But then I saw the time:  8pm.

I know, I know:  not all that late.  But see, by 6pm, my goal for the day is to get to 8.  Because at 8, the children are contained in their room (in theory).  Eight o’clock, glorious eight o’clock, when I can have a non-interrupted conversation with my husband, or when I don’t have to have a conversation at all, because no one’s constantly asking me for screen time or a snack or why does Dad drive so much (which I asked him why he thought he did.  Answer: “Because he has to!”  Oh, yeah, that’s it).

So, how to get my children to have some of the normal American Christmas experience?  (which I don’t know if they really should, but enh).  Hulu to the rescue!

Funny thing, though:  they’ve shortened the show.  The not-even-a-half-hour-show has been cut down to 21 minutes.  Leaving in all the instances of saying “stupid” (a word we try not to use so much in the home).  With about 21 minutes of online commercials.  Really?  Really?!!

So then I suggested watching Rudolf.  Dude, that sucker is 54 minutes!  Give them some JJ-made chocolate covered sprinkled pretzels and string cheese, brush teeth, and throw them into their rooms!  Of course, as they were playing football in a box of a sleeping space an hour after we put them “into bed”, I commented, ‘Oh, did I forget to mention that they both took a nap today?’

Oops.

I sent the link to the Hubby who makes all our music purchases, to which he promptly downloaded it.  At dinnertime he hooked up the Ipod to the stereo to enjoy the vocal stylings, and then commented, “I got a lot of comments at work about this.”

“Huh?”

“Apparently it changed one of my coworker’s “you might like” list to be all Muppets.  He didn’t seem to like that.”

Hubby also sent the link onto a friend who promptly told him it was horrible.  “The Muppets, or John Denver?”

“Both.”

“Dren may not like you anymore.”

My father used to own every John Denver record known to man.  I remember going to a concert in Boise when I was a small tyke.  Everyone was so happy, singing along.  My folks had the Rocky Mountain Holiday record, which Hubby got for me (record – unopened) for my birthday the year we were dating.  Every time we’re in the car, my kids ask for “The Muppet Cast, please” which got us through quite a few CSA pickup runs.  And every morning for the past two weeks I’ve woken up with some song from The Muppet Christmas Carol stuck in my head.

Perhaps it’s because muppets are funny with little to no cares about daily life.  Perhaps it’s because they remind me of a simpler time.  Perhaps it’s because their songs are irritatingly catchy.  At any way, it’s a time of Christmas, but christmas with felt-based created creatures around here.  And if you can’t handle it, then I bang you on the head as only Monster can bang with his drum sticks, but with love, of course.

Sewing Circle Lady 3 – Hazel: Well that’s how life is, Lars.
Mrs. Gruner: Everything at once.
Sewing Circle Lady 2 – Sally: We brought casseroles.
Lars Lindstrom: Thank you.
Lars Lindstrom: [Lars looks around the sewing circle. The three ladies are knitting and doing needlepoint] Um, is there something I should be doing right now?
Mrs. Gruner: No, dear. You eat.
Sewing Circle Lady 2 – Sally: We came over to sit.
Sewing Circle Lady 3 – Hazel: That’s what people do when tragedy strikes.
Sewing Circle Lady 2 – Sally: They come over, and sit.

Someone commented on how that’s not done a lot anymore.  Maybe we should do more of that – just coming over, and sitting.

Dreaded words for a chronic “I’ll do it myself” person.  And yet that’s what my eldest has been asking all morning.

I know I should be grateful that he wants to help because it will only last for so long (if any of my DNA runs through his veins, which, by the by, are blue and carry blood away from the heart as he will tell you and other small tykes on the playground:  thank you, The Busy Body Book).  But I just want to do it *myself*.  Because I can do it faster.  And “right”.

Hubby and I were discussing the grace-growing experiences we’re having with JJ as of late.  Grace-growing as in “stretching us in ways we don’t wanna and don’t think we should hafta and yet we gotta or it’s gonna be ugly”.  Even the way we form sentences are being restructured, working the Dr. Phil out of us (“YOU need to do this; YOU have to change; YOU must do it this way; YOU YOU YOU”), engaging some more creative grammatical structure:

Rather than “Shut the screen door already!”, “It’s TIME to close the door!”

Rather than “I’m going to throw your shoes in the street if I trip over them again!”, “Shoes go in the closet!”

Rather than “For the love of all that is holy and good, stop sitting on your brother!”, “When Abe is sat on and starts screeching, I get frustrated because my ears hurt.  What can we do about this?”

Hubby commented on how the books we’re reading have such nicely laid out situations for solving tension:  “The kids reason and offer solutions.  I did what the author said:  JJ just fell on the floor and rolled his eyes.”  I told him he needed to read further, because the author says, “Of course, sometimes none of these things work out, and everyone screams and goes to their rooms.  And then you can apologize and start fresh again.”  That’s the only reason the book didn’t end up in the street with size 11T shoes.

I read about Montessouri methods and home schooling and think, “Oh, that sounds so wonderful and experiential and cool”.  That would be my idealistic side.  Taking time to have the kids clean alongside me, not minding that they go slowly or don’t get all the crumbs.  Letting them get covered in paint from head to toe and not feeling that I needed to scrub everything to get it clean.  Setting up a station for them to sit at and play not needing or wanting supervision ….

It’s TIME to stop laughing now (note how I didn’t command you to stop laughing:  look at me growing).

Somehow this Montessouri education is happening, and yet it’s mostly to me.  This is not what I had planned.  I already went to school, skated through, in fact.  Lesson learned, kids:  when one thinks they know it all, all the things they don’t know or didn’t think they needed to know move into the house and become covered in pudding pop goo, as I now have the opportunity to discuss the finer points of getting food *in* one’s tummy, not *on* one’s tummy.

But that doesn’t mean we weren’t eating.  We’ve been eating … and eating … and eating.  The week after the retreat, I went to my folks’ for a “retreat with two small boys, one of whom decided he would prefer to be attached to mama at all time as well as weep and wail and gnash those darling little molars while falling asleep or at 2am or both” – not necessarily so restful, but rejuvinating in that I didn’t have to cook or clean for seven blissful days.  And I could watch a number of NCIS marathons (a show that has been endeared to me since finding out that the writer/producers also created Magnum, P.I., one of the sacred Trinity of TV Childhood Favs).

While at the Mama & Pappy’s, I could also indulge in a guilty pleasure:  reading books about health/frugality/green/sustainable living.  Why is that guilty?  Because everytime I read these books (or watch Oprah), I freak out about all the bad things that could infiltrate my family’s health and purge the nasties.  Organic grapes and strawberries:  a must.  Homemade laundry detergent:  on top of my laundry machine.  Flax seeds and antioxidents:  regular part of my diet.  Buying disposable diapers:  a shame and guilt-laden experience.  Using paper towels and paper napkins:  rare, but also guilt-laden.  Unplugging any appliance that hasn’t been used:  compulsive and sometimes theraputic.  Bad plastics:  being weeded out.  Becoming a member of a CSA:  first pickup’s in a few weeks.  Positive, happy, healthy thinking:  work in progress, kinda shoved down the list …

I’ve been banned from watching Oprah pretty much because Hubby comes home and I say, “So Oprah says …” and then life changes, or I live in the anxiety that I don’t know what or how to change so that BPA doesn’t infiltrate our drinking water and thereby corroding our systems so that we grow third arms.  It’s totally irrational and illogical:  I’ve swam in the Willamette.  Repeatedly.  I am DOOMED.

My idealist kicks in, and I can’t get it Right, and then I my mind shuts down as I start projecting out, thinking about planting a garden and harvesting everything and spending time ordering ginormous bags of locally organically grown grain to store in Safe plastic containers and grind by hand into my own bread and use organic butter that I get after a day’s walk to and from McMinnville because using my car would cause too big of a carbon foot print, and then I find myself with only enough energy to say, “Could I get some ketchup with that, too?” as I lean out the car window to pick up my hard-worked-for dinner offerings from the House of Dave Thomas.

So I read these books at my parents’ house.  Because their tanks to deal with The Crazy are much fuller (and more experienced) than my poor lives-with-the-daily Hubby.  And they find some of it interesting (hmm: wonder where I get it?).  And they have years and years of knowing how to temper me:  “Why don’t you take baby steps? … You know, instead of planting a garden, investing money in knowing *where* your food comes from is a great first step …  There will always be other years ….  I’ve found an herb garden is pretty easy to grow”, aka. oooh, here’s a direction to move in, oh all-or-nothing one.  They know not to make “You’re wrong” statements or “That won’t work” because look at the head-strong one go charging in that direction.  Plus, they’re just as all-or-nothing as me, oh move-to-the-farmland-Idaho-suburbs-to-by-acreage-and-grow-a-huge-garden-and-raise-animals-because-our-experience-of-living-in-the-urban-South-and-Germany-and-Tacoma-prepared-us-for-situations-such-as-these parents.  I’m just sayin’ …

This last time I read The China Study.  I let Hubby know I was taking it.  “This is the book that my friends read, and they stopped eating meat.  I’m just warning you.”  I read it; I enjoyed it; I believe the author – he’s not a whack job.  I haven’t gone bonkers yet.  I must admit, The Crazy One looks at animal products and thinks, “These promote cancer:  DOOM!”  But The Tempered One says, “Baby steps to four o’clock.  Baby steps to four o’clock”.  So we had Vegan Week in which I cooked vegan dinners.  I thought they were yummy, particularly since two meals required peanut sauce (mmmm).  And to celebrate the end of vegan week?  Grilled cream-cheese-stuffed turkey burgers.  Success.

Honestly I am feeling convicted to be more aware of animal products in my family’s diet, but not crazy.  I need to use things up in my freezer.  And I need to honor my family’s requests for favorites.  Mantra – these are choices to make out of love, not fear, to move us into life, not prison.

This week I used meals from The Sneaky Chef:  How to Cheat on Your Man (in the Kitchen):  a baby step in working veggies and other good stuff into the boys’ food.  I didn’t “hide” things:  I shared what was part of the meal.  And I bonded with my handheld blender:  we needed some quality time together.  Soon it will be quality smoothie weather …. sooooon ….

Monday:  Cheese eggs, cinnamon toast, banana (had to get out the door for MOPS); grilled cheese & turkey, grapes, crackers; Burgerville (Hubby’s half birthday:  woo hoo!  Burgerville’s also very locally/sustainably minded as well, and just plain tasty:  bonus).

Tuesday:  Power Breakfast Cookies (which led to some little peoples’ power poops – oy), sausage, strawberries; Chicken Waldorf wrap, veggies, apples; Italian Herb Chicken, Mighty Parmesan Mashed Potatoes, applesauce, bread, salad (comment:  “Wow!  You really went all out!”  Tried not to extrapolate into “and finally cooked a real meal/meal like my family cooked” – see, holding in The Crazy).

Wednesday:  Blockbuster Blueberry Muffins, cheese; Burly Burritos, veggies, crackers, raisins; Real Man Meatballs w/spaghetti, apples w/pb, salad, bread

Thursday:  Leftovers; Leftovers; Leftovers (seriously needed.  LOOOONG days cooking beforehand)

Friday:  Chocolate-Charged French Toast, cheese, banana; Leftovers (had a meeting that ran long); probably fend for yourself (because I had planned for Turkey Burgers, but tomorrow’s supposed to be quality grilling weather)

Saturday:  French Toast Bites, banana; English Muffin Pizzas, veggies with laughing cow cheese, peaches; Now You’re Talking Turkey Burgers, Real Freedom Fries, applesauce

Sunday:  Leftovers; Leftovers; Top Banana waffles, turkey bacon

In typical tradition, what one child hates, the other loves, and visa versa.

And what one child leaves, the other wears.  Marinara:  the latest facial treatment.

What, no kiss, Pappy?

At least he gets lovin’ in the belly.

What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music? – High Fidelity

At the beginning of the year, I did not make a resolution.  Resolutions are something that I find myself wanting to sneak around, squiggle out of, avoid at all costs.  Because resolutions are supposed to be *good* for me:  and why would I want to do something like that?

Instead, I put out a request:  “Self,” I said, “I would like to have some form of physical activity almost every day.  Working out, walking, pedometering the steps, etc.  It’s supposed to make us healthy, wealthy, and wise; and dude, I really dig those endorphine thingies.”  My self found these thoughts acceptable, and since then exercise or daily movement has been fairly consistent.  Normally I would get up before the little monkeys, turn on my happy lamp, and walk it out with Leslie (“pulling those blessings down from heaven!”  Bless her little, and so healthy, heart).

And then “someone” decided to get competitive by getting up before the mama.  Like an hour before the mama.  And even Leslie‘s positivity can’t pull this tired patootie out of bed at 4:30am.  So these past couple of days I’ve been trying to squish concerted physical effort in where I can:  breakfast times, naptimes, or today the blissful “One child at school, and the not-as-needing-of-social-engagement child at home:  sweet freedom!” time.  Yesterday we The Firmed together, but apparently someone is a gear head and did *not* want to share the other dumbbell, and I didn’t know, but we had assigned fanny lifters that were *not* to be shared.  My bad.

Today we went for a walk around our park.  I had a goal:  we met half of it before Abe started to doze off.  And naptime in the stroller:  not cool.  That creeps into his other Times of Containment which are meant for sleeping and letting Mama sit on the couch and eat bon bons and watch The Dr.’s to figure out which prostate exam is the most effective (for future reference).

I needed to move about more, and I didn’t want to accomplish it by lugging laundry up and down the stairs:  it’s an option, but not a good one.  So I flipped to the ol’ Itunes to find some dancey music.

Today I’ve been craving dancey music since I read about Cinnabon giving away free Cinnabites in honor of tax day.  Obvious correlation on all fronts, yes?  See, in college, when my roommates and I had done all our homework and were good little college students, or at least mediocre college students, we would wake up late Sunday morning, throw on our pajama pants and slippers and hoodies, pile into a car, haul off to the mall to the “Good Entrance.”  Within 15 feet of the entrance we could access Starbucks (venti Mocha Frappuccino), Jamba Juice (really big Aloha Pineapple with immunity boosters), and Cinnabon (extra frosting, please).  I didn’t say I was necessarily at my *heathiest* time of my life, and we usually made up for it by cooking a “proper” chicken and salad and bread dinner (never made the correlation why I felt so much better after dinner and notsomuch in the morning …).

To and from the Good Entrance, we would listen to music:  loud music:  loud pop music.  Because we could, and because it was a wholly new experience for me:  happy music, bouncy music, music that wasn’t written by goth boys with moppy dyed-black hair to match their all-black ensemble that blended into their sinister tomb of dark madness (aka their parents’ garage) as was my previous listening preference (oh, Robert Smith, you’ll still always have a place in my heart).   There were dance moves involved in this happy, peppy music experience, dance moves that I learned, and now have the pride (the privilege, nay, the pleasure) of bestowing them upon the next generation (of course, while their father is at work.  But it’s not like he’s not going to teach them to get their Warren G on:  regulators, mount up).

• So we dance to a little of this.
• And this.
• And he *really* liked this, talking back and waving to the screen.
• And we danced to this, so he could find something that’s more “his generation” (but we didn’t watch:  those shoulder pads are just a little too graphic at his tender age).

Yesterday I was complaining to a friend that Elmo and his orchestra was about to get booted out of my home.  He reminded me of some good kids music, but the pop music, the happy peppy baddy pop music, finally leveled me out.  Of course now I’ll need to temper that with either some Beastie or Vivaldi:  really, it’s a toss up between the two.

However, I have now dipped my toe in the realm of One of Lives in Newberg, and I drug my family along with me.  Some wonderful friends who live on the parade route invited us over to their lovely abode for some brunch munchies, fellowship, and flying candy.  Because, see, that’s what the parade is all about:  hard candy being chucked at little peoples’ heads, and then little people running out into the street to gather the legal crack between parade floats while sifting through the mixed messages of father’s shouting, “Go!  There!  You missed one!” and mother’s hollering louder, “Careful!  Come back!  Don’t get run over!” as the sweet nectar of the gods buzzes through their veins and they bounce off each other like sticky pinballs.

Yeah, it was fun.

Of course, JJ was a top candy getter (would you expect anything less?).  The moment he heard a plastic wrapper meet the pavement, he was off in a flash.  Much to the dismay of other lesser-aware, non-sugar-sensitive children.  I “encouraged” JJ to share the candy with the other kids, knowing full well that his stash was just going to end up at his dad’s office anyway.  And soon, he was running out into the street, hunting and gathering, and then distributing equally into other kids’ bags.  He even gave candy to grownups.  Aw!  That’s SO not a trait he inherited from my side of the family (hmm:  who has a stash of powerbars that she’s hiding from prying eyes?  Seriously:  my monkeys can’t get enough of those soy protein crisps.  And one wonders why my son is diving into the street to get a peppermint).

So yes:  we came.  We paraded.  We pillaged.  And we now have a half-full gallon ziploc bag on top of the fridge getting ready to be shipped to Hubby’s work.

It was a good day.

Peanuts Heyya

Asian Backstreet

And of course a family favorite

To remain in compliance, I am posting the following:

The Meme Rules:

1. I have to post these rules before I give you the facts.
2. Each player starts with eight random facts/stories about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog (about their eight things) and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Whew: I would hate to be out of compliance. Now, on with the show, or the random useless facts about me which will now clutter your screen and potentially your mind.

Fact 1: I (and my brother) have an odd association between our parents and Tom Brokaw and Jane Pauley. I don’t know if it’s because we watched too much of the Today Show as kids or what, but they seriously remind us of our parents. Down to the patent Granddaddy/Tom Brokaw wiggle when speaking in front of groups of people. And Gran/Jane Pauley having enormous amounts of hair.

Fact B: I don’t like wearing shoes when I’m at home. They generally are the first things to go when walking inside. It has nothing to do with keeping the carpets clean, but more the fact that I can’t relax while the feet are restricted. And I really don’t like wearing shoes in my bathroom – no matter the immediate pee-need, the shoes must come off beforehand.

Fact III: I’ve only driven and owned one car in my life: a 1990 black Mitsubishi Montero. It was the first new car I remember my parents buying, and in college I gratefully inherited it. Her name is Evie (E.V. = Emergency Vehicle, her designation when I worked at a ropes course one summer and we always had to have an emergency vehicle up on the course. We were a lazy group and used initials for a lot of the initiatives and protocols, hence the “e.v.”).

Fact 5-1: I have a fear of a certain episode of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood: “Windstorm in Bubbleland“. Joe Negri is the wind and is EVIL and tries to kill Lady Elaine who is a hummingbird. I don’t know why, but Handyman as the wind TERRIFIES me, and the whole episode creeps me out to the point that the other day I saw a hummingbird outside of my window, and instead of thinking “wow, what a beautiful creation of God!”, my stomach started to churn. Yes, I know: I need a healing.

Fact 25/5: I hate it when foods touch on my plate. I’ve been reading “Your Spirited Child” (can’t imagine why), and the first chapter mentioned something about “when your jello touches your mashed potatoes and you fall to pieces,” and I seriously got a chill. Bleck. Food, not people, mind you (leave that up to my dead Southern relatives), but food *should* be sectioned off: quarantined: segregated. [And to help me, and my brother, out with our phobia, my dad used to drink orange juice or grape juice or sode with ice, and then refill the glass with water - using the same ice cubes which retained some of the initial beverage - and then drink it right in front us us: ACK!!!].

Fact Seis: I do not iron clothes. Mom was talking about the loads of ironing she had to do, and I mentioned that that’s one chore I never do. How do I get around it? I don’t buy clothes that need ironing. Because my dislike for working on a garment with an steaming hot instrument in my spare time outweighs my desire for a garment that requires such attention, no matter how cute it is. There is a reason “wrinkle-resistant” clothes were created: don’t let all that research and hard work go to waste, people!

Fact The Perfect Number: If you show me a car that is registered in Idaho, I can tell you what county it’s registered in. Sounds boring, doesn’t it? But it can be very entertaining when you’ve been driving for some time and have used all the interesting conversation topics such as “if you could drive any full-sized truck, what would it be?” and “what was the worst road trip you ever took?” and “have you ever peed while driving?”. Those will only get you so far, but the Idaho license plate game is forever.

Fact Ate: My ears are different shapes. One has a nice full curve on top; the other side looks like I had an encounter with Mike Tyson (but not so ragged). I never noticed until I decided to pierce the top of one of my ears and had to choose which side. At first, folks asked which side I talked on the phone as the indicator. Then I started looking closer: they weren’t the same! And it’s a genetic thing. The first thing I said about Little A: “he has funny looking ears.” A few minutes later: “Wait: he has *MY* ears!” Same missing part on the same side. Oy.

To Tag:
Hubby
Shara
Michelle
Alan
Marta
Gregg
Uncle Kyle
Hannah (who should start blogging again)

I would link to y’all, but Little A is wailing, so just know who you are and do the work, people.

Which Star Wars character would you be? (pics)
created with QuizFarm.com ]]> http://www.drennotes.com/2007/05/13/if-only-jedi-mind-games-worked-on-toddlers/feed/ 4