Category: family

what’s been weighing on my mind

Just over 3 weeks ago, my 3-year-old nephew, my sister’s older son, was diagnosed with cancer. He’s got a very large tumor on his kidney. The “good” news is that it was determined to be a very treatable kind, a Wilms tumor, with a very high rate of survival (90%). While we are very optimistic, things continue to be uncertain from day-to-day. (And sometimes even from hour to hour. I have learned today that my nephew will go in for surgery this afternoon.)

My sister started a blog to share updates, and she has given me permission to share the link. She has been very eloquently describing the emotional roller-coaster that has been this past few weeks.

We would greatly appreciate your positive thoughts, emotional support and/or prayers. All denominations and belief systems gladly accepted.

tantalizing Tikoli tea towels

What with the season coming up for giving gifts, I’d like to direct your attention to these ever-so-cool tea towels from Tikoli:

Aren’t they beautiful? Aren’t the designs eye-catching?

Do you want to know something even cooler about them? They were designed by my sister.

And you know what else? There’s a drawing going on right now over at Design Milk where you can win a set of 6 of them. To be entered, you just need to leave a comment on the Tikoli Tea Towels Giveaway post by the end of tomorrow (December 4th).

And in case you miss the drawing, or you don’t happen to win, Tikoli tea towels are available from various retailers, or from the Tikoli online store.

While I’m at it, I’m going to repost some stuff I wrote last time I shamelessly promoted my sister.

You can feel good about yourself for buying Tikoli tea towels because:

  • using cloth towels instead of paper towels reduces waste
  • buying them supports a small business owner
    • what’s more, the business owner is a woman
    • and that woman is also a mother of 2 small children
    • and a very cool individual
  • the tea towels are lightweight, so their shipping impact is relatively small
  • they come with minimal packaging

Tikoli tea towels make good gifts because:

  • they are functional and durable
  • They are low-priced, so that you can easily give 2 or 3 of different designs
  • they are compact and easy to wrap (or you can get them wrapped)
  • they are gorgeous

away

Hey, friends-

So, I may not have mentioned it, but I’m not at home now. We’re down in Texas (Houston area) for a nephew’s wedding. We flew in Thursday. (And boy are our arms tired. Actually, they are, with all that luggage-lugging and toddler-wrangling and baby-hoisting. My feet are still pretty tired, too.)

If it’s any indication of how busy we’ve been, I started to write the above bit on Friday, and then had to adjust my original statement of “flew in yesterday.” I’ve had about 10 minutes time with my laptop up till now. Right now everyone else is asleep.

The wedding was yesterday, so we got to have cake on Pi Day. (No time to bake a pi pie this year.) I’ll hopefully manage to upload some photos. Photos of the kids, that is. I’m afraid I have no photos of the cake.

It’s been fun to see John’s family, but I find myself thinking that time “alone” with John with “only” two small children feels more like “privacy” than I’d been accustomed to.

Tomorrow we fly off to California to meet my newest nephew, who is almost 2 months old, and I’m terribly excited about that. Well, I’m excited about meeting the nephew, and seeing my family. I wish we could skip the flying off part. (Actually, the plane trip itself wasn’t so bad. It was the wrangling of 3 suitcases, 2 carseats, umbrella stroller, 5 carry-on bags, 1 three-year-old and 1 very large infant that was somewhat more challenging.)

The other bit that’s been keeping me busy, by the way, is work. I’ve had it in my head to make some progress on my research, with the goal of submitting an abstract to a conference. I was using just about every minute that was not dedicated to the care of small children to working on work that I pretty much owe. I made some good progress, but with the trip, it wasn’t looking like I could manage. However, the deadline for the conference was miraculously extended a week, so there’s still a chance I can pull it off. Really, I should be using this unexpected window of time (before the onslaught of family obligations kicks in) to get back to work, but here I am instead.

I’m not sure when I’ll have time to post again, or even to read blogs. And now I hear the wimper of a little person beginning to stir, so I’d best post this before another 2 days pass.

Thinking of you fondly,

Alejna

Coventry Carol

When I was growing up, I got to spend quite a few Christmases at my grandmother’s house in Colorado. Each year, she would bring out the collection of Christmas records, and play them on her great big stereo, the kind that’s about the size of a buffet table. It had a phonograph inside that could take a stack of records. I used to enjoy watching the mechanisms in action when it would change records; the arm with the needle would lift and move back slowly, and a single record would be dropped from its position in the stack above the turntable before the arm would reposition itself and lower the needle once more.

I didn’t know any of the identities of the albums in the Christmas stack, but I know at least some of these were recordings of chorale ensembles that included my grandfather. (He was a baritone, I believe.) I loved the songs from those albums, which included traditional carols as well as more “modern” holiday songs. I knew most of the songs from other places, whether it was “Silent Night” or “The Little Drummer Boy.” But there were two favorite songs that I never heard anywhere other than on my grandmother’s phonograph: “I Wonder as I Wander” and “Coventry Carol.”

“Coventry Carol” was always a particular favorite. I have always been a sucker for a melancholy tune in a minor key, even though I couldn’t have told you what that was when I was 7 or 8. For that matter, I didn’t know what it was called. It just sounded so pretty to me, so lullaby-like, with its “by by lu-lee lu-lay” and “little tiny child.”

It wasn’t until a few years ago that I rediscovered this song, having used the magic of the internet to track down the song title. A couple of versions made their way onto my Christmas playlists, shuffling in with the cheery holiday tunes and more somber traditional carols. It’s still one of my favorites.

I recently looked up the lyrics to the song, having never really listened to them.

Lullay, Thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Lullay, Thou little tiny Child.
By, by, lully, lullay.

I had always assumed, as I think most people hearing the song at Christmastime do, that the “little tiny Child” was the baby Jesus. Really, though, the song is from a 16th century pageant from Coventry, England, about the Slaughter of the Innocents, in which King Herod is said to have ordered the murder of young male children in Bethlehem:

In The Pageant of the Shearmen and Tailors, this gentle lullaby was sung by the women of Bethlehem to their babies, urging them to “Be still, be still, my little child,” just before the unwilling soldiers of King Herod came to slaughter their infants in Herod’s attempt to eliminate a competitor, the newborn King of the Jews. In the liturgical calendar, those children are commemorated on December 28, the Feast of the Holy Innocents.

It’s hard for me to express how this story affects me now that I am a mother, and especially with a new baby. I sometimes get choked up singing some of the lines, when I pay attention to the words, as I imagine mothers grieving the loss of their small children.

Herod the King, in his raging,
Charged he hath this day;
His men of might, in his own sight,
All children young, to slay.

Many believe that the Slaughter of Innocents was fictitious. Whether or not that story is true, it is sadly true that there have been far too many times, both in ancient and recent history, when young children have fallen victim to the senseless tides of war and politics. Thousands of innocents die each year from violence or from hunger or from preventable poverty-related illness¹. And countless mothers and fathers forever mourn their loss:

Then woe is me, poor child, for thee,
And ever mourn and say;
For thy parting, nor say nor sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.²

So now I see the Coventry Carol, the beautiful lullaby of a Christmas song from my childhood, as a song of mourning and remembrance. I see it also as a reminder that there is much work still to be done to protect the lives of the innocents.

—-

¹ According to Unicef, “25,000 children die every day from preventable causes.”

² Typically, the lyrics show the words “Thee” and “Child” capitalized, as if referencing a deity. However, I choose to leave them here in lower case, as I feel the words better represent the common children about whom the song was written. Full lyrics can be found at sites such as this one.

Note: I drafted this post about a week ago, in conjunction with my contribution of a song to the 2008 Blogger Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert, at Citizen of the Month. It seemed a bit gloomy to post in conjunction with Neil’s festive event, so I decided to hold off. Today, December 28th, is the Feast of the Holy Innocents, which seems a fitting date to beat you over the head with my gloominess.

Incidentally, I saw another post about Coventry Carol just yesterday, “The Children of Coventry’s Carol” at The Task at Hand, a thoughtful and beautifully reflective essay.

lie to me

It’s about 1:00 a.m. now. Technically Christmas Day, though still really the night before. I had hoped to find time to post a bit earlier today, but who am I kidding. I didn’t find a chance to take a shower till after 10:00. At night.

I’ve just finished my wrapping and stocking stuffing, and should be heading to bed. But I’ve been wanting to at least jot down a few words about this lying business.

Because, you see, I have now lied to my daughter.

I suppose I have hidden various things from her, such as gobbling up a cookie when she wasn’t paying attention. But this is the first time that I have outright lied to her, and planned out actions solely designed to deceive her. I think you’re probably familiar with the lie. I’m talking about Santa.

I don’t remember when exactly I stopped believing in Santa. I’m quite sure that I did believe in him, but I don’t remember any sort of trauma or dramatic revelation that it was all a sham.

Actually, I remember thinking of it as more of a charade. I knew there was no Santa and I knew that the adults in my family knew there was no Santa. But it was important to me to behave as if there really was a Santa. And more importantly, I wanted the adults to continue the charade. I remember getting really annoyed when they would slip up and say things that would have tipped me off to the nonexistence of Santa had I not already known about it.

There were a couple of years in particular, when I was 9 and 10, when I got angry that I could actually hear the stocking stuffing going on. “Hello? I’m not even asleep yet! I can hear you!” Not that I would have said anything. Because confrontation would have grossly violated the rules of the game, as I saw it.

Okay, I have to go to bed. A little girl is probably going to come dragging me out of bed at some obscenely early time. But I have to say, I’m a little bit looking forward to carrying on the charade with a new generation.

Update: John sent me this related comic this morning, which gives me some additional ideas for deception. (And he hadn’t even read my post!)

——-

If you want another story about Santa-related lies, go see Neil’s post at Citizen of the Month: “I believed in Santa Claus.” Anyone else have a story to share?

(By the way, I don’t expect to have any time to put up a Themed Things list. After our Christmas morning rituals, we’ll be heading down to the in-laws. But you never know.)

feeding the Monster

When my sister and I were growing up, we used to spend quite a few summers visiting our grandmother in Colorado. Part of our visit would always include at least one big camping trip in the Monster.

The Monster was a 1972 “motor home,” white with green stripes. My grandparents had been campers for many decades before buying the Monster, and had done their previous camping in sleeping bags and tents. When the big RVs started making their appearance, they would roll into campgrounds growling, rumbling and shaking the ground, sounding like monsters to those sleeping on the ground. So when my grandparents got one of their own, they named it the Monster.

The Monster was a big creature, though not large as RVs go. It had a big truck/van engine, and the sort of body with a bed over the cab. The back of the body was a combined kitchen-living-sleeping space, with a gas stove and oven, sink, small refrigerator, cabinets, and a hint of counter space on the driver side, and a table that converted to a bed on the passenger side. The cabinets over the table/bed could also be used as a sleeping bunk, though no one ever did this that I saw. There was also a small bathroom at the back, not much bigger than a shower stall. It had a toilet, sink and very small curtained shower area, which was always used only for storing buckets and other plumbing-related items. (For that matter, we didn’t often use any of Monster’s plumbing, as my grandmother liked to minimize the need to empty the Monster’s bladder, as it were.) There was green shag carpeting on the floor, and green and brown floral print on the bench cushions.

I loved those camping trips with my Grandmother. We had regular haunts that we’d visit in the Southwest. Mesa Verde. Arches. We’d often make a stop at the Four Corners Monument. We pretty much went to the Great Sand Dunes every summer that we visited. On longer trips, we’d explore new parks and monuments, as well as one or more of our regulars. My grandmother was nothing if not adventurous.

Our camping trips were full of ritual and tradition as well as adventure. We even had a regular camping site we’d return to time after time at the Sand Dunes. On the rare occasions that site was occupied on our arrival, we’d choose another inferior spot, and hope that the interlopers would vacate the next day so we could move back to our rightful spot.

Some of the rituals were pragmatic, such as the checklist we’d go over when leaving home, and when leaving each campsite. Stove Off? Check. Camp chairs loaded? Check. Louvered windows completely closed? Check. Things had to be locked down and stowed away before we headed off over the roads, which typically included steep mountain passes and rutted gravel roads.

One of our camping trip traditions was to collect aluminum beverage cans. Because the monster was a large beast, he guzzled gas. I expect he got about 10 miles to the gallon, probably less. The cans we collected would go towards feeding the Monster.

Back in the 70s and early 80s, littering was rampant, and recycling for environmental reasons was rare. People would redeem their cans and bottles for money, or just chuck them. In the Southwest, there was a lot of chucking. Some in the trash, and a whole lot on the side of the roads. We quite routinely would pull over on the side of the road if the glint of cans sparkled in the bright summer sunlight. We’d lug around big canvas bags, and wander around scavenging for cans. I can’t say that we did a whole lot of landscape beautification, as we’d leave other non-redeemable trash on the ground. But a fair amount of the roadside litter was cans. It would often feel a bit like being on a treasure hunt, or an Easter egg hunt. It was exciting to find a spot with lots of cans, disappointing when the glint turned out to be from a tin can or from some other non-redeemable packaging.

In campgrounds and picnic areas, we’d peer into the community trash barrels, looking for the glint of can. We didn’t really dig through the trash, that I recall. We’d typically just go for the surface fruits. In later years, when recycling bins started to make their appearance, we’d consider those cans off-limit. But cans on the ground or in the trash were fair game.

In the evening, or at times when we weren’t on the road, we would flatten the cans to compact them for easier storage. I have memories of my grandmother stepping on the cans in her sturdy brown leather boots. I still remember the feel of the aluminum can wrapping around my sneakered foot, stepping once in the middle before tamping down the top and bottom of the can.

After a trip, my grandmother would lug in the great bulging canvas bags to some sort of redemption center in the nearby city. I’m not sure how much money we tended to get from a typical trip, as she’d get only a penny or two per can. But we collected enough cans to cover a substantial percentage of Monster’s gas needs.

The only photo I managed to find showing the Monster, taken with my 110 camera in about 1979. You can see the big canvas can bags strapped to the back of the roof.
The only photo I managed to find showing the Monster, taken with my 110 camera in about 1979. You can see the big canvas can bags strapped to the back of the roof.

bunny and carrot (and also a cat)

I had grand ideas to have Phoebe and Theo’s Halloween costumes coordinate in some way. As Phoebe wanted to be a bunny, I thought Theo (who had no input in the matter) could be a carrot.

I early gave up on the idea of making Phoebe’s bunny costume, thinking that it would be easy to find one ready-made. I had plans to make Theo’s costume as well as my own, and thought making 3 costumes would be insane. We had some trouble finding a bunny in her size, as it turned out, and ended up ordering online. But seeing as I am a pathological procrastinator, we did so only a week before our party.

A few days before the party, we got a bit antsy, and when we saw a much-discounted white kitty costume, we decided to get it, thinking that I could transform it into a bunny in a pinch. As it turned out, the bunny costume arrived the same day. But, it also turned out to have enclosed plush-covered feet. Such that one could not wear the costume with shoes. As one might want to do when walking outside. Such as one tends to do for trick-or-treating.

So, we decided she could wear the bunny costume for our party, and then the kitty cat for trick-or-treating. (And as such may have set the expectation for future years of having two costumes for Halloween…)

I did manage to make Theo’s carrot, using orange fleece (so as to need minimal hemming) and some green felt for the greens. I made up a pattern for carrot bunting-type thing as well as a hat. We don’t have a sewing machine, so I stitched it up by hand. Much of it while I was on the phone for a work conference call a few hours before the party.

And, because I had to go and run off at the mouth (or whatever the typed equivalent is) about having each of my posts this month feature some word that I like, I felt compelled to follow through in some way. And while I do think the word bunny is a fine word¹, it seemed a bit…um…fluffy…as a followup to yesterday’s omphaloskepsis.

So, I dug up a couple of new words to go along with this post. Both of these are from a site called Luciferous Logolepsy.

    apiaceous
    adj. – parsley-like; belonging to plant family including carrot, parsley, etc.

    macrotous
    adj. – having large ears


My temorarily macrotous daughter and briefly apiaceous son.


Here is Phoebe as a kitty. No bonus word for this image, unless someone else wants to add one.

¹ I did discover though, that in British English, bunny can refer to a squirrel. Which funnily enough was Phoebe’s costume of last year.

third runner up in the lamest spouse category

It was John’s birthday today (well, yesterday, seeing as it’s now after midnight), and I’m ashamed to say that I had no present for him. His birthday sort of sneaked up on me, and then jumped out at me from behind the bushes a couple of days ago. “I’ll have time to figure something out,” I thought to myself. And then promptly set aside all thought of the date.

In a last ditch attempt to disqualify myself from the lamest spouse competition (in which I have been a strong contender for many of John’s past birthdays), I determined that I was going to bake a cake.

And lo and behold, I baked a cake.

More amazingly, I managed my first solo outing with both kidlets. You see, we needed groceries in order for me to accomplish my baking goals.

I felt ever-so-capable as I let John sleep in, and managed to get Phoebe breakfast, eat breakfast myself, wrangle Phoebe into her clothing and get myself dressed, while intermittantly either feeding or otherwise tending to Theo. I got Phoebe into her shoes, strapped Theo into the infant carrier/carseat, and we headed out to the car. Stepping outside I realized it was much colder than I’d expected. So we headed back in to get Phoebe’s jacket. Then after running around looking for the jacket, and further toddler-wrangling, we headed out back to the car. I realized as we were in the driveway that I had told Phoebe we’d bring some milk in a sippy cup for her, but not wanting to delay further, I pushed us forward. I plopped Theo’s carrier into the carseat base, buckled Phoebe in, and we headed out. And it was barely past 11:00.

We were about 3 houses up the road when I realized that I’d forgotten our cloth bags for the grocery store. “Gah!” I said. After some internal debate, I turned around and went home. I decided that I should get Phoebe the promised sippy cup of milk, and a snack for the road, too. I bundled us all back into the house, gathered the bags and provisions, and bundled us all back into the car once more.

Amazingly, we made it to the store before noon. I wore Theo in the Bjorn, and Phoebe rode in the cart. (Lifting Phoebe, who weighs a good 35 pounds, was quite a challenge while wearing Theo.) And we shopped without further incident. (At least for the most part. There was a minor meltdown from Phoebe when we arrived at the parking lot when she realized we had forgotten to bring her book, and when I told her we were not going back for it.)

As for the baking, I wasn’t able to make any pretense of surprising John with a baked cake. But bake it I did. Yes, from a mix. But I preheated, measured and stirred with love, dammit.

The cake, unfrosted.
The cake, unfrosted.

Phoebe helps frost the cake. (This photo does not show her stabbing the cake in her enthusiasm for the task.)
Phoebe helps frost the cake. (This photo does not show her stabbing the cake in her enthusiasm for the task.)
Phoebe sprinkles on the sprinkles.
Phoebe sprinkles on the sprinkles.
Phoebe proclaims the cake decorating to be done.
Phoebe proclaims the cake decorating to be done.
Phoebe loves birthdays.
Phoebe loves birthdays.
The whole party. (Notice the phone, which had John's parents on speaker phone.)
The whole party. (Notice the phone, which had John's parents on speaker phone.)

return of the one-handed typist

Here I am again. I have lots to say, but little time to say any of it. Once again, I feel the need to apologize for the sparsity of my comments and comment responses. I can manage to read on my laptop pretty well, and am actually quite well caught up reading the posts in my feed. But seeing as I have a newborn attached to me what feels to be about 75% of my waking hours (plus some of my sleeping hours), most of the typing I’ve been doing lately has been one-handed. And often in the dark, as Theo is bothered by bright lights. My remaining awake time, when I have the use of two hands, I tend to spend eating, fixing food for or otherwise tending to Phoebe, and doing occasional other tasks. I’ve even had more than one shower in the past 3 weeks.

Things are largely good, though our household has been beset by a cold. Phoebe had a minor cold a few days ago, and as of yesterday, the rest of us seem to have caught it. Theo included, poor munchkin.

We went down to see John’s parents this weekend. They were thrilled to get to meet Theo. When Phoebe was born, they drove up from New York they day after we got home from the hospital. But now with John’s dad’s continuing health problems (he is largely unable to leave his bedroom, let alone the state), and with John’s mom being the primary caregiver, they had been unable to meet their newest grandchild. Seeing as Theo got a glowing bill of health at his 2 week appointment on Monday, and seeing as our schedule is looking tight for the next few weeks, we took the opportunity to drive down on Saturday.

Phoebe was very excited to go visit Grammy and Grampa. She’s been asking to visit for a while. She did, however, suggest that we should leave Theo at home for this visit.

The visit was good, but seeing as we did not heed Phoebe’s advice, passed by for me in a bit of a blur of feedings and diaper changes. (Note: I just had to rephrase this, as I had typed “…passed by in a bit of feedings and diaper changes for me.” There are times when one just doesn’t want to leave attachment ambiguity hanging like that.)

We had a phenomenally smooth drive down. Both kiddos slept. We ran into no traffic. As we approached rest areas, we decided to push on, knowing that stopping would mean that Phoebe would be awake from that point forward. In the end, we didn’t stop at all, and arrived in just about 3 hours.

We came back late last night. The ride back was not too bad either, though there was some traffic, and a few stops. Well, I guess the trip was closer to 5 hours. Phoebe was awake for about half of this, demanding that we “talk about” stuff. (One of her most frequent phrases these days is “talk about X.” Current favorite Xs include air conditioners, alarm clocks, and car accidents, a topic that didn’t thrill John as he was driving…) So perhaps it was a bit of a long trip. But there was no screaming, at least.

My hands are often full these days.
My hands are often full these days.