Let's Root, Root, Root for the Cubbies!

Charlotte's getting ready for the seventh-inning stretch:

A Moving Tale (part 2)

You Can't Always Get What You Want 

So, as I mentioned in part 1, for six months we tried to sell our house so we could move out to the country. During those months the real estate values went negative and a pregnancy test turned positive. One of the worst winters in Iowa history had blanketed the landscape, and we knew it was time to throw in the towel. Daphne had become too pregnant to be interested in moving anywhere except to the bed for a nap, and we needed to get a room ready for the baby.

In the end Daphne didn't get her Victorian farm house, I didn't get my barn workshop, the dog didn't get her six acre playground, and the cats lost their opportunity to scoop up field mice and bop them on the head. 

Now instead of a 35-minute interstate commute, I'm still stuck driving a boring five minutes to work (no jackknifed semis on Aurora Ave.), or a dull eight minutes to daycare. If I choose to shovel my driveway instead of letting my retired neighbor and his snow blower clear our snow, then I've got about two car lengths to clear instead of twenty. If we want to buy groceries, shop at a mall, eat at one of several restaurants, or even see a movie, then we can do that without even getting into the car. The only thing within walking distance of the farmhouse we wanted was the mailbox.   

Sometimes I still drive by that acreage and wonder what it would have been like to live there. But then I drive to a home that might be a bit less romantic, but a whole lot more practical.

 At least this time I didn't have to lose what I have in order to appreciate it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_4l1H7Ynrk&feature=related

A Moving Tale (part 1)

(a pre-Charlotte story)

In the fall of 2009 Daphne and I decided it would be fun to move. There wasn't anything wrong with our house; we were just ready for a change. 

As first time sellers, we found the "open house" part of selling a home to be a real pain - and a disappointing pain at that. No one came to our first open house - not even the realtor. She "opened" a vacant house and wasn't told she was at the wrong location that weekend. Daphne's three frantic hours of house cleaning had just gone down the drain.

Our second open house didn't fare much better. An elderly couple stood for a minute in our entryway, and liked what they saw, but because they couldn't climb our split-level stairs they left. So, if you include the realtor, that was three more people than last time.

Too bad no one had even seen my secrete weapon. It was the one thing that I was sure would push our place over the top into people's minds as the house to buy. You see, I had faith in the power of 

origami.

I found the "Toilet Paper Origami" book listed on a "Weirdest Books Ever" web page, but I found the topic strangely intriguing. Besides, the idea of us actually prepping our t.p. for an open house really made me laugh.

I didn't tell Daphne when I ordered the book because many nights I'm home first, and I could surprise her by making our toilet roll look (insert fake southern accent here) "fancy".

The day he book arrived I tore open the package, checked the driveway for Daph's car, and then bolted into our master bathroom. I quickly removed the roll (that's step one) and followed the directions to create the "Fan" pattern. Once completed, I carefully replaced the roll (step 10), and left the book by the bathroom sink. I left the room giggling to myself - much like I'm doing right now.

When Daphne finally came home, about 20 minutes later, I was all excited for her to use the bathroom. Yes, I now know how that sounds. For most people hitting the john is usually the first piece of business when you get home from a long day, but not this time. Daphne wanted to talk. She wanted to talk and eat a snack. She wanted to talk, eat a snack, and play with her dog. Then she wanted to talk some more, hug her dog some more, and maybe think about changing her clothes. After 30 minutes I was practically shaking.

Finally I cut her off, "Daphne, I'm sorry, but would you go to the bathroom?"

Understandably, Daphne looked confused and perhaps a bit hurt, "What?"

"The bathroom. Could you please just go to the bathroom?" At this point Daphne's eyes tighten and her brows drop.

"No, it's not..." I'm now realizing how this sounds and I cough up a little laugh, "It's just that I wanted you to..."

Daphne steps back a foot as I flounder forward. "Oh, come on. Just go to the bathroom with me. It will just take a second. You gotta see what I did." Daphne stepped back further and shakes her head. 

This is not coming out right.

"C'mon." I resort to action, leading her out of the kitchen and down the hall to our bedroom. Stopping at the bathroom door,  I swept an arm inside, and presented her with a "big reveal" (insert "ooohs" and  "ahhhs" here):

Despite my bumbling intro, Daphne smiled when she saw the "Fan", and then laughed when I showed her the book and explained that it was for our open houses. 

Daphne knew folding toilet paper was ridiculous, but she also had fun making designs for our three bathrooms.  Since open houses seem like a total waste, we might as well have a little fun with them.  

Unfortunately, none of the other open houses did any better.

Too bad no one stopped by to see how we roll.

A lot happens in 349 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes, and 46 seconds

I swear, you blink, and you miss it. 

Easter 2011 (nine months)

Easter 2012

Pay No Attention to that Boy Behind the Curtain

I grew up singing in the shower. I don't know why I felt so brave standing behind that curtain, but as soon as I stepped under the water I'd let it rip. I wouldn't sing a cappella though. I had to have some cassette "blaring to high heaven" to guide me along. It was usually the same tape over and over - there's comfort in repetition. I bet I sang along with side A of Rick Springfield's "Working Class Dog" tape almost every morning of my 8th grade year.  I don't even know one song on side B.

Although I no longer sing in the shower (I have more consideration for my family), if Charlotte's not sleeping I'll will blast shower music for myself. Again, there's very little variety. Last year my iPod played the Presidents of the United States every morning, and 2011-2012 school year looks to be the "Year of the Black Keys". 

Why the Black Keys? Daphne noticed that Charlotte likes them. When Char was crawling down the hallway one summer morning last year she heard "Tighten Up" coming from our bathroom. She stopped crawling and started bouncing on her diaper in sync with the beat. After several bounces Charlotte switched directions and zipped into our bathroom where she sat on the rug and continued to groove to the song. 

That's my girl.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpaPBCBjSVc&ob=av3e

Let's Just Keep the Talk Small

When we visit the Downtown Farmer's Market we bring our dog Maggie with us, and I'm prepared to answer questions about her. She's large, white, and quick to smile, so dog people often want to know the basics: breed, age, and how much she sheds. Most compliment her demeanor, share a bit about their own dogs, and continue on their way. It's nice.

Little kids often enthusiastically quote "Despicable Me" when they see her: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SNLJDR-XbVY&feature=related. It's cute.

Sometimes the conversations get too personal, though. One woman mentioned that her Great Pyrenees had recently ran away, and she began crying in front of me because she so missed her, " ...p, p, p, puppy..." Another woman told how her Pyrenees was run over by a school bus... in front of her kids no less. Being a teacher without sub plans, she had to grab a shovel and quickly bury the dog behind the barn before going to school covered in "...dirt, dog, and tears..." She also started crying.

I'm not making fun of these ladies, but what do I say to those kind of stories? Especially when I'm trying to enjoy a thick slice of delicious coffee cake? It's uncomfortable.

What's worse is when people stalk your dog. During the first stop they learn her basics, and then ten minutes later they run over saying, "Hi Maggie! Did you want another pet from me?" The third time around they are even more demonstrative, "Oh look! Maggie missed me! Come 'ere you big lover. You love me Maggies don't 'cho? Don't 'cho love me?" Maggie is patient with these people, but when they start hinting that our dog would really prefer to go home with them instead us, we all leave. It's time.

Usually I'm already covered with little bits of cookie crumbs and drips of kabob sauce, so I don't need to get their crazy on me too.

FYI: Maggie got dressed up to wish you a Happy Easter:

I think she could be in a Cadbury Egg commercial:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oamnDsxFLyg

Water Boreding

This is the second year we have taken Charlotte to "Water Baby" swimming lessons in the spring. Classes are once a week, and during the 30 minute lesson, you hold your child in water that comes up to your chest. While singing songs like "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" you help them float on their stomachs and later on their backs. The swimming activities last about 15 minutes. The remaining time is spent playing with toys in the shallow end where the toddlers can walk around and pour water on each other. It's a relaxing way to spend part of your evening, and many parents sign up to repeat the five-week class. We went four times last year, and we're on round two this season.

The only scary part is when you sing "Ring Around the Rosie", and you are encouraged to submerge your child when you get to the "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down" lyric. (It's even more disturbing if you believe the song is a reference to the Black Plague and the burning of dead bodies.) You're told it's really scarier for the parents than the babies, and I think that's true. Last year Char cried some during the "ashes, ashes" dunkings, but this year she smiles, so I can see that the swim lessons are working. 

Actually, "ashes, ashes" used to be the only scary part of water babies. But last night we had an instructor who was new to us, and she didn't follow the above pattern. Not knowing our water baby alumni status, she kept shouting all of her instructions directly at me as if I were deaf. I felt like I was back in wrestling practice.

One water baby goal is to learn the proper hand position of "scooping" the water with cupped hands. We were told to walk in a broad circle with our kids floating on their stomachs. The instructor then spent a minute with each child, grasping their wrists and moving their arms in the appropriate scooping motion. That's a great concept, but there were ten kids in the class, and that meant keeping us circling in a holding pattern for well over ten minutes. I don't know about your child, but mine doesn't want to concentrate on anything for ten minutes straight. She got bored and then frustrated. Twice the instructor caught us moving Char to her back, and twice she shouted directly at me, "On their stomachs, parents! Keep them on their stomachs!" When she spotted Daphne hugging Charlotte in an effort to clam her down, she clapped her hands at me, "Work with me, please! Stomachs!" Grudgingly Daph placed Char back into the proper scooping position. 

I looked over my shoulder to get some support from another parent, but the mom behind us was dutifully dragging her limp and sobbing boy through the water. "He's really tired of holding his head up," was her way of explaining his flow of tears. 

Finally it was our turn for the "scooping". The instructor, her face framed with her long, wet hair, glided towards us with her smiling mouth open and her chin under the pool's surface. I know she was trying to show our daughter how fun it is to blow bubbles, but looking at her approach through Charlotte's eyes - the loud woman with the white teeth was terrifying. I didn't even apologize when our daughter started yelling. I'd yell too if she had grabbed my arms.

At the end of the class we were given a whole five minutes for playtime, and for a treat each baby could go down the slide once, but only once. I didn't want to risk Charlotte wanting to slide twice, so we just left.

I think we'll switch to the Wednesday night class.  

Such is Life

When I discuss literature in my classes I try to suggest interpretations to the material that students might not have considered, but I'll be hard pressed to ever tell a student that their perception of the material is wrong. I don't believe any stories or essays are written for the exclusive purpose of being published in a high school textbook. So, absolute answers to textbook questions do not exist. Nonsensical answers do not count, but almost every well thought out opinion is valid. 

With this in mind, here's "C'est La Mort" by The Civil Wars. I hadn't yet read the lyrics when I first played their CD in my car, and without a working knowledge of the French language I didn't hear a song about a love that lasts to death and then beyond. 

Instead, as I'm  cruising around in a car littered with picture books, sippy cups, and teething rings, I heard a song about a parent making the impossible plea for their child to not grow up and grow away. I actually had to wipe away a few tears.

Funny how parenting affects interpretation, but c'est la vie.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IoCsNZUAN3E

Hoopla

Today I noticed that one of the sophomore girls in my class is wearing large hoop earrings. Inside each hoop, suspended by tiny chains, is the gold word "Juicy".

That reminds me of the road construction crews I worked with my buddy Bob during our college summers. We were just local help who would work the roads while the crew was in our part of the state. As soon as the job was done in our area, the crew would move to another county. And happily our jobs would be done. 

I have a lot of road crew stories. This one's short.

I think Bob and I called the regular crew members "lifers", but each man had his own nickname, usually assigned through job or odd quirk. I.E., the guy who drove the steamroller was "Hot Rod", the guy who wore a shark tooth necklace was "Tooth Fairy, and "Juicy" was the one who stuffed huge wads of tobacco between his cheeks and gum. Part time help didn't merit nicknames. "Rich college kids" like myself were simply hated by the lifers (as if rich kids work really worked on road crews).
Anyway, back to her earrings. I don't know what image that little girl is hoping her Juicy jewelry is projecting, but I bet it's not long streams of blackened spit.
I hated that job.

PS. If you were a college kid on the road crew, and you felt something wet hit your bare back while you were bent over shoveling out a hole, it wasn't rain - it was Juicy spitting on you.

link

One More Time

The second cat we adopted from the local Animal Rescue League had a tail that could bend into seemingly impossible, Dr. Seuss-like shapes. Daphne named him Theo in honor of the children's book author Theodor Seuss Geisel. 

During his first week as a Monson he and Daphne bonded. She was sick, but our other cat Chip was so angry that another feline had joined his ranks, he wasn't going to give her the time of day.  So Daphne went to the back bedroom where the "new" cat was sequestered.
The second she lay down on the spare bed Theo jumped into the crook of her arm, tucked his head under her chin, and purred themselves to sleep. He was quite a comfort, and it was feat he repeated every night afterwards.

Theo's ARL paperwork didn't include a medical history, and during his first veterinary checkup we were informed that he would need medication everyday for the rest of his life. That didn't deter Daphne; she was hooked. For the next eight years he would have to take an oral medication once a day, and further down the road he required two injections of insulin.

Although I administered some of his insulin shots, the bulk of Theo's care fell on Daphne's shoulders. She was the one who kept strict track of his weight, his medicine refills, and his vet visits. Daphne brushed his coat and brushed his teeth. The summer his eardrum broke and Theo decided to stop eating, it was Daphne who sat with him in the bathtub and fed him through a syringe three to four times a day. Each feeding took about an hour, and it was three weeks before he ate on his own. No wonder Theo slept along side her every night. He was her little boy.

And her boy was always sick. Just say "vet", and he would run and hide. The veterinary technicians knew him so well that when one tech, Kim, heard that Theo wasn't doing well she called us on her own time to ask about him. We run into people from the vet's office at the farmer's market, and we chat like old friends. Which I guess we are.

I suppose someone could argue that the money we've spent on our animals' veterinary care could equal the price of a decent used car. But I don't think very many people have a hundred pictures of their used car and their family together:

I'm sure you can see where this email is heading; the use of past tense is a give away. Despite Daphne's best efforts, Theo's cancer and heart disease were beyond her control. Theo stopped eating again, but he continued to gain weight due to the fluid building up inside him.

Last Friday, after school, we took Theo to the vet one more time. It was a one way trip, and we were with him to the end. As my daughter would say, there's one less "kit-ta" in the world. Considering the recent deaths of local children, this is not a tragedy. But it still hurts. That injection may be painless, but it stings for a long time. It's been a week, and Daphne still can't sleep well without her purring buddy.

I've been dreading the subtle changes. The second cat box in the basement will disappear, and the medicine dropper that's been stationed on the ledge of the kitchen sink since 2004 will vanish too. The back of leather chair in the basement won't be dented again, and the closed doors to the storage unit won't rattle in protest. No one is going to trip me while sprinting downstairs to get to fed, and if I leave the door to the deck open for more than 15 seconds I won't have to chase after anyone. There will be less fur on the bed covers, but the bedroom won't feel quite as warm either.

Like the vet bills, I'm not ready to add up all these little removals. There'll be a larger void there than I'd care to admit.