Natalie sat quietly, eating popcorn and watching snow fall. "Mommy, just like snowflakes, every piece of popcorn is unique."
Huh. She's right. I'd never thought of popcorn that way.
(A while ago, I read a news story about popcorn. Kernels pop into one of two shapes: "butterfly" or "snowflake" popcorn looks like cumulus clouds. "Mushroom" popcorn is more compact and round. Now you know.)
© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana
Risky Business
Snow Texas Morning
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"Well, french fries are made from tortillas, so . . . " my little girl who was born in Texas professed over dinner.
"Tortillas? French fries are made from potatoes, love, not tortillas."
"What?!" Mind: Blown. "All these years, I thought they were from tortillas."
All these years. All seven of 'em.
© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana
A Refined Palate
Risky Business
Old Soul
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I'm not feeling well and asked Connor and Natalie to treat me gently this afternoon.
"Why don't you feel well?" Connor asked.
"My head aches. My joints hurt. My eyes hurt. I'm tired."
"It sounds like 'Arthur eye dis,'" Dr. Natalie professed.
"How do you know about arthritis?" Has she been reading medical journals?
"Well, not much. Just that old people have it, and it makes their backs hurt."
😐
"I don't think that's it," Connor countered. "For one, Mommy didn't say anything about her back hurting."
What? Not a word about the "old people" part, buddy?
"I think Mommy is just Seriously Wrong," he decided.
I, for one, hope that Seriously Wrong is curable.
© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana
Scrumbles
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Natalie burst into my bedroom, interrupting the sleep that had played hide and seek with me all through the night. "Mommy! Mommy! Your eggs are getting old! They're drying out!"
If I hadn't already had all the children that I would like to have, I might have been offended. Hmph.
Those eggs? Scramble chicken eggs that Jim and Natalie made for breakfast an hour or so earlier. My share waited for me (not so patiently) in the oven, whose heat could very well dry them out.
© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana
Burn One. Take It Through the Garden. Pin a Rose On It.
Half Breakfast, Half Lunch
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We scattered grass seed on our lawn a few weeks ago after rainwater gushing from the gutters obliterated the grass just below the downspouts.
Yesterday, Natalie gasped and stopped in her tracks as she ambled up the driveway. "Look!" she said, crouching down and peering at grass stubble pushing its way through the soil. "New life has begun!"
Hello In There!
Karma-Karma-Karma-Chameleon
Timber
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Bruce Springstein's "I'm On Fire" cycled through a Pandora station while Connor, Natalie, and I mucked about at home. Later that evening, Natalie, who has a bit of a head cold, said, "Mommy, I feel like I have a 'freight train running through the middle of my head.'"
Thank you, Bruce, for the borrowed lyrics.
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Natalie backtracked on her way through the kitchen, stopped at the coffeemaker and inhaled, eyes closed, grinning contentedly. "I love coffee smell!" she cooed. "It's so organic!"
Mark your calendars, y'all—and hire a band, rent a hall! Tomorrow is National Grammar Day. Check back here to see my Grammar Day post. (Need enticement? I talk bubbles, ice cream, seafarers, and Calvin and Hobbes. Can a blog post get much better than that? I submit it cannot.)
As giddy with anticipation as a child on Christmas Eve? See my 2013 National Grammar Day post, "The Talk" here.
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Jim was out of town for work. Natalie, Connor, and I were miles from home after an early evening appointment. The thought of making dinner at this late hour made my mind feel like a melting-down toddler's body: All dead weight. I did not want to make dinner.
Salvation stood nearby: Our local 24/7 pancake house. When it comes down to breakfast for dinner, I'm not sure who likes it more: Me or Connor and Natalie.
We slid into a booth, and Connor read the menu. "Hmm. Kids eat free."
He pondered for half a moment and then said, "No, thank you. I'd rather pay to eat. I'm worth something."
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Summer is letting go reluctantly. We have had a few cool crisp days of autumn mixed in with soupy, balmy days. Mosquitoes linger.
Natalie swatted at one that buzzed too close and muttered, "Those blood rascals!"
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"Well, it's that time of year again," Connor said to no one in particular as we make our way over undulating roads, past horse farms with mist rising off ponds, slowing as we pass through a small town that seems to consist of only a small market and gas station, a green-gabled house complete with porch, and a church.
"What time is that?" I ask.
"The same time as last year."
logical deduction
the air out there
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I might have driven over a curb today while parking. Without missing a beat, Connor said, "Looks like someone forgot to place the 'Student Driver' sign on top of the car today."
up against the curb
dinner conversation
bonked. crunched. and leaking.
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Natalie washes her hair as if she is scouring a burned-on-grease pan. The result: matted hair and lots and lots of yowling and complaining. We put an end to that nonsense, buying spray-on detangler.
The detangler promises no tears and no knots, and it smells like pear. I spritzed Natalie's hair that first night, and, "Mmm. Smells good," she sniffed. And then, "At least someone smells like wine in this house."
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"Connor, do you have any homework?"
"Never on Fridays. Who knows what could happen in two days. Too risky."
The Linneys: Living Weekends on the Edge
a pioneer woman, I am not
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We ventured out to a Civil War battlefield to walk off lunch and overdose on fresh air and sunshine. It had rained heavily a few days earlier and puddles still pocked parts of the trail.
Natalie, wearing her rainboots, tromped into the mud puddles, hiking up her knee-length skirt needlessly. (The puddles weren't quite so deep, and her skirt wasn't quite so long.) Connor found himself a nice walking stick, so, of course, Natalie needed one, too.
She thought she'd found one and then another and another, but they were either too thorny, too short, or too gnarled. I spotted a perfect walking stick in waiting that rested just partly in a mud puddle. That could be the end on the ground, I'd figured.
Natalie rejected it outright. "I'm adventurous, Mommy," she explained, "but I'm not messy."
Duly noted. (Pants on fire! Pants on fire!)
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"Oo. Can I have some?" Natalie asked, making eyes at my peach daiquiri.
"Nope, sorry, little lady. It's a grownup drink. It has alcohol in it." And it's mine, all mine.
"When can I have grownup drinks with alcohol?"
"Oh, when you're 21 . . . 24. Maybe 30." The older, the better, is my thinking.
Natalie walked off. "I just can't wait to have wine and alcohol," she sing-songed.
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Natalie watched intently as a robin hip-hopped around the front yard. "What is he doing?" she asked as the bird stopped and tilted its head from side to side.
"He's looking for worms."
Right on cue, the robin yanked a worm from the ground.
"Oh, my gosh," Natalie said, stunned. "I have never seen such a vicious hunter."
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Natalie will attend kindergarten in September. She's had her backpack stocked and ready to go since last October. She knows which dress she will wear. She has decided that she'll ride the bus with Connor, share a seat with him, and will sit nearest the window.
Natalie has a little more maturing to do before she is truly kindergarten ready, from taming her temper to using the bathroom when she needs to, not when she desperately needs to. Jim and I reminded her of this all at dinner one night, ending with, " . . . and you do want to go to kindergarten in the fall, right?"
Natalie looked at Jim so earnestly, those big blue eyes bright and wide, and said, "Oh, I want to go so hardly."
So damn sweet.
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We joined friends for brunch, where the grownups ordered mimosas and bloody Marys and the little ones, apple juice and milk and orange juice. When the waiter looked at Connor for his drink order, Connor—who had dressed in jeans, a white button down, a black blazer, and Converse hightops—said, "Green tea, please."
I think we all made the same "Uh. Hmm." face and nodded in approval.
Connor came in from the snow last week, red of cheeks and so very cold, and sat down with a cup of green tea. "Ah," he said after the first sip. "That is the taste of delight."
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Jim and I were going out to dinner, and I needed to get dressed. Natalie marched into my closet unsolicited and rifled through the clothing, the wooden hangers knocking against each other.
"No. No. No. Hmm, no. No. Oh, no. No," she said.
"What's wrong with my clothing?" She swept right past some of my favorite getups, the ones that I make sure are laundered or back from the dry cleaner when I have an upcoming event on my dance card.
"Where are your dresses?" she asked, ignoring me. "When you go out on a date, you need to wear a dress."
"How do you know this?" I didn't even know that she knew the word "date."
Natalie dug deeper into the closet and explained, "I'm a specialist."
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Connor asked about a newspaper article that Jim was reading.
Jim explained that it was about three brothers from Arkansas, two of whom lost their lives in Afghanistan. Connor thought a moment.
Then: "It's like all those years the parents spent raising those boys were wasted." And then: "Well, maybe not. They did serve the country in the military after all."
Such an old soul.
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I showed Natalie an area of mulch where I think bunnies burrow.
"In there?" she asked, incredulous. "That spot?"
"I think so."
Natalie took two steps back, knelt down on all fours, and knocked on the ground. "Hello? Bunnies? I'm Natalie. Hello in there!"
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Natalie and stores do not mix. Example numero uno: She is two. Hear her roar. Natalie and craft stores really, really don't mix. Example numero dos: Bartender, A Cup of Cheer, Please.
She and I were at yet another craft store last week looking for items for Connor's school project. Connor's school mascot: cheetah. The most prevalent animal print in craft stores: leopard. Why is that? The patterns are close, but both Natalie and Connor know the difference between cheetah and leopard patterns. I could never get away with passing off leopard print as cheetah print. Never.
Just the same, I held leopard-patterned self-adhesive letters, wondering if I could get away using them for Connor's poster, when Natalie gasped and cried, "Ooooo!" Then, the sobbing began. "Oh! That paper just cut my thumb! I'm bleeding!" And then realization struck: "It's my sucky thumb! The thumb I suck! I need my sucky thumb to survive!"
I wrapped a tissue around the thumb—I always have a tissue in my pocket. Every pocket. If I don't have pockets, check my sleeves—set down the leopard letters and let Natalie's howl clear a path for us as we walked out of the store. If ever Natalie needs a motto, "Fear amputation at the infliction of a papercut," is a strong contender.
I tucked Natalie into the car, and she continued to sob about her thumb and her survival. And then, then she put two and two together and came up with 22: "Daddy wants me to stop sucking my thumb because I'm five now, but I need my thumb for survival! He's pushing me toward death! Why does he want me to die?!"
The papercut is on the mend. Natalie has made it through the past 36 hours, no demise in sight.
she is two. hear her roar.
bartender, a cup of cheer, please
the heartthrob of the paint and crayon mob
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Is this thing on?
It's been a while. I've been busy aging and taking care of Trouser, who has fallen ill again, and helping with a certain second-grader's homework.
But that's neither here nor there.
Actually.
Wait.
It is here. All here.
The aging: Hello, scary new decade.
The Trouser: We have a diagnosis now. Trouser has megaesophagus, which means peristalsis fails to occur, food pools in her esophagus, never quite making it to her stomach, and she is prone to recurring aspiration pneumonia.
And the homework, oh, the homework. It—like time—is aging me far too rapidly.
I wandered downstairs one day last week after a too-short night's sleep and heard Natalie hollering, "Lies. Lies! LIES!" I half expected to round the corner and find her wearing a corset, a petticoat, and a velvet gown with puff sleeves, enacting a Shakespeare play.
But, no.
There she stood in the living room, hair messy from sleep and wearing her "sleep dress," which, in our house, is simply a dress that I bought for Natalie to wear during the day that she insists on wearing only at night. Call it a "nightgown," and Natalie will correct you and call it a "sleep dress."
"Lies. Lies! LIES!" she continued.
"What are you doing, Natalie?"
She turns to me, annoyed. "I'm trying to get Liza's attention, but she's ignoring me."
"But why are you yelling about lies?"
"I'm not yelling about lies," she looks at me, half mystified, half annoyed. "I'm calling Liza. I've given her a nickname: Lies."
"Oh. She mustn't know that it is her nickname. Try callng her 'Liza' or 'Liza Bean' or 'Liza Jane.' One of those should work."
She ignores my suggestion. "Lies, let's go see Trouse," Natalie says, patting her thigh to get Liza to follow. Liza stays put.
I tried.
full circle
hippity-hop
long name short
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Natalie and I took a walk with Liza while Trouser napped. Before we headed out, Natalie fastened a cloth napkin around Liza's neck, bandanna-style.
She galloped ahead with Liza, then turned and said, "Liza has a good spirit in her heart, Mama."
sunshine girl
a girl and her dog
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"Oo!" Natalie shrieked when a squirrel darted across her path on the bike trail. "That gave me a fright!"
Gave me a fright. I love it.
a boo!
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The table runner has gone missing, and so, mysteriously enough, has Natalie.
Dun-dun-dun.
I hear her trotting about upstairs, clomping this way and that at a frantic pace. (The child might love all things delicate, but "delicate" does not describe her footfall. Think Clydesdales wearing Irish jig shoes on hardwood floors.)
"What're you doing, Natalie?" I hate to disturb her when she is engrossed in play, but something was afoot. So to speak.
"I can't tell you!" she calls back, a dead giveaway that I sure as heck better go find out.
I kick off my shoes and walk upstairs with quiet, sock-clad feet. There, I find this:
"What've you got going on here?" I shush the side of me that groaned, "Oh, come on. The table runner? I just got it back from the dry cleaner."
"All princesses need red carpets to lead them into their castles," Natalie explains.
architectural marvels
because even princesses take swim lessons
the royal flush
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Twelve years ago this past Wednesday, Trouser sat with me on my porch swing after I saw American Airlines Flight 77 plow into the Pentagon.
On Wednesday, I sat with Trouser and held her paw, pretty much all day, while her vet tried to figure out what is wrong with my sweet old girl.
Trouser—who usually stirs after the urchins and I have finished breakfast—wouldn't budge from her bed that morning. I poured food into Liza and Trouser's bowls, which tends to light a fire under Trouser's bottom, but nothing. I wiggled my toes under her. (The girl dislikes feet intensely, so, usually, such an egregious act would send her bolting from bed.) No response.
Maybe Jim had let her out before he left for work.
I needed to get Connor to the bus stop and figured that Trouser might make her way from bed by the time Natalie and I returned.
Connor boarded his bus. Natalie and I returned home. Trouser was neither up nor about. I served her breakfast in bed. She turned her face from the bowl. I presented a heaping spoonful of peanut butter, expected an "Am I dreaming?!" response. Trouser turned away again. Her eyes looked vacant, dull.
I sent Jim another text and called the vet.
When it came time to make our way to the vet, things got real: Trouser couldn't stand. She'll be 13 years old on October 31, so she's been on the decline for some time, but this overnight change was devastating. I tried to lift her backside, thinking that she just needed support. She collapsed.
Trouser's bed is in the far back corner of the house: Too far for me to carry her to the front door and out to the driveway. I did the only thing I could think to do: I scooted her on her bed, across the living room, down a hallway past the bathroom and office, to the front door. Trouser does not stand for anyone to scoot her anywhere. She stayed put the entire time.
I called Jim and told him through tears that he needed to come home, now.
Somehow—I don't remember how—I got Trouser out to the truck. A neighbor helped get her in, and I drove the short distance to the vet.
Natalie insisted on walking Trouser into the vet, and Trouser rallied the energy to do so, but once we were inside, she collapsed on the entry mat. I cried again as I tried to tell the receptionist that Trouser couldn't stand to walk over to the scale. A vet tech carried Trouser over. She'd lost 5 pounds since July.
In the exam room, Trouser, who often pants excessively when she's anxious, just melted to the floor. She tolerated the thermometer with nary a pucker. (She had a 106° fever.) She slept through the rest of the exam.
The vet mentioned possible canine influenza, cancer, pneumonia, Addison's disease, thyroid issues. She and a vet tech took Trouser to another room for bloodwork and X-rays.
Natalie, who had been coloring and drawing this whole time, spoke up once the vet left the room. "You know, Mommy, maybe Trouser went outside and some heartworms latched onto her low-hanging fur and, now, the heartworms are living in her heart, draining all of the life out of Trouser." Heartbreaking.
Quite some time later, the vet led Natalie and me into the X-ray room. Trouser lay eerily still on the table. Two techs stood by, somber. I glanced at the X-rays on a monitor, and, noticing a big, dark spot, I braced myself.
That dark spot turned out to be Trouser's heart, which, the vet said, wasn't enlarged at all, but unexpectedly small. "The heart can decrease in size when the body goes into shock," she said. (When she reviewed X-rays that Trouser's vet in Texas sent, we learned that Trouser's heart may have always been that size.) The X-rays showed no evidence of cancer, but possible pneumonia or changes to the lung lobes.
The doctor set us up in a quiet room, which I suspect is where the clinic lets families gather around pets facing euthanasia. The room had a comfy chair, a couch, and two pet beds. She spoke vaguely about end-of-life options, tearing up when she said that if Trouser's condition didn't turn around in the next 24 to 36 hours, we should expect her to deteriorate rapidly and be prepared to say goodbye.
A tech gave Trouser an antibiotic injection, a Vitamin B12 injection, fluids subcutaneously, and Pepcid AC. Trouser slept while we waited for the bloodwork results.
The results came back normal, save the eosinophils count, which was low.
(Low EOS count, it seems, can be due to alcohol intoxication—Trouser? Need to confess something?—or overproduction of steroids.) The vet wasn't too concerned about it. After some discussion of various scenarios and treatment, Jim carried Trouser to the truck, and home we went, with no diagnosis; a lethargic, listless Trouser; and the thought that, if she doesn't improve soon, this is it.
Jim slept in the living room near Trouser that night to keep a close watch on her. She vomited twice early in the morning.
Later that morning, Trouser slept soundly while Natalie, Connor, and I went about our morning activities. Just before we left the house for the bus stop, Connor hugged me and confided, "When I woke up this morning, I went downstairs to sit with Trouser. I petted her fur and cried."
Trouser has been there for Connor from Day One.
Once Connor was off and on his way, Natalie and I returned home, lifted Trouser, and took her outside. Her limbs were like Jell-O: Wobbly. Unsteady. We gave her broth and her meds, and then, we hoped for the best and ran two errands that we hadn't been able to do on Wednesday.
When we returned home, Trouser was not on her bed. She had managed to haul herself off her bed—wobbly bones and all—and across the living room to lie down near the couch.
We gave her love and whispered sweet nothings and fed her broth. Each time she had licked the bowl clean, she looked at me for more broth, and, when she'd finished her last serving, she heaved herself up, walked to her food bowl, and looked at me as if to say, "Breakfast? You haven't stopped serving it for the day, have you, hon?" I brought her a bowl of rice, and she downed it all. Victory.
Outside, we girls—Trouser included—mustered smiles. Our sweet old girl was perking up.
Then, it was back inside for a little Animal Planet and another nap.
I stepped out at one point to get the mail and returned to this smiling face:
The smile turned sour when Liza sidled up and smooched her big sister.
(Liza has been envious of the broth and rice and Gerber Stage 2 baby food that Trouser has been eating. We've had to remind her more than once: "Remember the centipede that bit you in August? Remember the full-body rash? The all-over swelling? The pills that we tucked into peanut butter for you? The Benadryl? The anitibiotic? The steroids?"
She gets over it until the next go 'round.)
So, long story, short—it's about time for that, no?—Trouser has some mysterious illness. She has light in her eyes again, and, today, she wagged her tail. She has trouble standing and walking, and her collar dangles loosely from her neck.
She and Liza are back to their conspiring ways:
(Winner of the caption contest that I held in my mind for this photo: "It was the goldens in the library with the one-legged, destuffed rooster toy." (I was the sole entrant. And the sole judge, so it was, admittedly, tipped in my favor. I tried.)
Things are looking up, if only for a little while.
These last two days, when we have walked Trouser out to the front yard, she takes care of business and then she just sits for 30 or 40 minutes and watches and listens, soaking in all the world. The breeze. The rustling dry leaves. The cicadas. The neighbors walking and biking and skateboarding. People driving home from work. The birds.
Trouser used to love to sit on our balcony and spy on the neighbors when she was a pup. Life, I suppose, has a way of coming full circle.
I miss this girl:
sweet old girl
the tail end
fresh ink: sweet old girl
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"No, thank you, Connor," Natalie said, fending off her brother. The glint in his eye told her that he was ready for some rough-and-tumble play. "I'm not a rough girl. I'm a sweet thing, a diamond."
That's new.
hint of a good day
no herbivore
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Natalie: "Connor? I'll miss you when you go to school."
Connor: "I go to school late in the morning—and you have ballet class today, so, hopefully, that will keep you busy."
Natalie: "I'll still miss you."
Connor: "OK. Thank you."
Natalie: "You're welcome."
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Connor zoomed past as we returned from a bicycle ride.
"How'd you get all muddy?" I asked, noticing a spray of mud on his back.
I knew full well that Connor had ridden through mud puddles: The wanna-be forensic detective in me could easily tell that the mud spatter on his shirt had sprayed up from his back bicycle tire.
"Oh, a boy never knows," he bluffed.
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The urchins, pups, and I set out for a walk/bicycle ride around the neighborhood, and so began our series of inspired follies.
Hummingbird-sized bumble bees flew too close. (Oh, my.) A bicycle toppled over. (Yowch.) Two golden retrievers mistook me for a maypole and forced me to do that awkward twirly-whirly "Why, yes, I am wrapped up in dog leashes" dance right there on the sidewalk. (Oh, brother.)
But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
I heard it before I saw it, and somehow knew that it was headed to our house: The FedEx truck.
"Sit. Stay," I told Natalie and Connor, and I raced back toward the house with Trouser and Liza in tow to sign for the package: a box containing 15 bottles of red, red wine.
Natalie disobeyed my "sit, stay" command and decided to pedal toward the house. I heard her wail just as I greeted the deliveryman and turned to see Natalie—who seemed to have made too tight a U-turn—splayed on the sidewalk, entangled in her bicycle. Connor stood nearby, concerned, but with his arms in the air as if to say, "I don't know what she was thinking" and "How was I to know?"
Natalie lived to hear Connor tell the tale at dinner that night: " . . . and then, Mommy raced toward the FX truck," he said.
"The FX truck?" Jim furrowed his brow.
"Yes, you know, the delivery truck?"
"FedEx," I said.
"Fad Ax," my boy with the country accent tried again.
"FedEx."
"Fat Ass."
"Uh, nope. FedEx."
"FedEx?"
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So, we've up and moved from Texas and have been battling sugar ants in our new digs.
"Mama," Natalie tsk-tsked as I set down ant bait, "you shouldn't worry about sugar ants. They're not like fire ants: Sugar ants don't bite. That's why they're called sugar ants. They're sweet."
I'm not buying it.
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Natalie lobbied tirelessly at the neighborhood pool to use the 18-inch-deep toddler pool when a larger pool—complete with a fountain and 54 more inches of pool depth—sat steps from us.
"That pool is for smaller children, Natalie," I explained. "The sign on the gate says so."
"I'll take you over there," Connor offered, trying to rescue me from Natalie.
"It's not that I don't want to go over there, Connor love, it's that the pool is meant for younger kids, toddlers."
Natalie finally gave up the argument: "It's for small-year-olds, Connor, not tall-year-olds."
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"Mama," Connor said as I drove him to golf camp, "we should buy you a fancier car because you're a fancy lady."
My, my.
"See, like that SUV over there," he pointed to a newer model of my vehicle. "Its grill is shiny, not like ours. Ours is, I don't know, chicken wire or something."
It is so not chicken wire.
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I'm up to my elbows cleaning the bathroom, wishing I were doing anything but cleaning the bathroom, when Connor saunters in and says, "It would be my pleasure to help you. What can I clean?"
I set up my little love with paper towels and glass cleaner, a step stool and the shower door and windows.
A picture Connor drew of himself, as a spy, on the steamy shower door.
with a shield and a sword and flannel pajamas
oh no, the pleasure is all mine
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"Ah, spring," Connor sighed. "She's a beautiful thing."
mother nature's child
hocus crocus
hush, little birdie, don't say a word
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We've been lolling about in spring- and summertime temps here in north Texas, but Mother Nature relegated us back to winter today. We're talking grey skies, blustery winds, and rain.
Connor—that old soul of mine—arrived home from school and fixed himself a cup of hot tea. He settled into a chair and sighed, "Tea. It's a glorious thing."
It is that.
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Natalie told me this morning as I brought her to school that she would miss my company. "But, you know," she said, "we will always be in each other's heart."
Sweet words from a firecracker of a girl.
sweet to my heart
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Natalie names all of her toy animals and—most impressive—remembers who is who. I, however, need cheat sheets. See Exhibits A, B, C, and D, below.
Still with me?
I asked Natalie while we played this week, "What is the dairy cow's name?"
And she said—wait for it . . . wait for it—"Milk Chamber."
Perfection.
hello, my name is _____
all amped up
you know what a drugstore cowboy is, right?
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Connor read a book aloud tonight called The Elves and the Shoemaker. It begins, "Once there was a poor shoemaker."
And there—just one measly sentence into the story—Connor interrupts himself, asking, "How poor? Living-on-the-streets poor? How much money do they have? Do they save money, put any aside? Do they have a lot of bills? Maybe they are almost-living-on-the-streets poor. Why are they poor? They are selling shoes, for goodness sake."
Jim and I purchased new running shoes for Connor last weekend. Kid knows that shoes don't come cheap.
"Let's keep reading to see if we find out," I prod him along.
The shoemaker works late into the night making shoes from leather. "'The night was cold,'" Connor reads. "'A fierce wind howled. It made the little house shake. It made the windows rattle.'"
"They need to make a more sturdy house before they make any more shoes, that's what they need to do," my scholar of The Three Little Pigs lectures.
"'The shoemaker's wife took the last bit of flour. She used it to bake some bread,'" Connor continues.
"Why bread?" he asks, appalled. "Why not pie? It's much tastier."
"It's tough to make pie if you have no fruit for the filling," I tell him. "They just had flour and water and maybe some other basics. They could make only bread."
The shoemaker wakes the next day and discovers that a piece of leather that he had left out the night before has been made into a pair of shoes. "'He sold the shoes that very day!'" Connor reads.
"For how much?" he ponders. "Twenty dollars? Fifty? Seventy?" He practically demands a proper accounting of the money taken in.
"It doesn't say, love. Let's keep reading."
"'So it went all winter,'" Connor reads. The shoemaker makes shoes, he leaves out leather at night, claiming that he is just too darn tired, and he wakes the next day to find shoes that he hadn't made. "'Before long,'" the story goes, "'the poor shoemaker was rich.'"
"But not happy," Connor notes, poking his finger at the book. "Just look at his wife. She looks miserable." She does. It turns out that the shoemaker's wife, for one, has finally begun to wonder just who is sneaking into the house to make shoes in the middle of the night. "Are we in danger?" she asks.
"Oh, you are," Connor adds. "It's an intruder. An intruder, I say!"
I bring the Connor Drama down a notch and encourage him to finish the story. The shoemaker and his wife soon discover that elves have been sneaking in the house to keep warm. They busy themselves with some freelance cobbling.
"'The poor things!' said the shoemaker,'" Connor reads. "'It's a very cold night. Their clothes are so thin!'"
Connor interrupts himself yet again: "Their clothes really are very thin. Those elves should wear coats and gloves to keep from getting hypothermia. Did you know that you can test yourself? If you're cold, try touching your pinky finger to the thumb on the same hand. If you can't do that—BOOM—hypothermia, creeping in."
Duly noted.
The shoemaker and his wife make boots, coats, and hats for the elves, and, that night, the elves discover the clothing, slip into them, and sing, "'Fiddle-dee-dum. Fiddle-dee-day. We won't work. We'll go and play!'"
"Well, that backfired—big time," Connor says. "The shoemaker didn't see that coming."
But the shoemaker and his wife are content, having helped the elves that had helped them.
And that is a very thorough storytime with the very thorough Connor. The end.
I'm exhausted.
under the cork tree
a book by its cover
finally. an answer to that age-old question
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When Natalie doesn't know the answer to a question—or when she just doesn't feel like talking, which, for the record, rarely happens—she whispers, "I can't tell you. It's a secret. Shh."
As far as copouts go, that's a darn good one.
gulp
no need to mince words
them's fighting words
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"Please, Connor, please? Please play 'Mannequin and Natalie the Horse' with me. Please?" Natalie misses her brother when he is at school and, most days, their reunion can't take place soon enough for her.
"Natalie," Connor sighed. He needs more time for reentry than Natalie gives him and had already had his fill of make-believe play: The two had spent a good 45 minutes playing with the ice-blue Matchbox car that they call "Mannequin" and the brown toy horse that they call "Natalie the Horse." (Not "Natalie." Not "Horse." "Natalie the Horse.")
"Please, Connor. Please," Natalie pleaded. "I'll be your best friend."
Connor tsked. "You already are my best friend, Natalie."
How the discussion ended, I don't know. My eyes had sprung a leak. I needed a tissue.
the lady approves
so love
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"Mommy? Can you get Chip for me?" Natalie asked just as I sat down, mug of chai tea latte in hand. Chip is a stuffed animal—a golden retriever—whose nose looks an awful lot like a chocolate chip.
I sighed. At times I think that my children suppose that I prefer standing over sitting: The moment that my lap appears, all sorts of requests and needs and "Quick! It's an emergencies" come flying at me.
Connor noticed my shoulders slump and said, "It's OK, Mommy. I'll get Chip."
"Oh, it's OK, love." Connor wore no socks and no shoes. "Chip is in the truck. Your feet will get cold and dusty in the garage."
Connor waved me off as he made tracks for the garage. "I would be willing to soil my feet for such a lovely, glamorous lady," my seven-year-old knight in plaid flannel pajamas protested.
And so, he did.
oh, no. the pleasure is all mine
a pioneer woman, I am not
same chair, different derriére
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Natalie scuttled off to the bathroom. Moments later, I heard her chatting it up. The child can make dolls of anything: hairclips, tubes of toothpaste, toothbrushes, hairbrushes, her fingers. Maybe she was making a family of toiletries. And then I thought that perhaps Liza, who has no sense of personal space whatsoever
might have nosed her way into the bathroom to stare, just stare, at Natalie. It's happened before.
I was just about to investigate when I heard Natalie say, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair." And then I heard the thump-thump-thump-thump of the toilet-paper roll unraveling and unraveling and unraveling.
Little girl had imagined 70 inches of toilet paper as 70 feet of Rapunzel's magical golden tresses. Love me some imagination.
I know some physics-minded readers who might like this: Phary Tale Physics.
omniscient mama
swooped off my feet
and down it goes
darn it, newton
I make things
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I listened overheard eavesdropped as Natalie and Connor played together, wrapped up in their imaginary world.
"My boyfriend said that I can't cheerlead for you at today's football game," Nataile told Connor. She was all gussied up in a cheerleading outfit and had placed, at last count, 17,329 hairclips in her hair, strategically, of course.
"Well," Connor said in his calm, voice-of-reason way, "maybe he's just not that good of a boyfriend."
Cha-ching!
our little voice of reason
the guilty shall remain nameless
it's mine. all mine.
shell game
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I brought a cup of ice water with me on Monday when I picked up Natalie from school. Little Miss Go GO GO! is always thristy during the ride home.
She drank half of the water, and we left the rest in the vehicle during our several-times-daily stumble-drop-tumble-trip routine from the vehicle into the house.
Natalie caught sight of the cup of water this morning while we drove to meet Connor for lunch at his school. "My water!" she gasped with the exuburance of someone who has found a long-lost heirloom. "Hmm. But the ice is gone. Did the ice turn into water?"
"It sure did."
"That's because, when water freezes, it turns into ice. Magic."
"It is that," I agreed, half wishing that I thought still that such everyday occurrences were magic. "Do you know what water turns into when it gets very, very hot?"
"Coffee!"
Steamy coffee. Ding ding ding.
the mocha in my mocha
priorities
when enough is enough
heartstrings now being tugged in terminal a
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Glitter coated the Mr. last night. I think that he may never, ever purchase glittery wrapping paper again. Today, he's accessorized with snowflakes. We're in the midst of our second white Christmas here in Texas.
Let's slip-slide off on a seasonal tangent for a moment: Did you know that the word "mistletoe" comes from the term "dung on a twig"? (True story. Look under "ecological importance" here.) I stumbled upon that little nugget, so to speak, while doing a little mistletoe research yesterday for Connor and Natalie. Perfect cocktail-party conversation. You can thank me later.
And back on course: Yesterday marked 12 years since I brought little potbellied Trouser home. The delicate little creature that she is, Trouser trembled uncontrollably and became quite car sick that day during the drive from Richmond, Virginia, to my home in Alexandria, Virginia, and threw up in my coat pocket. I tucked my hand into that very coat pocket later that morning. And so began our tight bond.
Heavy rain, thunder, and lightning—not groggy-eyed little urchins—awoke us all way too early this morning, and so, today, Trouser is the creature who is not stirring. Sleepy girl.
Last night, Natalie just couldn't feel the holiday cheer. "My nose is just too snuffly," she explained through sniffles of her stuffy little nose.
She perked up some this morning.
This year, when Jim and I set out for gifts, I suggested, "Think like a banana: Self-contained. Easy to clean up." I'd like to think that we succeeded.
And alas, my fingers are chilly and (un)comfortably numb. Must clasp them around a mug of something warm. Thinking of you, Newtown, Connecticut.
white christmas
tick tock, little elf. tick tock.
santa claus is coming to town? our town? hide me.
bartender, a cup of cheer, please
rudolph bucks up
sweet old girl
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"You're not yawning, little love, are you?" I asked, looking in the rearview mirror at a sleepy Natalie.
"Oh, no," she said, not fooling me at all. "I'm just gulping air."
texas moose
hitting the hay
foiled
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