What did we do this weekend?

We spent some time working on our yard and enjoying the new swing-set.

We went to the zoo and pet a tortoise.

We found a really silly excuse to go to IKEA and as we were walking from the car to the store, we happily discussed a question posed by Rachel: “Why do we like IKEA so much?” Her answer was the cookies. My answer was more complicated, but also involved the free sample cookies.

I finished “The Secret Life of Bees” by Sue Kidd.

I listened to Bonnie Raitt while my husband took the kids grocery shopping.

I could not call my mother, Bonnie (no, not Bonnie Raitt), as I usually do, because she is in Austraillia!

After dinner tonight, we took Charlie for a hike in some nearby hills. Dad took this picture as Rachel and I climbed a hill. Rachel’s waving to you. Can you see her? Actually, she thinks she is waving to Dad and Hannah. I’m holding her hand as we climb upward. (Yes, this picture is a bit of a tease, but it’s pretty.)

On the walk back home Hannah stopped to kneel down to touch a large black spot on the ground. As she moved, it took human form and grew bigger than herself. She shook with fright and screamed tightly. I’ve never seen her that scared. I had to pick her up and try to demonstrate what had happened. My daughter was afraid of her own shadow. First time I’ve seen that. Now I know. Shadows are pretty damn scary if you have no idea what they are.

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Since I now know that most of my readers are NOT refined, and that even my refined readers can handle a gritty story, I can tell you about a flashback I had today.

I must have been 6 or 7 years old. I was playing on the couch with one of our gerbils. In an effort to put him back in his cage, I picked him up by the tail, as I was taught, or so I thought. I didn’t grab the tail at a low enough point, however. The tip of the tail came off in my fingers. What was my response to this interesting development? Did I call for my mother and show concern over the gerbil? No. Afraid to tell anyone about it, I stuffed the tip of tail between the couch cushions. Even now, it is the fact that I stuffed the tail in the couch cushion that I remember being the most disturbing thing about that event. The Gerbil was fine. He just had a shorter tail.

We had quite a few pets growing up. This brings back many wonderful memories, but also some that are disturbing. We went through three or four birds in all. Our first parakeet, Emily, was the memorable. She used to eat out of my sister’s mouth and drink out of our fish tank. Yes, she did have food and water in her cage, but we often let her fly around the house. She had a pretty decent life, but ended up drowning in that fishtank when we were out of town and someone was watching her for us. One of our parakeets used to fly down and attack the gerbils everytime we took the lid off the gerbil cage. Her life ended when one of the gerbils bit her neck. I don’t know why we didn’t keep the birds in their cages more often. Perhaps the relative freedom that we gave them was worth it to them. ‘Live free or die?” Is this apt? Or is it more like “Live free AND die?”

Then there are the gerbil stories. We had many gerbils, so you have to put these in perspective. Before we knew enough to leave wood in cage for the gerbils to chew on, the top teeth of one of our first gerbils grew so long that he punctured his own neck. I tend to block memories like this out. Things went smoothly after that, until many years later when someone dropped one of the gerbils on the corner of a bed, and he got a little crazy. I won’t say anymore about that.

We had a beautiful tank of fish until I won a goldfish at my elementary school’s spring fair. We put him in the tank and all the other fish died off, one by one. He lived for years. We never had a good feeling about him though.

When we stopped buying more birds, I started pushng for a cat. The months before my 8th birthday I began praying for nightly for one. I announced to my parents that I was doing this and said, “I just know that God is going to answer my prayers.” I was good, wasn’t I? On my birthday, we drove to a house that must have had about 50 cats. At least that’s the way I remember it. I was told I could choose a kitten. My two sisters were there with me, too. We left with three kittens.

Our cat family grew quickly. My sister’s cat had a litter of kittens within the first year. Yes, we were stupid to let this happen, but watching Samantha give birth to her three kittens was one of the most positive experiences of my childhood. I discovered the first kitten. Cats are supposed to hide away when they are having their kittens, but Samantha came out to get us. She came from the back bedroom toward us, but stopped in the kitchen and seemed to be playing with something black. We were sitting in the dining room at the time. I went over to her to see what it was. It was a wet black kitten. Before she gave birth, we arranged a bed for her hoping she would have her kittens there. When we found her with the first kitten, we put her in it and watched her give birth to two more kittens.

We had so much fun with those kittens. When they got old enough, we had to give two away. We kept the black one, who we named Noir. The big mistake we made was getting our female cats fixed immediately after Samantha gave birth. Sadly, the operation took a lot out of her. She came back after the operation with no interest in her kittens. My cat, Diamond, our only male cat, stepped in. After the other two kittens were placed, he would lie next to Noir (the black kitten) and let him play with his tail as he patiently flipped it up and down.

Then Diamond was hit by a car. We were sad, but Noir was hit the hardest. He stopped eating. We tried hard to get him to eat, but it was as if his will to live was gone. He died in our hands one night. We’re pretty sure it from a broken heart, since he moaned and moaned waiting for Daimond to return.

Our other two cats lived long lives. After college, my sister took them to live with her. Samantha died in her arms many years later at a very old age. By this time, Cheesecake, our neurotic other cat who was very much like a dog, was no longer with my sister. While my sister was working two jobs, Cheesecake found someone who would give her the spoiling she needed. Cheesecake arrived at my sister’s door one morning with a fancy, jeweled collar on. Apparently a neighbor had taken a liking to her. Cheesecake lived between apartments for some time. When it came time for my sister to move, she couldn’t find Cheesecake. Sadly, she had to move without her. We assume she ended her life happily eating out of fancy goblets. At least I like to imagine so. She was a special cat. An absolute character.

I thought this would be a fun post, but it is actually quite tragic now that I think about it. I am actually feeling sad thinking about my cats. I miss taking long walks in the woods with Cheesecake when we went camping. She would follow us for miles, rustling behind the trees as she went. It was like having a dog. I miss my cats waking me up on summer mornings, crunching on large bugs caught on their morning hunts. I miss them purring, even Cheescake’s annoying drooling as she purred and Samantha’s tendency to grab my hand and bite it when she had had enough, trapping my hand with her forearms and kicking it with her backfeet. Can I just say, “OUCH!

I am now allergic to cats, believe it or not. We have ONE pet, a dog, good old Charlie, and I’ve been working hard to make sure we are doing right by her. She’s certainly looking happy lately. I don’t think we can handle much more. We’ll see what happens when Rachel turns eight.

Now tell me some of your childhood pet stories. They don’t have to be sad.

Many of you have been politely encouraging me to start writing more about my kids again. I can’t disagree with you. They give me the best material. All I have to do is watch them and I start writing posts in my head. We’ll just say my writing isn’t as good when I veer off what comes to me naturally.

This last day or so I’ve been debating whether to write about the stories that have been presented to me lately. Some of my readers are so refined. (Those who aren’t are wonderful too, so don’t be offended by the word “some.”) I’ve waited a day to see if any more tasteful kiddy stories inspire me. I have nothing better, so I’m going to jump in with the poop stories.

This doesn’t happen very often, but Hannah pooped in the bathtub last night. I was downstairs loading the dishwasher when I heard the call. Dad, clearly disgusted, told me that I was to take over the kids while he cleaned and sterilized the tub. It was quite an event. I kept trying to keep the kids out of the bathroom, but they kept sneaking by me to run back in and create more chaos in there. Each time, I’d have to usher them out.

During this exciting event, Hannah told her first story. Looking toward the bathroom, she told me, “Eeeeeeeeoooooooh. Dinky wa-wa.” (Translation: Eeeeew. Stinky water; or Eeeeew. I pooped in the bathtub.) A few minutes later, she said, “Eeeeeeeeeeoooooooh. Dada wa-wa.” (Translation: Eeeeeeeeew. Daddy’s cleaning the stinky water.) Rachel and I were seriously entertained by these stories, breaking into peels of laughter everytime she told us something new. This morning she entertained us again by repeating the story. “Eeeeeeooooooh. Dada wa-wa.”

I don’t like Rachel to use the word disgusting a lot for fear of her using it at someone else’s dinner table, so she knows it’s a word she’s only allowed to say about things like poop. This morning she said, “It’s okay if I say that’s disgusting, right?” Yup, I said. She had mom’s approval. Poop in the bathtub qualifies as disgusting.

I wonder if everybody with a baby has their own diaper changing ritual. For example, my sister’s family had a whole song they used to sing to their youngest every time they changed his diaper, with sophisticated lyrics about a boy named Johnny who had a stinky poo-poo.

We’re not quite that sophisticated. With Rachel, I used to hold her high in the air and ask “Is there a stinky in the binky?” (Yes, it makes no sense, but it rhymes.) Then I’d sniff her diaper. (Yes, disgusting really.) If she had pooped, we’d say, “Eeeeeeeew! Stinky in the Binky.” She’d always get a laugh out of that. Quite ridiculous really. You had to be there, okay?

With Hannah, we did that at the beginning, too, and then got lazy. She still remembers, though. Every time I change her she says, “Eeeeeeeeeeeeew. Stinky!” We laugh, of course, and repeat it.

So, the other day I had to run into the bathroom for a quick pee. For safety sake, I had to bring Hannah with me. When I had finished up and was pulling up my shorts, she pointed to my I-wish-it-were-more-private region and said, with a big smile on her face, “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeew. Stinky!”

I so want to say, “Oh. The indignity!” However, I think I had it coming.

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I have two friends that have just started blogs. Please go over and welcome them and give lots of encouragement. I want to bring them in to our little blogging community.

Holly at Peace, Love, and Sanity

Brenda at Working with Kids and Animals

How cute is Hannah these days? So cute that I actually did an image search on the web to find an image of a cute-o-meter. A cute-o-meter is the image that has been in my head lately when I’m looking at her.

Of course, like any mother would think about her child, I’ve always thought Hannah is adorable. She’s a wild one with a sweet-sweet soul. In the last three weeks, however, something has kicked in. She is out-of-this-world cute. She is Not-Mommy-Only cute. Other-People-Notice-Too cute. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that at about 21 months she’s getting…(looking around me and whispering)…easier. (Knocking on wood.) I think we may be getting out of that difficult ones. She understands me when I talk to her now. I’m pretty good at marketing things to talking toddlers, and now I can turn her around a bit on a good day. (I may be eating my words next week.) I remember now that this was a good age for Rachel, too. I did read in a book once upon a time that the terrible twos actually hit at one-and-a-half and two-and-a-half. Two itself is a coasting time. I’m thinking we’re on schedule.

Anyway, the temperature soared above 100 this weekend and our air conditioner decided to go on strike. We’ve been forced to beat the heat the old fashioned way. Fans. Popsicles. Sprinklers. I do live in a humidity free climate, so that helps a bit.

The first night I put a fan in Hannah’s room she must have been scared because she cried when I put her in her crib and didn’t stop. Normally she goes right to sleep. After about 10 minutes (okay maybe it was 5 minutes) I went in to calm her down and rock her to sleep. With Rachel we did this for about two years, but we cut it off with Hannah, so it is a treat to rock her before bed once in a while. For about 15 seconds she rubbed her eyes, closed her eyes and put her thumb in her mouth. Then suddenly she sat up. A goofy, devilish smile spread across her face. I sat back and enjoyed it, noticing the amazing wideness of her grin and cheeks, the whiteness of her teeth, the clearness of her eyes. We’re smiling and talking lovingly to each other and its like we’re goofy in love with each other (which I suppose we are). She’s touching the marks on my arms and my face. I am literally thinking that if this was a movie the scene would break to a picture of cute-o-meter exploding. (Weird, but true.) I’m too busy thinking this to stop her from putting her finger on my eyelid. My eyelid is closed with her finger on it. She says, “Bye Eye!” in her deep, raspy voice.

I never did find an image of a cute-o-meter. Somebody draw me one and I’ll post it here.

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And just as my wild one year old starts to settle down for a time, my four year old (who was my easy one last year) starts trying to assert her autonomy again. Yes, I think we are right on schedule. “I know that already” has evolved into “I know everything.”

An actual conversation between us this afternoon:

“I know that. I know everything.”

“I don’t think you know everything.”

“But Johnny knows everything.”

“I don’t think Johnny knows everything.”

“He thinks he does.”

Yes he does think he knows everything, and so does Rachel. But I have to remember that “everything” to Rachel might mean something very different to her than it means to me. I need to put it into perspective. For example, I get irritated at her competitiveness when I hear her use the words better or best constantly. “I’m the prettiest. I’m the best, right?” But to her everything good is best. She’s got 20 best friends. She’s constantly saying to people, “You’re the best!” and in a note to one of her cousin’s cousins (not her cousin, from the other side of his family) she had me write, “You are the best cousin to Johnny.” The other day when I gently scolded her for calling herself the prettiest, “Just say pretty, not prettiest,” Her answer was: “Hannah can be the prettiest too. We’re all the prettiest.”

Sometimes, ‘better,” “best”, “prettiest”, “first” do have competitive meanings for her. Maybe that’s okay, too. I have so repressed the competitive side of me that I feel uncomfortable playing games sometimes. Do I really need to give her the same complex? I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers.

Sometimes I think disciplining children is like trying to strike a balance that doesn’t exist–you are going to lean too hard or too soft. There is no “just right.” I am constantly on Rachel to “listen,” but from her perspecive why should that make sense? Is it rational that she should suppress her will to please mine? Not to her. And so we struggle. She goes over the line, and so do I. We talk about it afterwords. “It’s hard to be four!” she says wiping tears. Today, for the first time, we discussed WHY it’s important that I’m in charge–and I made some sense to her, I think. But there is that 10% of both of us that is still asking, “Why?”

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I have to add this one. It’s for my husband. Last night Rachel was watching her Dad set up our new swing-set in the yard. We were watching him from the upstairs window. She said, “I wish I knew how to do everything, like Dad.”

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By the way, we’re ALL the prettiest, okay?

When I wrote about my father’s death yesterday, I stopped writing because I wasn’t sure what else to say. There is so much I could say and yet I’m not sure what it is I want to say. Thank you all for your concern. I hope this doesn’t sound heartless, but it actually isn’t a painful time for me. It’s been ten years and in many ways I feel like I haven’t explored my feelings about his death. As I said in a post a while back, I am better at talking about others than about myself. I am also better about talking about inspirng things, than sad things. I like to feel happy. I do feel happy most of the time, as annoying as thta may sound. But I wonder sometimes what it is I am repressing by being such an optimist. So, I wanted to explore my darker feelings about this, but I don’t know where to start without invading the privacy of my mother, who is the one who was hit the hardest.

For me, the hardest part about my father’s death was watching my mother suffer and be in pain for so long. That is where my energy went. A lot of energy. I began to know her better. That was a posiive thing for me. (There I go making a sad story happy again.)

What should I write about today? What is MY part two?

What have I been afraid to write about….to think about? I will put my four year old down for a nap and I will be back.

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I’m back and still not sure what it is I want to say. Why am I here wanting to express something and not knowing what I feel?

I do have feelings. Maybe I am afraid to say them because they are not what people might expect me to feel.

My father was an exceptional man. A very good father. A kind human being. And like anyone interestiing, a complicated person.

We were connected at the heart. We understood each other’s hearts. We would look at each other and know that we were of the same heart.

But of the mind, I’m not so sure. I’m not sure that we understood each other in this sense. Or maybe what I want to say is, I’m not so sure he understood me. Why do I want to write about that? I don’t know. Does it matter to me? It must, but I don’t know. I do feel that he understands me now.

Why am I writing this? And why am I cryng now? Maybe because I would have liked to have the opportunity to have our minds meet, like our hearts did.

And I didn’t know that until right now.

And I think that is maybe all I wanted to understand.

Thank you for listening. There may be more tomorrow. There may not be.

Thank you.

Ten Years ago today, I was talking to my parents on the phone from the midwest. They were in New York City experiencing one of the worst heat waves ever. They called me to talk about the British Open, which was being held in St. Andrews, Scotland that year–a town that my husband and I had lived in for two years. We talked excitedly about trying to make a trip to Scotland together sometime. We talked about the golf tournament. I don’t remember who won that year, but I remember the ending was exciting. We talked about the heat wave and how my parents had opted out of having air conditioning installed in their apartment until their new windows were put in sometime in the next year.

The next morning I got up and did my 35-40 minutes or so on the stairmaster in my tiny graduate student apartment. I got a phone call. It was from my mother. Her voice sounded heavy….dragging, hardly breathing. “Your father died this morning.” I don’t remember wha else was said exactly. He had died in the bathroom after taking a shower. His heart had stopped beating, it was later presumed. My mother found him on the floor in the bathroom. She called 911. They tried to save him, but he was dead. She spent the morning dealing with details that no one in that position should have to deal with in such a moment, and yet cruelly, abdsurdly they all have to. In the matter of hours, or even minutes, they have to make decisions–about funerals, about burials…I can barely stand thinkinig about it.

I got off the phone and made my way to the shower to tell my husband what had happened. I sat on the couch while he got dressed. I traveled outside my body and watched myself. I made arrangements to get on the first flight available.

I will write more tomorrow.

I know there are many James Doohan fans that were in mourning last week. I did not watch Star Trek regularly, so do not have a lot to say about Scottie’s passing other than to offer my condolences. He seemed liked an awfully nice character, if I’m remembering correctly.

I hope his fans won’t be offended that his death has had me thinking about one of my early crushes. When I was about 9 or 10 year old I developed a crush on Captain Kirk. Let me state this a little more concisely. I didn’t watch Star Trek. I had a crush on a doll. My neighbor’s Captain Kirk action figure doll. William Shatner was quite a beautiful sight to behold in those early years and the doll looked just like him.

If you don’t know this already, you should know that I married my first love. Lucky, lucky me to have found my soulmate so early in life.

I’ll have you know, though, that my love life has been very varied and interesting. Even a little quirky.

That got your attention? Yes?

I am talking about my crushes. My heart has been captured by many notable men. There are all the obvious ones. I’m talking about the Hollywood stars. Most of these have fallen out of my graces by now. You know the type: Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, Mel Gibson, the list goes on. They are no longer on MY list. Do I need to explain?

Dig a little deeper, though, and you’ll find a much more interesting story.

I must have been about 8 or 9 when I fell for Mickey Rivers. We were living in New Jersey. It was the middle to late 1970s. The Yankees played the Dodgers in the Wpr;d Series for about three years in a row. I remember rushing home from school to catch the games. Mickey. Well Mickey could run. I don’t know what it was about this, but I watched him run those bases and fell for him hard. He was just so…fast. I think I wrote a fan letter to him. Eventually he was traded to the Angels. I remember trying to follow his career after that, but we eventually drifted apart. I visited his fan website today. He didn’t mention me anywhere on it. How strange.

This next one can’t exactly be put in the crush category. I was too young to see it that way. I must have been about five. One of my favorite uncles took a big group of us cousins to see Snow White in the movie theater. When it was over he asked each of us which our favorite characters was. Everyone else named one of the dwarfs. Who did I like? The prince. I remember this very well. I remember watching the scene when the prince first sings to Snow White. I remember being struck by him but being too young to understand that these feelings might be romantic. My uncle thought my answer was hilarious and for years and years always asked me if I had found my prince yet.

Does anyone remember what year the movie, The Sting, came out? Someone took me to see it when I was a kid and I fell hard for Robert Redford. In fact, I was sure I discovered him. I remember describing to someone the scene where he gets all spiffed up at the barbers and gets a new suit and then flashes this smile. That was the moment. That smile. I remember trying to figure out how old he would be when I was old enough to get married. By the time I was eighteen, I was more of a Paul Newman type. I’m sure Mr. Redford was disgusted with me for making him wait like that for nothing.

And then there was the summer of Tom Smothers. I was about 12 or so. My family and I were staying in an amazing house in Big Sur. The house was owned by some friends of my parents. In their record collection was a Smothers Brothers album. I listened to it over and over until I knew it by heart. I’m pretty sure that I developed a crush on Tom from this album alone, before I saw him on television.

We’re skipping ahead more than a decade later. I’m married and in graduate school, studying for my comps. The A & E channel airs the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth. Sigh. Is it not strange that so many of us fell so hard. I always have had an attraction to the character of Mr. Darcy. And I do like Colin Firth in other films (I could do without those boring Disney movies though). But Colin Firth AS Mr. Darcy. Well, just….(sigh). It wasn’t just the wet shirt scene that did it, it was the way he looked at Lizzie, and the kind smile he flashed occasionally.

The Mr. Darcy crush was probably my most annoying crush, I’m presuming, from my husband’s perspective. I believe that more than once I actually said the words, “Mr. Darcy wouldn’t have done that.” Yikes. Okay, I was a little nostalgic for eighteenth/nineteenth-century manners and civiliy. The ironic thing is Mr. Darcy was supposed to be the one who said all the WRONG things.

These days I really only have one extramarital crush and my husband is 100% supportive. I think I love Jon Stewart. I like his looks, but its the combination of brains, humor, passion, and integrity that makes him very sexy to me.

Looking back on all these crushes, it is hard to find some common denominator. There is something that brings them all together, though. There is a little piece of each of the things that attracted me to these men in my husband. Like Mickey Rivers, my husband has great legs. (He was a soccer player and I sure did see a lot of those legs when he began to turn my head.) He is kind and goofy like Tom Smothers. He’s got Hollywood (or better than Hollywood) looks, like Robert Redford. He’s got the politics of Jon Stewart. As much as I gave him a hard time for not being Darcy, he loves me like Darcy loved Lizzie–he loves my feistiness, though there are times I am sure he could do without this part of me very happily.

Let’s see, who’s left? Captain Kirk? Well perhaps my husband doesn’t have much in common with William Shatner, but that was just a doll, so we’ll say it doesn’t count.

And the prince? Well,I was not there to witness this, but when my uncle (my crazy and at the time very intimidating uncle) met my husbnad for the first time, the first thing he said to him was “So you’re the prince, huh?”

I’ll just say that it was and is so very clear that he is my prince in so many ways.

And in our little castle, there is room for Jon Stewart. We’ll call him a sexy court jester.

There are many things I’ve been itching to write about, but the mood just hasn’t seemed right because I’ve been staring at piles of laundry that need to be put away and at my big red suitcase waiting to be unpacked–its contents slowly making their way across my bedroom floor.

Then there is the matter of the massive featherbed that we have no place for. Right now it’s sitting on my bedroom floor. I moved it upstairs from the playroom/guest room in a swift maneuver to get the house ready for an unexpected playdate. Now where does it go? It takes up an entire closet. It’s a featherbed. It doesn’t smush down to a nice little pile of soft down. It’s big and bulky and has hard goosefeathers in it. Ouch. Is there a way I can put it in the attic without ruining it. My mom likes the darn thing, so we pull it out when she comes. She says it helps her from getting chilled at night. Other uses for the bed? It has been used as a big place for kids jump onto from high places. And, to use the words of my husband (tonight) it sometimes becomes “the biggest dog-bed in the world.” (Yes Charlie has been VERY happy lately, but that’s a whole other post.)

Still, I’m very attached to this bulky, prickly, queen-sized featherbed. Why? Maybe it’s because it brings memories of buying it excitedly from LLBean with my husband when we had very little money and lived in a colder climate. What a luxury it was. Or maybe it’s because I used to play the guitar and sing “Grandma’s Feather Bed” when I was 11 years old.

How does it go? Everybody now….

When I was a little bitty boy, just up off the floor
We used to go down to Grandma’s house every month-end or so
We’d chicken pie and country ham, homemade butter on the bread
But the best darn thing about Grandma’s house was her great big feather bed

/ D G D A7 / D G A7 D / :

{Refrain}
It was nine feet high and six feet wide, soft as a downy chick
It was made from the feathers of forty-’leven geese
Took a whole bolt of cloth for the tick
It’d hold eight kids, four hound dogs and a piggy we stole from the shed
We didn’t get much sleep but we had a lot of fun on Grandma’s feather bed

/ D - G D / - - / E7 A7 / D - G D / - G A7 D /

After supper we’d sit around the fire, the old folks’d spit and chew
Pa would talk about the farm and the war and my Granny’d sing a ballad or two
I’d sit and listen and watch the fire ’till the cobwebs filled my head
Next thing I know I’d wake up in the morning in the middle of the old feather bed

{Refrain}

Well I love my Ma, I love my Pa, love Gran’ and Grandpa too
Been fishing with my uncle, I rassled with my cousin
I even kissed Aunt Lou
But if ever had to make a choice, I guess it ought to be said
That I’d trade them all plus the gal down the road for Grandma’s feather bed

{Refrain}

Yes, while you were all going to Madonna concerts, i was singing John Denver tunes and memorizing musicals. Well, actually, if you were going to Madonna concerts you are probably a few years younger than me now that I think about it. Just a few, though.

Do you still like me? I wish I could say I was that wispy lady in this LLBean photo, but I’m not.

Written instructions for a plastic toy microphone that we own:

“The Plays with it in the Following Ways”: It Does Not Use Battery, It is operated with Echo. A Super-light megaphone with a lot of enjoyments. Such “Echo Mic” needs not to use the power source which the real megaphone requires, not it uses loud speaker and amplifier etc. With it, we can easily have good time with interesting megaphone with echo.

“We can play with its echo.” One’s mouth makes close to its main body for speaking loudly or singing songs. The skill for one is to speak loudly and then the better echo we can have.

“It can be good for achieving good effect of voice.” Except that it is used as megaphone, shake the main body lightly and you can get the magic voice to meet the occasional use.

Yes, the girl is cute, but she’s not one of mine. Someone else’s from an Ad.

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Blogger finally sent me a fix for my template that works. Yay! Tell me if it still looks funny in your browser.

I’m finally home. Blogger has eaten two of my posts. I give up. I’ll be back when my jet lag is manageable and blogger is being nice.

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Okay, let me try one more time. We’ve been home a little less than 24 hours. I went to bed at 9:00 last night and woke up at about 5:50 (was woken up twice during that time since the kids are still on EST).

It was emotional to let go of my east coast experience–much more than I ever would have imagined. Being there was hard work. There were weeks when I was functioning as a single mom–working long days and coming home to put the kids to bed by myself and then do my “homework” for the next day. I missed my husband. The kids missed their Dad. On the other hand, we all thrived. The challenge was good for me. “Life changing” sounds too dramatic, but I think it WAS in a quiet sense life changing. Time will tell. I have been in a bubble here for several years, and I feel reconnected to the adventerous person that I was before children. And maybe I can be a historian again, on my own terms this time. I’ve been inspired to start writing again, on that front. I’ve got new friends encouraging me to “stay the course” and finish my book.

And my kids–why they’ve grown miles, too. Hannah is talking–not “kinda” talking, but putting three word sentences together with words that actually somewhat resemble the intended words. She’s a real kid. Rachel misses her cousins already, but we’re already getting phone calls for playdates, and that should fill the void a sliver or two.

It sure feels good to be back in my own bed, with my wonderful husband, and in a house that is child-proofed.

We will ALWAYS remember our 2005 summer adventure. At least Rachel, Dad and I will. If Hannah doesn’t, we’ve got lots of pictures to show her. The joy on her face will tell the story.

I went in to kiss my daughter tonight after having a few sips of beer. She said, “Mom, your breath smells like soda!”

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Last week, the lovely Michele wrote a post after drinking a bit too much wine. It was a very charming post, and incidentally the only post I’ve read from her with typographical errors. She asked us if we had ever written a post under the influence.

My answer was no. If I were to do such a thing, here is what would happen.

Act One:

Scene 1: Raehan is working on her second glass of wine. Begins writing post. Writes: “You are all so wonderful. I really love blogging, don’t you? Isn’t it so wonderful that we can write and read? It’s just so wonderful…Blah-blah…Isn’t it great?….blah blah…Everything is great….blah-blah…I love your shoes….boring happy talk ” Raehan walks out of the room to pour herself another glass of wine.

Scene 2: Raehan sits back down. Her shoes are off. She sits Indian style on the sofa. Writes: “….too much personal information…too much personal information……gossip……venting……….too much personal information…..boring life-goals……stupid jokes………childhood memories…….goofy, goofy…….plain old weird.” (Wanders off looking for some chocolate and single malt whisky)

Scene 3: Raehan looks for a place to lie down. YOU are all in her way. Lies down, shoving you all aside. Don’t you dare try to talk to her. She’s sleeping and will bite your head off if you try to disturb her.

The truth is, these days I’m toast after two good glasses of wine. I usually have only two or three hours before Scene 3 starts. One glass of wine is about all I can handle.

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I know I’ve been bad at commenting on your sites these past weeks but next week I’ll be home again and back to my old routine.

In my humble (not) imagination I had visions of my dog pining away for me while I’ve been gone. Instead, she’s been hiking in the hills, reliving her glory days. You know, those days when I used to be the one taking her up there.

We hired a dog walker while I’m gone and my husband took her out this weekend.
( I just re-read this line. My husband took the DOG out for a hike, not the dogwalker. Got it?)

Look at that smile!

I’m going to get very fit trying to keep that smile on her face when I get home.

As some of you know already, my one and a half year old, Hannah, is a handful. Her uncle, who has a soft spot for her, has named her “Hannahful.” She’s sweet as anything, but physically strong, fast and determined. She’s a climber. She’s a runner. She’s an explorer–a pull-off-the-shelfer, a turn upside-downer.

She’s also a cuddler and a thumbsucker. About thirty times a day she takes time out for a cuddle with me. Sometimes only for 10 seconds at a time. The other day, though, we rocked together in the glider for a good long time. I started singing to her, while she sucked her thumb and rubbed the corner of her blanket under her eye. Then I started just singing “doo-doo-doo” to the melody. I didn’t think she was lisenting.

And then I stopped singing. After a few seconds she sat up and said “I uh Doo-doo.” (I want doo-doo) So, I continued singing “doo-doo-doo-doo” as she sat back content again. A minute went by and she started singing along with me. “Doo-doo-doo-doo.”

Now just humor me and say, “Awwwwwwwwwwwww.”

What I learned this Summer (mid-term report)

1. That my children can be just as happy (or happier?) in a 800 sq. foot house two doors down from cousins, than in a 2700 sq. foot house thousands of miles away from them.

2. That (gulp) my children sometimes have more fun when I’m not there.

3. That even though I don’t have an institution to my name, or anything of interest to report about my non-existent career, I can hold my own among those with more impressive credentials (unless my kids come down with a stomach flu, and then I’m toast).

4. That it will be a long, long time before I work full-time. I get a nervous twitch when its been 8 hours since I’ve seen my kids.

5. That I love feeling like a historian again, even if it is for a brief time.

6. That touring museums for hours without children is glorious.

7. That I hate coming home and not knowing what my kids’ day was like. It totally sucks.

8. That I should learn how to disable the screensaver pictures of my daughter’s birthday party BEFORE giving a power-point presentation.

9. That my husband keeps me calm. (Well, I already knew that, but his absence made me remember.)

10. That I still don’t know where I will find my balance, or if such a thing is even possible.

11. That I am truly blessed to have had this opportunity and that when I am home again with my kids full-time, I will be truly blessed to have that opporunity. (Okay, I knew that last part already)

12. That it’s fun to meet blogger buddies!!

13. That I will be ready to go home at the end of next week.

I am nearly in tears thinking about all of my blog friends in London. My heart is sick. Please let me know that you are well.

I am bone tired today. A long day away from home and then putting the girls to bed. Please tell me to go to bed early tonight

Happy Birthday, my country. I am glad I was born to you.

I love my country, the United States of America. That does not mean I believe I should stand behind the leadership of this country unquestioningly. I generally keep politics off this blog, but I don’t think it is a secret that it hurts me to see the direction our current leadership is taking this country. If I didn’t love this country, it wouldn’t hurt me so. If I didn’t love my country, I wouldn’t feel a responsibility to safeguard its core values.

I know there are many who support the leadership of country. They love this country, too. They also are trying to protect what they see as its core values.

When I blow the candles out of the 4th of July birthday cake that we bought today (the one with the big American flag and the American flag/Peace sign rings), I will make a wish. A wish that the people holding divergent visions for our country can, at the very least, understand each other a bit better, and be a little kinder to each other.

And I will say a prayer that those fighting in Iraq, on all sides, arrive home safely to their familes one day. I do not oppose all wars, but I oppose this war, for reasons that I will not go into here.

I support our troops, who are bravely serving this country. And I feel for all those in pain because of this war. God bless this country, and this world.

God loves us ALL.

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Drawing compliments of Disaster Connection Kids to Kids