Eat, Read, and Be Mommy

One of my friends from college is a middle school librarian in Texas now, and while I don’t have the time to read ALL of the books she recommends on her blog, I do try and hit a few.  (She introduced me to Harry Potter back in the day, a few months before Goblet of Fire came out.  I trust her book judgement!) After reading her review of Maya Van Wagenen’s Popular:  Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek, I put it on hold at the library; I’ve renewed it multiple times since then, but it finally worked its way to the top of my list.

The premise is impressive, really.  Maya Van Wagenen was living in Texas when she discovered a teen popularity guide from the 1950s hanging around her house.  She decides to try its advice for a year, recording the results.  (Since this meant–among other things–following fashion advice from the 50s, it took considerable courage.)  Maya has both highs and lows, but she sticks with it, and the result is a book that in NO way screams “written by a 15-year-old.”  I found myself comparing it to middle grade novels told in the first person, actually.

That fact that it’s a good book, however, is not the reason I wish I’d read this in junior high. Instead, it’s the conclusion she ultimately draws about the nature of popularity that would have benefited me.  Her findings surprise her, but she has the maturity to take the lesson she learns and apply it in a fabulous way, making the conclusion of her experiment a delightful one.  I wish I had known at 11 what she discovered while wearing pearls to school; if I had had the courage to act on it, I think my experiences in junior high and high school would have been a bit different than they were.

Sadly, my kitchen computer isn’t.  Yet.  My hubby very sweetly set me up with a laptop, but laptop keyboards are not so much my friends, which is why I haven’t been posting.  On the other hand, I do hate to return a book to the library before I get my review done, and Jim Gaffigan’s Dad Is Fat is due this week and not renewable.  And so I brave the laptop keyboard!

Dad Is Fat was actually a book club pick, and I’m glad–I didn’t actually know it existed, but I would be sorry to have missed it.  In it, Jim Gaffigan captures the ridiculous aspect of parenting; what makes me happy is that even as he does it, his love for his children and for his role as a father comes through.  Gaffigan jokes about being a clueless dad, but any man who takes all five of his (YOUNG) kids to the park by himself has mastered the basics.  (And let me be clear–that statement holds just as true for women.)  He loves his family and loves spending time with them, which is what makes his humor so enjoyable.  It’s not negative–it’s wry.  I about died at his bit about keeping toddlers awake once they reach the no-napping stage.  And the bit about the sunscreen (although most of my children have avoided my redhead skin).  And the–okay, you really ought to just read the book yourself.

Bottom line?  Jim Gaffigan isn’t perfect, but he’s funny as all get out–and the world needs more dads like him.

Not only did we not have power for over 5 hours today–which wreaked serious havoc with my laundry schedule–but when the power came back ON, my kitchen computer did not.  Which means, sadly, that my review of the Oreo meltaways is going to have to wait until it’s back, because prolonged typing on a laptop keyboard (my hubby set me up so I could cover the basics) is not my favorite thing.  Stay tuned for a progress report!

(By the way, I am beyond all grateful that this outage happened on such a randomly cool July day.  Sometimes the simple blessings are the ones we most desperately need.)

My mother lent me Janice Kapp Perry’s Songs From My Heart:  The Stories Behind the Songs years ago; I was intrigued by the idea, started it, but didn’t finish at the time.  I recently restarted it and read it through this time, but I have mixed feelings about the process.

Here’s the thing.  It’s absolutely an interesting book if you are at all familiar with her music (she is a well-known composer in my own faith, but much of her music is non-denominational and part of the wider Christian community), and I enjoyed it.  The background about her life was engrossing, and I loved learning just how many songs I love were composed by this down-to-earth, unassuming woman.  The bits about the songs I didn’t know, however, were less interesting than the bits about the songs I did.  Not NOT interesting, mind you.  Just not AS interesting.  Reading it through, though, meant that I was reading bit after bit after bit, and most of the songs I knew were in the first half of the book.  It would really be ideal as a reference book, or one to pick up on Sunday afternoons, but I’m not in a stage of life where that is going to happen enough to finish the book and return it to my mother sometime in the next decade.  Owning the book would be more conducive to the most enjoyable way to read it; on the other hand, it isn’t a book I’d use enough to purchase.  Hence, the reading it through–and the conclusion that less than ideal is, sometimes, unavoidable.

I was going to tell you about the Oreo Meltaways.  I was also going to read the last three pages of my current book and review that.  I find, however, that after the last three weeks of craziness, I haven’t anything left in me tonight.  The laundry alone has consumed me.

Glug.

Glug.

Yesterday, my only son (yes, the potty training one) turned three.  And while he is sometimes incredibly exasperating, he is also adorable, mischievous, intelligent, loving, and sweet.  His blue eyes are framed by long, beautifully curving dark eyelashes–a model would kill for those eyes–and he’s been telling me jokes since before he turned two.  He loves his blue Crocs–really, really loves them–and is delighted when we pass construction vehicles on the road.  He’s willing to play Barbies with his sisters (guess who gets to be Kristoff every time?), but he also gets them to play ‘Bob the Builder’ with him.  He gives me big hugs and kisses at bedtime, and he was so full of joy at his birthday presents that I almost cried happy tears (it was possibly the highlight of my week).  I love all of my children, and I am so very, very grateful to have them.  I am also grateful to be raising them in a free country.  I believe this nation has its flaws, but there is still much that is great here.

To my son–and to the United States of America–Happy Birthday!

Today I finally faced what I have been dreading with an all-consuming, unreasoning horror since the second half of 2012:  potty training.  Again.

It wasn’t so bad with my first, you see.  We switched to panties (cold turkey), and while we went through 10 pairs the first day, she woke up dry by the third.  (In a pull-up.  I don’t worry about kids sleeping in panties until they’ve woken up dry for a month or two.)  She had accidents, of course–including one truly awful one at Classic Fun Center when I was 8 months pregnant with her sister–but overall, there was decently rapid forward progression after the first day.

Then came her sister.  OH, the horror!  My second girlie hates new experiences on principle.  She’s also as stubborn as a Russian winter AND in possession of an inherited need for, um, a lot of fiber in her diet (so to speak); it was almost a year before I could really consider her potty trained. The accidents were awful, the frustration was beyond belief, and the thought of reliving the process was unbearable for a long, LONG time.

My son, however, will turn 3 tomorrow, and he’s begun removing his own diaper at diaper changes.  I’m running low on his size of diapers, and while I told myself I wouldn’t start until I was done with kindergarten pickup, and then I wouldn’t start until we were home from Idaho, I have finally run out of excuses.  His older sisters are doing a mini cheer camp with cousins, so today I bit the bullet and broke out the underwear.

(By the way, I lost count of how many times I started to say “panties” today and had to correct myself.  The hazards of starting a family with two girls in a row.)

Here’s the thing.  Almost nothing is as bad as the dread makes it out to be, and I knew that.  I was still pleasantly surprised, however, at how well he was doing by late afternoon.  We only went through 5 or 6 pairs of underwear, and I didn’t begrudge him his late afternoon realization that he could call attention to his dry underwear, squeeze out another teaspoon or two into the potty, and get another M&M.  (I was so proud of him for coming home from the neighbors with a quarter-sized wet spot on his underwear and then going a considerable amount in the potty I was happy to humor him, although I did suggest he wait a bit after his 4th trip in 10 minutes.)  We’ll be busy enough in the next few days that keeping up will be challenging, but the first day is over with, and that’s generally the worst.

We will survive.

Howdy, Folks–I’m back!  I opted to be prudent and not announce online that I was heading up to Idaho to visit family for a week or so; I meant to write an appropriately vague post on ‘taking time off to be with family,’ but we had a crazy week or two, and that didn’t  happen.  I’m sure my legions of faithful readers were desperately wondering where I was…

Anyway.  Since my parents had come into town for our daughter’s baby blessing (sort of like a christening), the kids and I drove back to Idaho with them.  My hubby drove up by himself several days later, since he could only take a couple of days off of work; in the meantime, however, my sister and two of her kids joined us at my parents’ house, making for a full house.   (As in, every bed was taken, and people were sleeping in more than one room on mattresses.   When my two-year-old woke up before everyone else, I settled him in the kitchen with our portable DVD player and a blanket.  He spent at least a half an hour watching Curious George at a barely-there decibel.)

Here’s the thing–if I do say so myself, we’re actually a pretty nice family.  Outspoken, yes, but we didn’t squabble, no one used all of the hot water, and we all pitched in (although my mother always works the longest hours, while my sister and I wonder how she stays on her feet).  Among other things, we managed to make three batches of our family’s favorite summer salad (which we devoured with a single-mindedness that probably terrified the in-laws).  It was eaten for breakfast, for lunch, and for late-night (and not-so-late-night) snacks.  If you’re not a fan of bright lemon, fresh parsley, and earthy cumin, stop now; if the combination appeals, keep reading.  You’ll thank me for it.

Guatemala–or Garbanzo Bean–Salad

2 cans Garbanzo beans, rinsed, drained, and shelled (if you haven’t the time to shell them, it’s still good, though)

2 large tomatoes, chopped

3/4 C minced fresh parsley

3 green onions, sliced thinly

1 C cubed cheddar cheese (medium or sharp, if you’re me)

Zest of a good-sized lemon

2/3 C fresh lemon juice (juice the lemon you zest, certainly, but you can top it off with the bottled stuff)

1/3 C olive oil

1/3 t pepper

2/3 t cumin

1/2 t salt

Optional–1 can of black olives, sliced (I generally leave them out, but I will happily eat it with them in.)

The directions are not complicated; you combine the ingredients and refrigerate for at LEAST two hours before serving.  (It will smell amazing instantly, but don’t be fooled.  You MUST wait.)  My sister can eat it for breakfast–she’s lactose intolerant and loves savory leftovers in the morning–but I have a harder time with the acidity first thing.  For lunch, though…mmmm.  (And for dinner, if you can swing it.  Serve it up with cornbread for a fabulous summer evening meal.)  It was a delight to be with like-minded people for a while, since only my oldest enjoys it with me at my house.

I came home tired–my baby has stopped sleeping through the night, which is less than ideal–but it was worth the time.  Nothing in this world is more important than family, and few things say family to me more than cooking and eating together.

I hope you get the chance to make–and eat–this with some of the important people in your life.

Mrs. Mumford was my 12th grade English teacher–a gracious, well-educated, lovely woman–and she taught me many things.  Because of her I still (usually) remember when to use the subjunctive tense; because of her I know the origin of the term “malapropism”; and because of her I know that  even Shakespeare, while amazing and (sometimes) hilarious, produced a dud–or so she assured me.  (One of these days I’m going to read “Titus Andronicus” for myself, but her judgement was generally impeccable.)  According to her, everyone does.

And while I certainly haven’t read a sample of EVERYONE’S work, I discovered just this week that (believe it or not!) Lois Lowry certainly has a dud.  Because I just read Autumn Street, and OH.  MY.  GOSH.

I actually googled her when I’d finished the book, wondering if it was her first novel, because one of the two biggest problems with it is just how many different plot lines are going on.  Unfortunately for her, it’s not nearly her first (although it’s certainly an earlier one); she doesn’t have that excuse.  The problem with Autumn Street, however, isn’t just how much it’s got going on–it’s WHAT is going on as well.  The book contains–in no particular order–the following:

1)Racial Tension.  It’s subtle, but it’s there, and it comes out of subtlety so that it can be a catalyst at the end.

2)A father fighting in WWII.  He eventually comes home, but with a prosthetic leg.

3)A love triangle.  It’s in the distant past, but it still comes up to affect how the narrator views her world.

4)A sociopath.

5)A psychopath.

6)A benign, dignified grandfather who suffers a stroke and can no longer speak.

7)Situations very pointedly affected by social and financial status.

8)A new baby in the family.

9)Mild sibling rivalry.

10)The deaths of two children.  (Under ten, no less!)  A third becomes dangerously ill with pneumonia.

I got to the end of the book and just thought–seriously?  And here’s the thing–it’s still Lois Lowry, and so it’s still powerfully written.  It still has incredibly poignant moments.  (For Pete’s sake, the woman wrote The Giver AND Number the Stars.  The WORLD knows she can write.)  I wanted to love this book.  Historical fiction about WWII?  East coast setting?  Coming of age themes (because yes, they’re there too!)?  This is generally a recipe for success for me.  At the end of the day, however, it was just too much.

A book narrated by a six-year-old can have a sociopath OR a psychopath.  I just don’t think it can–successfully–have both.

Ultimately, it’s a dud.  Right again, Mrs.  Mumford.

(If she were still alive, we’d go to lunch and talk about it.

I miss her.)