I had the unenviable job of writing and directing our ward's roadshow this year. I had a lot of fun writing the script, and am pleased to say the youth really came through in the end, despite early appearances to the contrary. Additionally, other adult ward members helped immensely, in amazingly valuable ways. While I won't be volunteering for the position again any time soon, it was a good experience and I feel very grateful. Below you will find my script. Our stake's theme was I'M A BELIEVER.
IKE AND IMA JUMP IN
OLEO
IN FRONT OF CURTAIN (while set is being arranged behind)
Ike and his friends enter and stand around a large half circle painted like the Earth. They are wearing and carrying various swim accessories like goggles, snorkel, floaties, etc. The only swim accessory Ike has on is swim flippers.
ANNOUNCER: In the world before Earth life began, Ike Weaver and his friends prepare.
IKE: My jump time has finally come! I’m sort of nervous, but really excited, too!
FRIEND 1: Oh, Ike Weaver, you have nothing to worry about. We’ll be rooting for you…won’t we guys?
FRIENDS: Oh, yeah. Of course we will. they nod, agree
IMA: Yeah, and who knows? Maybe OUR jump times will come soon and we’ll be down there on Earth with you!
IKE: flirting with IMA, I like that idea!
FRIEND 3: And you’ll have everything you need. Hands Ike the goggles Good parents and leaders to help you see the world clearly…Ike puts on goggles
FRIEND 4: Good friends…
IMA: interrupting, and flirting back a bit That’s us! But then mouths the word “ME” and points to self, while Ike’s not looking. A few crowd members notice and snicker
FRIEND 4: continuing, …to help you stay afloat in any situation. Puts a floatie on one of Ike’s arms while FRIEND 1 puts a floatie on Ike’s other arm.
IKE: looking longingly at IMA, Good friends are always very helpful.
FRIEND 1: hands Ike a snorkel, practically hitting him with it to get his attention away from IMA. And the scriptures, to keep you supplied with much needed oxygen to the brain!
IKE: flinching from the punch, then sheepishly, Sorry. Puts on snorkel, You’re right, I’ve got a lot of helpful tools. And I’ve already got this great conscience to steer me, lifts up foot to indicate flippers, but it still seems like I’m missing something.
FRIEND 3: It’s your “I Pod,” Ike. You can’t jump in without your “I Pod.” holds up extra large I Pod and gives it to IKE.
IKE: Oh yeah! Are all the “I” songs loaded onto it?
FRIEND 3: Of course. “I” Am a Child of God, “I” Have a Family Here on Earth…
IMA: “I” Lived in Heaven a Long Time Ago…
FRIEND 1: “I” Feel My Savior’s Love
FRIEND 4: You know, all those great songs that start with “I” that teach us so much about the meaning of life and how to live it.
FRIENDS: get it, agree, nod, etc
IKE: Great. I’m ready then. I hope your jump times will come soon, too. I guess this is good bye! Jumps off stage in front of Earth prop. A SPLASH is heard. FRIENDS carry Earth prop off.
Curtain opens to three separate scenes, one lit at a time, left to right. Left scene shows a mother in a rocking chair, singing and interacting with her baby. Piano accompanies.
ANNOUNCER: 6 months later…
MOTHER: singing I am a child of God/ and He has sent me here/ Has given me an earthly home/ with parents kind and dear… talking you know, Little Ikey, I always loved that part of the song. Knowing that I am a child of God has helped me a lot in life. And it’s my job to make sure you know you’re a child of God, too. It’ll be easy if I just keep singing all these great “I” songs to you. It’s a Weaver family tradition! Sings I feel my Savior’s love/ in all the world around me/ His spirit warms my soul/ through everything I see…notices a lump in the baby’s wrapping and feels for what it is. What’s this? Takes it out. It’s a pair of goggles. Confused, Huh?
ANNOUNCER: 8 years later…Ike is an energetic boy with a keen interest in outer space.
Light immediately transfers to next scene, center stage, a boy’s bedroom. Ike, as a young boy, is playing with space ship toys and having an imaginary conversation between earthlings and aliens. The thing he is using as a space ship is a swim flipper.
BOY IKE: in alien voice We are here to study your planet and its people. What is the secret to your success as a species? In earthling voice (his own) Roast beef, mashed potatoes and apple pie! Voice from off stage calls Ike to dinner. Coming Mom! Drops toys, starts to go out, lights transfer to scene at right.
ANNOUNCER: 8 more years later…Ike is taking his driver’s license test.
Right scene is the testing counter at the DMV, indicated by a sign that says “Driver’s License Tests This Way.” Ike will be there, along with several others, including FRIEND 1 and IMA, who are strangers to him now.
IKE: entering, notices IMA and scooches between her and FRIEND 1 in order to be near her. The voice of his thoughts, from off stage, pre-recorded: Wow, I’d like to meet her. How should I introduce myself? Trying out introductions, Hello. Don’t I know you from somewhere?. No. Too cheesy. Hi. So, should I drive on our first date or will you? No. Too forward. Trying to refocus, I won’t be driving her—or anyone—anywhere if I don’t pass this test. Concentrate. She probably wouldn’t give me the time of day anyway. Hey, that’s it. I’ll ask her the time. Aloud, Excuse me, do you know what time it is?
IMA: Huh? Oh, sure. I can look on my phone. I have it in here somewhere. She struggles to find it in her huge bag and starts taking things out and laying them on the table. One item she puts on the table is a snorkel. Ike makes an odd face when he sees it, and clears his throat. The searching is taking an uncomfortably long time.
IKE: Awkwardly, Uh, that’s okay, I can probably just look on my I Pod. At exactly the same moment, Ike and IMA take out gigantic “I” Pods, Ike’s from behind him, IMA’s from her huge bag. Their eyes meet. Recognition dawns. Cascading bells (piano) highlight the moment.
IMA: My name is Ima Beale.
IKE: Ima Beale, nice to meet you. I’m Ike Weaver. They shake hands meaningfully
FRIEND 1: Hey, could one of you two give me the answer to number 63?
IKE and IMA: shaking their heads resolutely I believe in being honest. Piano plays the tune, lights go out.
As scenes are being cleared from stage in the dark, three aliens walk across the front of the stage while talking. Surprisingly, they don’t have monotone voices, but uppety British accents.
ANNOUNCER: Meanwhile, in a world far away…
ALIEN 1: Bob, I’ve been thinking we should investigate the planet Earth. Its peoples have lasted eons.
ALIEN 2: Excellent notion, Fred. They seem capable of adapting to varied climates. In all, they are extraordinarily successful. Betty, what’s your opinion?
ALIEN 3: Thanks for asking, Bob. Earthlings are very adaptable indeed. Why just this eon they’ve undergone an ice age, myriad wars, impressive space exploration, global warming, and Brittany Spears. Just then, Hit Me Baby One More Time plays, and ALIENS 1-3 do a synchronized little dance move, then continue their walk/talk as if it hasn’t happened.
ALIEN 1: I concur. We’ll go forward then. Let’s find out what it is that makes Earthlings such a successful species. They exit.
ANNOUNCER: 6 months later…
Ike and his friends are getting in a van to go to a fireside. They sing, to the tune of Adam Sandler’s Chanukah Song as they “drive” along (van is a cardboard cutout):
IKE and FRIENDS: Anyone who needs a ride, we’re headed to the fireside, Make sure that your shoes are tied, Guys you might even find your bride, Where all our standards coincide we’re going to the fireside, Come even if your hair is dyed, and someday we’ll be glorified, abide with me tis eventide, and meet me in the front row at the fireside.
There is a sudden jerk to a stop. A spaceship has landed (done with lighting). Everyone in the car is shocked and scared. ALIENS 1-3 emerge.
ALIEN 1: Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We come in peace.
ALIEN 2: We bring you this, as a sign of our good intentions. Presents Ike with a swim flipper; Ike and friends make confused faces.
ALIEN 3: We are here to study your planet and its people. We find you to be very adaptable.
ALIEN 1: This is our question…What is the secret to your success as a species?
IKE: Funny you should ask; we have a musical number prepared on that very subject!
Group in van pushes van over; jazz hands while they form lines for the I song choreography. Everyone pulls out their giant “I” Pods, puts in their earbuds, and begins to sing and dance.
IKE and FRIENDS:
I lived in heaven a long time ago it is true.
I am a child of God and He has sent me here.
I have a family here on Earth, they are so good to me.
I love to read the Holy Scriptures.
I love to see the temple.
I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I know who I am, I know God’s plan, I’ll follow Him in Faith.
IKE: I hope they call me on a mission, when I have grown a foot or two.
IKE and FRIENDS:I will follow God’s plan for me, holding fast to his word and his love, I will work, and I will pray, I will always walk in his way, then I will be happy on Earth…
ALIENS: …and in my home above indicating above with ‘Mork’ fingers.
IMA: Now you’re getting the idea.
ALIEN 1: Yes, we’re beginning to understand.
ALIEN 3: But we’d like to know more!
IKE: Well, if you’re that interested, why don’t you come with us to the fireside?
ALIEN 2: Even if my hair is dyed?
IKE and FRIENDS: Of course, come on! They give general encouragement, pick up the van, and the aliens get in and all go off stage as the curtain closes.
EPILOGUE (in front of curtain)
ANNOUNCER: Years later…after a beautiful temple wedding…
Ike and Ima, holding hands and talking, cross the stage.
IKE: You were a beautiful bride, Ima.
IMA: And you are a wonderful husband, Ike. But the thing I like most about being married to you is my new full name.
IKE: It’s a good one, alright. And I love hearing you say it.
IMA: loud, with exaggerated enunciation IMA BEALE WEAVER
Friday, October 9, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Enough Is Enough
“Enough is enough,” my parents used to say. When I was a kid I thought the phrase meant something like ‘good grief.’ Now I understand it better. In fact, my daily life is filled with examples that compel me to utter, as my parents did, “Enough is enough!”
Like most people, I appreciate knowing what to expect each day with regard to the weather. I need basic information: the expected temperature in degrees Fahrenheit, whether an umbrella might be handy, if a trip to the store for emergency rations is called for.
Instead, the weather report is like an involuntary college course, sandwiched between tidbits of actual news. And when you hear an awkward transition or lame pun, you know the course is about to begin.
“Yes, Hannah, those bank robbers got away with a lot of green. And speaking of green, we see quite a bit of it in today’s Doppler images of the valley.” The meteorologist then throws in a few marginally interesting facts about Doppler technology, its color spectrum, its accuracy, maybe even its inventor, Christian Andreas Doppler, who hailed from Austria. “Our hail won’t be coming from nearly that far, though, Hannah [fake yet hearty laugh], and I’ll have more on that for you after the break."
If I cared about old Chris Doppler and his multi-hued radar, if I gave one hoot about what a barometer measures, if I had an iota of interest in anything having to do with “ridges of pressure,” I would go to meteorology school.
I happen to be familiar with complicated and impressive jargon specific to the teaching profession. I use it when necessary, in company with other speakers of teacher-ese, but you don’t find me unleashing it on unwilling listeners who simply want to know when the PTA meets.
And when did it become necessary for weather people to tease us unmercifully during our favorite TV shows? They’ve begun to sound like movie trailer narrators with their dramatic inflections and suspense-provoking pauses: “How long will the hot spell last? Or...will it? You’ll find out...at eleven.”
But if you believe you’ll actually find out at eleven how long the hot spell will last, you’ll be sorely disappointed. You will first have to sit through a lecture on what happens when cold air collides with warm air, an exhaustive list of the names of every weed that ever made anyone sneeze, and a photograph of high cloud cover sent in from a viewer who recently turned 100. Enough is enough!
On a recent sunny day, I found myself in the grocery store in preparation for a pic-nic. In the potato chip aisle, Doritos brand offered me 13 different flavors of chips. One, ominously named Fiery Habanero, boasted the description “A flaming-hot journey into a spicy inferno of habanero flavor.” I had to look around to confirm I was in a food store. Such a description might’ve just as easily been found in a travel guide, a nightly news arson report, or on the dust jacket of a work by Dante.
Cheetos brand was even worse. Among its offerings were Color Changing Cheetos Puffs, variously flavored Cheetos Asteroids, Flamin’ Hot Chile Cheetos con Limón, and Xxtra Flamin’ Hot Cheetos Extreme.
I was compelled to ask, are our collective taste buds so deprived that we must resort to fiery infernos and asteroid bursts to feel stimulated? As if in answer to my question, the preloader at Doritos.com urges, “Prepare to take snacking to a higher level.” As my waistline can proudly attest, I was perfectly happy with the former, apparently insufficient level of snacking. Enough is enough!
Annoying as it can be, living in a world where ‘enough’ seems an elusive concept has its bright side, too. Variety and stimulation, even in extremes, are signs of innovation, creativity and free market opportunity. The fact that I am free to complain about all that is too extreme in my life is a bounty about which I will never say, “Enough is enough.”
Like most people, I appreciate knowing what to expect each day with regard to the weather. I need basic information: the expected temperature in degrees Fahrenheit, whether an umbrella might be handy, if a trip to the store for emergency rations is called for.
Instead, the weather report is like an involuntary college course, sandwiched between tidbits of actual news. And when you hear an awkward transition or lame pun, you know the course is about to begin.
“Yes, Hannah, those bank robbers got away with a lot of green. And speaking of green, we see quite a bit of it in today’s Doppler images of the valley.” The meteorologist then throws in a few marginally interesting facts about Doppler technology, its color spectrum, its accuracy, maybe even its inventor, Christian Andreas Doppler, who hailed from Austria. “Our hail won’t be coming from nearly that far, though, Hannah [fake yet hearty laugh], and I’ll have more on that for you after the break."
If I cared about old Chris Doppler and his multi-hued radar, if I gave one hoot about what a barometer measures, if I had an iota of interest in anything having to do with “ridges of pressure,” I would go to meteorology school.
I happen to be familiar with complicated and impressive jargon specific to the teaching profession. I use it when necessary, in company with other speakers of teacher-ese, but you don’t find me unleashing it on unwilling listeners who simply want to know when the PTA meets.
And when did it become necessary for weather people to tease us unmercifully during our favorite TV shows? They’ve begun to sound like movie trailer narrators with their dramatic inflections and suspense-provoking pauses: “How long will the hot spell last? Or...will it? You’ll find out...at eleven.”
But if you believe you’ll actually find out at eleven how long the hot spell will last, you’ll be sorely disappointed. You will first have to sit through a lecture on what happens when cold air collides with warm air, an exhaustive list of the names of every weed that ever made anyone sneeze, and a photograph of high cloud cover sent in from a viewer who recently turned 100. Enough is enough!
On a recent sunny day, I found myself in the grocery store in preparation for a pic-nic. In the potato chip aisle, Doritos brand offered me 13 different flavors of chips. One, ominously named Fiery Habanero, boasted the description “A flaming-hot journey into a spicy inferno of habanero flavor.” I had to look around to confirm I was in a food store. Such a description might’ve just as easily been found in a travel guide, a nightly news arson report, or on the dust jacket of a work by Dante.
Cheetos brand was even worse. Among its offerings were Color Changing Cheetos Puffs, variously flavored Cheetos Asteroids, Flamin’ Hot Chile Cheetos con Limón, and Xxtra Flamin’ Hot Cheetos Extreme.
I was compelled to ask, are our collective taste buds so deprived that we must resort to fiery infernos and asteroid bursts to feel stimulated? As if in answer to my question, the preloader at Doritos.com urges, “Prepare to take snacking to a higher level.” As my waistline can proudly attest, I was perfectly happy with the former, apparently insufficient level of snacking. Enough is enough!
Annoying as it can be, living in a world where ‘enough’ seems an elusive concept has its bright side, too. Variety and stimulation, even in extremes, are signs of innovation, creativity and free market opportunity. The fact that I am free to complain about all that is too extreme in my life is a bounty about which I will never say, “Enough is enough.”
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Are we there yet?
As a parent, I often have to judge whether things are good. Is the popular movie good for my children? Is our sunscreen good for the environment? Is buy-one-get-one-half-off a good deal? And most important, is the lump of cheddar I found wrapped in foil in the back of the refrigerator behind the pitcher of used-to-be-juice still good?
Not surprisingly, the answers do not always fit into neat ‘yes’ or ‘no’ compartments. After all, mold can be sliced away from cheese.
Lately, I have been considering the merits of summer. Is it good or bad? If you were to ask me in late May, amid the barrage of school-end activities, grading deadlines and volunteer assignments, I would say summer is definitely good. At that point, nothing sounds better than lounging at Sycamore Pool for hours while munching farmer’s market produce and carefully sliced cheddar. But by the end of July, temperatures that rarely dip below three digits cause me to reverse my opinion and I do not hesitate to say summer is bad.
The novelty of sleeping late and living virtually schedule free wears off after a while. The scorching sun renders the bikes, scooters and skates useless. My kids too frequently resort to movies and video games, and I begin to hear those pitiful words, “I’m bored.”
Fortunately, our summers are usually punctuated by family trips and outings, and these go a long way in relieving the monotony. However, road trips are always accompanied by four even more pitiful words: “Are we there yet?”
I believe OB nurses implant odometer chips into babies at the time of birth. The chips are programmed to begin functioning after children have mastered verbal expression, but before they have mastered basic arithmetic. Every two and a half minutes the chip prompts children to ask whether those same two and a half minutes have in fact concluded the journey. Parental responses start out informative and calm, then gradually degenerate to vague and seething.
Are we there yet occurrence number 3: “No, sweetie, the sign we just passed said we have 492 miles to go. We’re going 70 miles per hour. That means we’ll be driving for about another seven hours.”
Are we there yet occurrence number 19: “Remember how I said we’d be driving for seven hours? Well, that was less than an hour ago.”
Are we there yet occurrence number 57: [through clenched teeth] “Look. More cows.”
This year, in a brilliant attempt to preempt odometer chip crises, I created road trip notebooks for my two older children. Filled with coloring pages, puzzles, camp song lyrics, journal prompts, instructions for making cootie catchers, and more, the notebooks were a goldmine of wholesome entertainment. Each notebook’s crowning inclusion was a detailed map of our trip route so that queries of ‘are we there yet’ could be directed to the information at the children’s fingertips.
I was very proud of my creations. They worked beautifully. Well, beautifully for about 300 out of the 800 miles we drove to Utah for a recent family wedding. My heart sank a little when, on a potty stop somewhere around Lovelock, I noticed one of the trip route maps crushed into the floor mat under a layer of used-to-be-Cheez-its. This would not do.
When I returned to the car I resolved that my creations would not go under used. So, on the duration of the trip, I colored three exotic animals and five earth fairies, made two cootie catchers, played seven games of paper Battle Ship, completed six word searches, and led the car in several rousing verses of “The cutest boy I ever saw was sipping cider through a straw.”
The wedding was lovely, the road trip went better than expected, and being united with far away family members proved worth the trouble. Now we are back to sleeping late, lounging around at One Mile and looking forward to the start of a new school year.
In considering whether summer is good or bad, I asked my children their opinions. My seven year old son, who recently expressed the wish that he had gills, said summer is good. My ten year old daughter, who has an intense and inexplicable preference for long sleeve shirts, said summer is bad.
But I would be willing to bet that when their new pencils shorten and the knees of their school jeans thin out a bit, they’ll remember with fondness the hours we lounged, the miles we drove, the songs we sang. And before we know it, we’ll all be saying about summer 2010 “Are we there yet?”
Not surprisingly, the answers do not always fit into neat ‘yes’ or ‘no’ compartments. After all, mold can be sliced away from cheese.
Lately, I have been considering the merits of summer. Is it good or bad? If you were to ask me in late May, amid the barrage of school-end activities, grading deadlines and volunteer assignments, I would say summer is definitely good. At that point, nothing sounds better than lounging at Sycamore Pool for hours while munching farmer’s market produce and carefully sliced cheddar. But by the end of July, temperatures that rarely dip below three digits cause me to reverse my opinion and I do not hesitate to say summer is bad.
The novelty of sleeping late and living virtually schedule free wears off after a while. The scorching sun renders the bikes, scooters and skates useless. My kids too frequently resort to movies and video games, and I begin to hear those pitiful words, “I’m bored.”
Fortunately, our summers are usually punctuated by family trips and outings, and these go a long way in relieving the monotony. However, road trips are always accompanied by four even more pitiful words: “Are we there yet?”
I believe OB nurses implant odometer chips into babies at the time of birth. The chips are programmed to begin functioning after children have mastered verbal expression, but before they have mastered basic arithmetic. Every two and a half minutes the chip prompts children to ask whether those same two and a half minutes have in fact concluded the journey. Parental responses start out informative and calm, then gradually degenerate to vague and seething.
Are we there yet occurrence number 3: “No, sweetie, the sign we just passed said we have 492 miles to go. We’re going 70 miles per hour. That means we’ll be driving for about another seven hours.”
Are we there yet occurrence number 19: “Remember how I said we’d be driving for seven hours? Well, that was less than an hour ago.”
Are we there yet occurrence number 57: [through clenched teeth] “Look. More cows.”
This year, in a brilliant attempt to preempt odometer chip crises, I created road trip notebooks for my two older children. Filled with coloring pages, puzzles, camp song lyrics, journal prompts, instructions for making cootie catchers, and more, the notebooks were a goldmine of wholesome entertainment. Each notebook’s crowning inclusion was a detailed map of our trip route so that queries of ‘are we there yet’ could be directed to the information at the children’s fingertips.
I was very proud of my creations. They worked beautifully. Well, beautifully for about 300 out of the 800 miles we drove to Utah for a recent family wedding. My heart sank a little when, on a potty stop somewhere around Lovelock, I noticed one of the trip route maps crushed into the floor mat under a layer of used-to-be-Cheez-its. This would not do.
When I returned to the car I resolved that my creations would not go under used. So, on the duration of the trip, I colored three exotic animals and five earth fairies, made two cootie catchers, played seven games of paper Battle Ship, completed six word searches, and led the car in several rousing verses of “The cutest boy I ever saw was sipping cider through a straw.”
The wedding was lovely, the road trip went better than expected, and being united with far away family members proved worth the trouble. Now we are back to sleeping late, lounging around at One Mile and looking forward to the start of a new school year.
In considering whether summer is good or bad, I asked my children their opinions. My seven year old son, who recently expressed the wish that he had gills, said summer is good. My ten year old daughter, who has an intense and inexplicable preference for long sleeve shirts, said summer is bad.
But I would be willing to bet that when their new pencils shorten and the knees of their school jeans thin out a bit, they’ll remember with fondness the hours we lounged, the miles we drove, the songs we sang. And before we know it, we’ll all be saying about summer 2010 “Are we there yet?”
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Tree Hugging Pragmatist
I descend from a pragmatist and a tree hugger. The combination makes me a conscientious employer of resources for all the most practical reasons. For example, I drive a hybrid vehicle, but I didn’t choose it based on its relatively low emissions, rather because I was able to buy it on good terms. I consider it a bonus that it averages 40 miles to the gallon, a decided advantage to my budget. That it uses electricity instead of fuel half the time is a fact I can barely understand, let alone appreciate. It’s cheaper. That’s good enough for me.
I use CFLs because they last longer than ordinary light bulbs, but I only buy them on sale. I use a clothes dryer to save time over the ironing board. I let the kids play in the hose, but run the dishwasher on the light cycle.
In the hot months, I open all the windows in the evening and place fans in them so the cool air finds a home inside. During the day, the windows and blinds are closed, so the heat doesn’t do the same. I use the air conditioning as little as I can manage. This might win me some laud among the tree hugger ilk—noble sacrifice for the sake of the earth. But no. It’s just cheaper, and fresher, and it somehow seems right. If less will do, it is sensible not to use more.
When we lived in a home that had curbside recycling pick up, I was an avid and careful recycler. Now we live in a place that does not offer such service, so I’m afraid only the things with redemption value get set apart. Yes, I do experience some guilt over this, a thing which should appease you activists. But for me, this guilt strains at the borders of pragmatism, so I largely ignore it. If I went all out to recycle my cereal boxes and such, it would be at the expense of my space and time, which are also valuable resources.
My pragmatist grandmother saved bread bags because they came in handy on trips. She saved her newspapers for the boy scouts in her neighborhood because it gave them something productive to do. She was even known to place a whole onion in the oven in order to make the house smell like dinner was cooking all afternoon long. She said it made her husband appreciate her simple dinners more. Okay, so that last one is more an example of genius than pragmatism, but still. The point is I’m quite sure my grandmother had never heard of global warming. She just employed no-nonsense practices in her daily life.
My tree hugger father, who held conservation as a core value, taught me the adage “use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without.” Yet he chose plastic bags, not paper, at the grocery store because they made convenient hand-held receptacles for the litter he picked up on his daily jogs. He donated much toward the preservation of the giant redwoods and hiked often among their trunks, yet he arrived at them in a very comfortable car.
On one side I have an exemplar who was practical and therefore conserved, on the other one who conserved in the most practical ways. The most memorable of lessons I learned as a child came from both my pragmatist side and my tree-hugger side. I learned that if you’re finished with a thing, there is often another use for it. If you go someplace, it’s reasonable to leave it in better shape than you found it. If you want to save money, it behooves you to take good care of the things you have.
I would suggest we all examine the reasons we do the things we do. Socio-political pressure should never be one of them. Whether we identify more with the pragmatist or the tree hugger, we can all be reflective and deliberate about our choices. Rest assured, practicality and conservation can coexist in peace.
I use CFLs because they last longer than ordinary light bulbs, but I only buy them on sale. I use a clothes dryer to save time over the ironing board. I let the kids play in the hose, but run the dishwasher on the light cycle.
In the hot months, I open all the windows in the evening and place fans in them so the cool air finds a home inside. During the day, the windows and blinds are closed, so the heat doesn’t do the same. I use the air conditioning as little as I can manage. This might win me some laud among the tree hugger ilk—noble sacrifice for the sake of the earth. But no. It’s just cheaper, and fresher, and it somehow seems right. If less will do, it is sensible not to use more.
When we lived in a home that had curbside recycling pick up, I was an avid and careful recycler. Now we live in a place that does not offer such service, so I’m afraid only the things with redemption value get set apart. Yes, I do experience some guilt over this, a thing which should appease you activists. But for me, this guilt strains at the borders of pragmatism, so I largely ignore it. If I went all out to recycle my cereal boxes and such, it would be at the expense of my space and time, which are also valuable resources.
My pragmatist grandmother saved bread bags because they came in handy on trips. She saved her newspapers for the boy scouts in her neighborhood because it gave them something productive to do. She was even known to place a whole onion in the oven in order to make the house smell like dinner was cooking all afternoon long. She said it made her husband appreciate her simple dinners more. Okay, so that last one is more an example of genius than pragmatism, but still. The point is I’m quite sure my grandmother had never heard of global warming. She just employed no-nonsense practices in her daily life.
My tree hugger father, who held conservation as a core value, taught me the adage “use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without.” Yet he chose plastic bags, not paper, at the grocery store because they made convenient hand-held receptacles for the litter he picked up on his daily jogs. He donated much toward the preservation of the giant redwoods and hiked often among their trunks, yet he arrived at them in a very comfortable car.
On one side I have an exemplar who was practical and therefore conserved, on the other one who conserved in the most practical ways. The most memorable of lessons I learned as a child came from both my pragmatist side and my tree-hugger side. I learned that if you’re finished with a thing, there is often another use for it. If you go someplace, it’s reasonable to leave it in better shape than you found it. If you want to save money, it behooves you to take good care of the things you have.
I would suggest we all examine the reasons we do the things we do. Socio-political pressure should never be one of them. Whether we identify more with the pragmatist or the tree hugger, we can all be reflective and deliberate about our choices. Rest assured, practicality and conservation can coexist in peace.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Stacy Black: Big Sister and Inspiration
"In the cookies of life, sisters are the chocolate chips." ~Author Unknown
If my life truly were a cookie, my big sister Stacy would definitely star as one of the most loved ingredients. On this, the occasion of her 50th birthday, I dedicate my column to her.
Even though Stacy often introduces me as her older sister, she is in fact twelve years my senior. This means that in my toddlerhood, she was at the age renowned for getting a rise out of mothers. While I have no memory of it, I'm told I was an expert enunciator of moderate curse words. These were Stacy's first fruits of effective teaching.
For a time, Stacy would load me into the basket of her bike and take me wherever she went. Later, I would beg to go with her wherever she went but to no avail. I recall asking her where she was going one 1975 day as she climbed behind the wheel of her VW bug. Her response was a glib "Crazy. Wanna come?" To my disappointment, the question was not a literal one.
Soon enough I knew all about being a glib teenager and it was to my eldest sister that I often turned for a listening ear or a dose of comic relief. My role as beloved Aunt to the sharp niece and three spirited nephews she gave me always brought perspective.
What seemed to be the darkest period of Stacy's life, with the aid of retrospect has become her most victorious. Her marriage ended and she embarked on a journey which included rearing four very young children, attending college start to finish, excelling as an educator, becoming a conscientious homeowner, and remaining sane through it all. Stacy attributes her success to two entities: God and Laughter, which often work hand in hand.
On a long road trip to see relatives one summer, Stacy and her daughter became increasingly frazzled by the three wild boys, who were loud and raucous, as boys often are. Stacy's several commands of "Settle down now," and "Be quiet" were met with jeers and continued rowdiness. At the end of her patience, she shouted something stern that ended with "and I mean it." A period of silence followed; they knew Mom meant business. However, the temptation to quote one of the great lines of Princess Bride was too great, and in unison they intoned, "Anybody want a peanut?"
While I'm sure Stacy appreciated their comedic timing, this did nothing to lift her mood. Just then they heard a loud clapping and clunking from a flat tire. Being endowed with grand imaginations, the boys assumed shots were being fired and issued shouts of "We're hit!" and accordingly took positions face down on the floor boards.
Stacy pulled the car to the median, made a call, and waited for help to arrive. A concerned police officer approached and asked her to pull further onto the shoulder. She objected, saying, "But won't I ruin my wheel if I drive with a flat tire?" He answered with what he probably thought was a rhetorical question: "Which would you rather have, a ruined wheel or your children obliterated by a careless driver?" She paused, glancing back at the boys, who now pointed imaginary guns at the officer from their posts on the floor. She finally responded with a question of her own: "Exactly how much does a new wheel cost?"
Besides the gift of laughter, God has sent Angels to Stacy in the form of loving relatives, generous friends, and inspired church leaders. With their help and her own tireless dedication and faith, Stacy has earned a Bachelor's degree, several teaching credentials, a Master's degree, and the respect of all who know her. And, while she would never take credit for her children's accomplishments, I will add that her daughter is a college graduate and credential holder, two of her boys are Eagle Scouts, one did missionary work for two years in Brazil, and all four of her children are well-traveled, witty and delightful adults. A fine son-in-law and precious grandbaby have been added to the throng, and in a capstone move even for God, Stacy will marry her new-found and long-awaited love next fall.
My sister is a wonderful example of humility, a beacon of determination and a great lover of laughter. Now that I think of it, she shares many characteristics with a good cookie: she rises under heat, is sweet, well-rounded, soft at heart, and she delivers smiles wherever she goes. Stacy Black: one smart, tough and wonderful cookie. Happy Birthday!
If my life truly were a cookie, my big sister Stacy would definitely star as one of the most loved ingredients. On this, the occasion of her 50th birthday, I dedicate my column to her.
Even though Stacy often introduces me as her older sister, she is in fact twelve years my senior. This means that in my toddlerhood, she was at the age renowned for getting a rise out of mothers. While I have no memory of it, I'm told I was an expert enunciator of moderate curse words. These were Stacy's first fruits of effective teaching.
For a time, Stacy would load me into the basket of her bike and take me wherever she went. Later, I would beg to go with her wherever she went but to no avail. I recall asking her where she was going one 1975 day as she climbed behind the wheel of her VW bug. Her response was a glib "Crazy. Wanna come?" To my disappointment, the question was not a literal one.
Soon enough I knew all about being a glib teenager and it was to my eldest sister that I often turned for a listening ear or a dose of comic relief. My role as beloved Aunt to the sharp niece and three spirited nephews she gave me always brought perspective.
What seemed to be the darkest period of Stacy's life, with the aid of retrospect has become her most victorious. Her marriage ended and she embarked on a journey which included rearing four very young children, attending college start to finish, excelling as an educator, becoming a conscientious homeowner, and remaining sane through it all. Stacy attributes her success to two entities: God and Laughter, which often work hand in hand.
On a long road trip to see relatives one summer, Stacy and her daughter became increasingly frazzled by the three wild boys, who were loud and raucous, as boys often are. Stacy's several commands of "Settle down now," and "Be quiet" were met with jeers and continued rowdiness. At the end of her patience, she shouted something stern that ended with "and I mean it." A period of silence followed; they knew Mom meant business. However, the temptation to quote one of the great lines of Princess Bride was too great, and in unison they intoned, "Anybody want a peanut?"
While I'm sure Stacy appreciated their comedic timing, this did nothing to lift her mood. Just then they heard a loud clapping and clunking from a flat tire. Being endowed with grand imaginations, the boys assumed shots were being fired and issued shouts of "We're hit!" and accordingly took positions face down on the floor boards.
Stacy pulled the car to the median, made a call, and waited for help to arrive. A concerned police officer approached and asked her to pull further onto the shoulder. She objected, saying, "But won't I ruin my wheel if I drive with a flat tire?" He answered with what he probably thought was a rhetorical question: "Which would you rather have, a ruined wheel or your children obliterated by a careless driver?" She paused, glancing back at the boys, who now pointed imaginary guns at the officer from their posts on the floor. She finally responded with a question of her own: "Exactly how much does a new wheel cost?"
Besides the gift of laughter, God has sent Angels to Stacy in the form of loving relatives, generous friends, and inspired church leaders. With their help and her own tireless dedication and faith, Stacy has earned a Bachelor's degree, several teaching credentials, a Master's degree, and the respect of all who know her. And, while she would never take credit for her children's accomplishments, I will add that her daughter is a college graduate and credential holder, two of her boys are Eagle Scouts, one did missionary work for two years in Brazil, and all four of her children are well-traveled, witty and delightful adults. A fine son-in-law and precious grandbaby have been added to the throng, and in a capstone move even for God, Stacy will marry her new-found and long-awaited love next fall.
My sister is a wonderful example of humility, a beacon of determination and a great lover of laughter. Now that I think of it, she shares many characteristics with a good cookie: she rises under heat, is sweet, well-rounded, soft at heart, and she delivers smiles wherever she goes. Stacy Black: one smart, tough and wonderful cookie. Happy Birthday!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Is there such thing as a 'free lunch?'
Buying food and managing a menu are among the most difficult parts of parenthood for me. What is most important? Taste? Price? Nutritional content? Ease of preparation? Buying local?
There are many things to consider, but I am discovering something about myself as my children grow older: the most important thing to me when it comes to food is shelf life. I don’t mean shelf life as in ‘how long will it stay good.’ I mean shelf life as in ‘how long will it stay put.’
That’s right. My number one criterion for a good food buy is how long the food is likely to stay in my cupboard—the longer the better. This requires it to not taste so bad that it would never get eaten, but also not taste so good that it would all be eaten on the day I buy it. I never buy cookies, for example. Any positive health effects of this decision are purely incidental.
At the store, if I see something that my children would actually enjoy eating, it’s not likely to go in the cart. You see, spending four and a half dollars on a box of crackers is only worth it if I know that four and a half dollars will be spread out over, say, thirteen weeks. Then I’ve really gotten a good deal. So it’s salt-free Triscuits for us, thank you.
Some people overcome the dilemma of food disappearing too fast by shopping in bulk at places like Costco, Sam’s Club or the Taj Majal. For me, this is problematic on several levels.
Sure the per-item price is lower than at regular grocery stores, but it’s really hard to take comfort in that fact when I’ve just spent $39.00 on noodles. . . never mind that I won’t have to buy them again this decade.
I don’t have room to refrigerate the five-gallon jug of meat marinade “once opened.” The 800-pack of flavored oatmeal might have a chance if it doubles as an ottoman, but my freezer would almost certainly be overtaxed by the industrial sized bucket of fish sticks.
And if, by some odd culinary coincidence, I happened to need noodles, meat marinade, oatmeal and fish sticks all at once, I would push my way through the gale force fan gusts at the exit with only four items on my flatbed cart, but with the better part of a car payment missing from my wallet.
Safety is also an issue. At no other food store in town will you be beeped at by a man driving farm equipment and carrying a six-ton pallet of M & Ms. If you’re going to shop there, it should be with the understanding, first and foremost, that you are in the way.
Nevertheless, every Saturday, after choir and Kung Fu have had their due attention, my family heads to just such a store. The membership is worth it for the samples alone. There’s something for everyone: chicken in peanut sauce, a power bar, spinach-filled raviolis, even things with the word ‘organic’ in the name, which is comforting, if not entirely believable. And let’s not forget dessert. The first time I saw the sample table serving a fudge brownie with vanilla ice cream on top, a patriotic tear escaped my eye.
Occasionally a space-age blender or a wok that also functions as a campfire pit will be demonstrated, and then you might as well break out the lawn chairs. Smoothies, mashed potatoes, tomato soup, all manner of stir-fry, even a tin-foil dinner if you wait long enough. And the head-set microphones used by the peddlers kind of make you feel like you’re at a concert, so that’s a bonus.
I’ve heard it said there is no such thing as a free lunch. But next Saturday when you see my Costco cart full of satisfied children (and not much else), I’ll let you decide if it’s true.
There are many things to consider, but I am discovering something about myself as my children grow older: the most important thing to me when it comes to food is shelf life. I don’t mean shelf life as in ‘how long will it stay good.’ I mean shelf life as in ‘how long will it stay put.’
That’s right. My number one criterion for a good food buy is how long the food is likely to stay in my cupboard—the longer the better. This requires it to not taste so bad that it would never get eaten, but also not taste so good that it would all be eaten on the day I buy it. I never buy cookies, for example. Any positive health effects of this decision are purely incidental.
At the store, if I see something that my children would actually enjoy eating, it’s not likely to go in the cart. You see, spending four and a half dollars on a box of crackers is only worth it if I know that four and a half dollars will be spread out over, say, thirteen weeks. Then I’ve really gotten a good deal. So it’s salt-free Triscuits for us, thank you.
Some people overcome the dilemma of food disappearing too fast by shopping in bulk at places like Costco, Sam’s Club or the Taj Majal. For me, this is problematic on several levels.
Sure the per-item price is lower than at regular grocery stores, but it’s really hard to take comfort in that fact when I’ve just spent $39.00 on noodles. . . never mind that I won’t have to buy them again this decade.
I don’t have room to refrigerate the five-gallon jug of meat marinade “once opened.” The 800-pack of flavored oatmeal might have a chance if it doubles as an ottoman, but my freezer would almost certainly be overtaxed by the industrial sized bucket of fish sticks.
And if, by some odd culinary coincidence, I happened to need noodles, meat marinade, oatmeal and fish sticks all at once, I would push my way through the gale force fan gusts at the exit with only four items on my flatbed cart, but with the better part of a car payment missing from my wallet.
Safety is also an issue. At no other food store in town will you be beeped at by a man driving farm equipment and carrying a six-ton pallet of M & Ms. If you’re going to shop there, it should be with the understanding, first and foremost, that you are in the way.
Nevertheless, every Saturday, after choir and Kung Fu have had their due attention, my family heads to just such a store. The membership is worth it for the samples alone. There’s something for everyone: chicken in peanut sauce, a power bar, spinach-filled raviolis, even things with the word ‘organic’ in the name, which is comforting, if not entirely believable. And let’s not forget dessert. The first time I saw the sample table serving a fudge brownie with vanilla ice cream on top, a patriotic tear escaped my eye.
Occasionally a space-age blender or a wok that also functions as a campfire pit will be demonstrated, and then you might as well break out the lawn chairs. Smoothies, mashed potatoes, tomato soup, all manner of stir-fry, even a tin-foil dinner if you wait long enough. And the head-set microphones used by the peddlers kind of make you feel like you’re at a concert, so that’s a bonus.
I’ve heard it said there is no such thing as a free lunch. But next Saturday when you see my Costco cart full of satisfied children (and not much else), I’ll let you decide if it’s true.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Acronym Madness
There I stood, staring up in awe at an enormous billboard brightly displaying the many initials I was supposed to know the meaning of, but did not. It was an AM nightmare. No, not AM as in ante-meridiem, AM as in “Acronym Madness.”
I was 19 years old and found myself, quite by happenstance, with a seat on the policy board for a California Student Association. I filled that seat monthly at meetings in Capitol offices, where big players in the state education arena would speak animatedly in Acronymese. I was proud when I was able to correctly identify which agenda item we were discussing. For effect, I’d love to rattle off the acronyms that flew around the room (and over my head), but I don’t know them any better now than I did then.
Not to worry. As a teacher credentialed, employed and RIFed in California, I now boast an impressive acronym vocabulary. Would you like to discuss NCLB? I’m an HQT! My specialties are ELA and ELD. Or maybe an IEP is what your student needs? That’s fine, too. We could meet at IHOP. I’ll bring my PDA.
Perhaps your profession is not as replete with acronyms as mine, but if you listen to news at all, you’ve heard your share. FEMA intervenes in North Dakota. GM no longer needs to buy Fiat. AIG is apparently very generous to its CEOs. You can hear all about it on CNN.
Sports fans are certainly no strangers to the acronym. From the NBA all the way down to CARD, you’re concerned about the MVP. And if food is your forte, you’ll read FDA labels, steer clear of MSG, and probably cook with EVOO. Don’t even get me started on the NYSE.
But nowhere is AM more pervasive than in the world of digitized socializing. The IM has developed a dialect that at times barely resembles English. “OMG,” one IMer might say to another, “I m ROTFL.” To which the response might be, “MDM wants me 2 get off the PC. IDK Y. So, G2G. CUL!”
Years ago I remember complaining that spell-check was ruining young people’s skills with the written word. It couldn’t tell an unsuspecting typist the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’ or ‘there,’ ‘their’ and ‘they’re.’ I long for the days when these were the reigning problems with incoming essays. Now the need is in distinguishing ‘you’ from ‘u,’ ‘are’ from ‘r,’ and ‘for’ from ‘4.’
In a unit on Melville’s Moby Dick, I actually had a student turn in a response containing the following sentence: “That cptn was way 2 in2 getting that whale. He needed 2 TAP.” A good overall assessment on her part, but I looked it up, and there are no editor’s symbols appropriate for these errors. I was tempted to note, “u r 2 far gone even 4 spell-check. GAC.”
One day I grew curious about the constant thumbing of mini machinery that was taking place under desks. I asked a student to show me how to use the text feature on my cell phone. She tried to teach me some common texting acronyms, but all I could see was another acronym nightmare, except on a cell screen instead of a billboard. I resisted fiercely. I punctuated, capitalized and even occasionally made parenthetical references with precision. But as a lover of language, I could not ignore efficiency indefinitely. Accuracy and thumb speed don’t go well together on a keyboard four centimeters square.
And so with the best of them I now TXT my DH aka my BFF, when I need to communicate something unsuited for a laborious phone call. For example, I recently said to him: “can I pls c u b4 6? ILY 2 much 2 w8,” to which he responded, “YAE2M.”
And now, my dear readers, U C Y AM is here 2 stay.
KATAIUTC
Key Acronyms to Aid in Understanding this Column)
RIF – reduction in force
EVOO – extra virgin olive oil
ROTFL – rolling on the floor laughing
MDM – my dear mother
IDK – I don’t know
CUL – C U later
TAP – take a pill
GAC – get a clue
DH – dear husband
YAE2M – you are everything to me
I was 19 years old and found myself, quite by happenstance, with a seat on the policy board for a California Student Association. I filled that seat monthly at meetings in Capitol offices, where big players in the state education arena would speak animatedly in Acronymese. I was proud when I was able to correctly identify which agenda item we were discussing. For effect, I’d love to rattle off the acronyms that flew around the room (and over my head), but I don’t know them any better now than I did then.
Not to worry. As a teacher credentialed, employed and RIFed in California, I now boast an impressive acronym vocabulary. Would you like to discuss NCLB? I’m an HQT! My specialties are ELA and ELD. Or maybe an IEP is what your student needs? That’s fine, too. We could meet at IHOP. I’ll bring my PDA.
Perhaps your profession is not as replete with acronyms as mine, but if you listen to news at all, you’ve heard your share. FEMA intervenes in North Dakota. GM no longer needs to buy Fiat. AIG is apparently very generous to its CEOs. You can hear all about it on CNN.
Sports fans are certainly no strangers to the acronym. From the NBA all the way down to CARD, you’re concerned about the MVP. And if food is your forte, you’ll read FDA labels, steer clear of MSG, and probably cook with EVOO. Don’t even get me started on the NYSE.
But nowhere is AM more pervasive than in the world of digitized socializing. The IM has developed a dialect that at times barely resembles English. “OMG,” one IMer might say to another, “I m ROTFL.” To which the response might be, “MDM wants me 2 get off the PC. IDK Y. So, G2G. CUL!”
Years ago I remember complaining that spell-check was ruining young people’s skills with the written word. It couldn’t tell an unsuspecting typist the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’ or ‘there,’ ‘their’ and ‘they’re.’ I long for the days when these were the reigning problems with incoming essays. Now the need is in distinguishing ‘you’ from ‘u,’ ‘are’ from ‘r,’ and ‘for’ from ‘4.’
In a unit on Melville’s Moby Dick, I actually had a student turn in a response containing the following sentence: “That cptn was way 2 in2 getting that whale. He needed 2 TAP.” A good overall assessment on her part, but I looked it up, and there are no editor’s symbols appropriate for these errors. I was tempted to note, “u r 2 far gone even 4 spell-check. GAC.”
One day I grew curious about the constant thumbing of mini machinery that was taking place under desks. I asked a student to show me how to use the text feature on my cell phone. She tried to teach me some common texting acronyms, but all I could see was another acronym nightmare, except on a cell screen instead of a billboard. I resisted fiercely. I punctuated, capitalized and even occasionally made parenthetical references with precision. But as a lover of language, I could not ignore efficiency indefinitely. Accuracy and thumb speed don’t go well together on a keyboard four centimeters square.
And so with the best of them I now TXT my DH aka my BFF, when I need to communicate something unsuited for a laborious phone call. For example, I recently said to him: “can I pls c u b4 6? ILY 2 much 2 w8,” to which he responded, “YAE2M.”
And now, my dear readers, U C Y AM is here 2 stay.
KATAIUTC
Key Acronyms to Aid in Understanding this Column)
RIF – reduction in force
EVOO – extra virgin olive oil
ROTFL – rolling on the floor laughing
MDM – my dear mother
IDK – I don’t know
CUL – C U later
TAP – take a pill
GAC – get a clue
DH – dear husband
YAE2M – you are everything to me
The Evolution of Affection
As a child, I thought evolution was a thing that happened a long time ago. You know, back in the days of evolution. But if you’re like me, you have searched the faces in a grainy photo of your ancestors and found characteristics that look familiar.
Your nephew, BraeDen, has great-great-grandpa John’s deep set eyes, and your neighbor's kid, Hayliegh, has a jaw line that bears a striking resemblance to their great-great-aunt Jane’s. Thanks to photography, we can watch evolution in action. (The evolution of our naming practices is less clear.)
Through a succession that can be well documented in grainy family photographs, my husband has evolved into a handsome bald guy who wears a goatee and black-rimmed glasses. When my baby was born, the on call pediatrician came in and introduced herself to my husband and me before examining our beautiful baby girl. She took one look at the 8 pound 8 ounce bundle and told her, “All you need is a goatee and glasses!”
It was true. Our baby looked exactly like my husband. Naturally, our birth announcement included a photoshopped image of our sweet baby girl sporting a goatee and black-rimmed glasses.
An interesting conversation followed the pediatrician’s comment that day. Apparently, there is significance beyond simple trait inheritance when babies look like their fathers. You see, back in the days of evolution, fathers were less likely to eat or otherwise destroy offspring that resembled them. This encouraged fidelity on the part of females, and apparently led to that popular androgynous look we see in fashion magazines today.
Gratefully, I am reasonably certain my husband would not have eaten our baby even if she had looked like me. Also, our baby’s femininity abounds. But if I had not given birth to her myself, I might seriously wonder who her other parent is. It seems there is almost nothing of me in her.
She has been part of our world for 17 months now. Her curly red hair and her bright blue eyes (both traits from her dad’s side, of course) bring joy to us daily. But dissimilarities between us do not stop with our appearance. Our preferences diverge dramatically.
I prefer newspapers and magazines be kept in neat stacks on household surfaces. She favors a “strewn” look on floors throughout the abode.
I prefer sleeping for more than two and a half hours at a time. She likes to think I'm standing next to her crib constantly while she sleeps, and awakens to confirm this regularly.
I prefer emptying the vacuum bag into the outdoor trashcan. She thinks the living room couch is a fine receptacle.
When I am finished eating, I refrigerate my leftovers. She systematically transfers every uneaten morsel, one by one, to the kitchen floor. It’s enough to make me wonder if toddlers have changed at all since the days of evolution.
Well, perhaps there are a few things my sweet toddler and I have in common. After all, I get the vast majority of my own physical traits from my father. But there is one more delightful, magical, and enduring trait we share, and I am sure I inherited from my mother. It is a genuine love for several games of peek-a-boo followed by a loud and lovely tickle-cuddle session and a series of kisses ranging from Eskimo to butterfly. And whether or not the days of evolution are behind us, I’m quite sure my grandchildren will inherit this trait from their mother as well.
Your nephew, BraeDen, has great-great-grandpa John’s deep set eyes, and your neighbor's kid, Hayliegh, has a jaw line that bears a striking resemblance to their great-great-aunt Jane’s. Thanks to photography, we can watch evolution in action. (The evolution of our naming practices is less clear.)
Through a succession that can be well documented in grainy family photographs, my husband has evolved into a handsome bald guy who wears a goatee and black-rimmed glasses. When my baby was born, the on call pediatrician came in and introduced herself to my husband and me before examining our beautiful baby girl. She took one look at the 8 pound 8 ounce bundle and told her, “All you need is a goatee and glasses!”
It was true. Our baby looked exactly like my husband. Naturally, our birth announcement included a photoshopped image of our sweet baby girl sporting a goatee and black-rimmed glasses.
An interesting conversation followed the pediatrician’s comment that day. Apparently, there is significance beyond simple trait inheritance when babies look like their fathers. You see, back in the days of evolution, fathers were less likely to eat or otherwise destroy offspring that resembled them. This encouraged fidelity on the part of females, and apparently led to that popular androgynous look we see in fashion magazines today.
Gratefully, I am reasonably certain my husband would not have eaten our baby even if she had looked like me. Also, our baby’s femininity abounds. But if I had not given birth to her myself, I might seriously wonder who her other parent is. It seems there is almost nothing of me in her.
She has been part of our world for 17 months now. Her curly red hair and her bright blue eyes (both traits from her dad’s side, of course) bring joy to us daily. But dissimilarities between us do not stop with our appearance. Our preferences diverge dramatically.
I prefer newspapers and magazines be kept in neat stacks on household surfaces. She favors a “strewn” look on floors throughout the abode.
I prefer sleeping for more than two and a half hours at a time. She likes to think I'm standing next to her crib constantly while she sleeps, and awakens to confirm this regularly.
I prefer emptying the vacuum bag into the outdoor trashcan. She thinks the living room couch is a fine receptacle.
When I am finished eating, I refrigerate my leftovers. She systematically transfers every uneaten morsel, one by one, to the kitchen floor. It’s enough to make me wonder if toddlers have changed at all since the days of evolution.
Well, perhaps there are a few things my sweet toddler and I have in common. After all, I get the vast majority of my own physical traits from my father. But there is one more delightful, magical, and enduring trait we share, and I am sure I inherited from my mother. It is a genuine love for several games of peek-a-boo followed by a loud and lovely tickle-cuddle session and a series of kisses ranging from Eskimo to butterfly. And whether or not the days of evolution are behind us, I’m quite sure my grandchildren will inherit this trait from their mother as well.
Chocolate Dos (364), Chocolate Don'ts (1)
I am an unabashed and hopeless lover of chocolate. It’s so versatile. Failed resolution? Marital squabble? Chocolate. Financial set-back? Scholastic disappointment? Chocolate. Traffic stress? Bad hair day? Chocolate.
Far from being only an antidote to life’s little miseries though, chocolate can be a celebratory indulgence. This is why the chocolate fountain was invented. Nuts, breads, strawberries, all manner of melon, even marshmallows—they’re all wonderful. But run them under flowing liquid chocolate, and you’ve got a party going on.
Professional achievement? Wardrobe success? Chocolate. Found $10 bill in jeans? Was momentarily photogenic? Chocolate. Danced for no reason? Kid said something cute? Chocolate.
Years ago, I was recounting a now-forgotten woe to a friend. She listened with well-placed "hmmms" and "I sees" until at length I had vented. She paused, took me by the hands and said with gravity, “Sweetie, you just need chocolate.” We burst out laughing, went out for hot fudge sundaes, and all was well with the world.
More recently, I encountered a man in Wal-Mart who also shared my love for chocolate. We met on the chocolate aisle. Amid my browsing, I heard a heavy sigh. It was the man. He opined, “How do I keep my kids from eating chocolate all the time, when I myself want to eat chocolate all the time?” I gave him a polite laugh, but on the inside I wanted to flee the area, as this man had obviously gained access to my diary. Fleeing, however, was out of the question due to impossibly narrow aisles and the fact I had not yet made my chocolate selection, breaking and entering be darned.
So naturally, what I’ve asked my husband to give me on Valentine’s Day is . . . a thorough detail job on my car. Chocolate is many things. But a fitting token of the love between my honey and me it is not. Auto detailing, on the other hand, says, “I know you appreciate cleanliness and organization, I know your reality makes messes in your car and, most of all, I know you eat chocolate on quite a regular basis so why would it be special today?” And that is when I swoon. There’s nothing quite so romantic as knowing your partner knows you well.
So, as you contemplate what to give your sweetheart this year for Valentine’s Day, don’t just automatically go for the heart-shaped box of chocolate. Change the vacuum bag. Get the garden ready for Spring. Clean out the garage. Offer a foot rub. Whatever you know your honey will love, do that on Valentine’s Day. Then, on the next day, and all year long, give chocolate for no reason at all.
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