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.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
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.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Memorable Scene of Christmas Cheer
We’re all familiar with the artwork of Norman Rockwell. He gives us idyllic images of Christmas cheer wherein familial joy and the scent of home-baked cookies actually waft off the canvas. In MY reality, the source of any wafting scent is usually a diaper. Well, so what if we’re no Rockwell painting? Memorable scenes of Christmas cheer happen to be our specialty.
For years we used an artificial Christmas tree. But the tedious and unending task of unbending the wire branches, or “fluffing,” as we came to call it, never caught on as a joyful Christmas tradition. The sing-song invitation, “Children, gather ‘round, for it’s time to fluff the tree!” was met with groans that made even the Grinch sound optimistic. So last year, we opted for a live tree.
As the tree was headed for the roof of our tiny Civic, the memorable scene of Christmas cheer began. The two older children were happily chasing each other nearby, while I gave the baby an impromptu feeding in the front seat. Armed with twine and a knot-tying merit badge or two, my husband secured the tree to the car’s roof. It was a job well done.
Too well done, as it turned out. When Daddy and the children tried to get in the car to bring the tree home, the doors were all tied shut.
Feeling sheepish, but never losing his “can-do” attitude, my husband freed the last in the sequence of bound doors—the rear driver’s side door—and the kids easily scampered over the baby’s car seat to make room for their dad. He settled into the back seat without difficulty, but his face showed strained confidence at the prospect of transferring himself from there to the driver’s seat.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay there and I’ll drive?” I offered. I had only a gear-shift to surmount, and I figured the oldest child had a much better chance of making it unscathed to the front seat than did my sanguine, robust-ish husband.
“No, no,” he enthused. “I can make it just fine.” Tasks requiring upper body strength are my hubby’s forte. A lithe swinging of the feet between the bucket seats while hefting his upper body with raw triceps power was, I’m sure, what he had in mind. But no Civic has ever been sold on the merits of head room, so Daddy barreled through torso-first instead. It became obvious his plan lacked forethought when we discovered he was soundly wedged, face down in the dead center of the vehicle. Feet trapped by the baby seat, belly firmly packed against the center console, he finally admitted, “I’m stuck.”
I began to giggle. The children began to giggle. Daddy began to giggle. We couldn’t stop. Giggles turned to tear-streaked guffaws as, straining, grunting, laughing, and exerting all his might, Dad eventually broke free from his bucket-seat captors. But the battle was not over, as he found himself sideways across the front two seats, one of which was occupied by me and a nursing newborn.
At various points during his continued struggle, the windshield wipers demonstrated their full array of speeds, the radio was put to scanning every station, the hazard lights hazarded, and the car’s horn played a monotone yet lively concerto to an audience of tree lot patrons. Our breathless laughter continued long after my poor husband was upright again, sweat beading down his temples and tears of laughter striping his flushed face.
Back at home, no fluffing was necessary as the scent of fresh-cut pine wafted through the house. We had to call Grandma to share the hilarity and, as we did, I truly think we experienced elevated levels of familial joy. Norman Rockwell? Perhaps not. Memorable scene of Christmas cheer? Absolutely. And we will cherish it for many years to come.
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