, has never watched a movie or TV show about Transformers, and barely even knows what the dang things do. They're cool! On the other hand, Maren settled on Snoopy valentines after I firmly said, "NO!" to Bratz. She didn't seem all that disappointed in my refusal - maybe because her exposure (at least at home) to Bratz is as limited as Chase's is to Transformers. Please don't ask me why Transformers are okay and Bratz aren't. I'm still trying to figure out my reasoning on that.
Maren handily finished addressing and signing her Valentines in a few minutes, but Chase labored over his for quite awhile. I told Chase I would address his cards for him. When you're 4 years old, writing your name 24 times in a small space seems enough punishment without copying 24 names you've never written before. Plus, Chase hasn't quite mastered the concept of writing left to right, top to bottom. If he started to run out of space when writing his name, he'd put the next few letters on top of the first two, and finish with the last one in a pyramid-style signature. One can only imagine how his classmates' names would be deciphered when written in that form.
Incidentally, none of Maren's classmates had to be identified with a last initial - no names are repeated in the entire class list, which is kind of unusual. In contrast, Chase's class had two Olivias and two Ethans... and one Abbysinia. Not sure which is better (or worse) - to have a name that is so common that your last initial is needed to identify you, or to have a name that is so different that most people have never heard it, or know how to spell it.
As a sixth grader, Caleb doesn't do the whole valentine exchange thing, but Maren and Chase both brought home lists of all their classmates' names. We had already bought the necessary cards. Chase asked for Transformers cards, which have incomprehensible messages like "Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, Valentine." Never mind that Chase doesn't have a Transformer, has never watched a movie or TV show about Transformers, and barely even knows what the dang things do. They're cool! On the other hand, Maren settled on Snoopy valentines after I firmly said, "NO!" to Bratz. She didn't seem all that disappointed in my refusal - maybe because her exposure (at least at home) to Bratz is as limited as Chase's is to Transformers. Please don't ask me why Transformers are okay and Bratz aren't. I'm still trying to figure out my reasoning on that.
Maren handily finished addressing and signing her Valentines in a few minutes, but Chase labored over his for quite awhile. I told Chase I would address his cards for him. When you're 4 years old, writing your name 24 times in a small space seems enough punishment without copying 24 names you've never written before. Plus, Chase hasn't quite mastered the concept of writing left to right, top to bottom. If he started to run out of space when writing his name, he'd put the next few letters on top of the first two, and finish with the last one in a pyramid-style signature. One can only imagine how his classmates' names would be deciphered when written in that form.
Incidentally, none of Maren's classmates had to be identified with a last initial - no names are repeated in the entire class list, which is kind of unusual. In contrast, Chase's class had two Olivias and two Ethans... and one Abbysinia. Not sure which is better (or worse) - to have a name that is so common that your last initial is needed to identify you, or to have a name that is so different that most people have never heard it, or know how to spell it.
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