I am now 34 1/2 weeks pregnant. That is the point where you are way past being cutely pregnant or even happily pregnant. It is the point where you are counting down to the time when you can sort of have your body back and breathe and walk properly again. It is also the time when you have to start actually getting things done because the end is in sight, and you want to be prepared.
I experienced my first "its getting too small in here, mom" stretch yesterday. Formerly full body stretches were kind of tickly and funny, because there are bits of fingers and toes and poking out of you at funny angles (you can't see it, really , but you can feel it). But this was the first one where one limb hit a hip bone and the other hit my rib cage and they kept pushing for more space.
I washed all my newborn diapers today and all my light coloured baby clothes. It was the strangest sensation to pull these little tiny outfits out of the box and then pull out the Ivory snow for something other than my son's diapers, and see that two huge arm loads of tiny clothes only made one load of laundry. I realized that I am going to have another child.
Not that this hadn't occured to me before now. I mean, I've been pregnant for 8 months now. I have had moments of excitement, joy and sheer terror at the thought of having a newborn around again. But it hadn't really been real . . . it was something that was coming in the future. But that future is quickly approaching. And tonight, I am wondering, "What was I thinking? Am I really ready to have a second child? Can I do this? Is it too late to turn around and go back?"
Friday, December 08, 2006
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Christopher Robin? Where are you?
This morning as I dozed quietly on the futon and listened once more to the narrator's opening lines of "The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh", I had a thought. The narrator says something to the effect of "Now, Christopher Robin lived in the middle of the 100 Acre Woods where he could see his friends and help them with all their troubles". It cuts to a shot of Christpher Robin hammering Eyore's tail back on under the supervision of Owl and Kanga. A few moments later, Christopher Robin helps Pooh in his attempts to get honey. Then when Pooh gets stuck in Rabbit's hole after eating too much honey, Christopher Robin comes to help pull him out. Christopher Robin helps rescue Piglet, he throws Pooh a hero party, and generally, thoughrough the movie, does all the things a responsible care giver would do for a small child that is growing in independence and responsiblility, but still gets in trouble now and then.
I realized that in the later, and far less classic, Pooh movie "Pooh's Grand (Great?) Adventure", Christopher Robin is not there to help Pooh. In fact, at the beginning of them movie he says "I am going away. You must do things for yourself now, but remember: You're smarter than you think you are, stronger than you imagine . . . " etc, etc. Basically he layers on the self - esteem, positive thinking stuff that will help Pooh and the gang get through their problems by themselves. This second movie is very dark, so dark that my son was afraid of it, and didn't want to watch it a second time. Essentially, Pooh and his friends beleive something dreadful has happened to Christopher Robin and they go looking for him. They travel through a bleak and barren rocky landscape, have many not so merry perils. They finally discover that Christopher Robin is at school, and their fear was all in their minds. But they were up to the challenge and helped themselves because they were smarter than they thought they were, etc, etc.
The thought that swirled through my pre-caffinated, pregnant brain was this: I think its okay that Christopher Robin rescues the animals in the Hundred Acre Woods. I think there is something really good about the fact that the animals have someone to turn to when they get out of their depth, and that there is always the reassurance that if they mess up, Christopher Robin will be there to help them. Small children should live in a world where they have a deus-ex-machina to remedy situations too complex for their small bodies and minds. It is a good thing and it helps them feel secure to know there are bigger people in the world who can help them when they are overwhelmed.
I find the whole premise of this second movie where the animals must rescue Christopher Robin really disturbing. For a small child (Pooh usually wears off around 8 at the latest, doesn't he?) the message this sends is that you may be alone, but you are strong enough to deal with it. You can handle your problems on your own, and they are overblown in any case. I suppose the idea behind the movie is to build a child's sense of independence and self-esteem. But doesn't our self-esteem grow first out of a healthy dependence on a reliable adult?
It is through our early experiences of trust and nurture that we learn that we are someone worthy of respect and trust. We gradually learn that although some things in the world are scary and dangerous, we can face them and conquer them because we are supported by a loving community that allows us to face hard things and take risks we might otherwise fear. As we develop in this supportive environment, we are then enabled to seek out our own community, first of friends and then of family, that will fulfill our needs for mutual encouragement, support and respect. Ideally, our community does not one day cut the apron strings and leave us alone and afraid to fulfill this mysterious task of "growing up" alone. Rather we ourselves are given leave to gradually seperate ourselves from the family support and find our independence.
Perhaps the second movie is a reflection on modern North American parenting styles. How many parents these days are so busy living their own lives to the fullest that they forget about the small, vulnerable people who rely on them? In how many families, especially in the '80s when this second movie was made, are children left to sort through the ravages of divorce and family break up, and sometimes to even help and comfort their parents? How many people bear children without really considering that they must give up a great deal of their own time and interests to properly raise and support a child, and then refuse to make the sacrifices necessary to invest in their child's life? How many children in our culture are left asking, "Christopher Robin? Where are you?"
No wonder I already had a headache by 9 this morning. I'll try to make my next post happier. Honest.
I realized that in the later, and far less classic, Pooh movie "Pooh's Grand (Great?) Adventure", Christopher Robin is not there to help Pooh. In fact, at the beginning of them movie he says "I am going away. You must do things for yourself now, but remember: You're smarter than you think you are, stronger than you imagine . . . " etc, etc. Basically he layers on the self - esteem, positive thinking stuff that will help Pooh and the gang get through their problems by themselves. This second movie is very dark, so dark that my son was afraid of it, and didn't want to watch it a second time. Essentially, Pooh and his friends beleive something dreadful has happened to Christopher Robin and they go looking for him. They travel through a bleak and barren rocky landscape, have many not so merry perils. They finally discover that Christopher Robin is at school, and their fear was all in their minds. But they were up to the challenge and helped themselves because they were smarter than they thought they were, etc, etc.
The thought that swirled through my pre-caffinated, pregnant brain was this: I think its okay that Christopher Robin rescues the animals in the Hundred Acre Woods. I think there is something really good about the fact that the animals have someone to turn to when they get out of their depth, and that there is always the reassurance that if they mess up, Christopher Robin will be there to help them. Small children should live in a world where they have a deus-ex-machina to remedy situations too complex for their small bodies and minds. It is a good thing and it helps them feel secure to know there are bigger people in the world who can help them when they are overwhelmed.
I find the whole premise of this second movie where the animals must rescue Christopher Robin really disturbing. For a small child (Pooh usually wears off around 8 at the latest, doesn't he?) the message this sends is that you may be alone, but you are strong enough to deal with it. You can handle your problems on your own, and they are overblown in any case. I suppose the idea behind the movie is to build a child's sense of independence and self-esteem. But doesn't our self-esteem grow first out of a healthy dependence on a reliable adult?
It is through our early experiences of trust and nurture that we learn that we are someone worthy of respect and trust. We gradually learn that although some things in the world are scary and dangerous, we can face them and conquer them because we are supported by a loving community that allows us to face hard things and take risks we might otherwise fear. As we develop in this supportive environment, we are then enabled to seek out our own community, first of friends and then of family, that will fulfill our needs for mutual encouragement, support and respect. Ideally, our community does not one day cut the apron strings and leave us alone and afraid to fulfill this mysterious task of "growing up" alone. Rather we ourselves are given leave to gradually seperate ourselves from the family support and find our independence.
Perhaps the second movie is a reflection on modern North American parenting styles. How many parents these days are so busy living their own lives to the fullest that they forget about the small, vulnerable people who rely on them? In how many families, especially in the '80s when this second movie was made, are children left to sort through the ravages of divorce and family break up, and sometimes to even help and comfort their parents? How many people bear children without really considering that they must give up a great deal of their own time and interests to properly raise and support a child, and then refuse to make the sacrifices necessary to invest in their child's life? How many children in our culture are left asking, "Christopher Robin? Where are you?"
No wonder I already had a headache by 9 this morning. I'll try to make my next post happier. Honest.
Isn't Technology Supposed to Make Your Life EASIER?
I have a bunch of little photo posts to put up, but my memory card is so full (and there's only one digital photo kiosk in town) that my camera can't even seem to find the new pictures on it in order to transfer them. Or something. Anyway, we are experiencing technical difficulties. Please stay tuned.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
How Would You Describe Your Family?
My dear friends in Winnipeg, the Lukins, just started a family blog. Its great, because they just had a baby (the one I made the monkey quilt for) and its fun to get updates from them. Also Jeff is a musician and they have written songs for baby Sam already, and so its a pretty fun site. In the description column, they have "We are a warm, affectionate and spiritual family. We love Jesus and each other". Which is totally true. They are wonderful, warm, hospitable people.
For some reason, it made me laugh when I tried their description on for size in my own family (Dave, Andrew and I . . . we won't even get into the extended families). So I started wondering how I would describe our family in a few short phrases. The best I could come up with was: "We are an intense, adventurous, truth seeking family. We desire to know God and follow him with integrity. Oh yeah, and we love each other, too."
For some reason, it made me laugh when I tried their description on for size in my own family (Dave, Andrew and I . . . we won't even get into the extended families). So I started wondering how I would describe our family in a few short phrases. The best I could come up with was: "We are an intense, adventurous, truth seeking family. We desire to know God and follow him with integrity. Oh yeah, and we love each other, too."
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Speaking of Being Stupid . . .
Read the NEXT post, Pregnancy Update, first, then come back and read this.
So, as I was saying, I get really stupid during pregnancy. In fact, as I was typing that post, my stainless steel kettle was slowly roasting on my stove top. I had filled it up with water and left it to boil when I came to start my quilt post. But I had not flipped down the little thing that makes the kettle whistle, so the water boiled dry and the kettle began boiling itself.
I'll add a picture later, but suffice it to say that the stainless steel has turned gold. The heat proof handle is bubbling where it is attatched to the metal. The little knob on top of the lid to the kettle has detatched itself from the lid and migrated 1 cm to the left. The kettle has been making gentle clicking noises (similar to those that canning lids make as they seal) ever since I took it off the element. And I just put a pot on the stove to boil some water, because I still want some tea. I think, in the present circumstances, I should go and disprove the old adage and watch my pot boil. Only hopefully this time it will only be the water in the pot . . .
So, as I was saying, I get really stupid during pregnancy. In fact, as I was typing that post, my stainless steel kettle was slowly roasting on my stove top. I had filled it up with water and left it to boil when I came to start my quilt post. But I had not flipped down the little thing that makes the kettle whistle, so the water boiled dry and the kettle began boiling itself.
I'll add a picture later, but suffice it to say that the stainless steel has turned gold. The heat proof handle is bubbling where it is attatched to the metal. The little knob on top of the lid to the kettle has detatched itself from the lid and migrated 1 cm to the left. The kettle has been making gentle clicking noises (similar to those that canning lids make as they seal) ever since I took it off the element. And I just put a pot on the stove to boil some water, because I still want some tea. I think, in the present circumstances, I should go and disprove the old adage and watch my pot boil. Only hopefully this time it will only be the water in the pot . . .
Pregnancy Update -- 33 Weeks
So, we are in the home stretch. Less than two months left to go, 7 weeks or so to be precise. According to our latest calculations. Which could be off. So I have something less than 10 weeks to go.
Physically I'm doing quite well. The occasional sore back, since this baby is nestled in my pelvis, unlike Andrew who was nestled securely in my ribs, and some fatigue. That is all part of the pregnancy thing, and so I'm not too concerned. My mobility is severely decreased. I can hardly get in and out of the car, I end up huffing and puffing by the time I reach the top of the stairs, and I have to use two hands to prop myself up when I get off the floor (but I can still sit on the floor, so we're not too bad yet). I need some new shoes, because my only non-tying shoes are heelless and that just doesn't really work with 10cm of snow. I can still tie my shoes, but not well enough that they stay tied up. So I am getting big and awkward. Again, I accept this as part of the pregnancy game. This is my second time around, so my vanity about my physical appearance has already taken a pummelling, and I just do what I can and know it will be over soon and in about a year from now (barring another pregnancy) I will be back to as close to my old self as I'm going to get.
What has always been the real kicker for me in pregnancy is what it does to my mind. Generally I am a really good multi-tasker and can keep track of innumerable bits of information about people and places (in no particular important order, unfortunately). Also, I am generally fairly easy going. Something might bother me for a while, but then I can let it go. Not so with pregnant Jill. Pregnant Jill not only loses her memory and ability to focus on anything outside of the sphere of my immediate household (and even then its tentative some days), but is very easily irritated by things non-pregnant Jill would just laugh off. Um, you might have noticed this in my past few blog entries. Fortunately, Pregnant Jill still has, for the most part, her brain filters in place (these filters have been developed through years of painstaking idiocy and social blunders, and contain several back up firewalls. Sadly they are still, on occasion, insufficient to keep my tongue in check). This means that I do not begin tearing things off the shelf at Toys R Us and shouting "Crass Commercialism! That's all any of this is about! Sheer Crass Commercialism" and get arrested. This means I do not yell at nice church ladies who invite me over for tea just when my son is supposed to be napping and thus interrupt our very hard won sleep schedule for weeks on end. This means I even restrain myself from smacking the grocery store clerk who has not yet figured out (after a 5 hour shift) that the Royal Bank's machines must be down, rather than assuming that her debit machines "have just stopped taking about every 10th person's card. Sorry, I guess you're person 10". Anyway, the point being that I just get a) stupid and b) grumpy at the end of pregnancy. So don't ask me any questions and stay out of my way.
On a brighter note, I will share a silly very pregnant Jill story from this morning. So, I woke up and realized that I had not washed my stretchy black pants that I always wear to church now. So I started rummaging through my very limited wardrobe for something to wear. I had my khaki overalls and my khaki pants clean and an assortment of shirts. Okay, I thought, I'll wear my white t-shirt with my overalls. No, too casual for church. Oh, look! This sweater is in my pile of clean clothes. I put it on to discover that there is a small spot of something off a grimy toddler hand right where my belly button protrudes. Maybe not. I find another sweatshirt that goes well with the pants I have, only to discover that a greasy hand has wiped itself off on the front of my shirt right where other things generally protrude. My other "clean" shirt has coffee on it. I begin to think, "Who put these clothes back in the drawer? Oh yeah, me." Finally I end up going to church in a shirt that is much too short for me with my big zip up hoodie over top of it, zipped up most of the way, and my belly hugger fabric tube pulled down to stop my pants from sliding down and my hair . . . we won't even mention my hair, because it was unwashed and unbrushed and pulled back in a ponytail and wrapped around with a scarf. After I spent 15 min. getting dressed, there was not time for such trifles as hair, especially since Andrew was running around the house in just a diaper saying "I go to church naked." and Dave's freshly dry-cleaned robes were in the back of my car and needed to be at the church before the service started.
Fortunately, one of the good things about being this pregnant is that no one expects that much of you. If you manage to show up and your clothes generally fit, they are pretty impressed. That's my theory, and I'm sticking to it for at least another 7 weeks.
Physically I'm doing quite well. The occasional sore back, since this baby is nestled in my pelvis, unlike Andrew who was nestled securely in my ribs, and some fatigue. That is all part of the pregnancy thing, and so I'm not too concerned. My mobility is severely decreased. I can hardly get in and out of the car, I end up huffing and puffing by the time I reach the top of the stairs, and I have to use two hands to prop myself up when I get off the floor (but I can still sit on the floor, so we're not too bad yet). I need some new shoes, because my only non-tying shoes are heelless and that just doesn't really work with 10cm of snow. I can still tie my shoes, but not well enough that they stay tied up. So I am getting big and awkward. Again, I accept this as part of the pregnancy game. This is my second time around, so my vanity about my physical appearance has already taken a pummelling, and I just do what I can and know it will be over soon and in about a year from now (barring another pregnancy) I will be back to as close to my old self as I'm going to get.
What has always been the real kicker for me in pregnancy is what it does to my mind. Generally I am a really good multi-tasker and can keep track of innumerable bits of information about people and places (in no particular important order, unfortunately). Also, I am generally fairly easy going. Something might bother me for a while, but then I can let it go. Not so with pregnant Jill. Pregnant Jill not only loses her memory and ability to focus on anything outside of the sphere of my immediate household (and even then its tentative some days), but is very easily irritated by things non-pregnant Jill would just laugh off. Um, you might have noticed this in my past few blog entries. Fortunately, Pregnant Jill still has, for the most part, her brain filters in place (these filters have been developed through years of painstaking idiocy and social blunders, and contain several back up firewalls. Sadly they are still, on occasion, insufficient to keep my tongue in check). This means that I do not begin tearing things off the shelf at Toys R Us and shouting "Crass Commercialism! That's all any of this is about! Sheer Crass Commercialism" and get arrested. This means I do not yell at nice church ladies who invite me over for tea just when my son is supposed to be napping and thus interrupt our very hard won sleep schedule for weeks on end. This means I even restrain myself from smacking the grocery store clerk who has not yet figured out (after a 5 hour shift) that the Royal Bank's machines must be down, rather than assuming that her debit machines "have just stopped taking about every 10th person's card. Sorry, I guess you're person 10". Anyway, the point being that I just get a) stupid and b) grumpy at the end of pregnancy. So don't ask me any questions and stay out of my way.
On a brighter note, I will share a silly very pregnant Jill story from this morning. So, I woke up and realized that I had not washed my stretchy black pants that I always wear to church now. So I started rummaging through my very limited wardrobe for something to wear. I had my khaki overalls and my khaki pants clean and an assortment of shirts. Okay, I thought, I'll wear my white t-shirt with my overalls. No, too casual for church. Oh, look! This sweater is in my pile of clean clothes. I put it on to discover that there is a small spot of something off a grimy toddler hand right where my belly button protrudes. Maybe not. I find another sweatshirt that goes well with the pants I have, only to discover that a greasy hand has wiped itself off on the front of my shirt right where other things generally protrude. My other "clean" shirt has coffee on it. I begin to think, "Who put these clothes back in the drawer? Oh yeah, me." Finally I end up going to church in a shirt that is much too short for me with my big zip up hoodie over top of it, zipped up most of the way, and my belly hugger fabric tube pulled down to stop my pants from sliding down and my hair . . . we won't even mention my hair, because it was unwashed and unbrushed and pulled back in a ponytail and wrapped around with a scarf. After I spent 15 min. getting dressed, there was not time for such trifles as hair, especially since Andrew was running around the house in just a diaper saying "I go to church naked." and Dave's freshly dry-cleaned robes were in the back of my car and needed to be at the church before the service started.
Fortunately, one of the good things about being this pregnant is that no one expects that much of you. If you manage to show up and your clothes generally fit, they are pretty impressed. That's my theory, and I'm sticking to it for at least another 7 weeks.
Touch My Monkey and Go!
Does anyone remember this quote anymore? Its from one of Mike Meyers' characters (Deiter) on SNL back in the good old Mike Meyers - Dana Carvey - Adam Sandler days. He was a german talk show host who had a little, vicious monkey in a cage behind his obligatory couch and chairs that would bite his guests. When I first started teaching, I said this one day, and got nothing but blank stares and a couple of surprised looks. I forgot that the kids I was teaching thought they were saavy if they knew Mike Meyers had been in the Wayne's World movie as well as in Austin Powers.
I digress. This is my second quilt. It is a baby quilt for baby Sam -- Kym and Jeff Lukin's new son. They are kind of artsy and alternative, so I wanted to make them a fun, cool quilt. I quite like the results, and surprisingly so does Dave. In fact he liked it so much that he harassed me for two weeks to mail it (I had it stashed in the closet pretending it belonged to me -- I didn't want to give it up), because he was so proud of it. You'd think he's sewn it or something.
Its made from two charm packs and two 1/2 m. of fabric from the collection "5 Funky Monkeys". Charm squares are basically a set of 5" squares of all the fabrics in a given collection. The only problem with them is that they cut them so that all the edges are zig-zags (I assume this is so the fabric doesn't fray), which makes it hard to tell if you are really catching the actual fabric of the quilt or just the points when you are stitching it.
This picture was of the quilt before I washed it. I decided to wash it becuase I had a tiny fray happen between two of the squares while I was quilting it, and I thought, "Oh, maybe I didn't quite catch the fabric on all of the edges". Well, sure enough, when I washed it I ended up with about 8 little tears right along the seam lines. Also, the red from the flannel backing bled through the white thread I quilted with, causing the white monkey borders to have little pink lines in them. So I had to spend a good 3 hours securely hand stitiching all the edges that had torn back together again. I hadn't pre-shrunk the fabric (magazines and fabric store owners tell you not to bother), so I think that had something to do with it to.
So, as well as being a successful and cute quilt, I learned a lot from this quilt:
a) prewash your fabric if you intend to actually USE the quilt and wash it
b) don't use light thread to quilt if you have a dark backing that is likely to run
c) make sure you have a good 1/4" on all your seams.
I digress. This is my second quilt. It is a baby quilt for baby Sam -- Kym and Jeff Lukin's new son. They are kind of artsy and alternative, so I wanted to make them a fun, cool quilt. I quite like the results, and surprisingly so does Dave. In fact he liked it so much that he harassed me for two weeks to mail it (I had it stashed in the closet pretending it belonged to me -- I didn't want to give it up), because he was so proud of it. You'd think he's sewn it or something.
Its made from two charm packs and two 1/2 m. of fabric from the collection "5 Funky Monkeys". Charm squares are basically a set of 5" squares of all the fabrics in a given collection. The only problem with them is that they cut them so that all the edges are zig-zags (I assume this is so the fabric doesn't fray), which makes it hard to tell if you are really catching the actual fabric of the quilt or just the points when you are stitching it.
This picture was of the quilt before I washed it. I decided to wash it becuase I had a tiny fray happen between two of the squares while I was quilting it, and I thought, "Oh, maybe I didn't quite catch the fabric on all of the edges". Well, sure enough, when I washed it I ended up with about 8 little tears right along the seam lines. Also, the red from the flannel backing bled through the white thread I quilted with, causing the white monkey borders to have little pink lines in them. So I had to spend a good 3 hours securely hand stitiching all the edges that had torn back together again. I hadn't pre-shrunk the fabric (magazines and fabric store owners tell you not to bother), so I think that had something to do with it to.
So, as well as being a successful and cute quilt, I learned a lot from this quilt:
a) prewash your fabric if you intend to actually USE the quilt and wash it
b) don't use light thread to quilt if you have a dark backing that is likely to run
c) make sure you have a good 1/4" on all your seams.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Media Tie-Ins R US
Two weeks ago, I had a glorious opportunity. I got to go into "the city" all by myself. No two year old in tow. No time limit. No errands to run. So since Christmas is approaching, I decided to check out the Toys R Us and see what they had.
I entered the store, and was quite pleasantly surprised to be greeted by an imagination section. There was a shelf of wooden toys and puzzles, some easels and a ton of Crayola crafty products. I though, "Hey, maybe this won't be so bad. And now I know where to get some of these cool chunky puzzles for Andrew".
Right next to it was a book section. I sauntered over and looked at the first book I saw -- a Curious George collection. Hey, wait a minute, I thought, this says "H.A Rey's Curious George" not "Curious George by H.A. Rey". I opened the book to discover that these were not the classic Curious George tales I had been reading to my son. They were not even the much inferior books - based-on-a-cartoon-series- from the 80's. Instead they were . . . new stories that tied in with the movie and cartoon. As I looked around the book section I discovered that aside from some Dr. Seuss books, all I saw was Maisy, Dora, Bob the Builder, Harry Potter, Little People . . . all series that have followed Disney's lead in creating small movie / tv show / toy / book / play sets / backpacks / clothing /website tie in empires. I frowned a bit, but thought maybe I had just hit a rough patch in the store. After all, I was sure I saw play kitchen stuff just past the battery opereated-flashing-lights-with-25-sound-effect push cars.
I went to check out the pretend food and kitchen stuff. I really want to get Andrew a tea set or a little juice pitcher and glasses, since he is realy into pouring right now, and I'm tired of him raiding the apple juice in my fridge and pouring it into every plastic container he can easily access in the house. So here I was in pretend kitchen heaven -- blenders, coffee makers, pizza, picnic sets, mini-rolling pins and cookie cutters, tea sets, 50 piece imaginary food sets and entire broom-dustpan and mop ensembles when I noticed something. All the dishes were pink. All the tea sets had lovely floral designs on them. All the children happily playing with the toys on the boxes were girls. Wearing pink. With ribbons in their hair. I moved on, thinking I would have to order the stuff from Ikea that comes in the plain, unexciting white boxes and is cream ceramic.
I skipped the next few aisles' outright, as they were all babies and bratz and etc and I have no use for plastic reproductions of Cosmo cover models. But before I left what was, ostensibly, the "girls'" section of the toy store, I found an aisle of realistic babies. This interested me, since I am sort of thinking of getting Andrew a baby of some kind to have when the real baby comes. Again, as I started looking at the boxes, I was less than impressed. First of all, there was the general pinkness . . . pink boxes, pink clothes, pink accessories, pink bows to put on the poor little newborns' heads. They all came with such newborn essentials as bottles and bouncy seats. Then there was the proliferation of bottles and pictures of little girls happily bottle feeding their babies (I am not a breast nazi, Kris, but really). And most of them seemed to have some sort of battery operated something or another. So, if I do get my son a doll, it will not be from ToysRUs.
After this came the kids' furniture. I was momentarily excited, because I would like to get Andrew a table to go with the two chairs I picked up at the flea market last fall. But apparently I can buy a plastic one with a bumpy finish (great for colouring on), or a wooden one with a "Stars and Stripes" theme (great for Canadians), or one with Thomas, Dora or the Princesses on it. Same with the chairs. And the step stools. And plastic baskets. And collapsable storage bins. And . . . well, you get the idea.
I don't think I even want to get into the multitudinous Little People tie-in products (it is almost impossible to find anyting without lights / sound / music, or to get enough people to play with (2 tops in a play set) without buying extra expansion packs). Or the leggo which no longer seems to contain small pieces (yes, this is not a choking hazard, but it also tends to impede creativity). Or the numerous trucks, tractors, action figures, ninjas, knights, pirates and GI joes, all with their matching co-ordinating accessories, none of which are interchangable with each other in any way. Or the lack of dress up clothes (lots of weapons), non- Baby Einsten music, or non-tv-tie-in books on cd. Or the cheap, disney themed party section. Or . . . . well, do I really need to go on?
I was quite surprised at my outrage. I don't consider myself to be THAT crunchy or anti-consumerist. We read Thomas books and take the videos out of the library. We have Little People and Weebles and will soon get Mega Blocks and Leggo in our house. I'm sure I will buy my son ninja / GI joe / pirate / knight action figures. Should I have a daughter I will probably buy her Strawberry Shortcake or My Little Ponies or whatever the equivalent is. I don't mind the fact that we have a little tigger, pooh bear and kanga floating around our house, and I bought my son a plastic effigy to Bob the Builder containing bubble bath that gets regularly fed and slept with.
Nor do I consider myself a radical feminist. I'm fine with the fact that my son prefers trucks to dolls, and turns everything into a tractor or train or power tool. I don't dress him in pink. I expect him to be more active and aggressive than female friends his age (although I realize these generalizations don't always hold true).
But I was really angry. As a mother, and a teacher, and someone concerned for the future of our civilization in genreal I was furious for a few reasons. First, I was angry that there was so few toys that lent themselves to open ended imaginative play. Next, I was angry at the blatant sexism contained in the packaging and processing of the toys -- some of which are totally gender neutral (think food or blocks). Third, I was furious that marketers use childrens' natural and healthy tendency towards obsession with various characters and ideas to become a ploy for hocking cheap, disposable, badly produced merchandise.
'Nuff said.
I entered the store, and was quite pleasantly surprised to be greeted by an imagination section. There was a shelf of wooden toys and puzzles, some easels and a ton of Crayola crafty products. I though, "Hey, maybe this won't be so bad. And now I know where to get some of these cool chunky puzzles for Andrew".
Right next to it was a book section. I sauntered over and looked at the first book I saw -- a Curious George collection. Hey, wait a minute, I thought, this says "H.A Rey's Curious George" not "Curious George by H.A. Rey". I opened the book to discover that these were not the classic Curious George tales I had been reading to my son. They were not even the much inferior books - based-on-a-cartoon-series- from the 80's. Instead they were . . . new stories that tied in with the movie and cartoon. As I looked around the book section I discovered that aside from some Dr. Seuss books, all I saw was Maisy, Dora, Bob the Builder, Harry Potter, Little People . . . all series that have followed Disney's lead in creating small movie / tv show / toy / book / play sets / backpacks / clothing /website tie in empires. I frowned a bit, but thought maybe I had just hit a rough patch in the store. After all, I was sure I saw play kitchen stuff just past the battery opereated-flashing-lights-with-25-sound-effect push cars.
I went to check out the pretend food and kitchen stuff. I really want to get Andrew a tea set or a little juice pitcher and glasses, since he is realy into pouring right now, and I'm tired of him raiding the apple juice in my fridge and pouring it into every plastic container he can easily access in the house. So here I was in pretend kitchen heaven -- blenders, coffee makers, pizza, picnic sets, mini-rolling pins and cookie cutters, tea sets, 50 piece imaginary food sets and entire broom-dustpan and mop ensembles when I noticed something. All the dishes were pink. All the tea sets had lovely floral designs on them. All the children happily playing with the toys on the boxes were girls. Wearing pink. With ribbons in their hair. I moved on, thinking I would have to order the stuff from Ikea that comes in the plain, unexciting white boxes and is cream ceramic.
I skipped the next few aisles' outright, as they were all babies and bratz and etc and I have no use for plastic reproductions of Cosmo cover models. But before I left what was, ostensibly, the "girls'" section of the toy store, I found an aisle of realistic babies. This interested me, since I am sort of thinking of getting Andrew a baby of some kind to have when the real baby comes. Again, as I started looking at the boxes, I was less than impressed. First of all, there was the general pinkness . . . pink boxes, pink clothes, pink accessories, pink bows to put on the poor little newborns' heads. They all came with such newborn essentials as bottles and bouncy seats. Then there was the proliferation of bottles and pictures of little girls happily bottle feeding their babies (I am not a breast nazi, Kris, but really). And most of them seemed to have some sort of battery operated something or another. So, if I do get my son a doll, it will not be from ToysRUs.
After this came the kids' furniture. I was momentarily excited, because I would like to get Andrew a table to go with the two chairs I picked up at the flea market last fall. But apparently I can buy a plastic one with a bumpy finish (great for colouring on), or a wooden one with a "Stars and Stripes" theme (great for Canadians), or one with Thomas, Dora or the Princesses on it. Same with the chairs. And the step stools. And plastic baskets. And collapsable storage bins. And . . . well, you get the idea.
I don't think I even want to get into the multitudinous Little People tie-in products (it is almost impossible to find anyting without lights / sound / music, or to get enough people to play with (2 tops in a play set) without buying extra expansion packs). Or the leggo which no longer seems to contain small pieces (yes, this is not a choking hazard, but it also tends to impede creativity). Or the numerous trucks, tractors, action figures, ninjas, knights, pirates and GI joes, all with their matching co-ordinating accessories, none of which are interchangable with each other in any way. Or the lack of dress up clothes (lots of weapons), non- Baby Einsten music, or non-tv-tie-in books on cd. Or the cheap, disney themed party section. Or . . . . well, do I really need to go on?
I was quite surprised at my outrage. I don't consider myself to be THAT crunchy or anti-consumerist. We read Thomas books and take the videos out of the library. We have Little People and Weebles and will soon get Mega Blocks and Leggo in our house. I'm sure I will buy my son ninja / GI joe / pirate / knight action figures. Should I have a daughter I will probably buy her Strawberry Shortcake or My Little Ponies or whatever the equivalent is. I don't mind the fact that we have a little tigger, pooh bear and kanga floating around our house, and I bought my son a plastic effigy to Bob the Builder containing bubble bath that gets regularly fed and slept with.
Nor do I consider myself a radical feminist. I'm fine with the fact that my son prefers trucks to dolls, and turns everything into a tractor or train or power tool. I don't dress him in pink. I expect him to be more active and aggressive than female friends his age (although I realize these generalizations don't always hold true).
But I was really angry. As a mother, and a teacher, and someone concerned for the future of our civilization in genreal I was furious for a few reasons. First, I was angry that there was so few toys that lent themselves to open ended imaginative play. Next, I was angry at the blatant sexism contained in the packaging and processing of the toys -- some of which are totally gender neutral (think food or blocks). Third, I was furious that marketers use childrens' natural and healthy tendency towards obsession with various characters and ideas to become a ploy for hocking cheap, disposable, badly produced merchandise.
'Nuff said.
Is There Youth Ministry After 30?
Two weeks ago I turned 31. Last weekend I helped co-ordinate and run a youth retreat. Yes, at 31 weeks pregnant with a toddler in tow. And I realized, not for the first time in the last couple of years, that your cool factor just goes way down when you are 1) old, 2) a mom and 3) pregnant.
My first sign of this was when I arrived on the grounds of the retreat. As I was getting out of my car, a guy and a girl came running out of the main lodge. The guy was chasing the girl with a hand full of snow.
I turned to my fellow leader and asked, "Some of the kids are here already?"
He replied, "No, Jill. That's the band. Those are the Bible college students."
I said "Really?"
And he responded, "That's right. We're adults now."
I think I said something like, "Oh my goodness. How did that happen?"
Let me explain a little bit further. When I was younger, I was the cool leader. The one that all the kids were excited about seeing. The one who stayed up talking with the kids in her cabing until 2 am and kept the other kids up. The one everyone wanted to sit with. The one girls started dressing a bit like by the end of the weekend / week. The one who kids hovered around just because I was kind of fun and interesting.
Now, I am generally ignored, or politely tolerated until I go away. Kids will answer questions I ask, but generally the answers are more of a "nothing" or "I don't know" quality of answer. I feel old, and out of touch. I was already in highschool when these kids were born. Movies they watched over and over as kids were playing when I was in university. And now that I am a mom and don't get out much, I haven't even seen the movies they are all talking about, or heard the music they are listening to.
So I began to ask myself, last weekend, is there youth ministry after 30? Should I really still be doing this, or is it time to pass the torch onto younger and cooler people? This is a new generation, after all -- they need new leaders who understand them. They need people in their 20's that they can look up to and feel a bond with. They don't need me, who could tell them all about the advantages of wearing babies in a sling or give them half a dozen helpful hints on teething issues, but has nothing interesting to say about what matters to them. They don't need me who comes from a generation so much more disillusioned and frustrated than their own, more hopeful generation. What can I offer to them now?
I really struggled with this last weekend, and have been struggling with it over the last few months as I have taken on a position as a local youth leader. And I had an answer come to me while I was out shovelling snow into piles for my toddler to run through, and the kids were all in the building listening to one of the talks. The answer was a little sentence that popped into my head (this usually means its from God, but I don't like to assume). The short, pertinent message was, "Its not about you; its about them and God".
The fact is that for now, I am still called to work with teenagers. No matter where I go and how I try to escape it, some sort of volunteer or paying position involving teenagers always surfaces. And no matter how long I try to avoid it, no one else shows up to fill the position. But at the same time, I am not called to the exact same role with youth. I am no longer the young, fun youth leader. But I am still someone who can think of interesting and fun things for them to do on and Friday night. I am still someone who can give them spiritual guidance and encouragement. I am still someone who can pray for them and teach them. And I am still someone who is really and truly interested in them and their lives.
For all those reasons, I can still be in youth ministry. It just smarts a bit more, because I have to try harder to build relationships and to get involved in their life. It hurts my pride to no longer be as "cool" as I once was. To no longer be the one they are drawn to immediately. They are more resistant to me initially because I don't fit into their matrix. Some of them will never warm up to me becuase I don't look like someone they would identify as being cool. But doesn't that teach them a good lesson? Simply by still being interested, and by being myself, they see that the world might be bigger than their little boxes. That appearances and first impressions are not always right. And is that not a lesson that our current, media- saturated, looks - concious teens need to learn?
So, yes, there is youth ministry after 30. It just doesn't feed your ego in quite the same way. I guess that makes it servanthood. Which is what its supposed to be.
My first sign of this was when I arrived on the grounds of the retreat. As I was getting out of my car, a guy and a girl came running out of the main lodge. The guy was chasing the girl with a hand full of snow.
I turned to my fellow leader and asked, "Some of the kids are here already?"
He replied, "No, Jill. That's the band. Those are the Bible college students."
I said "Really?"
And he responded, "That's right. We're adults now."
I think I said something like, "Oh my goodness. How did that happen?"
Let me explain a little bit further. When I was younger, I was the cool leader. The one that all the kids were excited about seeing. The one who stayed up talking with the kids in her cabing until 2 am and kept the other kids up. The one everyone wanted to sit with. The one girls started dressing a bit like by the end of the weekend / week. The one who kids hovered around just because I was kind of fun and interesting.
Now, I am generally ignored, or politely tolerated until I go away. Kids will answer questions I ask, but generally the answers are more of a "nothing" or "I don't know" quality of answer. I feel old, and out of touch. I was already in highschool when these kids were born. Movies they watched over and over as kids were playing when I was in university. And now that I am a mom and don't get out much, I haven't even seen the movies they are all talking about, or heard the music they are listening to.
So I began to ask myself, last weekend, is there youth ministry after 30? Should I really still be doing this, or is it time to pass the torch onto younger and cooler people? This is a new generation, after all -- they need new leaders who understand them. They need people in their 20's that they can look up to and feel a bond with. They don't need me, who could tell them all about the advantages of wearing babies in a sling or give them half a dozen helpful hints on teething issues, but has nothing interesting to say about what matters to them. They don't need me who comes from a generation so much more disillusioned and frustrated than their own, more hopeful generation. What can I offer to them now?
I really struggled with this last weekend, and have been struggling with it over the last few months as I have taken on a position as a local youth leader. And I had an answer come to me while I was out shovelling snow into piles for my toddler to run through, and the kids were all in the building listening to one of the talks. The answer was a little sentence that popped into my head (this usually means its from God, but I don't like to assume). The short, pertinent message was, "Its not about you; its about them and God".
The fact is that for now, I am still called to work with teenagers. No matter where I go and how I try to escape it, some sort of volunteer or paying position involving teenagers always surfaces. And no matter how long I try to avoid it, no one else shows up to fill the position. But at the same time, I am not called to the exact same role with youth. I am no longer the young, fun youth leader. But I am still someone who can think of interesting and fun things for them to do on and Friday night. I am still someone who can give them spiritual guidance and encouragement. I am still someone who can pray for them and teach them. And I am still someone who is really and truly interested in them and their lives.
For all those reasons, I can still be in youth ministry. It just smarts a bit more, because I have to try harder to build relationships and to get involved in their life. It hurts my pride to no longer be as "cool" as I once was. To no longer be the one they are drawn to immediately. They are more resistant to me initially because I don't fit into their matrix. Some of them will never warm up to me becuase I don't look like someone they would identify as being cool. But doesn't that teach them a good lesson? Simply by still being interested, and by being myself, they see that the world might be bigger than their little boxes. That appearances and first impressions are not always right. And is that not a lesson that our current, media- saturated, looks - concious teens need to learn?
So, yes, there is youth ministry after 30. It just doesn't feed your ego in quite the same way. I guess that makes it servanthood. Which is what its supposed to be.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Things that are Annoying me about Saskatchewan
Generally speaking, I am a pretty mellow person, and relatively tolerant. But its usually the little things that really get to me, both about places and people. And here are a few of the little things that are bugging me about Saskatchewan right now:
1. Lack of a Time Change:
Talk to any Sasktachewan naitive and one of the things they will be proud of, one of the things that distinguishes them from the rest of the continent, is that they don't change their clocks. Which on one level is great: you never have that embarassing Sunday morning situation where you show up an hour late for church, you never lose an hour of sleep, and the sky is so big in Saskatchewan that I guess it doesn't really make much of a difference, does it? Where it DOES make a difference, however, is when you have friends in Ontario and B.C. and New Brunswick and you are trying to figure out when it is civilized to phone them. Is it a two hour difference, or a three hour difference? If you try to, for example, phone someone in B.C. beore they leave for work, are you going to catch them before work, or wake them up? If it is 9:30 in Saskatchewan, is it the reasonably civilized 10:30 in Ontario, or the outright rude 11:30 at night? It is really too much brain power for me to figure out.
2. Parking like its winter all the time:
In the winter, you can not see the lines in the parking lots around here, because of the snow and ice. Also, you don't really want to park too close to anyone, in case you are under ice; you might slip and bump their car. But that is no reason to continue to disregard the lines and park two metres away from other cars in a small parking lot (like the one at my bank). The results of this is that there is NOT QUITE enough room to park in between most of the cars, but there is often enough space that you think, "If both of these cars had parked within the lines, I could have fit in the space three away from the bank instead of parking a 5 min. walk away."
3. 3pm Rush Hour:
This may not be province wide, but in my town, you should never attempt to go anywhere at 3 pm, because the streets are clogged, and there are crazy line ups at the post office and grocery store. It took me a while to figure this out, since teachers and students are still in school, and presumaby other people have jobs, and someone has to be IN the stores dealing with the 3pm rush. But then I heard on the radio that Saskatchewan has the highest population of senior citizens anywhere in Canada. Which is fine, but when they have all day to go shopping, why must they all shop at 3 pm when I'm trying to get my mail and then get my grumpy toddler home for a nap?
4. The Wind:
I am in the general habit of peeking at the thermometer, sticking my head outside for a humidity check (yes, its 10 years on the West Coast that does that -- here its pretty much always dry) and dressing accordingly. Unfortunately, because of my neighbours' big trees, I always forget to take the wind into consideration. Then, once I am down my laneway and onto one of the main streets, it hits me. Its actually about 5 degrees colder because the wind is pummelling me. It is about this time that I realize I should have put the plastic cover on the stroller to keep my son warm, but am just too far away from home to make it convenient to run back and get said cover. This is also about the point that my son realizes that its really windy and the wind is cutting through his 2 blankets and three layers of cold, and his nose is freezing. One day, I will remember about the wind, dress accordingly, and there will be no wind. Just watch. Its out to trick me, I just know it.
1. Lack of a Time Change:
Talk to any Sasktachewan naitive and one of the things they will be proud of, one of the things that distinguishes them from the rest of the continent, is that they don't change their clocks. Which on one level is great: you never have that embarassing Sunday morning situation where you show up an hour late for church, you never lose an hour of sleep, and the sky is so big in Saskatchewan that I guess it doesn't really make much of a difference, does it? Where it DOES make a difference, however, is when you have friends in Ontario and B.C. and New Brunswick and you are trying to figure out when it is civilized to phone them. Is it a two hour difference, or a three hour difference? If you try to, for example, phone someone in B.C. beore they leave for work, are you going to catch them before work, or wake them up? If it is 9:30 in Saskatchewan, is it the reasonably civilized 10:30 in Ontario, or the outright rude 11:30 at night? It is really too much brain power for me to figure out.
2. Parking like its winter all the time:
In the winter, you can not see the lines in the parking lots around here, because of the snow and ice. Also, you don't really want to park too close to anyone, in case you are under ice; you might slip and bump their car. But that is no reason to continue to disregard the lines and park two metres away from other cars in a small parking lot (like the one at my bank). The results of this is that there is NOT QUITE enough room to park in between most of the cars, but there is often enough space that you think, "If both of these cars had parked within the lines, I could have fit in the space three away from the bank instead of parking a 5 min. walk away."
3. 3pm Rush Hour:
This may not be province wide, but in my town, you should never attempt to go anywhere at 3 pm, because the streets are clogged, and there are crazy line ups at the post office and grocery store. It took me a while to figure this out, since teachers and students are still in school, and presumaby other people have jobs, and someone has to be IN the stores dealing with the 3pm rush. But then I heard on the radio that Saskatchewan has the highest population of senior citizens anywhere in Canada. Which is fine, but when they have all day to go shopping, why must they all shop at 3 pm when I'm trying to get my mail and then get my grumpy toddler home for a nap?
4. The Wind:
I am in the general habit of peeking at the thermometer, sticking my head outside for a humidity check (yes, its 10 years on the West Coast that does that -- here its pretty much always dry) and dressing accordingly. Unfortunately, because of my neighbours' big trees, I always forget to take the wind into consideration. Then, once I am down my laneway and onto one of the main streets, it hits me. Its actually about 5 degrees colder because the wind is pummelling me. It is about this time that I realize I should have put the plastic cover on the stroller to keep my son warm, but am just too far away from home to make it convenient to run back and get said cover. This is also about the point that my son realizes that its really windy and the wind is cutting through his 2 blankets and three layers of cold, and his nose is freezing. One day, I will remember about the wind, dress accordingly, and there will be no wind. Just watch. Its out to trick me, I just know it.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Revised Due Date -- WooHoo!
This post deserves to be in a font with the grand name "Lucida Grande". Who comes up with these font names? I suppose the kind of people who spend all their time creating fonts by playing with letters at the level of very small pixels. Its one of those professions you just don't randomly encounter at dinner parties. "So, what do you do?" "Oh, I design and name computer fonts." Actually, I've noticed this with baggage handlers, too. You never actually meet airport baggage handlers, or the guys that drive those little carts around all day. But then, maybe due to tightening airport security they are no longer allowed to fraternize with the general public.
Oh, right, this was a post about my due date. I am glad to say that my due date was wrong! I am in fact due around Jan. 11, instead of around Feb. 1! I was starting to get nervous, because in early Oct. I was feeling VERY big for being just 20ish weeks, and a bit worried that I was already starting to hit the fatigue wall. So I'm glad that I am actually now 28ish weeks (instead of 24), and counting. I think I can still acceptably grow for another 12 weeks. But another 15 weeks was going to be pushing it. I was thinking I was going to run out of skin.
On a related note, I am sad to say that there are definitely not enough females around my house. No one is really that interested in feeling the baby move. Both my husband and my son get impatient if they do not feel movement in under a minuite, so they have rarely felt anything, despite my attempts to get them to stick around until the baby kicks again. Ah well. I, on the other hand, am thorougly enjoying being battered from within. Except for the really hard kicks that land on internal organs. Those are not fun. Otherwise it is pretty entertaining to have someone bouncing around inside you.
Oh, right, this was a post about my due date. I am glad to say that my due date was wrong! I am in fact due around Jan. 11, instead of around Feb. 1! I was starting to get nervous, because in early Oct. I was feeling VERY big for being just 20ish weeks, and a bit worried that I was already starting to hit the fatigue wall. So I'm glad that I am actually now 28ish weeks (instead of 24), and counting. I think I can still acceptably grow for another 12 weeks. But another 15 weeks was going to be pushing it. I was thinking I was going to run out of skin.
On a related note, I am sad to say that there are definitely not enough females around my house. No one is really that interested in feeling the baby move. Both my husband and my son get impatient if they do not feel movement in under a minuite, so they have rarely felt anything, despite my attempts to get them to stick around until the baby kicks again. Ah well. I, on the other hand, am thorougly enjoying being battered from within. Except for the really hard kicks that land on internal organs. Those are not fun. Otherwise it is pretty entertaining to have someone bouncing around inside you.
I really don't think its supposed to be winter yet.
I am sad to say that winter is here. It snowed (for the second time, I might add) last Monday. I had this funny idea that since it was the middle of October the snow would melt away in a day or so. HA HA HA. There is less snow, but none the less we have snow and ice. The high this last week here has been +2 C. So I have to rethink Andrew's halloween costume . . . that's what I get for planning something that can't fit over a snowsuit.
Let the Imagination Games Begin
My son's imagination has exploded in the last two weeks. In a good way, not in a Monty Pythonish incredibly fake blood and brains everywhere kind of way. Instead of being eager to get out of the house and experience everything around him, it is now a stuggle to get him out the door. Instead, he would rather link my laundry baskets together and push his "coaches" (yes, we've been watching Thomas the Tank Engine) around the house. Or lie on our couch "sleeping" or "watching tv" (our tv is not in the living room) then fall out of bed and come running to me saying "I wake up. Good morning, mommy!". I find his plain wooden blocks stacked up on plates and in old yogurt containers around the house when he has been making "birthday cake" and "sandwiches" for me. The shoe rack he dismantled last winter now doubles as railway tracks, forklifts that must be attatched to his tractor, snow plows, trailers . . . the list is endless. At least a thousand times a day I find myself being asked to greet a small plastic person or animal, and engage in conversations that go something like this:
"Hello, hippopotamus, how are you."
"Oh good. I eat some cake"
"Is it yummy cake"
"Birthday cake"
"Oh, hippopotamus, that looks delicious."
"Yummy cake"
"yes, I see."
"Mommy eat it"
At which point a large wooden block or plastic plate or alligator or pillow will be thrust into my face until I pretend to chew and swallow and say "yum, yum."
Needless to say, this makes my days quite interesting. And as long as I am nearby, it means I get a bit of a break from endlessly reading "Curious George Rides a Bicycle" and "The Very Hungry Caterpillar", and can actually read something I might enjoy. Until I get dragged away to look at what Thomas is pulling on his tracks, or forced to move off the big "car" or . . . well, you get the idea.
I was just saying to Dave tonight that I don't know where he gets this overactive imagination from . . . imagine us having a child who is perfectly content to live inside his own head.
"Hello, hippopotamus, how are you."
"Oh good. I eat some cake"
"Is it yummy cake"
"Birthday cake"
"Oh, hippopotamus, that looks delicious."
"Yummy cake"
"yes, I see."
"Mommy eat it"
At which point a large wooden block or plastic plate or alligator or pillow will be thrust into my face until I pretend to chew and swallow and say "yum, yum."
Needless to say, this makes my days quite interesting. And as long as I am nearby, it means I get a bit of a break from endlessly reading "Curious George Rides a Bicycle" and "The Very Hungry Caterpillar", and can actually read something I might enjoy. Until I get dragged away to look at what Thomas is pulling on his tracks, or forced to move off the big "car" or . . . well, you get the idea.
I was just saying to Dave tonight that I don't know where he gets this overactive imagination from . . . imagine us having a child who is perfectly content to live inside his own head.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Dare I reveal my not-so-secret-identity?
I'm thinking of adding a picture of me to my profile. I know this lessens my internet anonymity greatly, but I'm not too too worried about being stalked, and I don't really think I'm big prey for internet predators, being over the age of 14.
So, faithful readers, time to help me out. You (all 5 of you) know the persona I present in this blog better than I do (since I see inside my head and unless you are very amazing you do not). Here are my three choices for a picture to match my blogger identity. Let me know which one you think I should use. If you know me IRL, pretend you don't.
1. The cute "I'm such a happy mom with my darling boy" pose.
2. The "that wasn't funny but, okay, it really was" pose (courtesy of my dear husband saying something silly and taking my picture at some ridiculously late hour of the night). My friend Joel, in university, used to do and say things specifically to attempt to get me to make the pursed lips expression that generally preceeds this look.
3. The "smiling and looking slightly crunchy" pose. Also known as the "I've been travelling in a car without taking a shower or brushing my hair for 3 days now" pose.
So, faithful readers, time to help me out. You (all 5 of you) know the persona I present in this blog better than I do (since I see inside my head and unless you are very amazing you do not). Here are my three choices for a picture to match my blogger identity. Let me know which one you think I should use. If you know me IRL, pretend you don't.
1. The cute "I'm such a happy mom with my darling boy" pose.
2. The "that wasn't funny but, okay, it really was" pose (courtesy of my dear husband saying something silly and taking my picture at some ridiculously late hour of the night). My friend Joel, in university, used to do and say things specifically to attempt to get me to make the pursed lips expression that generally preceeds this look.
3. The "smiling and looking slightly crunchy" pose. Also known as the "I've been travelling in a car without taking a shower or brushing my hair for 3 days now" pose.
Clery wives "retreat"?
Once a year, the clergy in our diocese go on retreat. Basically, this means they go to a Benadictine monestary, get fed fresh organic food grown by the monks, spend half their day in silent contemplation, and the other half in such spiritual disciplines as soccer and bowling. I think they may do some prayer and discussion of biblical texts or the like in their extra spare time.
At the same time, my friend Sharon and I have established our own clergy wives' "retreat". This consists of us and our multiple children hanging out for 3 days at Sharon's house. We do such things as put children to bed, take them to school, the park and library time, make food we hope will be eaten, clean up the floor after meals, and carry on an ongoing discussion of life, motherhood, politics, religion, and feminist issues (ie -- children, marriage, work possibilites for the future, child rearing philosophies vs practical realities of parenting, rights to life/ death / conception / children's care, and how generally frustrating it can be to be the mother of small children), not to mention the really important things in life like clothes and paint colours and curtains. My son is happy, because he has new toys to play with, and Sharon's kids are happy because they have a new friend to play with all week. And we are happy because they are relatively distracted from missing their dads.
Last year, Sharon had two children and was 8 months pregnant. This time, she had three kids and I had Andrew and am 6 months pregnant. Since she is, reportedly done having children, I guess I'll have to manage to be pregnant again by next year to keep up our tradition of adding a child every year.
It was a good week, and quite refreshing. Its nice to split up some of the cleaning, cooking and housework (although Sharon did the lion's share and I slacked off -- but I did make lots of coffee and hot chocolate). Its especially nice to have another like minded, intelligent woman around to share my thoughts with (thus my lack of need to blog last week). And its fun to see my son's world expand to include people other than me and Dave.
The Hetke's house is one of the only places we go where he will enter into the fray without hestitation or extended periods of leg-clinging. He adores Edmund, as only a little boy can adore a bigger boy who will play with him. He and Bea tell mysterious jokes to each other over dinner (something to do with "castle?!?" that they though was hilarious, and that changed slightly every meal) and explore the world together. Andrew even defended Bea at one point: Sharon said "Bea, take that string off your head, its not a hat." and Andrew said "For pretend". He is fascinated more each time we go to visit by this growing person we call "baby Marie", who is now moving and taking stuff away from him.
One of the highlights for me was that my goddaughter, Marie, recognized me this time. She would crawl over to where I was sitting and look up at me, smiling, trying to pull herself up to the couch. Then I would pick her up, and she would snuggle into my shoulder in a way that is totally foreign to me with my active, high-strung boy. It was really sweet.
Three days was the perfect length of time for our retreat. On the last day Andrew was starting to really miss his dad, and get overtired and overstimulated. Sharon and I had not yet run out of things to talk about, so we didn't have any of that aukward "well, we've run out of things to say . . . what now?" time, and, hopefully, she was not quite sick of cooking for 5 instead of 4, and finding Andrew's food - filled shirts bundled up in odd places in her kitchen. I was not yet feeling that urge to just be back in my own house that is so strong in women when they are pregnant and caring for young children.
So, although we may not have been pampered as much as our husbands, and our time may not have been quite as tranquil and contemplative, it was none the less refreshing. I'm glad we did it, and I hope we can carry on our tradition next year. As my friend from theatre classes used to say when asked to give feedback to a given performance, "I like it, it was good."
At the same time, my friend Sharon and I have established our own clergy wives' "retreat". This consists of us and our multiple children hanging out for 3 days at Sharon's house. We do such things as put children to bed, take them to school, the park and library time, make food we hope will be eaten, clean up the floor after meals, and carry on an ongoing discussion of life, motherhood, politics, religion, and feminist issues (ie -- children, marriage, work possibilites for the future, child rearing philosophies vs practical realities of parenting, rights to life/ death / conception / children's care, and how generally frustrating it can be to be the mother of small children), not to mention the really important things in life like clothes and paint colours and curtains. My son is happy, because he has new toys to play with, and Sharon's kids are happy because they have a new friend to play with all week. And we are happy because they are relatively distracted from missing their dads.
Last year, Sharon had two children and was 8 months pregnant. This time, she had three kids and I had Andrew and am 6 months pregnant. Since she is, reportedly done having children, I guess I'll have to manage to be pregnant again by next year to keep up our tradition of adding a child every year.
It was a good week, and quite refreshing. Its nice to split up some of the cleaning, cooking and housework (although Sharon did the lion's share and I slacked off -- but I did make lots of coffee and hot chocolate). Its especially nice to have another like minded, intelligent woman around to share my thoughts with (thus my lack of need to blog last week). And its fun to see my son's world expand to include people other than me and Dave.
The Hetke's house is one of the only places we go where he will enter into the fray without hestitation or extended periods of leg-clinging. He adores Edmund, as only a little boy can adore a bigger boy who will play with him. He and Bea tell mysterious jokes to each other over dinner (something to do with "castle?!?" that they though was hilarious, and that changed slightly every meal) and explore the world together. Andrew even defended Bea at one point: Sharon said "Bea, take that string off your head, its not a hat." and Andrew said "For pretend". He is fascinated more each time we go to visit by this growing person we call "baby Marie", who is now moving and taking stuff away from him.
One of the highlights for me was that my goddaughter, Marie, recognized me this time. She would crawl over to where I was sitting and look up at me, smiling, trying to pull herself up to the couch. Then I would pick her up, and she would snuggle into my shoulder in a way that is totally foreign to me with my active, high-strung boy. It was really sweet.
Three days was the perfect length of time for our retreat. On the last day Andrew was starting to really miss his dad, and get overtired and overstimulated. Sharon and I had not yet run out of things to talk about, so we didn't have any of that aukward "well, we've run out of things to say . . . what now?" time, and, hopefully, she was not quite sick of cooking for 5 instead of 4, and finding Andrew's food - filled shirts bundled up in odd places in her kitchen. I was not yet feeling that urge to just be back in my own house that is so strong in women when they are pregnant and caring for young children.
So, although we may not have been pampered as much as our husbands, and our time may not have been quite as tranquil and contemplative, it was none the less refreshing. I'm glad we did it, and I hope we can carry on our tradition next year. As my friend from theatre classes used to say when asked to give feedback to a given performance, "I like it, it was good."
Friday, October 06, 2006
Musings on Pregnancy
Last time I was pregnant, I was struck with the thought that God is always present with us in the same way that my unborn child is always present with me. Sometimes I notice I am pregnant, and sometimes I do not. Sometimes there is a ruckus going on inside of me that makes the child's presence unmistakable. Sometimes, I can forget for a day or so that anything special is going on. It was a profound and moving thought that I cherished for quite a while.
This time, I am fascinated by the less profound and much weirder thought that I am a human incubator. It is kind of a weird thing to just be walking around, sleeping, eating, conversing, buying groceries, brushing my teeth, typing on the computer and going about other mundane daily tasks, while I am cooking a new human life. I get images in my head of all the equipment that is used to keep a premature baby alive, or of the little incubator we had in grade 5 when we tried (unsuccessfully) to hatch chickens. Only all that rigmarole is somehow contained within my skin -- all my major organs have been diverted to the secondary purpose of establishing and sustaining this second life within me. My lungs, heart, stomach, bladder, ribcage, hips, and uterus are no longer my own. They are the pipes, pumps and heaters used to keep this tiny life growing and thriving. When I start thinking like this, especially in a room full of women where several are pregnant or new monitors, I find that I have to back away from the thought. It is too strange and wondrous for me.
This time, I am fascinated by the less profound and much weirder thought that I am a human incubator. It is kind of a weird thing to just be walking around, sleeping, eating, conversing, buying groceries, brushing my teeth, typing on the computer and going about other mundane daily tasks, while I am cooking a new human life. I get images in my head of all the equipment that is used to keep a premature baby alive, or of the little incubator we had in grade 5 when we tried (unsuccessfully) to hatch chickens. Only all that rigmarole is somehow contained within my skin -- all my major organs have been diverted to the secondary purpose of establishing and sustaining this second life within me. My lungs, heart, stomach, bladder, ribcage, hips, and uterus are no longer my own. They are the pipes, pumps and heaters used to keep this tiny life growing and thriving. When I start thinking like this, especially in a room full of women where several are pregnant or new monitors, I find that I have to back away from the thought. It is too strange and wondrous for me.
Fonts?
Hey, look! When did these dkoiuernk fonts appear?
And why is this one named Trebuchet? I thought that was a piece of seige equiptment. One moments please . . . ah, I see I was right. "A medeival catapultlike device or throwing heavy missiles. The missle, on the long arm of the lever, was hurled with great force by the sudden descend of a heavy weight on the short arm". These are what grace the walls of Gondor and are torn apart by the Nazgul in the Return of the King. So, how can I not use this font from now on? Its impossible. Lisa will be glad to know I have been converted from Times (I love the typewriter look, but she thinks it is slightly blasphemous to use a typewriter-type font when not actually producing it on a typewriter). Well, its seige-oriented fonts only from here on in, kids, so I hope you like it.
And why is this one named Trebuchet? I thought that was a piece of seige equiptment. One moments please . . . ah, I see I was right. "A medeival catapultlike device or throwing heavy missiles. The missle, on the long arm of the lever, was hurled with great force by the sudden descend of a heavy weight on the short arm". These are what grace the walls of Gondor and are torn apart by the Nazgul in the Return of the King. So, how can I not use this font from now on? Its impossible. Lisa will be glad to know I have been converted from Times (I love the typewriter look, but she thinks it is slightly blasphemous to use a typewriter-type font when not actually producing it on a typewriter). Well, its seige-oriented fonts only from here on in, kids, so I hope you like it.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Little Han Solo
I was looking at the ultrasound picture we have hanging on our fridge (the clinic here only gives you one tiny picture) and I've been staring at it and staring at it trying to think what it reminds me of. Han Solo. Yes, my baby is a charming space pirate frozen in carbonite. Well, not quite, but its really funny because it is a profile shot, and baby was head butting the camera (we could see it head butting and I could feel it) while she was trying to take the picture, and she just happened to get baby when his/her head was thrown back in mid-bump with its mouth wide open, and one hand raised in protest, in the same position that Harrison Ford is basically in before they unfreeze him in Return of the Jedi. Maybe this babe will be like me -- I have my mouth open in mid-sentence or joke in about half the pictures we have of me. We both learn to just shut up and smile already!
Friday, September 22, 2006
Finally finished!
I finished binding the edges of my quilt yesterday, so I thought I would show off my finished product. It is kind of ugly, I know, but I'm proud that I perservered through all the different steps and finished it. There are all kinds of little snags and errors (can you find the block placed upside down?), but for my first quilt, I think its pretty good. I don't know if you can see, but I tried to compensate for the vortex of terror effect (ie, the big empty black squares) by quilting spirals into them. I don't know if that lessened the vortex effect or emphasized it. I do like the black and white checkerboards, and its quite comfy. I tried it out this morning while I lay on the floor, semi-concious, watching my 2 year old play with his tractor at 5:30 this morning. Ah, the joys of parenting.
Do Not Immerse in Water
There should really be an label like this on apples. About a week ago, I carefully picked the apples off of the crab apple tree in the back yard. They are great baking / saucing apples, and I was excited about making some pies and some more apple butter out of them. But we had a lot of rain. Like, 5 days of straight rain. The apples were, unfortunately left out in a large, 22 gal tub, where they were immersed in water. Today, I was cleaning up the deck and tidying up the apples and I discovered, to my dismay, that apples do not do well when left to soak in water for a week. In fact, due to osmosis, any apple that is not just perfectly firm absorbs water until there is an equal amount of water inside the apple as there is outside the apple. Since this is usually more than the skin can contain, the apples burst, then quickly go mush and rot. All of my biggest, most beautiful apples that I was excited about making a pie out of are now gone. I had to throw away at least a third of my apple crop. And the ones left on the tree have been eaten by all the migrating flocks of birds. Apparently birds feel no need to eat the whole apple. They simply gouge large trenches in them and then move on. Once more, my attempts at being an earth mother - type gardener person are thwarted by mother nature.
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