Yes, yes, it’s been a while since posting.  Though the blog has been boring, life hasn’t been.  Currently my boys have been whisked away by a dear friend to attend one of their tribe’s birthday celebration (Wii & cake:  what more could a boy … or mama … ask for?).  As they were driven away and I gathered up the flurry of items required to get them out the door, I breathed and realized:  “I’m alone.  With Boo sleeping upstairs.  And she’ll sleep for another hour.  This could be delightful.”

I decided instead of mentally writing, I should engage in the actual practice.  Unlike the organization of photos and scrap-booky items in my Hope(less) Chest:  that sin probably will be passed down to the next generation.

This morning we sat on the couch and read.  For an hour.  Just like we did yesterday and the day before.  Lately at this time I would be reading to them, and then again in four hours before bedtime.  Feeding and reading and using the bathroom and using up bandaids and changing clothes and choosing to do activities with the teeniest-tiniest pieces that a certain Little Sister can distribute throughout the house:  that is our routine of the moment.

For a while we hadn’t been reading much.  Picture books, yes: but my attention span could no longer handle shifting from one brightly-colored page to another.  I needed substance.  I seeded copies of “Stuart Little” and “Hank the Cowdog” amongst the holds, while singing the praises of “Henry Huggins” and “Ramona and Beezus”.  But to no avail:

“Did you read the book?”

“Yep.  Read it all.”

“What was it about?”

“Oh, it was long:  I can’t remember.”

That was our morning conversation.  It hurt the heart of an avid child reader (not to mention former library assistant).  I remember not being able to run errands with my mother without having a substantial read in my hand.  The nervousness I experienced at wondering whether it would be long enough to last the trip throughout all of the Treasure Valley is very similar to my nervousness at watching battery strength on the Touch when grocery shopping:  not 10%!  I’m only in the back of the produce section: I haven’t even hit the bulk section yet!

I am a firm believer in using and proclaiming the amazing resources at the library:  books!  Movies!  Downloadable books and audio books (oh, yes!)!  Magazines, cookbooks, cds, travel books, etc., etc., etc.  When people see the stack of books I pick up on hold during our weekly visits falls into two camps:  “Geez!  You get a lot of books!  Do you have your own hold shelf?!!” and “Oh, I get that many as well.”  The later are fewer, but we all have the knowing nod:  the library is a wonderful, wonderful thing.

The other week as I was pulling the Little Miss off of the catalog computer for the fifth time, I looked up at the librarian, a friend from high school and college, and realized, “Wait.  I’m missing out on one of the best resources at all:  The Librarians!”  “Korie, do you have any suggestions for chapter books for JJ?  That aren’t too big?  And don’t involve the words ‘poop’, ‘stupid’, and tearing down authority figures?”  And she did.

Even though she’s sleep deprived from the recent addition of a new little one, she pulled out some amazing reads:

• Andrew Lost.  Andrew and his family build inventions, and his latest invention (the Atom Sucker) has shrunk him, his cousin, and his computer friend T.H.U.D.D. down to the size of the head of a needle.  They have to find a way back to the Atom Sucker in eight hours, before the machine might explode!  Yes, at one point they get flushed down the toilet on a pile of dog poop, but other than that, the story is interesting, bringing science and humor (and cartoon drawings) in to engage both my six and three year old.
• Martin Bridge.  Martin Bridge reminds me of a current Henry Huggins:  adventures that don’t seem totally marked by time.  Just life as a kid:  having problems with friends, spending a day at school after forgetting a permission slip for a field trip, having a not-so-good friend come over to celebrate his birthday … one day too late.  A lack of poop, an abundance of love for parents, and normal joy and struggles:  good stuff.
• Alvin Ho.  This came highly recommended.  Alvin is of Chinese-American descent living in Concord, Massachusetts (a place “that’s hard to spell”).  He does not speak at school:  he’s too shy.  But his imagination more than makes up for it.  He and his friends play “Redcoats and Minutemen” on the playground since they’re in the heart of the land of the American Revolution.  This led to us getting some books about that war: reading that leads to further learning – who woulda thunk? Today we read about how his dad lets out his frustration:  swearing like a Shakespearean character and playing the piano: he even writes the curses down on a piece of paper (like “What bootless toad-spotted bladder did this?”) and keeps them in a box.  Brilliant.

It’s amazing to sit down on the couch, ask the little people, “What do you want to read?”, and have the three year old scramble for “Awvin Hooooo!”  Of course, there’s the required Richard Scarry and Construction I-Spy books, but still:  my need for complete non-rhyming sentences has been satiated.  That’s a good thing.

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I’ve always been an avid reader.  I remember making the trek all the way across town to the Boise Public Library(!) to check out a slew of books.  My eyes were often bigger than my available time, and I’d come to the checkout counter, barely able to carry the stack.  I remember one specific time that Mom made me Put.Books.Back (GASP:  the Horror!):  it was like saying that I had too many friends and I must reject some.  The pain was excruciating.  Obviously.  Which could explain why I check out PILES of books currently.  Because I’m spiteful like that. 

I also remember in grade school aching to graduate to the big kids section of the library.  The books were separated/segregated into picture books/easy readers and the Big Kid Books known as Juvenile Fiction.  Finally one day I told the librarian that I wanted to check out a book from that area of the library:  these other books were too pedestrian.  She made me get a book (Moby Dick, I believe) and read out loud to her to prove that I could handle it.  Psh:  easy challenge.  I remember her being a little surprised (obviously she didn’t recognize my literary genius as my parents and aunt had, which added to my humble nature) and finally allowing me access, meaning I could check out ANYTHING.  Sweet Freedom!

Yes, I’m a geek.  And I’m still a geek.  But I can’t decide if I’m a getting-smarter geek or a dumbing-down geek.  Geekdom can either make you a better, stronger person, or it can create an obsessive, non-communicative lump.

Lately, I can’t read “good” literature.  I’ve checked out the latest Barbara Kingsolver, Nick Hornby, Anne Rice, Margaret Atwood, and countless other “recommended” “top pick of the year” “masterpiece” reads.  And I can’t read them.  My mind goes blank, my eyes cross, and I realize I’m simply turning pages to turn pages:  and when I have so few moments of silence that I can do something I want to do without the demands of the Little People Nation, turning pages for closure isn’t one of them.

What am I enjoying reading?  Young Adult Books.  I’ve worked in the Young Adult section of a library, and let me tell you, YA is really where it’s at.  Yes, there’s gunk, but there’s also a lot of truth there.  Lately I’ve enjoyed “The Hunger Games” and it’s sequel, “Graceling” and it’s prequel, Septimus Heap, and many other reads aimed at preteens/teens/those who don’t use semi-colons (do as I say; not as I do).  I can’t decide if I enjoy it because it’s simple and my sleep-deprived brain can comprehend it, because it’s entertaining and exciting in non-adult, non-refined ways, or because it speaks truth where adult read either allude to it or avoid it altogether.

A friend recently introduced her daughter to the young adult section of the library, and she was fairly horrified:  “I wanted to go back downstairs to the nice, happy children’s section!”  Another friend mentioned she’d rather have her daughter read “Twilight” than “The Hunger Games” (which deals with kids killing kids for national entertainment’s sake).  But oh, I say there’s room to read both.  There’s truth, it’s ugly, and teens would rather look at the ugly and explore it rather than adults who’ve been banged up by the truth too much and prefer to run away or stick their heads in the sand.

So it may be as I age that I continue to read the YAs, or it may be that my reading level has peaked, and you’ll soon see me checking out Frog and Toad under guise that it’s “for the kids”. 

Required Reads | 5 Comments »

Which, I know, doesn’t sound like that big of a deal: 10:30 on a Saturday night – in my former days, I was gearing up to go out at this time. But now I’m not: 10:30 means either being comfy in bed, or pretending to be awake watching a show with Hubby but really dozing and waking up with a “whahappened?” on my lips. Not that I can really remember his explanations: I’m usually focused on my immediate list of things to do:

Fold blanket
Get upstairs
Take out contacts
Brush teeth
Wash face
Take vitamins
Pajamas
Bedbedbedbed

But tonight it’s 10:30, and all the boys are up. Who are all the boys? That would be

– My husband, standing up in front of the tv, flinging his wrists in a syncopated rhythm. Bring on the tendinitis.
– My brother, sitting on the couch, making appropriate “OH!” and “Aw!” sounds as Hubby either syncopates correctly or incorrectly.
– My eldest son who at my last visit was standing in his bedroom window, blinds behind him, smashing his face up against the pane. He’s been in his room for over an hour: obviously, the nighttime calming routine didn’t work out so hot this evening.
– My dog, who is pacing the floor, nervous because he should be slumbering on his pillow next to Hubby at this point, or at least sitting on his pillow chewing on his toenails (a very important part of his nighttime regime – makes me want to throw things at him, which might be why it’s good he’s on the other side of the bed)
– My cat, who is looking for a comfy lap to sleep on, but can’t get there because the nervous dog is heading off his every attempt – if the dog doesn’t get to be comfy on his pillow, the cat should definitely not be comfy on a lap
– My youngest son who is currently engaging in measuring how much stretch is left in his womb room: not a lot, let me tell ya.

They’re all up.

It’s now 10:41. The eldest son has emerged from his room, thinking he was very cute. He was not cute. I shared that opinion with him. His current wailing lends me to believe that he does not think I’m cute, either. That’s okay: at this point in my life, nothing is deemed cute after about 9:15pm.

Required Reads | 3 Comments »