I can't wait for school to start. Not for us - I'm not ready yet - but for them, the neighborhood kids.
We're operating on vacation time here, still. Bill starts orientation next week, but this week all he had to do is pick up his school books. And he did. He was gone about 15 minutes this morning. Checked the block, and he's done for the week. It's a rough existence, I tell you.
School - for him, for the public schools, and for us - begins the week after next. In the meantime, I have this dreamy idea of what suburban, vacation living should be like: We get up whenever. Eventually, we get dressed. The kids go outside to play. They join other kids in the big communal area past our yard. They come home for Kool-Aid and crackers and grapes and apple slices. They take a break for lunch, then repeat until dinner time.
On Saturday morning around 830 am, Fritz went into the backyard by himself. Almost immediately, he was joined by our 7 year old neighbor. This would have been fine, except I was still in my pajamas, hadn't eaten breakfast, and now suddenly everybody wants to go out and play even though nobody is dressed and nobody has eaten breakfast. Thus ended my leisurely morning.
On Sunday, we were barely in the door from Mass when the doorbell started ringing with kids asking if the boys could come out. And I'm not sure when some of these kids actually eat lunch or dinner, since no matter what time we do, there is always someone who comes calling then. In fact, today, around noon, a little boy would have actually walked in through my kitchen door if I hadn't locked it to keep Peter in. I knew he was there only because the dog grunted in that general direction and I bothered to check. I really can't have strange kids just walking in this house: the territorial dog is one concern, and just my own privacy and sense of personal space is another.
Last week, Bill laid down the law: no more going out to play after dinner time. Bedtime was getting more and more hectic and happening at a later and later hour. This wouldn't be such a big deal for my older ones, but my little ones really need their sleep. Bedtime prayers are a family event. The older ones may stay up past them, but I can't have them running around the neighborhood until 9 pm.
This past weekend, I insisted that the children begin coming in for one full hour for lunch. Otherwise, the meal was more of a snack on the run. We'd find half eaten sandwiches and half drunk glasses of water and milk on the table as my children dash back out in favor of the next game or playmate. My kids can run on fumes all day long, but I can't allow that (although I wish I could emulate it).
I've also had to insist that of all the hours in the day left for playing with friends (they have seven hours of free time between breakfast and lunch and lunch and dinner) that only three of them in total may be spent inside someone else's house. On hot afternoons, I really don't mind if the kids retreat indoors. However, at two of the three houses where they are permitted inside, the main form of entertainment is video games. They just don't need to fill those seven hours with that.
Besides, I don't necessarily want to host other children all day long every day, and I assume other moms feel the same way. There's a politeness factor here: how long do you hang out when paying a social call, especially when it's someone you see all the time? I know this concept is lost on children...and I suspect it may be lost on many adults, too. Yes, having other children over generally keeps your own children occupied allowing you to actually get some work done. It's great...until the children decide to exclude the two year old, who lets everyone know just exactly how displeased he is with that. Or until it hits those too-late-for-snack-too-early-for-dinner times, and they start clamoring for food. Or until your children decide this is a good opportunity to test your parenting tenacity and begin hounding you for every single off-limit or special treat activity they can imagine or, worse yet, flat-out ignore your reminders of house rules.
Another point of courtesy: I don't want my kids ringing doorbells, in general. I figure if the neighbors want to play outside, they'll play outside, and I tell my kids to go out there and see who shows up. Maybe they are inside because they have chores, or family time or their mother is still in her pajamas and hasn't eaten breakfast yet. Or maybe they are inside because their mother won't let them knock on other people's doors, and they haven't overcome morning inertia and gone outside themselves yet.
Or maybe I'm just a grumpy, anti-social type who really needs to settle down in rural America where the nearest neighbor is at least a half-mile away. Then it wouldn't matter when school started for the local kids; we'd never have a ringing doorbell...and my kids would moan about being bored, and that would be just awful, right? Hmmm...I think the Army needs to figure out a way to have everyone telecommute...let's not go to war, but say we did, huh? Works for me.
So, what about you? Do you have kids constantly coming to your door, waking the baby from his nap? Do your kids roam the neighborhood freely for hours on end coming home only for meals? Are they hanging out at friends' houses indulging in banned activities like all-day TV and video games? How do you squeeze in family time and family meals in an environment where nobody else seems to be doing that? Is seven hours of free time sufficient or is it obscene? Should I just forgo all playtime with the neighbors and put my kids to work as productive members of my domestic society?
Monday, July 30, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Healthy eating
Just another good reason to be a stay-at-home mom: working mothers have obese children (H/T: Kat) But according to this British study, the more money you have, the more likely it is that your child will be overweight. I'm not sure that this is the case in the United States, but maybe because, in my small-world view, the more money you have, the more likely the mom is to stay-at-home, at least during the pre-school years.
When Fritz was a baby, I worked from home two days and in the office three days. My hours in the office were shorter: 8 am to 3 pm, if I recall correctly. Up until he was about 15 months old, I held absolute control over everything he ate. But that was a bit of a pain, and I thought perhaps he needed exposure to a wider variety of food, so I decided to let the daycare feed him their USDA approved lunch three days a week. And he did.
But suddenly, at home, frozen vegetables were disdained in favor of the softer, saltier canned type. Natural peanut butter (back in the days when you only had to wait until a child was a year old to give them it) would no longer be tolerated, but the sugar-laden stuff was gobbled up. He liked Chef-Boy-R-Dee. What a mistake I made.
The trouble with first-born children is that they are guinea pigs and at the mercy of a new mother's inexperience.
The study mentions quickie meals (unhealthy, high-fat) which working mothers often resort to - yup, I did that. The study mentions that caretakers may not ensure proper exercise for the kids or that children may be left to their own devises (meaning TV or video games). The daycare Fritz was in had no TV for the infant room and limited TV for the toddler (over 18 months old) room (he was out of there when he was 20 months old). They did have time outdoors every day (unless it was really bad weather), but I doubt there was as much physical activity as my kids experience here.
I just don't see any institutional program permitting a dozen boys to engage in light-sabre battles all afternoon long. Somebody might put their eye out.
Recently, sitting in the ER waiting room, I glanced through a baby magazine. There was an article on feeding your child solid food. There were some pretty alarming statistics about what kinds of foods babies, toddlers and pre-schoolers do and don't eat, and numbers on how many school-aged children are overweight. We just don't have these problems in this house, in part due to genetics and in part due to lifestyle. Unfortunately, these magazine articles usually only re-hash the current guidelines set out by pediatricians and don't give too much truly practical advice. It took me three kids to learn that if I wanted my kids to eat the family meal, then I had to feed the kids the family meal, even if I cooked it a bit longer or used a baby mill to make it digestible. Peter and Jenny are my best eaters, and neither had a single jar of baby food. We're still working on the others.
The bottom line is that the healthiest kids are going to eat wholesome, home-cooked meals from the time they start solids. The more a family opts for shortcuts (from jarred food to Hamburger Helper to frozen pizza) or lets someone else do the cooking (from daycare workers to cafeteria dining to restaurant fare), the more likely it is that the family will be eating unhealthily.
When Fritz was a baby, I worked from home two days and in the office three days. My hours in the office were shorter: 8 am to 3 pm, if I recall correctly. Up until he was about 15 months old, I held absolute control over everything he ate. But that was a bit of a pain, and I thought perhaps he needed exposure to a wider variety of food, so I decided to let the daycare feed him their USDA approved lunch three days a week. And he did.
But suddenly, at home, frozen vegetables were disdained in favor of the softer, saltier canned type. Natural peanut butter (back in the days when you only had to wait until a child was a year old to give them it) would no longer be tolerated, but the sugar-laden stuff was gobbled up. He liked Chef-Boy-R-Dee. What a mistake I made.
The trouble with first-born children is that they are guinea pigs and at the mercy of a new mother's inexperience.
The study mentions quickie meals (unhealthy, high-fat) which working mothers often resort to - yup, I did that. The study mentions that caretakers may not ensure proper exercise for the kids or that children may be left to their own devises (meaning TV or video games). The daycare Fritz was in had no TV for the infant room and limited TV for the toddler (over 18 months old) room (he was out of there when he was 20 months old). They did have time outdoors every day (unless it was really bad weather), but I doubt there was as much physical activity as my kids experience here.
I just don't see any institutional program permitting a dozen boys to engage in light-sabre battles all afternoon long. Somebody might put their eye out.
Recently, sitting in the ER waiting room, I glanced through a baby magazine. There was an article on feeding your child solid food. There were some pretty alarming statistics about what kinds of foods babies, toddlers and pre-schoolers do and don't eat, and numbers on how many school-aged children are overweight. We just don't have these problems in this house, in part due to genetics and in part due to lifestyle. Unfortunately, these magazine articles usually only re-hash the current guidelines set out by pediatricians and don't give too much truly practical advice. It took me three kids to learn that if I wanted my kids to eat the family meal, then I had to feed the kids the family meal, even if I cooked it a bit longer or used a baby mill to make it digestible. Peter and Jenny are my best eaters, and neither had a single jar of baby food. We're still working on the others.
The bottom line is that the healthiest kids are going to eat wholesome, home-cooked meals from the time they start solids. The more a family opts for shortcuts (from jarred food to Hamburger Helper to frozen pizza) or lets someone else do the cooking (from daycare workers to cafeteria dining to restaurant fare), the more likely it is that the family will be eating unhealthily.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Where charity and love prevail...and where they don't
It was HOT yesterday after lunch. Pete was napping, I was napping, and the older kids were enjoying a mom-mandated hour of watching TV in the cool A/C. And my husband was laboring hard in our full-sun backyard to reconstruct the kids' swing set.
Unfortunately, I had been the one to go to Home Depot to buy some replacement hardware for this contraption, and I didn't realize that two key bolts I pulled from the appropriate bin were misplaced there and were too big in diameter. Bill had warned me that sometimes the wrong lengths get put in the bins, so I had checked for that. I should have realized that the wrong diameters would be in there as well.
Also, unfortunately, I had been the one to go to Home Depot to buy some replacement hardware, because the hardware aisle was just past the section where they displayed their outdoor "end-of-season" furniture including a gazebo swing for nearly half off. And I had a coupon for another 10% off, making this swing for my unbearably hot full-sun backyard too good of a deal to pass up.
Since the kids' swing set was at a standstill (lacking those bolts), and since his exhausted wife was snoozing, my hardworking guy unloaded my swing from the car and began assembling the needed tools. At this point I was up from my nap and asked him if he wanted to go get the right bolts so he could finish the swing set, but he figured he might as well do my swing which would be faster, and then go to Home Depot later, maybe after dinner. I offered to help, and we set to work in the blazing hot, full-sun backyard.
I was feeling badly that I wasn't much help. I was moving as slowly as, well, a pregnant woman in late July, and doing much more of the stand-here-and-hold-this than the run-there-and-fetch-that. So my husband, who had been laboring hard in the hot, full-sun backyard and had not rested for a half hour on a soft bed in an air conditioned house, continued to do all the hard stuff, all for my benefit, since it was my gazebo swing he was assembling.
We had completed the frame, and he was doing a last tightening of the bolts, and I was covering all the exposed hardware with little plastic covers. I turned from gathering some bolt covers to see him down on his knees with his hands to his forehead. The bolts he was tightening were overhead, and his ratchet had slipped and fallen right between his eyes. Later he told me he had actually seen stars. All I know is that he pulled his gloved hand away from his head just a bit and a huge drop of very red blood landed on the patio. I ran in for a cool, damp cloth, and then sat him down in a chair in the tiniest bit of shade.
The cut was big and ugly and bleeding profusely, as head wounds are apt to do. I called the health center on post, and found out they can do stitches (good to know for the future), but it was late afternoon and they had no appointments. So it was off to the emergency room. A family trip - woohoo!
It didn't take long, really. We were there about an hour altogether, and he only needed to have his head crazy glued together, which is good. The kids were impatient, but not badly behaved. Billy wanted to look at a Newsweek magazine, and we let him. Nice photos of blown up Army Hummers...you know, just what I want my kid seeing. I can't help but want to shelter them from the hard realities of life, especially when those realities might be very personal for them. I'd rather they learn about genocide in Ruwanda than soldiers dying.
And right there in the emergency room waiting area, they were able to witness other hard realities of life. Another family came in. I guessed it was a sick woman, her five children, and her mother who drove her and was now assuming responsibility for the kids while she sought medical help for fever and chills. They were from the "high-rent district" as my husband sarcastically called it. Afterward Fritz remarked that the grandmother's voice was different than most women he knew. I explained that her voice was likely deep and gravelly because of years of smoking. She was also loud...and mean. The kids noticed it, and I couldn't protect them from what they saw any more than I could protect the little boy, about their age, who seemed to be the target of the bulk of her nastiness.
I really didn't understand it. The two older kids, a girl and a boy, looked to be in the 12 to 15 year range. Surely the older girl could have babysat the other ones, I thought. The grandmother told someone on her cell phone that she was stuck with the kids and had to try to keep from killing them...a phrase I sometimes use, too, but usually with a tone of frustration, not loathing. At one point she had four of the kids around her, but the one little boy had been banished to a seat a bit apart. She was handing out a snack, and the little boy, excluded from the group, began to cry. She called him a "crybaby," permitted him over, gave him a handful, and then sent him back to his corner. She then began to dote over his little sister, about 4 years old, asking for kisses for more treats. What really broke my heart was the look on the older kids' faces: completely undisturbed by her treatment of the boy. The oldest girl smiled and played with the littlest girl and seemed quite as ease with the whole situation: not just a numb acceptance of abuse, but almost an approval.
And so the cycle goes.
Soon, we left, and my kids were free to tell me what they thought. I guess they got a lesson in empathy. They couldn't believe that any grown-up, certainly not a grandmother (grandmothers being even more loving than mothers, in their personal experience), would talk to kids like that. All of my rules about talking to others, including the golden rule of not calling people "stupid," seemed to have been broken by this woman. Why? they wanted to know. Why did she treat them like that? The best answer I could give was that she didn't know any better. She never learned that it's not okay.
We had drive-through for dinner, because it was past that time. And then we went to Home Depot, and I got the right bolts (and nothing else). At home, we managed to finish the swing before bedtime. Now, I have a comfortable, shaded spot where I can hold my little ones close and tell them how much I love them. And where my husband can sit and drink a cold beer when he needs a break from working on whatever other projects his wife devises as she wanders through Home Depot.
Unfortunately, I had been the one to go to Home Depot to buy some replacement hardware for this contraption, and I didn't realize that two key bolts I pulled from the appropriate bin were misplaced there and were too big in diameter. Bill had warned me that sometimes the wrong lengths get put in the bins, so I had checked for that. I should have realized that the wrong diameters would be in there as well.
Also, unfortunately, I had been the one to go to Home Depot to buy some replacement hardware, because the hardware aisle was just past the section where they displayed their outdoor "end-of-season" furniture including a gazebo swing for nearly half off. And I had a coupon for another 10% off, making this swing for my unbearably hot full-sun backyard too good of a deal to pass up.
Since the kids' swing set was at a standstill (lacking those bolts), and since his exhausted wife was snoozing, my hardworking guy unloaded my swing from the car and began assembling the needed tools. At this point I was up from my nap and asked him if he wanted to go get the right bolts so he could finish the swing set, but he figured he might as well do my swing which would be faster, and then go to Home Depot later, maybe after dinner. I offered to help, and we set to work in the blazing hot, full-sun backyard.
I was feeling badly that I wasn't much help. I was moving as slowly as, well, a pregnant woman in late July, and doing much more of the stand-here-and-hold-this than the run-there-and-fetch-that. So my husband, who had been laboring hard in the hot, full-sun backyard and had not rested for a half hour on a soft bed in an air conditioned house, continued to do all the hard stuff, all for my benefit, since it was my gazebo swing he was assembling.
We had completed the frame, and he was doing a last tightening of the bolts, and I was covering all the exposed hardware with little plastic covers. I turned from gathering some bolt covers to see him down on his knees with his hands to his forehead. The bolts he was tightening were overhead, and his ratchet had slipped and fallen right between his eyes. Later he told me he had actually seen stars. All I know is that he pulled his gloved hand away from his head just a bit and a huge drop of very red blood landed on the patio. I ran in for a cool, damp cloth, and then sat him down in a chair in the tiniest bit of shade.
The cut was big and ugly and bleeding profusely, as head wounds are apt to do. I called the health center on post, and found out they can do stitches (good to know for the future), but it was late afternoon and they had no appointments. So it was off to the emergency room. A family trip - woohoo!
It didn't take long, really. We were there about an hour altogether, and he only needed to have his head crazy glued together, which is good. The kids were impatient, but not badly behaved. Billy wanted to look at a Newsweek magazine, and we let him. Nice photos of blown up Army Hummers...you know, just what I want my kid seeing. I can't help but want to shelter them from the hard realities of life, especially when those realities might be very personal for them. I'd rather they learn about genocide in Ruwanda than soldiers dying.
And right there in the emergency room waiting area, they were able to witness other hard realities of life. Another family came in. I guessed it was a sick woman, her five children, and her mother who drove her and was now assuming responsibility for the kids while she sought medical help for fever and chills. They were from the "high-rent district" as my husband sarcastically called it. Afterward Fritz remarked that the grandmother's voice was different than most women he knew. I explained that her voice was likely deep and gravelly because of years of smoking. She was also loud...and mean. The kids noticed it, and I couldn't protect them from what they saw any more than I could protect the little boy, about their age, who seemed to be the target of the bulk of her nastiness.
I really didn't understand it. The two older kids, a girl and a boy, looked to be in the 12 to 15 year range. Surely the older girl could have babysat the other ones, I thought. The grandmother told someone on her cell phone that she was stuck with the kids and had to try to keep from killing them...a phrase I sometimes use, too, but usually with a tone of frustration, not loathing. At one point she had four of the kids around her, but the one little boy had been banished to a seat a bit apart. She was handing out a snack, and the little boy, excluded from the group, began to cry. She called him a "crybaby," permitted him over, gave him a handful, and then sent him back to his corner. She then began to dote over his little sister, about 4 years old, asking for kisses for more treats. What really broke my heart was the look on the older kids' faces: completely undisturbed by her treatment of the boy. The oldest girl smiled and played with the littlest girl and seemed quite as ease with the whole situation: not just a numb acceptance of abuse, but almost an approval.
And so the cycle goes.
Soon, we left, and my kids were free to tell me what they thought. I guess they got a lesson in empathy. They couldn't believe that any grown-up, certainly not a grandmother (grandmothers being even more loving than mothers, in their personal experience), would talk to kids like that. All of my rules about talking to others, including the golden rule of not calling people "stupid," seemed to have been broken by this woman. Why? they wanted to know. Why did she treat them like that? The best answer I could give was that she didn't know any better. She never learned that it's not okay.
We had drive-through for dinner, because it was past that time. And then we went to Home Depot, and I got the right bolts (and nothing else). At home, we managed to finish the swing before bedtime. Now, I have a comfortable, shaded spot where I can hold my little ones close and tell them how much I love them. And where my husband can sit and drink a cold beer when he needs a break from working on whatever other projects his wife devises as she wanders through Home Depot.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
I met my new midwife yesterday
She came to my house. Yes, that's how she operates: house calls. And let me tell you, I love it. We sat in the living room. We talked. She got herself up to date on my pregnancy. She gave me some organic pregnancy tea. She had me lie back on the couch and then we all - all, except for Jenny who wanted to be outside and Bill who had to chase her down - listened to the baby's heartbeat. She palpated my womb and explained to the kids that she could feel the baby's leg, the baby's back, the baby's head.
They were absolutely fascinated. I forget that for all my pregnancies where I would go by myself to the doctor or midwife that they wouldn't get to do this. Not only was it educational for them, I could see their eyes light up as this woman made the baby's life very real to them. They were able to do some of the pre-birth bonding that I take for granted, since I do it every time, like right now, that I feel the little squirms and kicks of this child.
So, that was great. But then she even drew my blood right there at the dining room table (with two of my kids covering their ears as they watched?) and administer a shot of RhoGAM I needed. If I could only find a family practitioner who made house calls...this was just simply my best experience at a medical appointment.
We went over her list of dos and don'ts - no TUMS for heartburn because she's noticed calcification on placentas (fortunately, I'm not having that problem this time), eat lots of protein, try eating more bananas since I'm starting to get leg cramps at night. We talked about a birth plan - five prior labors and deliveries and never once a serious discussion about a birth plan, initiated by the caregiver. We talked about the three hospitals she can use, and her preferred one, which is an hour away.
And we talked about home birth. Surprisingly, Bill is pretty open to that whole idea. My mom, though, seems a bit skeptical, thinking possibly that they are overrated having had one herself. Of course my mom's home birth was the kind of home birth that nobody would ever want: three sleeping children, husband hundreds of miles from home, family only maybe 15 or 20 minutes away, but too far away to get there before the baby did. No, I wouldn't want to deliver my own child, if that's what a home birth meant.
I'm on the fence about the whole thing. I'll pre-register at the hospital, but I'm keeping an open mind on delivering at home. And if a home birth is to a hospital birth as a house call is to going to the doctor's office, I'm already sold.
They were absolutely fascinated. I forget that for all my pregnancies where I would go by myself to the doctor or midwife that they wouldn't get to do this. Not only was it educational for them, I could see their eyes light up as this woman made the baby's life very real to them. They were able to do some of the pre-birth bonding that I take for granted, since I do it every time, like right now, that I feel the little squirms and kicks of this child.
So, that was great. But then she even drew my blood right there at the dining room table (with two of my kids covering their ears as they watched?) and administer a shot of RhoGAM I needed. If I could only find a family practitioner who made house calls...this was just simply my best experience at a medical appointment.
We went over her list of dos and don'ts - no TUMS for heartburn because she's noticed calcification on placentas (fortunately, I'm not having that problem this time), eat lots of protein, try eating more bananas since I'm starting to get leg cramps at night. We talked about a birth plan - five prior labors and deliveries and never once a serious discussion about a birth plan, initiated by the caregiver. We talked about the three hospitals she can use, and her preferred one, which is an hour away.
And we talked about home birth. Surprisingly, Bill is pretty open to that whole idea. My mom, though, seems a bit skeptical, thinking possibly that they are overrated having had one herself. Of course my mom's home birth was the kind of home birth that nobody would ever want: three sleeping children, husband hundreds of miles from home, family only maybe 15 or 20 minutes away, but too far away to get there before the baby did. No, I wouldn't want to deliver my own child, if that's what a home birth meant.
I'm on the fence about the whole thing. I'll pre-register at the hospital, but I'm keeping an open mind on delivering at home. And if a home birth is to a hospital birth as a house call is to going to the doctor's office, I'm already sold.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Unpacked
I talked to a good friend last night. I last saw her in June at her new house. She had been there for three months and was still slowly unpacking boxes, one at a time, putting things exactly where she thought she'd want them to be for the next decade of her anticipated residency there. It made perfect sense to me, but later I thought about it and realized that I had no such luxury. If it took me 3 months or longer to unpack, I would never have a chance to enjoy that "settled in" feeling before I needed to start weeding out accumulated stuff and getting ready for the next move.
Two weeks ago today, the truck pulled up and delivered our stuff. Two days ago, Bill hung the last curtain, and we hauled the last of the boxes from the main living areas. We're not "done" - the swing set needs to be assembled, the basement room I've decided to use for school is a huge mess, and I need to set up a playroom in the basement as soon as the foam padding I ordered gets here (tomorrow). There are some boxes in my closet that I need to sort, and there is some furniture that I want to paint, but now we're dealing with the usual, never-ending list of things that I want to do...sometime...before I die. I don't think anyone is ever "done" - perhaps in between projects, but never "done."
Yesterday, Bill put on his uniform for the first time in five weeks. He signed up for an in-processing slot, tried to touch base with a few contacts and came home. Rough first day back at work, huh? He headed out a bit ago to go to his in-processing appointment, and will be home by lunch time, and he just may be done at that point. In-processing is expected to take up to two whole days, but he's already done a number of the things covered: get our cars registered on post, get the dog in the on-post vet's system, transfer all our health insurance information to this different regional system. Once he's done with all of that, he'll be free to do whatever he wants (within the local area) until August 7th when he needs to pick up his school books.
I'm enjoying every minute of his time off work, but I think he's ready to get back to a normal routine. I think perhaps the Army is less demanding than I am. On Monday afternoon, Billy asked him what his plans were, and he said he was hanging curtains, "because Mommy loves curtains, and hates Daddy." Actually, Mommy loves curtains, and hates the old, yellowed and patched roll-up shades covering every window in this house. And Daddy just happens to be a superb curtain hanger, using fancy tools like a level and a tape measure to get things just right. I prefer to eyeball it, and really don't care if the left side is a quarter inch lower than the left, since I can't see up that high anyway.
And I won't be living here for a decade.
And now on to establishing new routines, new habits, new schedules. Which will last approximately 3 months when the new baby will decide that the whole known universe needs to conform to his/her preferred way of doing things. I think our big goal this year will be focusing on working independently.
Two weeks ago today, the truck pulled up and delivered our stuff. Two days ago, Bill hung the last curtain, and we hauled the last of the boxes from the main living areas. We're not "done" - the swing set needs to be assembled, the basement room I've decided to use for school is a huge mess, and I need to set up a playroom in the basement as soon as the foam padding I ordered gets here (tomorrow). There are some boxes in my closet that I need to sort, and there is some furniture that I want to paint, but now we're dealing with the usual, never-ending list of things that I want to do...sometime...before I die. I don't think anyone is ever "done" - perhaps in between projects, but never "done."
Yesterday, Bill put on his uniform for the first time in five weeks. He signed up for an in-processing slot, tried to touch base with a few contacts and came home. Rough first day back at work, huh? He headed out a bit ago to go to his in-processing appointment, and will be home by lunch time, and he just may be done at that point. In-processing is expected to take up to two whole days, but he's already done a number of the things covered: get our cars registered on post, get the dog in the on-post vet's system, transfer all our health insurance information to this different regional system. Once he's done with all of that, he'll be free to do whatever he wants (within the local area) until August 7th when he needs to pick up his school books.
I'm enjoying every minute of his time off work, but I think he's ready to get back to a normal routine. I think perhaps the Army is less demanding than I am. On Monday afternoon, Billy asked him what his plans were, and he said he was hanging curtains, "because Mommy loves curtains, and hates Daddy." Actually, Mommy loves curtains, and hates the old, yellowed and patched roll-up shades covering every window in this house. And Daddy just happens to be a superb curtain hanger, using fancy tools like a level and a tape measure to get things just right. I prefer to eyeball it, and really don't care if the left side is a quarter inch lower than the left, since I can't see up that high anyway.
And I won't be living here for a decade.
And now on to establishing new routines, new habits, new schedules. Which will last approximately 3 months when the new baby will decide that the whole known universe needs to conform to his/her preferred way of doing things. I think our big goal this year will be focusing on working independently.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
My sweetheart
Yesterday we dragged the kids into Kansas City to hit the big shopping areas for the long list of things we weren't able to find locally. We promised them lunch at a restaurant for their inconvenience (and it is tough to watch mom and dad buy things for themselves and not for you, I know). They picked Pizza Hut which has a lunch buffet for about $2 for kids (drinks not included, naturally). This was fine for me, especially since the food was ready and that meant no wait.
Bill took the boys to the restroom while I helped the girls (and Pete) select food. Then I took the girls to the restroom while the guys stayed with Pete. When we finished, the girls ran ahead to the table, and I stopped by the buffet to pick out a slice. I was the last one to sit down, and our waitress had already brought the drinks I ordered when we first got there.
Everyone but me had straws, and I looked around, but didn't see another one. Then I saw Pete concentrating very hard on removing the paper from that seventh straw. His little fingers could only grip a tiny piece at a time, and I knew (having seen him do this before) that he would be occupied for several minutes pulling off bit by tedious bit.
Oh well, I thought, I don't need a straw. I'm a big girl; I can drink from the cup. I focused on my food. After a minute, Pete finished his work and then got down from his chair. I inwardly sighed. Great, we're here ten minutes, and he's already lost interest in eating (and sitting still), I thought. I watched to see if he had a motive or if it was truly just boredom that inspired him. He scooted around the table to my chair. He smiled broadly and offered up his labor of love - the opened straw. "Here, Mommy," he said sweetly. After my sincere thank you, he ran back around to his seat, climbed up, and went back to his food.
Spoiled and pampered, wonderfully, by my two-year-old. It doesn't get any better.
Bill took the boys to the restroom while I helped the girls (and Pete) select food. Then I took the girls to the restroom while the guys stayed with Pete. When we finished, the girls ran ahead to the table, and I stopped by the buffet to pick out a slice. I was the last one to sit down, and our waitress had already brought the drinks I ordered when we first got there.
Everyone but me had straws, and I looked around, but didn't see another one. Then I saw Pete concentrating very hard on removing the paper from that seventh straw. His little fingers could only grip a tiny piece at a time, and I knew (having seen him do this before) that he would be occupied for several minutes pulling off bit by tedious bit.
Oh well, I thought, I don't need a straw. I'm a big girl; I can drink from the cup. I focused on my food. After a minute, Pete finished his work and then got down from his chair. I inwardly sighed. Great, we're here ten minutes, and he's already lost interest in eating (and sitting still), I thought. I watched to see if he had a motive or if it was truly just boredom that inspired him. He scooted around the table to my chair. He smiled broadly and offered up his labor of love - the opened straw. "Here, Mommy," he said sweetly. After my sincere thank you, he ran back around to his seat, climbed up, and went back to his food.
Spoiled and pampered, wonderfully, by my two-year-old. It doesn't get any better.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
That Blue Shirt
You know, the one that got my household goods delivered the next day. Now that I can get to the internet from my PC (where I have the capability to download photos), I had my husband take my picture wearing that blue shirt.
It's nearing the end of it's usefulness - one of those "buy your pre-pregnancy size" shirts that works fine for the middle trimester, but now that I'm approaching 28 weeks, is beginning to get full in the belly...and in the chest. In fact, I think it looked cuter 2 weeks ago when I dealt with the transportation people. But here I am in all my sensual hippopotomic glory.
The bliss of camping
Camping as a family is a lot of fun. Everyone works together to set up camp. You have plenty of time to just be together: fishing, swimming in the lake, sitting around the campfire. Except for the initial outlay of cash for equipment (most of which you can rent, borrow or do without), camping is very inexpensive. And after a full day of work, everyone falls quickly asleep to the sound of quietly chirping crickets and the occasional croak of a frog.This is what my inner cheerleader tells me every time I get that crazy idea to take the family out for a few days of communing with nature. Rah rah sis boom bah. We like camping, yes we do, we like camping, how 'bout you?
I stubbornly refuse to listen to that infernal pessimist who points out all the doom and gloom of camping. She has no idea what she's talking about. She mentions the frustration of tangled fishing lines. She reminds me of my paranoia around water with lots of little children. She warns of the dangers of open fire and children with marshmellows on sticks leaning in for a closer roasting spot. And she points out that my children are not normal: exhaustion only winds them up so tightly they can't go to sleep, especially not to that cacophony of cicadas and other bugs so loud you'd swear Manhatten traffic was more lulling.
I'll admit that the timing could have been better for us. My lower back was hurting really badly. I would have suffered through it for the sake of the family, but nobody was having a good time, it seemed. Bill and Pete were sick - both had in fact, two nights before, shivered all night through a fever and both were still weak. And all the kids were still in turmoil from the move, so the cooperation level was low and the meltdown fuses were short. And it was HOT. Relaxing in the shade with only the exertion of putting a cold cup of lemonade to your lips would have caused a sweat, and we weren't relaxing, because camping is work.
Even as I write this, my inner cheerleader is arguing with me, telling me it wasn't all that bad. I don't mind the work at all. Actually, I do consider that to be the fun part. We enjoyed seeing deer pass within a dozen yards of our camp. And I'm now totally sold on lake swimming, especially in an area someone has graded and marked for swimmers. It's gentler than the ocean with no rip tides and the only waves coming from passing boats, and there is usually a more generous shallow end for toddlers and pre-swimmers to bob around in. Our evening dip certainly felt rewarding and refreshing after our work in setting up camp. And if my back hadn't been aching so, the air mattress we hauled along just for my pregnant belly would have aided in a truly decent night's sleep.
Oh, there she goes again, that peppy voice. If we hadn't just moved, if it weren't so hot, if my back didn't hurt...my ankles are still swollen and itchy from the mosquito bites. And there's one thing Miss Pom Pom always forgets: the dirt.
I can handle the dirt myself. Even dripping with sweat, I can manage a certain level of personal cleanliness that at least makes healthy food preparation possible. If my knees get a bit soiled, that's ok. If my black bra, left to dry overnight, shows what must be salt residue lines from dried perspiration, I'll survive. But watching my kids squat down first thing in the morning by the breakfast fire getting their clean PJs covered in ashes just makes me nuts. And the picture below, as they say, is worth a thousand words. Pete, 15 minutes after arriving at our campsite, looked like this. And this is pretty much how he looked 15 minutes after I cleaned him up...every time I cleaned him up.
My inner cheerleader is just telling me to pack more baby wipes next time. Maybe next time I'll pack a shotgun and silence the inner cheerleader forever.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Adultery of the blogging kind
Up until recently, my husband has been reading two, and only two blogs: mine and Eric Scheske's. Eric is a beer-loving, non-politically correct father of seven who is usually pretty funny, so it's easy see his appeal to my beer-loving, non-politically correct husband (and father of almost six) who enjoys being amused.
Due primarily to technical difficulties which will hopefully be rectified within hours, I haven't been blogging a whole lot. I guess to fill that void, my husband has sought satisfaction elsewhere. Had he asked for recommendations, I could have pointed him to one of the myriad of guy-blogs, or political blogs, or blogs written by priests. There are plenty of interesting, innocuous, but testosterone-laden sites out there. Instead, he has sought solace with another woman. Oh, the infidelity!
I had actually shown him The Pioneer Woman Cooks blog (the Kitchen Madonna referred to it), and he drooled along with me at the recipes, especially the ones labeled "Man Pleasers." Even if you don't think you can cook, I don't see how you can go wrong with the recipes she gives. The ingredients are basic, and usually not too many per recipe. She gives step by step instructions and includes photos for each and every step. It's like having a cooking demonstration right in front of you, but you can pause and rewind as necessary. The only downside to her recipes is the health factor: unless you work a ranch full-time, I suggest you eat her cooking in moderation. I think I want to buy a ranch and work it just so I can eat like that every day.
I had no idea that Pioneer Woman had her Confessions, too. Sarah told me about that blog when I visited her. Even if she hadn't, though, I see Pioneer Woman fever sweeping the mom blogs I generally read, and more than one person has admitted to lurking around her place. I checked out her site, and found it worth reading and made a mental note to add her to my bloglines. But due primarily to technical difficulties which will hopefully be rectified within hours, I haven't been reading blogs much either. But Bill only reads three blogs now and one of them (mine) hasn't been saying much recently, so he's not only up-to-date on her latest posts, he's actually gone through and read some of her archives. Did you read about how she met Marlboro Man? he asks me. I've got to tell you about calf nuts, he says. I don't know whether to laugh or to be insanely jealous.
In the hours it's taken me to write this post, the cable guy has come and gone, and I seem to have a tenuous connection to the internet. As long as I don't have to share my husband's laptop and type with it perched on my knees burning from the laptop's vented air, I may be back in business. I just hope my content is up to snuff, or my husband may go back to reading only two blogs - and mine won't be one of them!
Due primarily to technical difficulties which will hopefully be rectified within hours, I haven't been blogging a whole lot. I guess to fill that void, my husband has sought satisfaction elsewhere. Had he asked for recommendations, I could have pointed him to one of the myriad of guy-blogs, or political blogs, or blogs written by priests. There are plenty of interesting, innocuous, but testosterone-laden sites out there. Instead, he has sought solace with another woman. Oh, the infidelity!
I had actually shown him The Pioneer Woman Cooks blog (the Kitchen Madonna referred to it), and he drooled along with me at the recipes, especially the ones labeled "Man Pleasers." Even if you don't think you can cook, I don't see how you can go wrong with the recipes she gives. The ingredients are basic, and usually not too many per recipe. She gives step by step instructions and includes photos for each and every step. It's like having a cooking demonstration right in front of you, but you can pause and rewind as necessary. The only downside to her recipes is the health factor: unless you work a ranch full-time, I suggest you eat her cooking in moderation. I think I want to buy a ranch and work it just so I can eat like that every day.
I had no idea that Pioneer Woman had her Confessions, too. Sarah told me about that blog when I visited her. Even if she hadn't, though, I see Pioneer Woman fever sweeping the mom blogs I generally read, and more than one person has admitted to lurking around her place. I checked out her site, and found it worth reading and made a mental note to add her to my bloglines. But due primarily to technical difficulties which will hopefully be rectified within hours, I haven't been reading blogs much either. But Bill only reads three blogs now and one of them (mine) hasn't been saying much recently, so he's not only up-to-date on her latest posts, he's actually gone through and read some of her archives. Did you read about how she met Marlboro Man? he asks me. I've got to tell you about calf nuts, he says. I don't know whether to laugh or to be insanely jealous.
In the hours it's taken me to write this post, the cable guy has come and gone, and I seem to have a tenuous connection to the internet. As long as I don't have to share my husband's laptop and type with it perched on my knees burning from the laptop's vented air, I may be back in business. I just hope my content is up to snuff, or my husband may go back to reading only two blogs - and mine won't be one of them!
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Gone camping
Feel free to notify the local authorities about the dubious condition of my mental health.
Monday, July 16, 2007
The Golden Rule
Yesterday we attended Mass at the chapel on post. It's a relatively pretty chapel with lots of stained glass windows. I didn't have a chance to observe what the windows depicted, and I am curious. The chapel is, by necessity, a non-denominational chapel, so permanent artwork like windows tends to be vaguely religious - for example, it may depict a soldier praying. All Catholic artwork is portable, so as to get the offending idols out of the area before the Protestant service. One thing I liked was that they brought in a tabernacle, where they placed the remaining host after Communion. But for the recessional, the priest removed the host and processed out of the chapel to place it in the permanent tabernacle wherever it is. There were three chapels at Fort Belvoir, and I'm not sure what they did at the two where the permanent chapel was not in the same building. I think they just shoved Jesus in the corner to deal with Him after Mass. At the third chapel, I think someone took the host out a side door and down the hall to the Blessed Sacrament Chapel immediately following Communion.
After Mass, the lady sitting in front of us turned and introduced herself since we were obviously new. I am very self-conscious about sticking out, but, even in a Catholic community, a family of seven plus is very noticeable. And for some reason I selected a flowery maternity dress that just made me feel very dowdy...one of those dresses that screamed Catholic Homeschool Mother. I mean no offense to those who wear flowery dresses, of course. I think it's great that some women can pull off the look. I think it's great that some women can live up to what that kind of look implies to me: healthy, homecooked meals; warm cookies served in the afternoon straight out of the oven; handmade dresses on the little girls with matching ribbons in their beautifully braided hair; a calm, nurturing demeanor. Not someone who maintains order by yelling at her kids and who is happy enough that her daughters' faces are clean and their hair is somewhat combed.
The bulletin publishes how many people were in attendance at the previous week's Mass. I don't know how they count this. At Fort Belvoir, there were six Catholic Masses over the weekend and attendance generally was around 1500. Here, there are only two Masses (Saturday Vigil and Sunday morning). It's summer break right now, so you can expect a lower attendance, of course. But they listed an attendance of 210. So, when my family comes and swells the ranks by 3 1/2 %, it's a small wonder people notice us.
But you know it's time to go to confession when the offertory hymn inspires feelings of guilt. The Gospel was about the Good Samaritan, a story heard many times, a parable I think I can confidently say I understand and heed. I help people in need. There have been times I couldn't afford it, there were many times it was inconvenient, but I do this to the best of my ability.
The priest's homily echoed the message, and I proudly reminded myself of some specific occasions where I had checked this block. I am your good and faithful servant, Lord.
Then came the offertory hymn, one I hadn't heard in a long while: Whatsoever You Do.
When I was hungry, you gave me to eat.
When I was thirsty, you gave me to drink.
Now enter into the home of my Father.
When I was homeless, you opened your door.
When I was naked, you gave me your coat.
Now enter into the home of my Father.
Cool, I thought. Feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty: go to Heaven. I am so there. Again, images of specific acts of charity were recalled, and I was in danger of getting a bruise from patting myself on the back. But the refrain:
Whatsoever you do to the least of my people, that you do unto me.
Gotcha! taunted the little demon in my ear. Everything you do, you do to Jesus. Everything. Sure, buying a cheeseburger for a homeless man is like buying a cheeseburger for Jesus. I'm sure Jesus is right happy with that. But let's go back to square one:
If the Child Jesus were tugging at my pant leg begging to be picked up, how would I treat Him? It doesn't matter if my back aches and the thought of stooping down makes me cringe and I'm in the middle of making dinner. If it were the Child Jesus, would I ignore Him?
If the Child Jesus left his dirty clothes all over the bathroom floor, again, would I yell at Him, again, to pick them up or would I find a more polite way to request the same thing? He may be God, but he is still a child. And children, and most adults too, need to be told more than once to do something.
And speaking of adults needing to be told more than once to do something, if the Child Jesus requested a snack or something to drink, would I jump up right away, or would I tell Him to wait a minute while I finished my blog entry? And perhaps if the Child Jesus needed to wait in order to learn that He was not the Center of the Universe (ok, so He is, but the rest of us mere mortals are not), would I commit myself to getting up in the promised five minutes, or would I forget and need to be reminded?
If Jesus were the checkout clerk at the grocery store, would I be any nicer or happier to see Him?
If Jesus were the driver of that slow-moving vehicle, would I be any more patient?
It is so easy to think of all the good I've done and feel that I'm following the Golden Rule. But I can't honestly say that I'm treating others the way I wish to be treated if I can't honestly say that I would treat Jesus the same way I treat every person I encounter, including my own family.
Oh Lord, please judge me against an unholy nation.
After Mass, the lady sitting in front of us turned and introduced herself since we were obviously new. I am very self-conscious about sticking out, but, even in a Catholic community, a family of seven plus is very noticeable. And for some reason I selected a flowery maternity dress that just made me feel very dowdy...one of those dresses that screamed Catholic Homeschool Mother. I mean no offense to those who wear flowery dresses, of course. I think it's great that some women can pull off the look. I think it's great that some women can live up to what that kind of look implies to me: healthy, homecooked meals; warm cookies served in the afternoon straight out of the oven; handmade dresses on the little girls with matching ribbons in their beautifully braided hair; a calm, nurturing demeanor. Not someone who maintains order by yelling at her kids and who is happy enough that her daughters' faces are clean and their hair is somewhat combed.
The bulletin publishes how many people were in attendance at the previous week's Mass. I don't know how they count this. At Fort Belvoir, there were six Catholic Masses over the weekend and attendance generally was around 1500. Here, there are only two Masses (Saturday Vigil and Sunday morning). It's summer break right now, so you can expect a lower attendance, of course. But they listed an attendance of 210. So, when my family comes and swells the ranks by 3 1/2 %, it's a small wonder people notice us.
But you know it's time to go to confession when the offertory hymn inspires feelings of guilt. The Gospel was about the Good Samaritan, a story heard many times, a parable I think I can confidently say I understand and heed. I help people in need. There have been times I couldn't afford it, there were many times it was inconvenient, but I do this to the best of my ability.
The priest's homily echoed the message, and I proudly reminded myself of some specific occasions where I had checked this block. I am your good and faithful servant, Lord.
Then came the offertory hymn, one I hadn't heard in a long while: Whatsoever You Do.
When I was hungry, you gave me to eat.
When I was thirsty, you gave me to drink.
Now enter into the home of my Father.
When I was homeless, you opened your door.
When I was naked, you gave me your coat.
Now enter into the home of my Father.
Cool, I thought. Feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty: go to Heaven. I am so there. Again, images of specific acts of charity were recalled, and I was in danger of getting a bruise from patting myself on the back. But the refrain:
Whatsoever you do to the least of my people, that you do unto me.
Gotcha! taunted the little demon in my ear. Everything you do, you do to Jesus. Everything. Sure, buying a cheeseburger for a homeless man is like buying a cheeseburger for Jesus. I'm sure Jesus is right happy with that. But let's go back to square one:
If the Child Jesus were tugging at my pant leg begging to be picked up, how would I treat Him? It doesn't matter if my back aches and the thought of stooping down makes me cringe and I'm in the middle of making dinner. If it were the Child Jesus, would I ignore Him?
If the Child Jesus left his dirty clothes all over the bathroom floor, again, would I yell at Him, again, to pick them up or would I find a more polite way to request the same thing? He may be God, but he is still a child. And children, and most adults too, need to be told more than once to do something.
And speaking of adults needing to be told more than once to do something, if the Child Jesus requested a snack or something to drink, would I jump up right away, or would I tell Him to wait a minute while I finished my blog entry? And perhaps if the Child Jesus needed to wait in order to learn that He was not the Center of the Universe (ok, so He is, but the rest of us mere mortals are not), would I commit myself to getting up in the promised five minutes, or would I forget and need to be reminded?
If Jesus were the checkout clerk at the grocery store, would I be any nicer or happier to see Him?
If Jesus were the driver of that slow-moving vehicle, would I be any more patient?
It is so easy to think of all the good I've done and feel that I'm following the Golden Rule. But I can't honestly say that I'm treating others the way I wish to be treated if I can't honestly say that I would treat Jesus the same way I treat every person I encounter, including my own family.
Oh Lord, please judge me against an unholy nation.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Acclimation and re-acclimation
TV and radio stations begin with the letter "K". I think, but I'm not positive, that America's favorite carbonated beverage is called "pop" around here. And if the latest breaking headlines will be on at "eight-seven Central," we're in that Central time zone. Bill may actually be able to watch some Monday Night Football for a change.
If a sign says "left lane closed ahead," cars in the left start to move over right away. And cars in the right actually let them. It takes about 20 to 30 minutes to get anywhere, but it's because of the distance, not the traffic. I'm convinced that parking spaces around here are wider to accommodate the requisite big pickup truck or SUV.
I've yet to see a store open 24/7, and the locals aren't up in arms over that fact. Stores are smaller and with fewer options. For the first time in my adult life, I bought American cheese that was yellow, because there was no white American cheese available.
Most of my Midwest living was as a child, but that's where my heart is. Sure, I learned how to drive in Jersey and city streets and traffic don't bother me. Sure, I fought my way through that hustle-bustle busy-ness that defines East Coast living and survived. Sure, I lived in a highly competitive and comparative environment where parents enrolled their children in enrichment programs from birth, sought the best preschools to give their children the edge for kindergarten, and kept the pressure up throughout their school years in order to get them into the best colleges, and I figured out how to balance that attitude with what was better for my family. If I have my family around me, I can be happy anywhere. But I think I can be happier here. Or at least more at ease.
I will admit that I am frustrated by rural shopping. The local stores are sufficient for most daily needs, and I'll earn to live with yellow cheese, but there are a few items I'd like that I'd prefer a big selection: curtains, area rugs, stuff like that. It was nice to live close to many competing chains who had to offer a wide variety to draw people in. It was nice to go to huge grocery stores with 20 different international cheeses and whole aisles dedicated to imported specialty items (OK, I didn't have that in Virginia, but I did in NJ). And it was nice to have the option of shopping late at night.
But I'm sure I'll adapt. I'll reorder my life in such a way that these things don't bother me much. And I'll continue to use online shopping for that 24/7 convenience and for a greater selection. And just when I've gotten used to this way of life, again, I'll move right back to DC and have to relearn how to hurry up and keep busy.
If a sign says "left lane closed ahead," cars in the left start to move over right away. And cars in the right actually let them. It takes about 20 to 30 minutes to get anywhere, but it's because of the distance, not the traffic. I'm convinced that parking spaces around here are wider to accommodate the requisite big pickup truck or SUV.
I've yet to see a store open 24/7, and the locals aren't up in arms over that fact. Stores are smaller and with fewer options. For the first time in my adult life, I bought American cheese that was yellow, because there was no white American cheese available.
Most of my Midwest living was as a child, but that's where my heart is. Sure, I learned how to drive in Jersey and city streets and traffic don't bother me. Sure, I fought my way through that hustle-bustle busy-ness that defines East Coast living and survived. Sure, I lived in a highly competitive and comparative environment where parents enrolled their children in enrichment programs from birth, sought the best preschools to give their children the edge for kindergarten, and kept the pressure up throughout their school years in order to get them into the best colleges, and I figured out how to balance that attitude with what was better for my family. If I have my family around me, I can be happy anywhere. But I think I can be happier here. Or at least more at ease.
I will admit that I am frustrated by rural shopping. The local stores are sufficient for most daily needs, and I'll earn to live with yellow cheese, but there are a few items I'd like that I'd prefer a big selection: curtains, area rugs, stuff like that. It was nice to live close to many competing chains who had to offer a wide variety to draw people in. It was nice to go to huge grocery stores with 20 different international cheeses and whole aisles dedicated to imported specialty items (OK, I didn't have that in Virginia, but I did in NJ). And it was nice to have the option of shopping late at night.
But I'm sure I'll adapt. I'll reorder my life in such a way that these things don't bother me much. And I'll continue to use online shopping for that 24/7 convenience and for a greater selection. And just when I've gotten used to this way of life, again, I'll move right back to DC and have to relearn how to hurry up and keep busy.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Home, Sweet Chaotic Home
I don't understand why people with wireless internet for their home don't lock it to avoid other people from sapping their speed. I don't understand it, but I am very grateful. Thank you, stranger, for making my web-surfing possible.
We got to Kansas without incident on Monday and picked out a house. I'm glad we didn't wait much longer. Even though school doesn't start for the soldiers for another month, most people seem to be getting here early, setting up house and taking vacation. There are only a few houses left in this neighborhood, and in another week or so, had we chosen to come that late, we probably would not have a choice. Not that there's much choice, really. They're all basically the same, with only personal improvements made by previous tenants. Some have nicer landscaping. Some have minor interior improvements. Ours has a room in the basement with linoleum flooring over the painted concrete and seven hooks hanging on the wall in the staircase going down. The seven hooks sealed the deal for the kids - we HAD to move in, it was MADE for us. For me, the room with the linoleum was a bonus. I think we'll set up a school room down there.
Perhaps the best thing about the house is the location. Bill's school is right here. The parking lots he would use if he had to drive are no closer than our front door. The grocery store on post (commissary) and gas station and, most importantly, the Class VI (where they sell the booze) are all very close. Our street is quiet, except for the sounds of children, especially boys engaged in light saber fights. Our back yard abuts a large communal property which is grassy and shaded and has a treehouse.
I'm certain we will be happy here.
While Bill signed the lease on the house, I called the transportation office with our new address to arrange delivery of our household goods. They told me next Monday, the 16th. I took that disappointing news with my usual stoicism, but resolved to go to the office in person the following morning to try to finagle something else (it was late afternoon, it was brutally hot, and I had 5 kids and a dog crammed in the van - now was not the time).
Another of the soldiers in the lease signing meeting happened to get the house right across the street from us. As we both got to our new homes around the same time, Bill overheard the neighbor bragging about how his wife went to transportation in person and managed to get a delivery of their stuff for the very next day. "You've got to go down there," he told me. "I'm planning to," I replied. "Wear that blue shirt," he suggested. The blue shirt is a very fashionable one which happens to accentuate my, um, hormonally enhanced chest. I remarked that it may be a woman who helped me, but he felt that I looked cutely pregnant as well, and the shirt would "work" for any gender. So, yes, my husband blatantly suggested I flaunt my pregnant sex appeal in an effort to get our stuff delivered early.
As an aside, while at the zoo last week, we saw the hippos. They have a window where you can watch them swim. "They look so graceful," Bill remarked. I think the husbands of pregnant women have a skewed idea of graceful and sexy.
But I did wear the blue shirt, and I did go down there first thing Tuesday morning, and I did get our delivery moved to the very next day.
And now, I am living with boxes as my main element of decoration. I slept in my own bed, although it didn't help much with my lower back which I think I strained yesterday. I am getting old. The telephone and cable people come today, so I'll have my own internet connection and won't have to live off the generosity of others. And I really hope to get my kitchen unpacked so we can eat simple, but homecooked, food for the first time in a while.
But now I'm off to a place called The Daily Grind. I used the very last of my coffee to make a weak half-pot for Bill and I, and we need something a bit better to get through the day.
We got to Kansas without incident on Monday and picked out a house. I'm glad we didn't wait much longer. Even though school doesn't start for the soldiers for another month, most people seem to be getting here early, setting up house and taking vacation. There are only a few houses left in this neighborhood, and in another week or so, had we chosen to come that late, we probably would not have a choice. Not that there's much choice, really. They're all basically the same, with only personal improvements made by previous tenants. Some have nicer landscaping. Some have minor interior improvements. Ours has a room in the basement with linoleum flooring over the painted concrete and seven hooks hanging on the wall in the staircase going down. The seven hooks sealed the deal for the kids - we HAD to move in, it was MADE for us. For me, the room with the linoleum was a bonus. I think we'll set up a school room down there.
Perhaps the best thing about the house is the location. Bill's school is right here. The parking lots he would use if he had to drive are no closer than our front door. The grocery store on post (commissary) and gas station and, most importantly, the Class VI (where they sell the booze) are all very close. Our street is quiet, except for the sounds of children, especially boys engaged in light saber fights. Our back yard abuts a large communal property which is grassy and shaded and has a treehouse.
I'm certain we will be happy here.
While Bill signed the lease on the house, I called the transportation office with our new address to arrange delivery of our household goods. They told me next Monday, the 16th. I took that disappointing news with my usual stoicism, but resolved to go to the office in person the following morning to try to finagle something else (it was late afternoon, it was brutally hot, and I had 5 kids and a dog crammed in the van - now was not the time).
Another of the soldiers in the lease signing meeting happened to get the house right across the street from us. As we both got to our new homes around the same time, Bill overheard the neighbor bragging about how his wife went to transportation in person and managed to get a delivery of their stuff for the very next day. "You've got to go down there," he told me. "I'm planning to," I replied. "Wear that blue shirt," he suggested. The blue shirt is a very fashionable one which happens to accentuate my, um, hormonally enhanced chest. I remarked that it may be a woman who helped me, but he felt that I looked cutely pregnant as well, and the shirt would "work" for any gender. So, yes, my husband blatantly suggested I flaunt my pregnant sex appeal in an effort to get our stuff delivered early.
As an aside, while at the zoo last week, we saw the hippos. They have a window where you can watch them swim. "They look so graceful," Bill remarked. I think the husbands of pregnant women have a skewed idea of graceful and sexy.
But I did wear the blue shirt, and I did go down there first thing Tuesday morning, and I did get our delivery moved to the very next day.
And now, I am living with boxes as my main element of decoration. I slept in my own bed, although it didn't help much with my lower back which I think I strained yesterday. I am getting old. The telephone and cable people come today, so I'll have my own internet connection and won't have to live off the generosity of others. And I really hope to get my kitchen unpacked so we can eat simple, but homecooked, food for the first time in a while.
But now I'm off to a place called The Daily Grind. I used the very last of my coffee to make a weak half-pot for Bill and I, and we need something a bit better to get through the day.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
St. Louis - a traveler's diary
I'll not claim "high-spirits" or chipper moods, but everyone is a little less grouchy now that we've recovered from the second leg of our journey. Our last bit of traveling across the state of Missouri is tomorrow, and should "only" take about 5 hours or so with the car in tow. I have high hopes that by Wednesday night I'll be sleeping on my own bed.
We'll not manage to get to everything on our to-see list, but we will have done a lot. I'll include links for future reference and for all those Googlers who key in "visiting St. Louis with little children - things to do in three days." Pictures will have to wait until I get my computer, and, more importantly, get an internet connection. That might be a while.
Friday morning, we visited The Arch. There is a Museum of Westward Expansion underneath which Bill and the kids visited while I stood in line for tickets to the top. Lots of stuffed animals and "talking robots," as Billy described excitedly. After the unique ride to the top, everybody enjoyed the views of the Mississippi River and St. Louis. I give The Arch experience 7 thumbs up.
We stopped in for a brief prayer at The Old Cathedral. This is the oldest Catholic church west of the Mississippi. Simple, elegant beauty. We walked past The Old Courthouse of Dred Scott decision fame, but did not go in.
That afternoon, we went to the Saint Louis Zoo. We got there late enough that even the parking was free. Definitely 7 thumbs up on this. And although to children a zoo is a zoo is a zoo, I appreciated the shady walkways throughout the park (in contrast, all I remember about the Cleveland Zoo is the blazing sun) and the pathway in one section was made to look like dried mud with pawprints and leafprints and other such decorations along the way. Very nice.
Yesterday morning, we went to the Anheuser-Busch Factory for their tour. Bill liked it. Fritz and Katie didn't seem to have any complaints, but the one-hour tour was too long for Billy and Jenny. Pete was fine as long as I was holding/carrying him - an exhausting reality that limited my own enjoyment. One disappointment was that the filling and packaging line we viewed was down. The kids would have thought it much cooler to see bottles whirling around at high speeds. The tour includes some neat history of St. Louis, the beer industry, and life in these United States, so you don't have to like beer to like the tour. In fact, even if you are a beer snob like my husband, you might find the factory experience interesting. Note: I did not see my husband turning his nose up at the free samples at the end. For ages 5 and up, I give it 4 out of 5 thumbs up.
After naps, we went to Grant's Farm, owned by the Busch family. You take a tram ride through Deer Park, where you get to see lots of free-ranging animals - some quite close to the road. At the farm itself, you can pet goats and chickens and view an assortment of other animals from Bald Eagles to elephants to camels. One or two hours is plenty of time for this venture, entrance is free, and parking is only $8. At the other side of the parking lot are stables and pastures for the Clydesdale horses owned and bred by the Busch family. Pretty things. This stop (farm and stables) was a big hit: another 7 thumbs up.
Not too far from Grant's farm, we located one of the two Ted Drewes frozen custard stands. Having seen the movie Cars (twice in the last week alone), we were all interested to discover that the stand we went to on Chippewa is on a section of the historic Route 66. We didn't know enough to try a legendary "concrete" - a bit like ordering a coffee at Starbucks is how Bill described them - but what we did eat went down with no complaints. 7 thumbs up! And a side note, should you ever get married in St. Louis, it is apparently customary to head on over to Drewes after the reception in your fancy clothes. It seems they give away free custard to the wedding party, and we were able to see, not one, but two brides and their entourages.
This morning we attended Mass at The New Cathedral. Breathtaking. Here is a link to the inside. It's filled with mosaics. I've been in plenty of gorgeous churches in the world, and this one held it's ground. I'll give this stop 2 thumbs up from the adults. The kids did seem to admire the art as well, but a church is a church is a church and there is no F-U-N in that. One day, they'll appreciate it.
Pete is just about done with his nap, and Bill and the kids should be back soon from The Science Center. I hope they had fun. I also hope they get back in time for us to dash off to The Missouri Botanical Gardens. That would conclude our sight-seeing adventures in St. Louis. There's more we could have done, if our kids were older, if we pushed hard to get out the door earlier, if we didn't stop for naps or meals. But maybe we'll just come back another time.
In conclusion, if you enjoy urban travels for your long weekend getaways, I recommend St. Louis as a spot with plenty to do, even with five little kids in tow.
We'll not manage to get to everything on our to-see list, but we will have done a lot. I'll include links for future reference and for all those Googlers who key in "visiting St. Louis with little children - things to do in three days." Pictures will have to wait until I get my computer, and, more importantly, get an internet connection. That might be a while.
Friday morning, we visited The Arch. There is a Museum of Westward Expansion underneath which Bill and the kids visited while I stood in line for tickets to the top. Lots of stuffed animals and "talking robots," as Billy described excitedly. After the unique ride to the top, everybody enjoyed the views of the Mississippi River and St. Louis. I give The Arch experience 7 thumbs up.
We stopped in for a brief prayer at The Old Cathedral. This is the oldest Catholic church west of the Mississippi. Simple, elegant beauty. We walked past The Old Courthouse of Dred Scott decision fame, but did not go in.
That afternoon, we went to the Saint Louis Zoo. We got there late enough that even the parking was free. Definitely 7 thumbs up on this. And although to children a zoo is a zoo is a zoo, I appreciated the shady walkways throughout the park (in contrast, all I remember about the Cleveland Zoo is the blazing sun) and the pathway in one section was made to look like dried mud with pawprints and leafprints and other such decorations along the way. Very nice.
Yesterday morning, we went to the Anheuser-Busch Factory for their tour. Bill liked it. Fritz and Katie didn't seem to have any complaints, but the one-hour tour was too long for Billy and Jenny. Pete was fine as long as I was holding/carrying him - an exhausting reality that limited my own enjoyment. One disappointment was that the filling and packaging line we viewed was down. The kids would have thought it much cooler to see bottles whirling around at high speeds. The tour includes some neat history of St. Louis, the beer industry, and life in these United States, so you don't have to like beer to like the tour. In fact, even if you are a beer snob like my husband, you might find the factory experience interesting. Note: I did not see my husband turning his nose up at the free samples at the end. For ages 5 and up, I give it 4 out of 5 thumbs up.
After naps, we went to Grant's Farm, owned by the Busch family. You take a tram ride through Deer Park, where you get to see lots of free-ranging animals - some quite close to the road. At the farm itself, you can pet goats and chickens and view an assortment of other animals from Bald Eagles to elephants to camels. One or two hours is plenty of time for this venture, entrance is free, and parking is only $8. At the other side of the parking lot are stables and pastures for the Clydesdale horses owned and bred by the Busch family. Pretty things. This stop (farm and stables) was a big hit: another 7 thumbs up.
Not too far from Grant's farm, we located one of the two Ted Drewes frozen custard stands. Having seen the movie Cars (twice in the last week alone), we were all interested to discover that the stand we went to on Chippewa is on a section of the historic Route 66. We didn't know enough to try a legendary "concrete" - a bit like ordering a coffee at Starbucks is how Bill described them - but what we did eat went down with no complaints. 7 thumbs up! And a side note, should you ever get married in St. Louis, it is apparently customary to head on over to Drewes after the reception in your fancy clothes. It seems they give away free custard to the wedding party, and we were able to see, not one, but two brides and their entourages.
This morning we attended Mass at The New Cathedral. Breathtaking. Here is a link to the inside. It's filled with mosaics. I've been in plenty of gorgeous churches in the world, and this one held it's ground. I'll give this stop 2 thumbs up from the adults. The kids did seem to admire the art as well, but a church is a church is a church and there is no F-U-N in that. One day, they'll appreciate it.
Pete is just about done with his nap, and Bill and the kids should be back soon from The Science Center. I hope they had fun. I also hope they get back in time for us to dash off to The Missouri Botanical Gardens. That would conclude our sight-seeing adventures in St. Louis. There's more we could have done, if our kids were older, if we pushed hard to get out the door earlier, if we didn't stop for naps or meals. But maybe we'll just come back another time.
In conclusion, if you enjoy urban travels for your long weekend getaways, I recommend St. Louis as a spot with plenty to do, even with five little kids in tow.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Riding in cars with boys and girls
It was close to dinner time yesterday, and we were still about an hour away from our destination. I looked over at Bill and said, "So tell me...I died, and this is Purgatory, right?" It couldn't have been Hell. I still had tremendous Hope that the misery would end...eventually.
Wednesday morning at breakfast, Jenny turned her big, beautiful eyes on me and asked, "What will Daddy and you do when we're all grown up?"
For starters, we will not take long car trips with children under the age of 5.
Jenny spent every waking moment yesterday complaining. I did not think it was possible for a child so young to be able to keep up a grouchy mood for so long. Surely, I thought, she'll just give up and fall asleep. But no, from sun up to sun down was a continuous monologue about how unhappy she was.
Imagine: I'm hungry. (inhale) I'm hungry. (inhale) I'm hungry. (inhale)
Attempting to offer snacks simply generated fifteen minutes of frustration while she expressed her displeasure about the available options and listed all sorts of choices available to someone with a fully stocked kitchen, but not readily accessible to those trapped inside a 12 passenger van.
The next hour might have been I want to watch something else over and over again as all four of her siblings happily watched a new video. The promise that she could pick the next video did not pacify her, although the promise that if she didn't cut out the complaining would guarantee that she would not pick out the next video bought us about 20 minutes of quiet.
Of course, we did our best to ignore her, but we're not deaf, and by dinner time the persistent little stream of annoyance had eroded every last bit of civility in my normally doting mother's heart.
They say we'll miss these days. Hmmm.
Right now, Bill is at the hotel pool with the older three, and Jenny and Peter are concluding their much needed naps. We've been to the top of the Arch and inside the Old Cathedral today. If good moods prevail, we may go to the zoo which is open until 7 pm. The one good thing about having little ones is that budgeting only 2 hours for the zoo or any other museum or venture is realistic. We know we won't see it all, but that's ok, we know better than to try to.
Here's one thing I just don't get. The Old Courthouse near the Arch is where the Dred Scott decision was made. They are "commemorating" the 150th anniversary of this ruling. Why? I'm all for remembering just how stupid judges can be, lest we forget and make the same mistakes again. {Ah, who am I kidding? We don't learn...and Roe v. Wade is proof.} But the air around the courthouse seems to make the Dred Scott ruling a cause for celebration.
Perhaps, someday, when my kids are all grown up, I'll be able to stop in at exhibits like that and see why they want to keep the horrid memory alive. For now, though, I'll offer up all my suffering for the conversion of those who consider other people to be of less worth than they. That may be the only thing that helps Jenny reach her fourth birthday.
Wednesday morning at breakfast, Jenny turned her big, beautiful eyes on me and asked, "What will Daddy and you do when we're all grown up?"
For starters, we will not take long car trips with children under the age of 5.
Jenny spent every waking moment yesterday complaining. I did not think it was possible for a child so young to be able to keep up a grouchy mood for so long. Surely, I thought, she'll just give up and fall asleep. But no, from sun up to sun down was a continuous monologue about how unhappy she was.
Imagine: I'm hungry. (inhale) I'm hungry. (inhale) I'm hungry. (inhale)
Attempting to offer snacks simply generated fifteen minutes of frustration while she expressed her displeasure about the available options and listed all sorts of choices available to someone with a fully stocked kitchen, but not readily accessible to those trapped inside a 12 passenger van.
The next hour might have been I want to watch something else over and over again as all four of her siblings happily watched a new video. The promise that she could pick the next video did not pacify her, although the promise that if she didn't cut out the complaining would guarantee that she would not pick out the next video bought us about 20 minutes of quiet.
Of course, we did our best to ignore her, but we're not deaf, and by dinner time the persistent little stream of annoyance had eroded every last bit of civility in my normally doting mother's heart.
They say we'll miss these days. Hmmm.
Right now, Bill is at the hotel pool with the older three, and Jenny and Peter are concluding their much needed naps. We've been to the top of the Arch and inside the Old Cathedral today. If good moods prevail, we may go to the zoo which is open until 7 pm. The one good thing about having little ones is that budgeting only 2 hours for the zoo or any other museum or venture is realistic. We know we won't see it all, but that's ok, we know better than to try to.
Here's one thing I just don't get. The Old Courthouse near the Arch is where the Dred Scott decision was made. They are "commemorating" the 150th anniversary of this ruling. Why? I'm all for remembering just how stupid judges can be, lest we forget and make the same mistakes again. {Ah, who am I kidding? We don't learn...and Roe v. Wade is proof.} But the air around the courthouse seems to make the Dred Scott ruling a cause for celebration.
Perhaps, someday, when my kids are all grown up, I'll be able to stop in at exhibits like that and see why they want to keep the horrid memory alive. For now, though, I'll offer up all my suffering for the conversion of those who consider other people to be of less worth than they. That may be the only thing that helps Jenny reach her fourth birthday.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Happy Independence Day
From rain soaked Columbus, Ohio.
We had a lovely day at a local park with my brother, sister-in-law and niece before the deluge. My uncle and aunt even drove down from Louisville, Ohio to see us. I hadn't seen my uncle and aunt since Peter's baptism (they are his godparents), but I have been happiest to see my brother and his family. The last time I saw them was over three years ago when their daughter and Jenny were infants.
Our time here in Ohio is too short. We leave tomorrow for St. Louis, where we plan to spend four nights. I'm not sure if we'll make it there with our sanity still intact. Jenny and Petey have been most out of sorts, and even the older kids are a bit...touchy. It's a bit rough, emotionally, to be homeless, to not have your stuff, to not be able to run around like a lunatic since you're living in a hotel and your parents think you ought to be respectful of other people who just might not be interested in your antics.
As for me, I miss my mattress terribly. I never sleep well on other beds. And it's possible, with all the packing and hauling around of boxes and other things, that I pulled something in my back. I'm just not comfortable.
But despite the short tempers, the achy back, the clingy little ones, and the bickering older ones, I am enjoying this time together. I'm loving this adventure, where I have no forwarding address (yet), no schedule to keep, and minimal guilt about late bedtimes, late wakeups, and poor nutrition on the part of us all. It's just one week, and we'll be back to a new state of normal soon enough.
And as for all the little highlights of my life in the last three days - and there have been many interesting goings-on - I'll never get all the details down, and won't even try. We did manage to leave town without too much trouble (just a last minute discovery of two kitchen cupboards the packers overlooked!), and our drive to Ohio through that narrow section of Maryland between Pennsylvania and Virginia/West Virginia was picturesque and blessedly uneventful, although quite slow given that our van is towing our other car. Besides just hanging out with family, I had the pleasure of spending a few hours on Sarah's farm, which just happens to be a kids' paradise: big yard, trampoline, toys, barn, livestock, minimal traffic, and bologna in the fridge. What more could a kid need?
It's a top priority of mine to get Pete some naps while we're in St. Louis. Hopefully, this will also give me a chance to do some blogging. We'll see. Another top priority is actually using my camera. I want to kick myself that I didn't get it out even once while seeing my family and have no pictures to prove that we actually spent time with my niece during her childhood. Of course, having a cranky toddler or a clingy preschooler constantly in my lap or pulling on my leg might have had something to do with distracting me from photo-journalistic opportunities.
And now, with all the kids and even the dog asleep, I head to bed myself.
We had a lovely day at a local park with my brother, sister-in-law and niece before the deluge. My uncle and aunt even drove down from Louisville, Ohio to see us. I hadn't seen my uncle and aunt since Peter's baptism (they are his godparents), but I have been happiest to see my brother and his family. The last time I saw them was over three years ago when their daughter and Jenny were infants.
Our time here in Ohio is too short. We leave tomorrow for St. Louis, where we plan to spend four nights. I'm not sure if we'll make it there with our sanity still intact. Jenny and Petey have been most out of sorts, and even the older kids are a bit...touchy. It's a bit rough, emotionally, to be homeless, to not have your stuff, to not be able to run around like a lunatic since you're living in a hotel and your parents think you ought to be respectful of other people who just might not be interested in your antics.
As for me, I miss my mattress terribly. I never sleep well on other beds. And it's possible, with all the packing and hauling around of boxes and other things, that I pulled something in my back. I'm just not comfortable.
But despite the short tempers, the achy back, the clingy little ones, and the bickering older ones, I am enjoying this time together. I'm loving this adventure, where I have no forwarding address (yet), no schedule to keep, and minimal guilt about late bedtimes, late wakeups, and poor nutrition on the part of us all. It's just one week, and we'll be back to a new state of normal soon enough.
And as for all the little highlights of my life in the last three days - and there have been many interesting goings-on - I'll never get all the details down, and won't even try. We did manage to leave town without too much trouble (just a last minute discovery of two kitchen cupboards the packers overlooked!), and our drive to Ohio through that narrow section of Maryland between Pennsylvania and Virginia/West Virginia was picturesque and blessedly uneventful, although quite slow given that our van is towing our other car. Besides just hanging out with family, I had the pleasure of spending a few hours on Sarah's farm, which just happens to be a kids' paradise: big yard, trampoline, toys, barn, livestock, minimal traffic, and bologna in the fridge. What more could a kid need?
It's a top priority of mine to get Pete some naps while we're in St. Louis. Hopefully, this will also give me a chance to do some blogging. We'll see. Another top priority is actually using my camera. I want to kick myself that I didn't get it out even once while seeing my family and have no pictures to prove that we actually spent time with my niece during her childhood. Of course, having a cranky toddler or a clingy preschooler constantly in my lap or pulling on my leg might have had something to do with distracting me from photo-journalistic opportunities.
And now, with all the kids and even the dog asleep, I head to bed myself.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
New Month's Resolution for July
It's a new month, and time for a new resolution. Last month I resolved to cut up that extra fabric and get a head start on my Christmas stockings. I cut out about 50, which is about 1/3 of the job. Not too bad. The great thing about these resolutions is that they are just for one month, and I can forget about it now, and stop beating myself up for not finishing it.
This month will be busy enough with traveling and unpacking, finding the local shopping areas, locating the chapel on post, and just figuring out how to get from Point A to Point B. But I still think I can squeeze in a simple resolution. This month I'm going to get Pete a new bed and transition him into it. Usually, I just get a real twin size bed when it's time for the baby to give up the crib, but his room will still need to fit the crib for the new addition. A regular bed will take up too much room, so I think a toddler bed will be best. There's no way I'd buy a new one, especially since I see them for sale used all the time. I'll have to be patient, and maybe do a little extra leg work - possibly even go out early on a sultry Saturday morning and hit some yard sales. Or I'll just pray that the thrift shop on post had a nice one donated and I'm the lucky first person to spot it.
That's it for me. Have you got a new month's resolution? Nothing too challenging - it's summer break after all. Let me know!
This month will be busy enough with traveling and unpacking, finding the local shopping areas, locating the chapel on post, and just figuring out how to get from Point A to Point B. But I still think I can squeeze in a simple resolution. This month I'm going to get Pete a new bed and transition him into it. Usually, I just get a real twin size bed when it's time for the baby to give up the crib, but his room will still need to fit the crib for the new addition. A regular bed will take up too much room, so I think a toddler bed will be best. There's no way I'd buy a new one, especially since I see them for sale used all the time. I'll have to be patient, and maybe do a little extra leg work - possibly even go out early on a sultry Saturday morning and hit some yard sales. Or I'll just pray that the thrift shop on post had a nice one donated and I'm the lucky first person to spot it.
That's it for me. Have you got a new month's resolution? Nothing too challenging - it's summer break after all. Let me know!
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