The blog is very sparse this summer, but stay tuned, dear readers. I have not forgotten you. My boys are only in morning camp, and I'm very committed to exercise, volunteering, pool time, and napping when needed. Two weeks ago I FINALLY finished reading Barack Obama's autobiography. High five. What an important story, reflective, sensitive, funny in places, lyrical at times. A really nuanced discussion of race in a personal context. I started The Bookseller of Kabul the other day.
Anyways, here is what I did yesterday. Some of my numeral keys don't work because I spilled red wine on them, so I'm not putting in times.
Early morning: get up to go running at the local track. Run a little until heels bleed (gotta wear real socks, not footies) and walk until the self-imposed limit of thirty minutes is over.
Before I drink my ritual coffee, Jack wants me to read his "book" that he wrote. More specifically he waves it two inches in front of my face yelling, "I finished it, I finished it!" "STOP THAT!" I yell back. He cries. We cuddle.
Will doesn't want to wear his denim shorts, he wants something "cool." So cargo shorts it is. Olive green shorts with an electric blue T-shirt is painful to see, but he's dressed, hallelujah.
I drive Will to the local preschool day camp while John walks Jack to the grade-school camp.
I pack lunches to take to the pool, which we eat after the boys' 12:00 swim class. We do this every weekday, this week and next. One turkey sandwich, one PBJ sandwich, two cheese sticks, two yogurts in tubes, one fruit salad from the local market for us all to share, bottle of filtered water from our tap.
From 10 to 11 AM on Tues. and Thurs. I help welfare-to-work folks to study for their GEDs. At least, the "Language Arts and Writing" section, which, along with the math, are the most difficult for most students to pass. This all takes place at the Delaware County Literacy Council, in Chester. I make a "lesson plan," which means putting bookmarks in my copy of the study guide and hoping that the ESL teacher isn't hogging the photocopier like last time.
Only Demary shows up, and she's very attentive. I walk her through a sample essay topic, which asks about the effects of advertising in "modern times." I prompt her to think of where she sees advertising, and it's not easy for her to think of it at first. Meanwhile, as I look at her I read the text that's all over her: Her name tattooed on her arm, a T-shirt that says "I don't make mistakes--I date them," a keychain with big plastic photos of her toddler. We struggle to develop a thesis for her essay. She'll write a draft at home and time it.
Back on the road--time to go pick up the boys for swim lessons at the pool.
___________________________
Now we're getting ready to go to Indiana for our biannual pilgrimage. No cooking for eleven days, hooray!
Jul 25, 2006
Jul 5, 2006
Red, White, and Bleary-Eyed
(No, we didn't get drunk yesterday or stay up all night, but I couldn't think of any appropriate word beginning with bl--. ) The fourth of July in my town is a huge exuberant bash, a lovefest, an outdoor sweat-athon. We had races, parades, fire, and water, and don't forget the free doughnuts. Once a year the townsfolk forget their alarm about our nation's arrogance to the rest of the world, and throw themselves into an unapologetic if self-c0ncious celebration of Americana, simplicity, and good old innocent fun.
To get ready, Will and I decorated his bike for the parade, and Jack and Will "practiced" for their respective bike races. You can't really "practice" for an actual race in a driveway, but no matter. Will's bike looked quite patriotic, streamers woven in the spokes, ribbon tied to the handlebars, and various miscellaneous lengths of streamers taped in random places, looking chaotic. Jack came in third for the six-year-old boys' race. Will came in sixth, as he will tell anyone within earshot, but what he doesn't know is--there were only six children racing in his four-year-old category.
The parade, well, that was another story. Let me just say that a little boy yelled a lot and withdrew at the last second, and then changed his mind when it was almost over, then his mom flung the bike back in the dang street for him to ride, and the boy had a tantrum in front of the whole town when he learned they were giving prizes. "You can't have prizes for a PARADE!" Meltdown in the summer heat. Time to go home. We just learned today, officially, that Will is very sensitive to sound and visual stimulus, and also has difficulty with some gross motor skills. So, a bike race and a parade in a crowded town center with an oompah band playing was not the ideal occasion for him to exhibit his considerable charm and ability to cooperate.
Oh yeah, and later John took the boys to this huge water fight with fire hoses, which the boys, especially Will, totally loved. Then we had my brother and his girlfriend and her two older children and my Dad for a cookout and then I was really beat after that. At the end of the evening John tripped over a laundry basket in the dark and yelled, and then, in a completely independent accident, broke an antique mirror. But those two events were past my10:00 PM deadline for reacting, and anyhow he knows where the Band-Aids are.
Then I got up at 5:15 and went running. Because I'm doing that now. OK, maybe I AM bleary-eyed.
To get ready, Will and I decorated his bike for the parade, and Jack and Will "practiced" for their respective bike races. You can't really "practice" for an actual race in a driveway, but no matter. Will's bike looked quite patriotic, streamers woven in the spokes, ribbon tied to the handlebars, and various miscellaneous lengths of streamers taped in random places, looking chaotic. Jack came in third for the six-year-old boys' race. Will came in sixth, as he will tell anyone within earshot, but what he doesn't know is--there were only six children racing in his four-year-old category.
The parade, well, that was another story. Let me just say that a little boy yelled a lot and withdrew at the last second, and then changed his mind when it was almost over, then his mom flung the bike back in the dang street for him to ride, and the boy had a tantrum in front of the whole town when he learned they were giving prizes. "You can't have prizes for a PARADE!" Meltdown in the summer heat. Time to go home. We just learned today, officially, that Will is very sensitive to sound and visual stimulus, and also has difficulty with some gross motor skills. So, a bike race and a parade in a crowded town center with an oompah band playing was not the ideal occasion for him to exhibit his considerable charm and ability to cooperate.
Oh yeah, and later John took the boys to this huge water fight with fire hoses, which the boys, especially Will, totally loved. Then we had my brother and his girlfriend and her two older children and my Dad for a cookout and then I was really beat after that. At the end of the evening John tripped over a laundry basket in the dark and yelled, and then, in a completely independent accident, broke an antique mirror. But those two events were past my10:00 PM deadline for reacting, and anyhow he knows where the Band-Aids are.
Then I got up at 5:15 and went running. Because I'm doing that now. OK, maybe I AM bleary-eyed.
Jun 29, 2006
Rain
I was awakened at 3:30 this morning by a distant clap of thunder. Every couple of minutes another clap or rumble, louder each time. I lay there thinking of how every night, while we sleep in our beds, the clouds move over us, traversing the fields, crossing rivers, looming over houses and malls and parks. I was reminded of Genesis 1:2, before there was light or dry land, when"The Spirit of God moved over the face of the waters." An unmarked, unpeopled world without reference points and yet full of promise.
Finally, the thunder crashed around us and lightning flashed every couple of seconds, while the rains descended in sheets. We crept about the house closing windows, to keep a few drops out of a well-waterproofed house. I thought about a woman I had read about, a 40-year-old widow in Namibia whose late husband's family had taken her few posessions, some pots and pans and a cow and chickens. She is left with no rights, sixteen children and a patch of worn-out land. I send out a prayer for her into the darkness. Will my prayer be pulled upward against the rain, or will it splatter downward, disregarded? I curl up in bed with my husband, dry and comfortable and cosy while the rain falls, and drift into an uneasy sleep.
Finally, the thunder crashed around us and lightning flashed every couple of seconds, while the rains descended in sheets. We crept about the house closing windows, to keep a few drops out of a well-waterproofed house. I thought about a woman I had read about, a 40-year-old widow in Namibia whose late husband's family had taken her few posessions, some pots and pans and a cow and chickens. She is left with no rights, sixteen children and a patch of worn-out land. I send out a prayer for her into the darkness. Will my prayer be pulled upward against the rain, or will it splatter downward, disregarded? I curl up in bed with my husband, dry and comfortable and cosy while the rain falls, and drift into an uneasy sleep.
Jun 19, 2006
Indiana Inlaws Invade
They're here. My salt-of-the-earth inlaws arrived around 7 PM yesterday. Mervin and Marilyn disembarked from the car in their Sunday finest, Mervin in his white tailored shirt and tie, Marilyn in a crisp beige short-sleeved summer suit. Will and Jack greeted them fresh-bathed, in their Buzz Lightyear jammies, new almost-buzz haircuts, fresh-scrubbed faces. I was still cleaning the guest bathroom, so was not such a state of freshness. Oh well. John made popcorn, the Sunday night supper of choice in their family (and ours) and we sipped homemade iced tea. The boys proudly showed Grammy their latest Captain Underpants books. I was quick to say that their daughter Aunt Julie (a school librarian) got them started on that. So don't pin that one on us! Jack can write some passages down from memory, so revered has Captain Underpants become in our household.
We'll give Mervin some work to do, because he is one of those people who is most happy with a practical task to accomplish. So we'll have him put in a storm door and figure out what to do about the mailbox, which will need to be moved. And there are always some more plant hooks to hang up, should he run out of projects.
Jack starts a week of UK Elite morning soccer camp today, so Grammy will enjoy some Will time. This afternoon, if it's not too sweltering, Jack and Will plan to sell fresh-squeezed lemonade at a local playground, and give the money to the Delaware County Literacy Council. I'm mostly making the lemonade, but the will and determination belong to the boys.
We'll give Mervin some work to do, because he is one of those people who is most happy with a practical task to accomplish. So we'll have him put in a storm door and figure out what to do about the mailbox, which will need to be moved. And there are always some more plant hooks to hang up, should he run out of projects.
Jack starts a week of UK Elite morning soccer camp today, so Grammy will enjoy some Will time. This afternoon, if it's not too sweltering, Jack and Will plan to sell fresh-squeezed lemonade at a local playground, and give the money to the Delaware County Literacy Council. I'm mostly making the lemonade, but the will and determination belong to the boys.
Jun 13, 2006
Attack of the Alpha Robin, And an Unwanted Question at the Bowling Alley
He was at it again yesterday morning, that red-breasted robin, pecking away at the sunroom window. Because the house is L-shaped, I could get a good view from a kitchen window. He flies from a nearby fencepost about five feet away, gets a good peck in, and returns to the fencepost and does it again without resting. He'll do this a good dozen times. Whenever I see him, I go into the sunroom and he flies away. Now about four panes of the bay window in the sunroom are scored with gray marks from his beak.
What does he want? I've heard that birds sometimes attack their own reflections, so perhaps he's threatened by himself. He only does this in the morning before about eight, so maybe that's when the reflection is strongest. He is persistent, and never seems to hurt himself or the window.
All right, enough about the robin. Here's what happened to me last week. The high-school-age attendant at the local bowling alley, upon my ordering another game with Jack, asked me if I wanted a senior discount. It took them a while to peel me off the ceiling. But since then I have:
-jumped on a trampoline with the boys, giggling the whole time
-discovered Weyerbacher Simcoe Double IPA
-bicycled for miles around the local state park, pulling Will behind me (on that bike extension thing that seems to have no name)
-tasted honeysuckle gelato
So despite a young man at Sproul Lanes hurling cruel barbs at my unsuspecting, silver-haired, matronly, OLD OLD OLD self, things are definitely looking up.
What does he want? I've heard that birds sometimes attack their own reflections, so perhaps he's threatened by himself. He only does this in the morning before about eight, so maybe that's when the reflection is strongest. He is persistent, and never seems to hurt himself or the window.
All right, enough about the robin. Here's what happened to me last week. The high-school-age attendant at the local bowling alley, upon my ordering another game with Jack, asked me if I wanted a senior discount. It took them a while to peel me off the ceiling. But since then I have:
-jumped on a trampoline with the boys, giggling the whole time
-discovered Weyerbacher Simcoe Double IPA
-bicycled for miles around the local state park, pulling Will behind me (on that bike extension thing that seems to have no name)
-tasted honeysuckle gelato
So despite a young man at Sproul Lanes hurling cruel barbs at my unsuspecting, silver-haired, matronly, OLD OLD OLD self, things are definitely looking up.
Jun 6, 2006
Readin' and 'Ritin' (But Not So Much 'Rithmatic)
Last night was my first night of tutor training with the Delaware County Literacy Council. After the training I'll be assigned an adult to tutor once a week for about an hour and a half. I've actually done this before, more than 20 years ago. In Philadelphia I tutored Mildred, a 45-year-old lady who worked at the Sears distribution center in the Northeast (it's since been demolished, I believe). She wanted to be promoted to supervisor, but couldn't because of her third grade reading level. So we read the newspaper together, looked at forms from her job, and went through some of the program's upper level workbooks. And she progressed two grade levels. She worked hard, arriving in Center City after a long bus ride from work, and before her next subway ride home to North Philadelphia.
Best of all, we became friends. I was not brimming with cultural sensitivity at the time, asking her dumb-ass questions like who was the father of her children, but Mildred was very patient with me. When I read about Proliteracy Worldwide a couple of months ago in a magazine, I remembered Mildred and knew I had to take up tutoring again.
On another front, plans for me to teach a 7th and 8th grade writing elective next spring at my sons' Montessori are firming up. I taught this year's class a mini-unit on autobiographical writing. First I had them read out loud a couple of pages from Barack Obama's Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance. In this passage he relates a schoolyard incident from his childhood, and deftly reveals the racial politics of the playground, and his own choice for survival at the expense of the only other black child in his class. The kids seemed to appreciate the story. Then their assignment was to write a short essay on a time when they learned something important about themselves. They wrote about the following subjects:
Okay, so not much has happened to them yet. But at least I got some writing samples and got to see what 7th and 8th graders are like. It's a very small school, and this class had only 12 students. I'll only teach about 4 at a time, and only once a week, so classroom management will not be a huge issue. And neither will the tax implications arising from my huge paycheck. But it should be fun.
Best of all, we became friends. I was not brimming with cultural sensitivity at the time, asking her dumb-ass questions like who was the father of her children, but Mildred was very patient with me. When I read about Proliteracy Worldwide a couple of months ago in a magazine, I remembered Mildred and knew I had to take up tutoring again.
On another front, plans for me to teach a 7th and 8th grade writing elective next spring at my sons' Montessori are firming up. I taught this year's class a mini-unit on autobiographical writing. First I had them read out loud a couple of pages from Barack Obama's Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance. In this passage he relates a schoolyard incident from his childhood, and deftly reveals the racial politics of the playground, and his own choice for survival at the expense of the only other black child in his class. The kids seemed to appreciate the story. Then their assignment was to write a short essay on a time when they learned something important about themselves. They wrote about the following subjects:
- A girl finally got the courage to dive from the diving board.
- A boy used a bow and arrow on vacation with some friends and learned that he is a good marksman.
- A girl got her hair cut short in second grade and enjoyed being different from the other girls.
- On a dare, a boy threw water balloons at people driving by. He claims he learned not to do it again.
- A girl recalled her first day at preschool, at which she cried, even though she had really been looking forward to it.
Okay, so not much has happened to them yet. But at least I got some writing samples and got to see what 7th and 8th graders are like. It's a very small school, and this class had only 12 students. I'll only teach about 4 at a time, and only once a week, so classroom management will not be a huge issue. And neither will the tax implications arising from my huge paycheck. But it should be fun.
May 24, 2006
Rhymes with Spring
Jack and Will, along with their classmates and the rest of their preschool/kindergarten, gave a concert yesterday under the trees in their schoolyard. The kindergarteners sang their own song, "Here Comes the Sun," but they were all together for the rest, including "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."Jack looked like he was being tortured, staring down grimly, barely opening his mouth, and sometimes chewing his cuticles. Will, on the other hand, smiled broadly when he sang, belting it out. Many of the girls bounced up and down wildly and gestured while singing, and some of the smallest children looked like they weren't sure where they were or what was expected of them. Others were hopelessly distracted by the crowd of families waving, videotaping and taking pictures. Then there are always a couple of inconsolable tots who need to be held by the teacher. Apparently, every child has their very own special Singing at the School Concert Personality. And the parents just watch helplessly as little Tyler picks his nose or Madison lifts her dress up over her tummy, again and again.
At the end, massive applause. The music teacher announced he was tired. You could hear the parents proclaiming "Great job!" to their children countless times. Because it was a great job, all things considered. And singing with your friends and looking out at a sea of admiring parents is the ultimate love feast. And then? Ice cream for all, much running around, indiscriminate yelling, and staying up a little past bedtime. In short, a perfect evening.
At the end, massive applause. The music teacher announced he was tired. You could hear the parents proclaiming "Great job!" to their children countless times. Because it was a great job, all things considered. And singing with your friends and looking out at a sea of admiring parents is the ultimate love feast. And then? Ice cream for all, much running around, indiscriminate yelling, and staying up a little past bedtime. In short, a perfect evening.
May 23, 2006
Tiggers Bounce
On Saturday we got to have our "Special Members' Preview" of Big Cat Falls, the new habitat at the Philadelphia Zoo. It's not quite all populated yet, but the lions, Amur tiger, and Amur leopard are there. The lions and Amur leopard have an uneasy relationship at this point, involving much pacing on the part of the leopard and stalking on the part of the lions. In one area, only a one-and-a-half-inch plexiglass window separates the people from the lions. It's not often that you get to see a 400-lb. lion ambling within inches of a toddler's chubby toes.The Amur tiger was sleeping, so we didn't get to see him much. They can weigh up to 650 lbs, and to cushion their jumping, their paws have very thick pads. We looked at a mold made from a huge paw, and were suitably impressed.
The elephants were agitated that day, as was the rhino. The elephants were spraying mud and hollering, and one picked up a log with its trunk. I was afraid it would throw it at the rhino and that it would hit us. The boys were squealing with excitement. The rhino kept hauling his bulk in and and out of his little pond over and over, with the elephant looking on and bellowing. It's as if the rhino was on a vigorous workout program, the elephant his relentless trainer.
The zoo was very crowded, though. We normally get there when they open at 9:30. This time we had to go to remote parking, a dusty uneven lot in Fairmount Park. Will immediately took a header, thereby covering himself in dirt with amazing efficiency. Usually it takes a few hours to get that dirty.
At the end we pedaled on the swan boats, Jack and me in one and John and Will in the other. We jostled with the other riders in the crowded lake, but could sometimes find a still, quiet inlet in which to watch the the laughing boaters, the begging geese, and the clear blue sky.
The elephants were agitated that day, as was the rhino. The elephants were spraying mud and hollering, and one picked up a log with its trunk. I was afraid it would throw it at the rhino and that it would hit us. The boys were squealing with excitement. The rhino kept hauling his bulk in and and out of his little pond over and over, with the elephant looking on and bellowing. It's as if the rhino was on a vigorous workout program, the elephant his relentless trainer.
The zoo was very crowded, though. We normally get there when they open at 9:30. This time we had to go to remote parking, a dusty uneven lot in Fairmount Park. Will immediately took a header, thereby covering himself in dirt with amazing efficiency. Usually it takes a few hours to get that dirty.
At the end we pedaled on the swan boats, Jack and me in one and John and Will in the other. We jostled with the other riders in the crowded lake, but could sometimes find a still, quiet inlet in which to watch the the laughing boaters, the begging geese, and the clear blue sky.
May 19, 2006
The Switched Cart Incident: A Morality Tale
Yesterday I was drifting through Target with a shopping list, accumulating a modest pile in my cart. Near the end of my perambulations I looked down to toss a nail brush in my cart. But the paper towels weren't my brand. I didn't need that many bars of soap. Hey! That's not my cart! If I had someone else's cart, then where was mine? I had just had it a minute earlier. I looked around me. Woman on a cell phone. Red-shirted Target employee taking inventory. Child demanding something loudly. All appeared innocent. I walked up and down the nearby aisles, nothing.
"This is really strange, but my cart disappeared. Someone must have taken mine and left theirs. . . . " I said to the Target lady, feeling a bit discombobulated and confused.
"I'll look for it," she said amiably. "What was in it?"
I paused. "What was in it?" I repeated dumbly, stalling. Glancing at my list, I saw "foaming hand soap."
"Um, foaming hand soap . . . ?" I murmured, lacking conviction. Other than the foaming hand soap, the truth was more like "Several miscellaneous cleaning products and plastic containers that weren't on my list, but that promised to make my life easier, my summer more bearable, and my demeanor more cheerful. But I have only a vague sense of what they were."
She said she'd look for my cart. I made a little show of looking some more, went back and just picked up the foaming hand soap to buy along with the nail brush. So, brave guerilla shoppers, the next time you stray from your list, ask yourself, "If my cart were lost, what would I run back and purchase?" And just get that.
"This is really strange, but my cart disappeared. Someone must have taken mine and left theirs. . . . " I said to the Target lady, feeling a bit discombobulated and confused.
"I'll look for it," she said amiably. "What was in it?"
I paused. "What was in it?" I repeated dumbly, stalling. Glancing at my list, I saw "foaming hand soap."
"Um, foaming hand soap . . . ?" I murmured, lacking conviction. Other than the foaming hand soap, the truth was more like "Several miscellaneous cleaning products and plastic containers that weren't on my list, but that promised to make my life easier, my summer more bearable, and my demeanor more cheerful. But I have only a vague sense of what they were."
She said she'd look for my cart. I made a little show of looking some more, went back and just picked up the foaming hand soap to buy along with the nail brush. So, brave guerilla shoppers, the next time you stray from your list, ask yourself, "If my cart were lost, what would I run back and purchase?" And just get that.
May 18, 2006
Postcards from Exurbia
I just finished reading Rattled, a newly published satirical novel by Debra Galant. It's about the perils of living in a McMansion in the exurbs of Gloucester County, New Jersey. Ms. Galant wrote a column about New Jersey suburban life for the NYT for a few years, so many of the sociological details are excellent. The main character, Heather, is straight out of Desparate Housewives, a cross between Bree and Gabby. I wish she were portrayed a bit more sympathetically, but then I guess it wouldn't be straightforward satire. If you love to hate aquisitive SUV-owning McMansion dwellers and the developers who cater to their "needs" and cut every environmental corner, you'll find it delightful.
Delaware County, where I live, is so densely populated that we don't have room for exurbs, except for way out in the far west reaches, around the amorphouse area called Glen Mills. Somewhere around there, you hit Chester County, which is more known for McMansionitis and its accompanying Porsche and Mercedes dealerships. When we first moved here three years ago, I was innocently driving along Baltimore Pike way out in the country way past Media, into Concordville and it's little country inns and rolling hills and suddenly--wha . . . ?-- Williams-Sonoma, Talbot's, Eddie Bauer, Chico's, Pottery Parn, Pier One, Zagara's (now Foodsource), all in one shopping strip. But why?
Because somewhere out there, nestled in cul-de-sacs well hidden beyond the bustle of Baltimore Pike, crouch insatiable gigantic "homes" (they're never "houses") demanding to be filled with new stuff from these stores. I've never actually seen these places, mind you. I've just extrapolated their existence from the high-end stores and the slim women with fabulous highlighting jobs, designer track suits, deluxe strollers and immaculately dressed toddlers who frequent the stores. Some of Jack and Will's classmates live out there, but their birthday parties are, of course, never held at home.
Rattled is full of brand names, which seems to be a trend lately among a certain kind of satirical fiction. In these days of viral marketing and product placement, that sort of bothers me, even though the mention is only meant as a social indicator. Anyway, let's just say you'll not want to drool over that Restoration Hardware catalog after reading this book.
Delaware County, where I live, is so densely populated that we don't have room for exurbs, except for way out in the far west reaches, around the amorphouse area called Glen Mills. Somewhere around there, you hit Chester County, which is more known for McMansionitis and its accompanying Porsche and Mercedes dealerships. When we first moved here three years ago, I was innocently driving along Baltimore Pike way out in the country way past Media, into Concordville and it's little country inns and rolling hills and suddenly--wha . . . ?-- Williams-Sonoma, Talbot's, Eddie Bauer, Chico's, Pottery Parn, Pier One, Zagara's (now Foodsource), all in one shopping strip. But why?
Because somewhere out there, nestled in cul-de-sacs well hidden beyond the bustle of Baltimore Pike, crouch insatiable gigantic "homes" (they're never "houses") demanding to be filled with new stuff from these stores. I've never actually seen these places, mind you. I've just extrapolated their existence from the high-end stores and the slim women with fabulous highlighting jobs, designer track suits, deluxe strollers and immaculately dressed toddlers who frequent the stores. Some of Jack and Will's classmates live out there, but their birthday parties are, of course, never held at home.
Rattled is full of brand names, which seems to be a trend lately among a certain kind of satirical fiction. In these days of viral marketing and product placement, that sort of bothers me, even though the mention is only meant as a social indicator. Anyway, let's just say you'll not want to drool over that Restoration Hardware catalog after reading this book.
May 17, 2006
Retreat of the Laurens
Well, it's finally happened. The year 2005 was the first year since 1984 that "Lauren" was not one of the top twenty baby names in the U.S. I'm relieved, I suppose, but the damage has been done. It's funny because when I was a child, I was the only Lauren in every school I went to, without fail. And I attended nine different schools. People had difficulty remembering it and spelling it, so very often I was called Laura, Laureen, or Lorna. Few people complemented me on the name, either; it was just too unusual. For my birth year, 1958, there were lots of Lindas, Susans, Karens, and Barbaras. Only weird people gave their kids weird names.
Then in college there was a girl whose name was "Lauryn," like Lauryn Hill. Her mother had wanted her to be named Lauren, and the father wanted her to be named Katharine, so they "compromised" with "Lauryn." Not much of a compromise. Anyway, she was in my History of the English Language class, and having another student with my name was unsettling. I couldn't be completely sure, sometimes, who people were talking to. It used to be so easy.
Then the field was blown wide open in the 1980s. Vice President Bush's granddaughter was named Lauren and then it seemed that every few weeks in a supermarket I could hear a mother calling out, "Lauren, don't touch that!" "Come here this minute, Lauren!" It was years before I stopped jumping at these commands. Around this time people started telling me I had a beautiful name, and thus began a decade or so when I really loved my name because people loved my name. They were learning how to spell it, too, and now I hardly ever have to spell it for people.
Another thing has happened, though. Now it's not interesting to meet a Lauren. No spark of recognition, no conversation of "How did your parents come to name you Lauren?" No instantaneous bond forming. My name isn't special any more. Sure, it's a fine name, but, like Caitlyn and Jessica it's been beaten to death. My mother was looking for an unusual name on purpose, and she just happened to like the way it sounded. She got the idea, of course, from Lauren Bacall, but would get her knickers all in a twist every time my Dad would say, as a joke, that I was named "after" Lauren Bacall. "I did not name my daughter after a movie star," she would say, getting all snobby and huffy, the full Katharine Hepburn act.
Anyway, this means also that a number of people have both my first and last name. Thank goodness my middle name is so weird that only dead people have it.
Then in college there was a girl whose name was "Lauryn," like Lauryn Hill. Her mother had wanted her to be named Lauren, and the father wanted her to be named Katharine, so they "compromised" with "Lauryn." Not much of a compromise. Anyway, she was in my History of the English Language class, and having another student with my name was unsettling. I couldn't be completely sure, sometimes, who people were talking to. It used to be so easy.
Then the field was blown wide open in the 1980s. Vice President Bush's granddaughter was named Lauren and then it seemed that every few weeks in a supermarket I could hear a mother calling out, "Lauren, don't touch that!" "Come here this minute, Lauren!" It was years before I stopped jumping at these commands. Around this time people started telling me I had a beautiful name, and thus began a decade or so when I really loved my name because people loved my name. They were learning how to spell it, too, and now I hardly ever have to spell it for people.
Another thing has happened, though. Now it's not interesting to meet a Lauren. No spark of recognition, no conversation of "How did your parents come to name you Lauren?" No instantaneous bond forming. My name isn't special any more. Sure, it's a fine name, but, like Caitlyn and Jessica it's been beaten to death. My mother was looking for an unusual name on purpose, and she just happened to like the way it sounded. She got the idea, of course, from Lauren Bacall, but would get her knickers all in a twist every time my Dad would say, as a joke, that I was named "after" Lauren Bacall. "I did not name my daughter after a movie star," she would say, getting all snobby and huffy, the full Katharine Hepburn act.
Anyway, this means also that a number of people have both my first and last name. Thank goodness my middle name is so weird that only dead people have it.
May 16, 2006
Hey, Mommy Dude
On Saturday (not actually on Mother's Day) I found two cards propped outside the bathroom door, both addressing me as "Dude." As the Felicity Huffman character says to her son in Transamerica, "Stop calling me 'dude.'" Only I don't have the same reason to be sensitive about it. I remember that Anne Lamott's son called her "dude," too, so I'm in good company.
For Mother's Day, all I wanted was to plant my herb garden. So it's in, and bordered by all the stones I found in the back garden that must have been discarded when previous owners were installing the patio years ago. I have one each of the following: marjoram, dwarf gray sage, purple sage, French thyme, French tarragon, basil, cilantro, oregano, "hot and spicy" oregano, dill, catnip, parsley, and arugula. It rained buckets yesterday, not just water but hail as well, so I haven't planted any seeds yet. As far as seeds go, we've got sunflowers, scarlet runner beans, polar bear zinnias, nasturtiums, and marigolds.
We are now the proud owners of a rain barrel made from a whisky barrel. The flowers smell drunken, but we are conserving a teensy bit of water, anyway. It's more high maintenance than I thought. The filter gets clogged constantly with various tree droppings via the gutters, and I think it will need to be treated so the barrel doesn't fall apart in a few years. It fills up after about an hour of rain. But it's a conversation piece. Just remember, if you're a recovering alcoholic, no smelling my rain barrel.
For Mother's Day, all I wanted was to plant my herb garden. So it's in, and bordered by all the stones I found in the back garden that must have been discarded when previous owners were installing the patio years ago. I have one each of the following: marjoram, dwarf gray sage, purple sage, French thyme, French tarragon, basil, cilantro, oregano, "hot and spicy" oregano, dill, catnip, parsley, and arugula. It rained buckets yesterday, not just water but hail as well, so I haven't planted any seeds yet. As far as seeds go, we've got sunflowers, scarlet runner beans, polar bear zinnias, nasturtiums, and marigolds.
We are now the proud owners of a rain barrel made from a whisky barrel. The flowers smell drunken, but we are conserving a teensy bit of water, anyway. It's more high maintenance than I thought. The filter gets clogged constantly with various tree droppings via the gutters, and I think it will need to be treated so the barrel doesn't fall apart in a few years. It fills up after about an hour of rain. But it's a conversation piece. Just remember, if you're a recovering alcoholic, no smelling my rain barrel.
May 11, 2006
Gender Bender at Preschool
Occasionally, I decide to polish my nails. Last week was one of those weeks, and Will begged to have his nails done, too.
Will: "I want red!"
Me: "I don't have red."
Will: What color is that?"
Me: "Teak rose."
Will: "I want teak rose!"
Jack asked, truly puzzled, "Why do you want to wear nail polish? Only girls wear that."
Will cried, "I want to! I want to!"
So I said, "Look, I'll give you a racing stripe on one nail." That will give him an acceptable explanation for the boys, should he need one.
So, that's what he's got, on his right index fingernail. Waiting for it to dry was more dramatic than one would think, with lots of "Oh, when will it be dry? It's not dry! Can I touch anything yet? What about now? Can I touch anything now?"
When asked later if anyone noticed his nail polish, Will replied that his friend Isaiah was "shocked."
Will: "I want red!"
Me: "I don't have red."
Will: What color is that?"
Me: "Teak rose."
Will: "I want teak rose!"
Jack asked, truly puzzled, "Why do you want to wear nail polish? Only girls wear that."
Will cried, "I want to! I want to!"
So I said, "Look, I'll give you a racing stripe on one nail." That will give him an acceptable explanation for the boys, should he need one.
So, that's what he's got, on his right index fingernail. Waiting for it to dry was more dramatic than one would think, with lots of "Oh, when will it be dry? It's not dry! Can I touch anything yet? What about now? Can I touch anything now?"
When asked later if anyone noticed his nail polish, Will replied that his friend Isaiah was "shocked."
May 10, 2006
What Could be Better Than Pancakes for Dinner?
Last night John had an accounting final. He stoked up for it by eating some blueberry pancakes that Will helped me make. After John left, the rest of us gobbled up the remaining ones. Pancakes are tricky. The heat on the griddle needs to be fairly high but not too high because you don't want raw insides. Inevitably the first pancake or two looks a little "special." But eventually I get it and they start looking browned and circular. I added a half cup of Trader Joe's frozen wild blueberries this time. We put pure maple syrup on them, which I suppose is decadent, but we do get it from a warehouse store, and don't use that much of it. Plus, life is short.
This recipe is my Nana's. She always made them in a low cast-iron griddle. I gave the griddle to my brother Dan because I couldn't use it on an electric range; it has a raised rim, so most of the pan doesn't touch the cooking surface. Her pancakes are the best, with their buttermilk tang. Will said, "I love Nana's pancakes! If she was alive, I would say '"I love your pancakes SO much.'"
Nana's Buttermilk Pancakes
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
2 2/3 cups buttermilk
4 tablespoons melted butter
2 eggs
Sift dry ingredients together in a large bowl. Combine buttermilk, eggs, and melted butter in a smaller bowl and beat. Stir into dry ingredients, mixing enough to moisten.
Drop by large spoonfuls onto preheated, fairly hot pan or griddle (a drop of batter should sizzle). Flip over when small bubbles appear, and edges start to look dry.
This recipe is my Nana's. She always made them in a low cast-iron griddle. I gave the griddle to my brother Dan because I couldn't use it on an electric range; it has a raised rim, so most of the pan doesn't touch the cooking surface. Her pancakes are the best, with their buttermilk tang. Will said, "I love Nana's pancakes! If she was alive, I would say '"I love your pancakes SO much.'"
Nana's Buttermilk Pancakes
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
2 2/3 cups buttermilk
4 tablespoons melted butter
2 eggs
Sift dry ingredients together in a large bowl. Combine buttermilk, eggs, and melted butter in a smaller bowl and beat. Stir into dry ingredients, mixing enough to moisten.
Drop by large spoonfuls onto preheated, fairly hot pan or griddle (a drop of batter should sizzle). Flip over when small bubbles appear, and edges start to look dry.
May 9, 2006
Caitlin Flanagan on Reality TV
Caitlin Flanagan has been getting lots of press for her new book The Hell with All That: Loving and Loathing Our Inner Housewife, about how mothers should stay home with their children. Not just that, but how they should joyfully keep house. Ms. Flanagan has been accused, for good reason, of hypocrisy. You see, she writes all day, while her children are in school. She has had domestic help, for years, including a full-time nanny when her twins were babies. But she still claims the right to be called a "stay-at-home mom." I guess because she is mostly at home, and a mom. Ms. Flanagan freely admits, right in the book, that she has never changed a sheet. Let me repeat that. She has never changed a sheet. Was she never a 22-year-old living in a railroad apartment, maidless and husbandless? Was she never a college student? Plainly, this statement is hyperbole, no? . . . . Okay, maybe not.
At any rate, I believe she is perfectly aware that her idealization of the 1950s housewife can only be sustained at a distance, either through a mist of nostalgia or through intellectualizing the concept of "The Housewife."Ms. Flanagan is begging for a reality check. So I say she gets her own TV show, American Housewife. In it, she lives in her own house, but all her domestic help have been relieved of their jobs temporarily so they can create the laugh track. See Caitlin scrub the toilets, rotate a mattress, wash the windows, scrub vomit from the carpet. Can she singlehandedly prevent entropy from conquering her universe? She must do all this while working under a non-negotiable deadline for an article for The New Yorker, cooking from scratch every day, helping the children with their homework, and "putting out" for her husband several times a week (as Stephen Colbert so delicately puts her insistence that wives need to be more available) .Oh, and Martha Stewart and Cheryl Mendelsohn are coming over for dinner in a week.
Then, Ms. Flanagan, I'd be glad to hear what you have to say.
At any rate, I believe she is perfectly aware that her idealization of the 1950s housewife can only be sustained at a distance, either through a mist of nostalgia or through intellectualizing the concept of "The Housewife."Ms. Flanagan is begging for a reality check. So I say she gets her own TV show, American Housewife. In it, she lives in her own house, but all her domestic help have been relieved of their jobs temporarily so they can create the laugh track. See Caitlin scrub the toilets, rotate a mattress, wash the windows, scrub vomit from the carpet. Can she singlehandedly prevent entropy from conquering her universe? She must do all this while working under a non-negotiable deadline for an article for The New Yorker, cooking from scratch every day, helping the children with their homework, and "putting out" for her husband several times a week (as Stephen Colbert so delicately puts her insistence that wives need to be more available) .Oh, and Martha Stewart and Cheryl Mendelsohn are coming over for dinner in a week.
Then, Ms. Flanagan, I'd be glad to hear what you have to say.
May 5, 2006
Rhubarb Days
It just isn't spring without rhubarb. I make two or three rhubarb pies or crisps every year at this time. Last year I also made a rhubarb coffee cake. This year I made two pies, one to take to my friend Jane's for dinner and one just for us. I didn't have quite enough rhubarb so I threw in some strawberries and blueberries. I use the recipe from the old Joy of Cooking for fresh berry pie, simplify and cheat a little and add tapioca. This is it:
4 cups chopped rhubarb
1/4 cup flour
1 cup sugar
juice of a lemon
2 tsp quick-cooking tapioca
two Pillsbury pie crusts (ha!)
Mix all this together gently with your hands (because I love to mix stuff with my hands!) until it all seems quite damp and well-mixed. Let it sit 15 minutes. Meantime, preheat oven to 450. Take out two Pillsbury pie crusts (ha!) and let them come to room temperature. Lay out the bottom crust and put filling in. Cut the other crust for the top into strips, and make a fake-out lattice crust by simply laying them on one way and then perpendicular to that. None of this business of actually weaving them. If you don't know what I mean, then just prick a bunch of holes in the crust and slap the thing on, smoothing out the sides or fluting them to make the crust look endearingly homemade. Bake at 450 for 10 minutes and then lower heat to 350 for 35-40 minutes.
There, you have one mighty fine rhubarb pie. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream. Looks lovely on a blue plate.
4 cups chopped rhubarb
1/4 cup flour
1 cup sugar
juice of a lemon
2 tsp quick-cooking tapioca
two Pillsbury pie crusts (ha!)
Mix all this together gently with your hands (because I love to mix stuff with my hands!) until it all seems quite damp and well-mixed. Let it sit 15 minutes. Meantime, preheat oven to 450. Take out two Pillsbury pie crusts (ha!) and let them come to room temperature. Lay out the bottom crust and put filling in. Cut the other crust for the top into strips, and make a fake-out lattice crust by simply laying them on one way and then perpendicular to that. None of this business of actually weaving them. If you don't know what I mean, then just prick a bunch of holes in the crust and slap the thing on, smoothing out the sides or fluting them to make the crust look endearingly homemade. Bake at 450 for 10 minutes and then lower heat to 350 for 35-40 minutes.
There, you have one mighty fine rhubarb pie. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream. Looks lovely on a blue plate.
May 4, 2006
No Home in the World
Yesterday WHYY, our local public radio station, aired its morning call-in show, Radio Times, on the topic of homelessness. A man and a woman were being interviewed by the host, Marty Moss-Coane. They had both been drug addicts for years. By the grace of God and the perstistent intervention of relatives, they've been clean for a few years, and are now living on their own, and giving their time back to help the homeless.
While they talked, I scrubbed my kitchen floor. I thought about my brother David, who lost his life on the streets, despite all the advantages he started out with. Drugs and mental illness took over at several points, and homelessness struck three times. I've got to call in to that show, I thought. Where's a pencil? There was never a pencil to be found quite at the time Marty said the number, plus it was almost twelve, when the show would be over. She said, "We can take one more call. Here's Dan from Center Valley."
It was my other brother. He said, "I had a brother who went to college, trained for a career, and yet somehow ended up on the streets. When you see a homeless person, you have to realize that that person is someone's son or daughter, sister or brother, mom or dad." Later I emailed Dan to say how glad I was that he called in. He said, "I was on my way to Dad's when I called. I didn't expect to get through - just squeaked in under the wire! Needless to say, I needed a few minutes in the car to compose myself before I could go in to lunch, but I am so glad I got through."
Next time you are rushing down the street, whether it's to work, to lunch, or to run an errand, stop and say hello to the ones who live life on the margins. And--please--smile and look them in the eyes.
While they talked, I scrubbed my kitchen floor. I thought about my brother David, who lost his life on the streets, despite all the advantages he started out with. Drugs and mental illness took over at several points, and homelessness struck three times. I've got to call in to that show, I thought. Where's a pencil? There was never a pencil to be found quite at the time Marty said the number, plus it was almost twelve, when the show would be over. She said, "We can take one more call. Here's Dan from Center Valley."
It was my other brother. He said, "I had a brother who went to college, trained for a career, and yet somehow ended up on the streets. When you see a homeless person, you have to realize that that person is someone's son or daughter, sister or brother, mom or dad." Later I emailed Dan to say how glad I was that he called in. He said, "I was on my way to Dad's when I called. I didn't expect to get through - just squeaked in under the wire! Needless to say, I needed a few minutes in the car to compose myself before I could go in to lunch, but I am so glad I got through."
Next time you are rushing down the street, whether it's to work, to lunch, or to run an errand, stop and say hello to the ones who live life on the margins. And--please--smile and look them in the eyes.
Apr 27, 2006
Five Things about the Gutter Guy
I've been planting and watering and weeding most maniacally and trying to get a bunch of other things done before summer. And the longer I go without blogging the longer I go without blogging. Thank you for stopping by, dear friends and pleasant acquaintances of the blogosphere. Would you care to sip a mug of warm milk with me? No? I drink it now every night before bed to discourage insomnia. Because I refused to fill my doctor's prescription for Ambien. Seeing as I already back the minivan into the fence as it is, think how badly I'd ruin both fence and van if I was sleeping. Ah. Warm milk isn't that bad. Really.
To answer Scrivener's question of two weeks ago (Where does the time go?), yes, we did go to the National Museum of the American Indian. It's a spectacular curving building surrounded by prairie grasses, very refreshing after all the manicured rectangles of lawn and monolithic Federal bureaucrotecture all around it. (Made up a new word!) They have food from native tribes in the cafeteria. The "Eye of the Storm" display and the surrounding exhibits about exploitation of Native American Tribes was heartbreaking and profound.
________________________________
We had our gutters cleaned yesterday, and the gutter guy cleaned up 70 or 80 lbs of debris thanks to the tall trees that ring our house. Here's what I learned this gutter guy in course of a short conversation:
1. His wife died of ovarian cancer three years ago. But he's not looking to marry again.
2.He has seven children in their twenties and thirties, who aren't allowed to ever move back in with him.
3.He's very religious (the REPENTT license plate is a clue), but he's not picky. He plays the field, attending Catholic Mass, Seventh Day Adventist churches, and black Baptist churches.
4. To him, the worst job is being a roofer.
5. He keeps a 90-pound pet lynx in his house, who eats 50 lbs. of raw meat a week.
OK, so maybe that's why the kids don't move back.
To answer Scrivener's question of two weeks ago (Where does the time go?), yes, we did go to the National Museum of the American Indian. It's a spectacular curving building surrounded by prairie grasses, very refreshing after all the manicured rectangles of lawn and monolithic Federal bureaucrotecture all around it. (Made up a new word!) They have food from native tribes in the cafeteria. The "Eye of the Storm" display and the surrounding exhibits about exploitation of Native American Tribes was heartbreaking and profound.
________________________________
We had our gutters cleaned yesterday, and the gutter guy cleaned up 70 or 80 lbs of debris thanks to the tall trees that ring our house. Here's what I learned this gutter guy in course of a short conversation:
1. His wife died of ovarian cancer three years ago. But he's not looking to marry again.
2.He has seven children in their twenties and thirties, who aren't allowed to ever move back in with him.
3.He's very religious (the REPENTT license plate is a clue), but he's not picky. He plays the field, attending Catholic Mass, Seventh Day Adventist churches, and black Baptist churches.
4. To him, the worst job is being a roofer.
5. He keeps a 90-pound pet lynx in his house, who eats 50 lbs. of raw meat a week.
OK, so maybe that's why the kids don't move back.
Apr 10, 2006
Walk See Eat
We're back. You know how the Hirschorn and the Lincoln Memorial may look only two inches apart from each other on the map? And you know how when you are actually walking it, you say "Geez, I should have worn more comfortable shoes?" Well, when you have a four-year-old and a six-year-old, you feel yourself to be a tiny speck on a nearly endless green plain. You realize that just finding a bathroom before a nasty accident occurs, and finding a hot dog stand before complete debilitating weakness sets in, are goals lofty enough for your family. We did succeed.
More respite was provided at the Hirschorn, blessed Hirschorn! We happened upon the Hiraki Sawa video project at the just the right moment. Because we were tired of walking in the sun, a few minutes sitting in a darkened room was just the thing for all of us. Slowly, the images themselves began to transfix us. Filmed in a bleak apartment, these black and white videos show shadows of camels parading around the circumference of a sink drain; airplanes flying dreamily through halls, taking off from and landing on tables; cups, saucers, and a cheese grater (Will's favorite) sprouting human legs and walking away. A half dozen or more teenagers were lounging on the floor of the tiny theater, adding their own layer of performance art. From what we could overhear, they had three more hours to kill before their bus picked them up, and they were glad to have found a carpeted dark place upon which to do whatever it is they do with cell phones. (If there was anything else they were doing, it was below my sight line.) About the show? "This is so weird."
That night we had dinner at Raku, "An Asian Diner" near Dupont Circle. I ate there once years ago with an old friend, and once with John before kids. I propose a name change to Raku, "An Asian Diner That Discourages Small Children from Ever Coming Here Again by Serving Their Ice Cream in Martini Glasses." Yes, the glass fell and shattered on the table because Jack didn't know to hold the stem and we forgot to tell him because we were too busy watching Will with his glass. And yes, he's OK and nobody got glass shards in their eyes. Previous to this little disaster, the boys were occupied for quite some time eating bowls of plain rice noodles with a little soy sauce, while we sipped huge cocktails and ate spicy seafood. I had a Mai Tai in a pint glass, if my memory serves me correctly, and John had a super spicy Bloody Mary. Most of the evening was truly pleasant. We're used to being high maintenance and loud and making people wonder when we'll leave. The waiter did bring out more ice cream for Jack. Not in a precarious, fragile vessel for serving trendy cocktails, a real honest-to-God bowl.
More respite was provided at the Hirschorn, blessed Hirschorn! We happened upon the Hiraki Sawa video project at the just the right moment. Because we were tired of walking in the sun, a few minutes sitting in a darkened room was just the thing for all of us. Slowly, the images themselves began to transfix us. Filmed in a bleak apartment, these black and white videos show shadows of camels parading around the circumference of a sink drain; airplanes flying dreamily through halls, taking off from and landing on tables; cups, saucers, and a cheese grater (Will's favorite) sprouting human legs and walking away. A half dozen or more teenagers were lounging on the floor of the tiny theater, adding their own layer of performance art. From what we could overhear, they had three more hours to kill before their bus picked them up, and they were glad to have found a carpeted dark place upon which to do whatever it is they do with cell phones. (If there was anything else they were doing, it was below my sight line.) About the show? "This is so weird."
That night we had dinner at Raku, "An Asian Diner" near Dupont Circle. I ate there once years ago with an old friend, and once with John before kids. I propose a name change to Raku, "An Asian Diner That Discourages Small Children from Ever Coming Here Again by Serving Their Ice Cream in Martini Glasses." Yes, the glass fell and shattered on the table because Jack didn't know to hold the stem and we forgot to tell him because we were too busy watching Will with his glass. And yes, he's OK and nobody got glass shards in their eyes. Previous to this little disaster, the boys were occupied for quite some time eating bowls of plain rice noodles with a little soy sauce, while we sipped huge cocktails and ate spicy seafood. I had a Mai Tai in a pint glass, if my memory serves me correctly, and John had a super spicy Bloody Mary. Most of the evening was truly pleasant. We're used to being high maintenance and loud and making people wonder when we'll leave. The waiter did bring out more ice cream for Jack. Not in a precarious, fragile vessel for serving trendy cocktails, a real honest-to-God bowl.
Apr 7, 2006
Off to Our Nation's Capital
Thanks to Sugar Mama for the excellent flower advice.
Tomorrow John, the boys and I are going to Washington to be tourists. I got a deal on Priceline for a four-star hotel on Lafayette Square. We're going to see the Air and Space Museum and the Museum of the American Indian, and roam around the Mall looking at monuments. Jack thinks we're going to the Spy Museum after hanging out at the hotel's fitness center. (Maybe we'll visit the White House after that megalomaniac is forced to resign and it resumes its status as a respectable institution. Wait, this isn't a political blog. Nothing to see here, folks.)
Jack and Will packed a bag this morning and this is what they plan to bring:
1. Will's nighttime companion: blue and white striped bunny (its name changes)
2. Jack's nighttime companions: a trumpet swan named "Swanny" and a multicolored pastel bunny named "Bunny" who may fall apart with the next washing
3. Magic Tree House research guide: The American Revolution (that makes sense)
4. Bailey School Kids: Hercules Doesn't Pull Teeth (I'm nixing this, it's a library book and the fines are mounting as we already can't find two of those mediocre Bailey School Kids books)
5. The Official Knock-Knock Joke Book (I let Jack buy this yesterday at the library book sale, which I am already regretting)
6.E. B. White's The Trumpet of the Swan (Jack has great literary taste--also goes with Swanny)
7. Beverly Cleary's Ramona and Her Father (I liked the original illustrations better with Ramona's hair sticking up)
8. Our cat Kato (No, wait, I guess he just now crawled in there)
9. Not a stitch of clothing. This promises to be a cold wet vacation with a few charges of child endangerment thrown in. I'd better set this situation right.
Tomorrow John, the boys and I are going to Washington to be tourists. I got a deal on Priceline for a four-star hotel on Lafayette Square. We're going to see the Air and Space Museum and the Museum of the American Indian, and roam around the Mall looking at monuments. Jack thinks we're going to the Spy Museum after hanging out at the hotel's fitness center. (Maybe we'll visit the White House after that megalomaniac is forced to resign and it resumes its status as a respectable institution. Wait, this isn't a political blog. Nothing to see here, folks.)
Jack and Will packed a bag this morning and this is what they plan to bring:
1. Will's nighttime companion: blue and white striped bunny (its name changes)
2. Jack's nighttime companions: a trumpet swan named "Swanny" and a multicolored pastel bunny named "Bunny" who may fall apart with the next washing
3. Magic Tree House research guide: The American Revolution (that makes sense)
4. Bailey School Kids: Hercules Doesn't Pull Teeth (I'm nixing this, it's a library book and the fines are mounting as we already can't find two of those mediocre Bailey School Kids books)
5. The Official Knock-Knock Joke Book (I let Jack buy this yesterday at the library book sale, which I am already regretting)
6.E. B. White's The Trumpet of the Swan (Jack has great literary taste--also goes with Swanny)
7. Beverly Cleary's Ramona and Her Father (I liked the original illustrations better with Ramona's hair sticking up)
8. Our cat Kato (No, wait, I guess he just now crawled in there)
9. Not a stitch of clothing. This promises to be a cold wet vacation with a few charges of child endangerment thrown in. I'd better set this situation right.
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