Apparently Anders is auditioning for the role of Santa at this year's Christmas party.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Oh, my aching wallet!
I believe I have already admitted my inherent and much-practiced frugality in previous posts. Some are born cheap; some achieve cheapness; others have cheapness thrust upon them--to mangle some quote about something completely different. I am the first type--born cheap (if not cheaply). I worried about family finances before I could pronounce the phrase. I also fretted about expenses, even while perpetrating some amazing blunders of monetary insanity. I'm cheap--not always wise.
Today my compulsion to save money ran head-on into the brick wall that is reality: we were out of wipes and shampoo. I couldn't put off the expedition any longer. The first I could have done without for a while. I have plenty of cloth wipes (some might call them washcloths--don't look so horrified, I won't give you one to wash your face with. They are very specific washcloths, in a very specific place, and almost never get mixed-up with the regular washcloth) stashed with the cloth diapers--which I may just pull out today after my shopping-induced coronary passes. The second, I have found no adequate substitute for--but if anyone has any suggestions, let me know. I'll try anything! (Hey--I use cloth diapers, for Pete's sake! After that, nothing else is a challenge.)
Okay--so shopping-induced coronary as mentioned in the paragraph above. Wipes and shampoo by themselves are not particularly expensive. Unfortunately they were not the only things I had to steel myself to purchase. Anders, as may be assumed safely, is getting bigger. He hit the 20-pound mark at the doctor's office today--whoo-hoo! But with larger baby come larger problems. Namely: the problem of where he will sleep, and the problem of where he will sit. We've pushed the limits on the sleeping thing: he was supposed to be out of the bassinet five months ago, but he managed by making sure he never slept through the whole night in the thing. I believe our record is two hours. The rest of the time I held him through the night. (He's the last baby, and I'm spoiling him rotten, but that's a subject for another post.) But eventually, even for adored last babies, reality asserts itself. And the reality is that I'm almost sure I'm ready for him to sleep on his own--like 75% sure, because this whole separation thing is much harder this time around. So the bassinet just will not do any longer.
Remember, the key word today is "cheap." That means I'm not adverse to alternate possibilities. I've done my research on sleeping spaces for the under-two -set. Cribs are ridiculous! Who wants to pay $245 for a tiny, plastic-covered platform, no matter how trendy or precious? (People who enjoy spending--ye gads, that's who, and if the store stocks are any indication, they outnumber us frugal people 10 to 1.) Just in case you were wondering why I didn't do the sensible thing and use the perfectly serviceable crib that had worked so well for children 1-4, I gave away said crib--which my parents gave us after buying it at a garage sale; I come by my cheapness genetically--to my brother and sister-in-law, who were pregnant at the same time I was, and I refuse to renege on a gift, cheapness notwithstanding. I just sort of figured we'd find something in time. No Luck. That's why I found myself weeping in the aisle of a major retailer this morning while Roberto took two of the kiddos to a doctor's visit (two birds, one stone, less gas-wastage; money saved).
The upshot of the story: we have a new playpen which will serve as sleeping quarters for the tiny tiger. Also a new high/booster chair combo ($19.99--gasp! hack!). So to assuage my guilt at spending, I came home and made laundry detergent in my food processor, out of bar soap and various powdered additives. Total spent: way too much. Total saved: $4.50.
I need an aspirin.
Today my compulsion to save money ran head-on into the brick wall that is reality: we were out of wipes and shampoo. I couldn't put off the expedition any longer. The first I could have done without for a while. I have plenty of cloth wipes (some might call them washcloths--don't look so horrified, I won't give you one to wash your face with. They are very specific washcloths, in a very specific place, and almost never get mixed-up with the regular washcloth) stashed with the cloth diapers--which I may just pull out today after my shopping-induced coronary passes. The second, I have found no adequate substitute for--but if anyone has any suggestions, let me know. I'll try anything! (Hey--I use cloth diapers, for Pete's sake! After that, nothing else is a challenge.)
Okay--so shopping-induced coronary as mentioned in the paragraph above. Wipes and shampoo by themselves are not particularly expensive. Unfortunately they were not the only things I had to steel myself to purchase. Anders, as may be assumed safely, is getting bigger. He hit the 20-pound mark at the doctor's office today--whoo-hoo! But with larger baby come larger problems. Namely: the problem of where he will sleep, and the problem of where he will sit. We've pushed the limits on the sleeping thing: he was supposed to be out of the bassinet five months ago, but he managed by making sure he never slept through the whole night in the thing. I believe our record is two hours. The rest of the time I held him through the night. (He's the last baby, and I'm spoiling him rotten, but that's a subject for another post.) But eventually, even for adored last babies, reality asserts itself. And the reality is that I'm almost sure I'm ready for him to sleep on his own--like 75% sure, because this whole separation thing is much harder this time around. So the bassinet just will not do any longer.
Remember, the key word today is "cheap." That means I'm not adverse to alternate possibilities. I've done my research on sleeping spaces for the under-two -set. Cribs are ridiculous! Who wants to pay $245 for a tiny, plastic-covered platform, no matter how trendy or precious? (People who enjoy spending--ye gads, that's who, and if the store stocks are any indication, they outnumber us frugal people 10 to 1.) Just in case you were wondering why I didn't do the sensible thing and use the perfectly serviceable crib that had worked so well for children 1-4, I gave away said crib--which my parents gave us after buying it at a garage sale; I come by my cheapness genetically--to my brother and sister-in-law, who were pregnant at the same time I was, and I refuse to renege on a gift, cheapness notwithstanding. I just sort of figured we'd find something in time. No Luck. That's why I found myself weeping in the aisle of a major retailer this morning while Roberto took two of the kiddos to a doctor's visit (two birds, one stone, less gas-wastage; money saved).
The upshot of the story: we have a new playpen which will serve as sleeping quarters for the tiny tiger. Also a new high/booster chair combo ($19.99--gasp! hack!). So to assuage my guilt at spending, I came home and made laundry detergent in my food processor, out of bar soap and various powdered additives. Total spent: way too much. Total saved: $4.50.
I need an aspirin.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Shameful admissions I'm prepared to make
Facebook is a entry-level addiction--sort of like glue-sniffing. You start it totally innocently, maybe after a few months of wondering why people would waste so much time on something so unnecessary--like I did, and then one day you realize that four hours have gone by and you've spent them all with people who are not only in another room, but actually in another state. (Or country, if your circle is particularly wide-flung, which mine isn't, yet. But I'm working on it!) It leads to all sorts of new distractions. Heck, the whole reason I'm here at my desk in my pajamas at 1:07 p.m. is because I got started on Facebook. When the thrill of telling friends all about the insignificancies of my life wasn't enough I had to find a larger audience--a "bigger high" in drug-parlance, if you will. (Sadly, my blog audience is actually smaller than my Facebook audience, so my increased dependency on telecommunications has not had the desired effect.)
But here's the thing: Facebook is the ultimate in absolutely useless introspection. It is the repository for information about yourself you never knew existed, and which I'm pretty sure you never hungered to know until a friend found the information on her/him-self first. You know what I'm talking about--all those personality tests created by the same psychologists who brought us the "Cotton-ball Rorschach" test, and the "What your sleeping position reveals about your future income" exams. The same psychologists who passed their first two semesters of psychology classes and then decided that they knew enough, that's who. They, in their infinite wisdom, and total lack of real standards to measure us by, have created for Facebook the "What is your Patronus?" tests (mine would be some sort of imaginary creature that I could never concentrate hard enough on to do me any good because I would get bogged down in the insignificant details. Yeti: three-toes per foot or four? By that time I'd be toast.), the "What color is your aura?" tests (I've been told that mine is white--by a budding psychologist, no less!), and my personal favorite, the "What Jedi Master Are You?" test (The one who dies in the first four minutes of the film for basic ineptitude and general un-Jedi-like goofiness).
I want to get in on all the fun my friends seem to be having, but with all I have to do (the whole pajama/1 p.m. thing notwithstanding!), and with my general distrust of computer-generated psychological analysis, I've resisted. But the urge is becoming more insistent. I. Must. Take. a Test. And in this case, a mere mathematics exam will not do! So, for those of you who are active in the Resistance to All Token Tests (R*A*T*T, because we couldn't find a more congenial rodent-related acronym) movement--or even if you just have a few spare moments of time and a burning yen to know yourself better--I present my non-psychologist-approved, not-at-all-scientific, totally-stun-your-neighbors-and-in-laws personality test:
b) rosy red--2 points
c) sort of sun-kissed--3 points
d) mottled, like a lab-experiment gone wrong--4 points
b) French fries--2 points
c) hot dogs--3 points
d) Aunt Martha's "famous" meatloaf--the one most relatives avoid at the Reunion (the meatloaf, not Aunt Martha, who while a "kooky character" is a sweet soul with a mean mouth for family gossip)--4 points
b) set off the fireworks for the Fourth of July celebrations in Washington D.C., making sure they were very carefully aimed at certain points of interest, if you get my drift!--2 points
c) finally tell the neighbor across the street what you really think of his "going to get the newspaper" attire, with helpful illustrations on a white board and relevant hand gestures --3 points
d) travel the length of the Amazon river in an inflatable swimming-pool-appropriate ducky float--4 points
b) your enormous collection of dentist-visit toothbrushes--each lovingly preserved in its original wrapping and none used!--you dental subversive, you--2 points
c) sometimes you sing along with ALL the words of the songs on the radio--even when you know they aren't church-dance appropriate--3 points
4) you haven't changed your socks since third grade--4 points
b) one bottle of shampoo/conditioner combo (plus dandruff fighter!), two bottles of body wash ( citrus and lavender, respectively), one loofah--2 points
c) half-used bottles of whatever was on sale, partly-used hair dye, two razors, and six nylon scrubbies (assorted colors and stages of disintegration)--3 points
d) one tub of wet-wipes, six hairballs pulled from the drain, and a toilet brush for unspecified purposes--4 points
Whew! Now, total your points, and discover what your condiment alter ego says about you:
5-7 points: mayonnaise. You are bland, boring, and the perfect appetizer or sandwich mix-in. You work hard to cooperate with others, and strive to blend in with whatever crowd you find yourself in. Try to assert yourself more frequently and you may raise your status to Mayo with Zip! or even, if you try really hard, Miracle Whip.
8-13 points: ketchup. You are all-American, loyal through and through. You have zing, but are oddly comforting. You are dependable, if lacking in excitement. Work on standing out a little more, or at least add a little Tabasco for some kick.
14-17 points: mustard. You are bold, assertive, and when aged, a little too vinegar-y for endurance. You aren't afraid to be yourself, or to completely take over a situation. You come in a variety of styles and versions. (Including that painfully hot Chinese version that I can't get enough of, even though it clears my sinuses and makes me cry like a Miss America winner.) Try to restrain yourself, or your total dominance will cause people to reject you in favor of someone a little more "palatable."
18-20 points: relish. Face it, there's no explanation for you. I'm baffled why someone would want to be this, anyway. It's chopped-up pickles and gunk. If I want pickle taste, I add a pickle. Take the test again, and this time, lie a little bit.
There you have it: you personality analyzed by an expert who actually PASSED high school psychology. Feel free to enjoy your enlightenment.
But here's the thing: Facebook is the ultimate in absolutely useless introspection. It is the repository for information about yourself you never knew existed, and which I'm pretty sure you never hungered to know until a friend found the information on her/him-self first. You know what I'm talking about--all those personality tests created by the same psychologists who brought us the "Cotton-ball Rorschach" test, and the "What your sleeping position reveals about your future income" exams. The same psychologists who passed their first two semesters of psychology classes and then decided that they knew enough, that's who. They, in their infinite wisdom, and total lack of real standards to measure us by, have created for Facebook the "What is your Patronus?" tests (mine would be some sort of imaginary creature that I could never concentrate hard enough on to do me any good because I would get bogged down in the insignificant details. Yeti: three-toes per foot or four? By that time I'd be toast.), the "What color is your aura?" tests (I've been told that mine is white--by a budding psychologist, no less!), and my personal favorite, the "What Jedi Master Are You?" test (The one who dies in the first four minutes of the film for basic ineptitude and general un-Jedi-like goofiness).
I want to get in on all the fun my friends seem to be having, but with all I have to do (the whole pajama/1 p.m. thing notwithstanding!), and with my general distrust of computer-generated psychological analysis, I've resisted. But the urge is becoming more insistent. I. Must. Take. a Test. And in this case, a mere mathematics exam will not do! So, for those of you who are active in the Resistance to All Token Tests (R*A*T*T, because we couldn't find a more congenial rodent-related acronym) movement--or even if you just have a few spare moments of time and a burning yen to know yourself better--I present my non-psychologist-approved, not-at-all-scientific, totally-stun-your-neighbors-and-in-laws personality test:
What Refrigerated Condiment Are You?
- What is your skin color generally, without the aid of cosmetics or artificial measures?
b) rosy red--2 points
c) sort of sun-kissed--3 points
d) mottled, like a lab-experiment gone wrong--4 points
- If you had a choice, which food would you rather be slathered on?
b) French fries--2 points
c) hot dogs--3 points
d) Aunt Martha's "famous" meatloaf--the one most relatives avoid at the Reunion (the meatloaf, not Aunt Martha, who while a "kooky character" is a sweet soul with a mean mouth for family gossip)--4 points
- Your secret life-long dream is to:
b) set off the fireworks for the Fourth of July celebrations in Washington D.C., making sure they were very carefully aimed at certain points of interest, if you get my drift!--2 points
c) finally tell the neighbor across the street what you really think of his "going to get the newspaper" attire, with helpful illustrations on a white board and relevant hand gestures --3 points
d) travel the length of the Amazon river in an inflatable swimming-pool-appropriate ducky float--4 points
- Your guilty secret is:
b) your enormous collection of dentist-visit toothbrushes--each lovingly preserved in its original wrapping and none used!--you dental subversive, you--2 points
c) sometimes you sing along with ALL the words of the songs on the radio--even when you know they aren't church-dance appropriate--3 points
4) you haven't changed your socks since third grade--4 points
- In your shower are:
b) one bottle of shampoo/conditioner combo (plus dandruff fighter!), two bottles of body wash ( citrus and lavender, respectively), one loofah--2 points
c) half-used bottles of whatever was on sale, partly-used hair dye, two razors, and six nylon scrubbies (assorted colors and stages of disintegration)--3 points
d) one tub of wet-wipes, six hairballs pulled from the drain, and a toilet brush for unspecified purposes--4 points
Whew! Now, total your points, and discover what your condiment alter ego says about you:
5-7 points: mayonnaise. You are bland, boring, and the perfect appetizer or sandwich mix-in. You work hard to cooperate with others, and strive to blend in with whatever crowd you find yourself in. Try to assert yourself more frequently and you may raise your status to Mayo with Zip! or even, if you try really hard, Miracle Whip.
8-13 points: ketchup. You are all-American, loyal through and through. You have zing, but are oddly comforting. You are dependable, if lacking in excitement. Work on standing out a little more, or at least add a little Tabasco for some kick.
14-17 points: mustard. You are bold, assertive, and when aged, a little too vinegar-y for endurance. You aren't afraid to be yourself, or to completely take over a situation. You come in a variety of styles and versions. (Including that painfully hot Chinese version that I can't get enough of, even though it clears my sinuses and makes me cry like a Miss America winner.) Try to restrain yourself, or your total dominance will cause people to reject you in favor of someone a little more "palatable."
18-20 points: relish. Face it, there's no explanation for you. I'm baffled why someone would want to be this, anyway. It's chopped-up pickles and gunk. If I want pickle taste, I add a pickle. Take the test again, and this time, lie a little bit.
There you have it: you personality analyzed by an expert who actually PASSED high school psychology. Feel free to enjoy your enlightenment.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Skip this if you have a fertile imagination and/or a sympathetic stomach
This is the weekend of the big family reunion. No need to hyperventilate--I know you're excited. Everybody's excited: there'll be games, and food, and crafts, and lots of Merkleys doing what Merkleys do best: namely, stand (or sit, if occasion allows) in groups and discuss things of vital importance loudly. (Vital importance is Merklish for items such as deep doctrinal discussions of whether one's Sunday sock color is indicative of testimony status--complete with mostly-accurate scriptural referances, and can-you-name-that-obscure-movie-quote challenges. They're vital to us, if to no one else.) I looooove family reunions.
But I'm stuck here. Not at the reunion.
But why? you ask. Haven't I warned you about this before? Must we do this every time? You have been warned.
Because I am the victim of extremely poor planning. My own, unfortunately.
Ha! You thought you got away easy that time, no? Think again, bucko.
Here's how it all went down:
I will occasionally admit to being in the Young Women's organization in my ward. I usually phrase it as "Serving with the YW." I try not to name the actual calling I have. Not that I'm ashamed of it or anything--I just hate the disbelief that creeps into people's eyes when I tell them I'm the president (small "p", please). I understand--I am not the stereotypical YW president. I'm not hyper-organized; I don't cross-stitch, embroider or crochet; and the depths of my wisdom couldn't swamp a paper boat. But for some reason I said yes when the bishop asked me to do it--and in my defense I love serving with the young women. I think they and the other leaders are amazing, and they reciprocate with a tolerance that surpasses belief.
So, knowing these fact about me, you can hardly be surprised that I accidentally scheduled the YW fundraiser for the same weekend as my family reunion. My thinking was somewhat along the lines of: Hey, look, the only free weekend ALL the young women have is the weekend of the 23rd! And we can actually use the church cultural hall for it! Whoo-Hoo! It is a miracle!! The gods of all planning and organizing endeavors smile upon me!!! How perfect is this? . . . What? (slowly coming to reality after the initial burst of adrenaline-powered euphoria and AFTER setting the whole thing in stone by announcing it to the entire world who was willing to listen--total count: six young women, their moms, and one lone pigeon who flew in for the refreshments.) That's Memorial Day weekend? That's the weekend of the family reunion? Why, oh all that is holy, why?
And so I sit in an almost quiet house--if you don't count the frantic and poorly-timed barking of Tibby the wonder-weirdo. And if you don't count Anders, who is actually cooperating at the moment by taking an extremely well-timed nap. (small, hushed whoo-hoo! for naps!)
I've decided that if I can't enjoy the family reunion, I'll at least enjoy the spirit of the reunion: the absolute thrill we Merkleys get out of the completely useless. I've watched old TV shows on the computer, stashed stuff for Christmas (find THAT, kiddos!), and torn out all the irritating and extraneous slips of advertising cardstock that my magazines are infested with. But mostly what I've done is watch Anders enjoy his day.
I've never had this chance before. Our first son was born with extreme developmental difficulties, and never reached this stage, and his care sort of took up all our extra attention. I loved my older children as babies, I just didn't get to stare at them all day with no distractions. So this is what it's like. Kind of fascinating, and kind of boring, with moments of sheer panic when an inquisitive baby takes a fancy to things like electrical outlets and cords.
So, after a good chunk of the day watching a baby's explorations, I can make one certain announcement:
But I'm stuck here. Not at the reunion.
But why? you ask. Haven't I warned you about this before? Must we do this every time? You have been warned.
Because I am the victim of extremely poor planning. My own, unfortunately.
Ha! You thought you got away easy that time, no? Think again, bucko.
Here's how it all went down:
I will occasionally admit to being in the Young Women's organization in my ward. I usually phrase it as "Serving with the YW." I try not to name the actual calling I have. Not that I'm ashamed of it or anything--I just hate the disbelief that creeps into people's eyes when I tell them I'm the president (small "p", please). I understand--I am not the stereotypical YW president. I'm not hyper-organized; I don't cross-stitch, embroider or crochet; and the depths of my wisdom couldn't swamp a paper boat. But for some reason I said yes when the bishop asked me to do it--and in my defense I love serving with the young women. I think they and the other leaders are amazing, and they reciprocate with a tolerance that surpasses belief.
So, knowing these fact about me, you can hardly be surprised that I accidentally scheduled the YW fundraiser for the same weekend as my family reunion. My thinking was somewhat along the lines of: Hey, look, the only free weekend ALL the young women have is the weekend of the 23rd! And we can actually use the church cultural hall for it! Whoo-Hoo! It is a miracle!! The gods of all planning and organizing endeavors smile upon me!!! How perfect is this? . . . What? (slowly coming to reality after the initial burst of adrenaline-powered euphoria and AFTER setting the whole thing in stone by announcing it to the entire world who was willing to listen--total count: six young women, their moms, and one lone pigeon who flew in for the refreshments.) That's Memorial Day weekend? That's the weekend of the family reunion? Why, oh all that is holy, why?
And so I sit in an almost quiet house--if you don't count the frantic and poorly-timed barking of Tibby the wonder-weirdo. And if you don't count Anders, who is actually cooperating at the moment by taking an extremely well-timed nap. (small, hushed whoo-hoo! for naps!)
I've decided that if I can't enjoy the family reunion, I'll at least enjoy the spirit of the reunion: the absolute thrill we Merkleys get out of the completely useless. I've watched old TV shows on the computer, stashed stuff for Christmas (find THAT, kiddos!), and torn out all the irritating and extraneous slips of advertising cardstock that my magazines are infested with. But mostly what I've done is watch Anders enjoy his day.
I've never had this chance before. Our first son was born with extreme developmental difficulties, and never reached this stage, and his care sort of took up all our extra attention. I loved my older children as babies, I just didn't get to stare at them all day with no distractions. So this is what it's like. Kind of fascinating, and kind of boring, with moments of sheer panic when an inquisitive baby takes a fancy to things like electrical outlets and cords.
So, after a good chunk of the day watching a baby's explorations, I can make one certain announcement:
my son is crazy for dryer lint.
(Explanatory note: our laundry room opens onto our kitchen, with only a doorway separating them. And we don't have a gate there, because the only gate is blocking the stairs--a much bigger baby booby trap, in my opinion, and because I go between the two rooms so frequently. I'm getting older and lazier about such things. The dryer lint in question has been removed from the dryer--obviously. Not even Anders, who will probably grow up to be a problem-solving genius, in a weird mad-scientist sort of way, if his older brothers are any indication, can get it out of its original location at only seven months of age! It--the lint, not the baby--is tossed after removal into a wastebasket which has been inexplicably placed above head level. Trust me, I've tried to explicate it, but alas, no success. Sometimes my tossing of lint into the designated receptacle is ineffective--no basketball scholarship for me!--and the lint falls to its doom among the brooms and mops, from which doom I rarely rescue it. I believe I've already explained the older/lazier component of my existence.)
Anders, in his wanderings about the house, has discovered that lying among all those amazing cleaning tools are golden nuggets of fuzzy goodness. Yum! He can find them, retrieve them , and pop them into his mouth faster than I can rush to his aid while simultaneously fighting a monster gag reflex. I have cleaned out his mouth three time already today--and those are the times I was aware of what he was doing! Who knows how many good-and-lintys line his stomach after the craziness that was this morning's packing and car-stuffing preparation. Please, don't think about it; it will only cause you pain, and maybe a small bout of empathetic vomiting.
So recap of my day:
Not at reunion
Rotten calendar-reading skills
Anders likes lint
Sometimes it's good to be the mom.
(Explanatory note: our laundry room opens onto our kitchen, with only a doorway separating them. And we don't have a gate there, because the only gate is blocking the stairs--a much bigger baby booby trap, in my opinion, and because I go between the two rooms so frequently. I'm getting older and lazier about such things. The dryer lint in question has been removed from the dryer--obviously. Not even Anders, who will probably grow up to be a problem-solving genius, in a weird mad-scientist sort of way, if his older brothers are any indication, can get it out of its original location at only seven months of age! It--the lint, not the baby--is tossed after removal into a wastebasket which has been inexplicably placed above head level. Trust me, I've tried to explicate it, but alas, no success. Sometimes my tossing of lint into the designated receptacle is ineffective--no basketball scholarship for me!--and the lint falls to its doom among the brooms and mops, from which doom I rarely rescue it. I believe I've already explained the older/lazier component of my existence.)
Anders, in his wanderings about the house, has discovered that lying among all those amazing cleaning tools are golden nuggets of fuzzy goodness. Yum! He can find them, retrieve them , and pop them into his mouth faster than I can rush to his aid while simultaneously fighting a monster gag reflex. I have cleaned out his mouth three time already today--and those are the times I was aware of what he was doing! Who knows how many good-and-lintys line his stomach after the craziness that was this morning's packing and car-stuffing preparation. Please, don't think about it; it will only cause you pain, and maybe a small bout of empathetic vomiting.
So recap of my day:
Not at reunion
Rotten calendar-reading skills
Anders likes lint
Sometimes it's good to be the mom.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Oh, what should I do in the summertime?
*Side note: I remember singing that song in Primary and wondering just what the songwriter was smoking, because around here the dominant summer color is not green. It's yellow and brown, and it's so stinking hot that it would have been a much different song if she or he had lived here. I suspect it would have gone a little something like this:
Okay--so summer plans, that is the topic. I only have 12 weeks-- if you count the five days of YW camp, which I'm not, because it's not so much a part of summer vacation as the mother of all really efficient stressors. (I love it, but it enlarges my ulcer every year. I have a recurring nightmare that we arrive at camp, only to find I only packed the skit costumes and feminine hygiene supplies and left all the certification materials/decorations/snacks/necessary stuff at home, and then have to decorate the addie with things you don't talk about in mixed company while the other leaders shake their heads and just mutter something about "snack fob" or something to that rhymes with it. Trust me, it's more realistic-seeming than you think. That explains the extra ton of stuff I cram in at the last minute every year. It also explains why my basement is no longer adequate for the storage of camp-related items.) And in that almost 12 weeks I need to work in some goal-setting-and-achieving-type stuff, some educational stuff, some recreational stuff (without actually taking a real vacation, because it just doesn't fit into the schedule this year), and some of that organizational/cleaning stuff that we moms seem to feel is necessary to life. So, in no particular order, here are the things I want to do in the next somewhat less than 12 weeks:
Call me ambitious. Call me crazy. Just don't call me when I'm sobbing with exhaustion.
Yup, that's the desert version of the song. Not quite as Primary-appropriate, but much more accurate. (And I suspect even the senior Primary would be willing to sing this version.)Oh, what do you do in the summertime,
when all the world is hot?
Do you play in the park,
when it's well after dark,
or crank the a/c to high?
Is that what you do?
So do I!
Oh, what do you do in the summertime,
when all the world is hot?
Do you gasp like a fish,
and sit still and wish,
that the sun would just go and die?
Is that what you do?
So do I!
Oh, what do you do in the summertime,
when all the world is hot?
You're still singing this song?
It's gone on too long,
and my brain is beginning to fry!
Are you crazy, too?
So am I!
Okay--so summer plans, that is the topic. I only have 12 weeks-- if you count the five days of YW camp, which I'm not, because it's not so much a part of summer vacation as the mother of all really efficient stressors. (I love it, but it enlarges my ulcer every year. I have a recurring nightmare that we arrive at camp, only to find I only packed the skit costumes and feminine hygiene supplies and left all the certification materials/decorations/snacks/necessary stuff at home, and then have to decorate the addie with things you don't talk about in mixed company while the other leaders shake their heads and just mutter something about "snack fob" or something to that rhymes with it. Trust me, it's more realistic-seeming than you think. That explains the extra ton of stuff I cram in at the last minute every year. It also explains why my basement is no longer adequate for the storage of camp-related items.) And in that almost 12 weeks I need to work in some goal-setting-and-achieving-type stuff, some educational stuff, some recreational stuff (without actually taking a real vacation, because it just doesn't fit into the schedule this year), and some of that organizational/cleaning stuff that we moms seem to feel is necessary to life. So, in no particular order, here are the things I want to do in the next somewhat less than 12 weeks:
- Label everything in the house with its Swedish name to give myself a real chance to learn the language I've been vowing, and failing, to learn for two years now.
- Sew my brains out (Commitment Hike costumes, pants for camp, cute dresses for my daughter, slipcovers for couches and chairs) even though it's 110 in the studio.
- Install a real air conditioner in the studio. Something that reaches farther than two feet and which actually cools the room, rather than just making it just seem clammy.
- Take the kiddos to an observatory. For Pete's sake, there are several in the state to choose from, and yet we've never been to one! Wasted opportunities!!!!!
- Read something totally frivolous. Also try to refrain from snarky criticisms. After all, I'm not brave enough to attempt to write a book myself, so I have no right to snark at those who are.
- Attempt to write a book. If I can choose a genre. And maybe a plot. If I don't fry my brain on choosing character names first. That always throws me.
- Really get the porch converted into the kids' art/craft space. And make it inhabitable by installing a fan. And some shade. And make it Country Living-worthy. Or at least blog-worthy.
- Remember to water and harvest the veggies in the garden. Not like the other years when I screamed out the back door, "Fend for yourselves," and then wept over the seared remains in October.
- Totally immerse myself in creating an innovative/inspiring/exciting curriculum for the next school year. That way I won't feel so guilty when I abandon it two weeks into September. At least I will have tried.
Call me ambitious. Call me crazy. Just don't call me when I'm sobbing with exhaustion.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
We're loaded (with talent)
I'm so proud--Jobe took part in his school/ enrichment program talent show today. Unfortunately my videography skills are not equal to his musical abilities. My apologies for not getting the introduction and first part of his performance.
Gotta love that nose action!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The day I didn't ditch Swedish School
My attendance record at Swedish School hasn't been all that stellar, I admit. I've related my pathetic excuses for the extreme number of absences before. (If you missed that one it all boils down to I DON'T SPEAK SWEDISH! Big revelation.)
But how could I have missed today? Who misses the last day of the Swedish School year? I mean other than me last year, anyway. Not me this year! I was present for all the festivities, even the ones that were embarrassing to those dear to me. Make that ESPECIALLY the ones embarrassing to said loved ones.
And just to make sure I get the full measure of enjoyment from my attendance I'm sharing the embarrassment with you. Just think: all the hilarity, and none of it reflecting poorly on you! Consider it a little Swedish School gift from me to you. You're welcome!
There was dancing around a Maypole. (Frolic, Roberto, frolic.)
Complete with odd hand placements and movement.
Sadly, not all family members knew all the songs.
Have I mentioned the sack races?
Would you like to see the sack races in video form? Of course you would!
Yeah, that's not embarrassing at all! Funny, but embarrassing.
Luckily, at the end of all the embarrassment there were hot dogs to ease the shame. Hot dogs make everything better. Yum.
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