Eat, Read, and Be Mommy

I confess–I’ve never gotten terribly into the ‘pink for breast cancer awareness’ thing.  It’s not that I don’t know of people who’ve had it–because I do–and it’s not that I don’t care, it’s just that I’ve never really thought it mattered much.  Sports teams will do their ‘go pink’ thing and I’ve thought, once or twice, that ‘that’s nice,’ but the games on Facebook where you type a certain location or something–I’ve never seen the point.  This week, however, I’ve seen two different items online–one a picture, one a blog post–that have changed how I view those things.  Before, I didn’t really care much one way or the other; after all, I’m aware, I know I’m going to need to get mammograms at a certain age, but I figured maybe the pink did help, so that was nice.  Then, however, I saw an image on a high school friend’s FB page.  The woman in the picture had her entire chest taped over with pink tape, and on it and the message she was holding, it said to “SAVE THE WOMEN NOT THE BOOBIES.”  The message accompanying it was so good that I would have shared it myself, except that I couldn’t edit out the language.  I’m reproducing it here; I don’t love the milder language either, but it was the f-word (replaced here with asterisks, I confess) that kept me from sharing it on FB..

“This is honestly the best poster I have found in a while supporting breast cancer awareness. I am honestly so sick of seeing, “set the tatas free”. There is no reason in hell a life threatening, life ruining disease should be sexualized.  “Don’t wear a bra day,” go **** yourselves.  You’re not saving a pair of tits, you are saving the entire package, mind, body, soul included. Women are not just a pair of breasts. Pisses me off.  #sorrynotsorry”

I’d never really thought of it before, but suddenly the emphasis on the breast in breast cancer is really bothering me.  Colon cancer is possibly deadlier unless detected really, really early; what sort of awareness campaigns are we seeing about that?  Language or not, I found myself emphatically agreeing with Brittany Myers, whoever she is.  And while this was percolating in the back of my mind, someone else on my FB feed shared this blog post.

Suddenly the idea of the ‘no bra’ day morphed in my head from “That’s pointless and uncomfortable” to “Seriously?  How did I not see the underlying cruelty there”?  Because really, what else can you call it?  To promote awareness of people losing a body part that is often directly linked to a woman’s sexuality, let’s shove our healthy versions of that body part out there for everyone to see.  Let’s make sure we garner some sexual attention in the name of supporting those with breast cancer.  Let’s up their self-consciousness multiple notches and make sure they can’t miss the difference between them, the sufferers, and us, their so-called supporters.  I know that’s not actually the intent, but does it really matter when the result seems unavoidable?

I shared that blog post on my FB wall, and I really can’t stop wondering how I failed to see the whole issue in this light before.  One thing is for certain, though; that image and that message changed the way I look at breast cancer in our society.

You won’t see me going bra-less any time this century.

Between being pregnant tired and being sick lately, I feel like I’ve barely been keeping my head afloat; I’m also well aware that I’m grumpier, and I’ve been trying harder to keep my calm with the girlies for quite a while now.  (To be clear, I recognized just how grumpy I was getting weeks ago, and while I still snap, I’m trying harder to a) not to and b) come back down from snapping instead of escalating.)  What I hadn’t realized until last week was just how short I’ve been with my poor boy.  Some of that is due to the cessation of nap time–no midday break from an active two-year-old uses up anyone’s store of patience more quickly–but some of that is also me.  I finally realized just how prone to being impatient with him I’d become, and so I’ve been making an effort to be more positive, even when I truly can’t do what he wants me to do.

I have certainly felt better for the effort, and I hope he’s happier as well; on the one hand, he seems to be, but on the other hand,  he’s also slept later the last two days, which helps a LOT.  (No nap + waking up before 7 = grouchy two-year-old, but he just stays awake later if I let him fall asleep in the car and STAY asleep for a significant amount of time.)  Today my very patient hubby worked with him more at church, and I felt like we did better working together than I do on my own.  (Our poor son LOVES to run and HATES being confined, especially inside; church is always a struggle.)  After church we had lunch and a visit from our home teachers.  (Our church’s home teaching and visiting teaching programs are a way for members to look out for each other, share inspirational messages once a month or so, and give help when needed.  I visit teach four women, and it’s my responsibility to be first in line to help when someone has a baby, or has surgery, or needs something else I can give.  One of my visiting teachers took my girlies to church when I had shingles and my hubby wasn’t feeling well.  It’s really an amazing program.)  After that my hubby and I did a trade-off; he kept an eye on the kiddos while I made my first-ever batch of grape freezer jam from grapes our neighbor gave us (apparently he and his wife had a bumper crop this year), AND while I exercised, and then he made biscuits with the girlies while I kept the boy from “helping.”  (Based on the amount of flour on the floor when he and the girlies were done, he had quite enough help as it was.  He wiped down the counter, but the laminate in the kitchen is what pushed his back over the edge in the first place.  The floor and his back don’t get along.)

Anyway, to (finally) get to the point of this post, the boy really wanted to, um, help, and so I lured him outside with bubbles.  I’d just gotten off the treadmill and was still pretty warm, and so I sat on the grass, in the shade, and blew bubbles for him to chase.  He kept at it, saying “Bubbles!” delightedly whenever he found one to follow, and I kept blowing.  I’m normally not so good at the just sitting with the kids; I like to read aloud, and I like to involve them with projects when they’re old enough to listen more or less reliably, but my hubby’s better at play.  Tonight, however, I sat in the cool breeze, resting my sore feet, and watching my son run and grin and collapse on the grass at intervals, and I thought–this is it.  This is one of those perfect moments of parenthood, the kind of moment to treasure.  He is thrilled to be playing outside with me, and I am thrilled to be sitting outside with him, and this is what I want to keep in our relationship.  THIS is why I need to stay calm and patient and loving, even when he’s throwing something ELSE for the 50th time in any given day.  He is two, and I have to do my best to love him and let him BE two.

This, of course, is easier said than done.  I know quite well that I won’t be able to maintain that level of perfection–which is what made it so special.  But that moment in time made the trying worth every second of it; it also made me want to try that much harder in the future.  In the meantime, I had an absolutely perfect 20 minutes with my son today.  I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

(And, in typical child fashion, nothing about it was expensive.  The Easter Bunny found those bubbles at Target’s dollar spot.  Note to self:  try and keep it simple for Christmas.)

A month or three ago I started reading The Wonderful Wizard of Oz aloud to my kindergartener…come to think of it, it was actually in August, because we’d forgotten the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle book we were currently reading when we visited my parents, and so we had to find something else to read aloud while we were there.  She loved it, and we’ve since moved on to The Marvelous Land of Oz (which, by the way, is a bit more interesting with regard to gender roles than I remembered).  In the meantime, my 2nd grader started The Wonderful Wizard of Oz last night, and I am honestly thrilled to see both my girls enjoying books that I got such a kick out of as a kid.

In case you didn’t read them back in the day, there are actually 14 Oz books (or so I remember).  The movie is based solely on the first one, but is quite a bit different; L. Frank Baum’s Dorothy is more like 5 or 6, for one thing, and then of course there’s the matter of Oz being real.  Not the wizard, you understand–he’s still a humbug–but the land itself.  There’s no question of it being only a dream.  There is also a second good witch, and quite a few more strange events, and, well, you should see for yourself.  (Unless, I suppose, you are a die-hard worshipper of the movie.)  It’s a fun series, and Baum’s writing style is amusing for adults in a way that young readers will likely miss entirely.  (I want to say that it’s similar to the Chronicles of Narnia, but it isn’t, not really; Baum is too American, and there is no sense of underlying Christian symbolism and theology.  On the other hand, I think it likely that young fans of one will also enjoy the other.)  If you’ve got an elementary schooler into fantasy and you’re looking for something safe, fun, and appealing, give the Oz books a try.  I know at least one fourth grader who’s adored them for years.

We went to my in-laws’ house for dinner yesterday–the kids and I did, anyway, since my hubby worked sick all week AND got up to practice for the church children’s program (he’s their pianist) after hacking all night Saturday night; we left him sleeping–and I decided to make these Coconut Caramel Cookie Bars, because hey, they looked tasty.  And I had all of the ingredients.  So after getting home from church, I got the kids eating and started in with making the caramel sauce, diligently following all of the directions.

Yeah.  I ended up with a thick layer of rock candy on top with a very, very shallow layer of amber-colored viscous liquid at the bottom (I didn’t even bother adding the cream).  So I called my friend Andrea, who bakes a lot AND did well in Chemistry (my worst subject ever), and she explained why it happened.  So I tried again.  (With my almost-8-year-old at my elbow offering versions of “Maybe you did _____!” and “Maybe you should _______!” every other minute.  Oh.  My.  Goodness.)  This time I tossed the crystally ooze before even adding the butter and faced the fact that while that recipe MIGHT be possible at sea level (although it would probably still be a royal pain to make), it wasn’t ever going to happen in the Salt Lake Valley.

The thing is, I really wanted the bars.  So I did what I should have done after the first batch failed.  Remember Mel’s amazing Caramel Pear Crisp?  From a week or so ago?  I halved the recipe for her caramel sauce, which came out to exactly the amount needed for the bars I was making.  (Seriously.  It was a beautiful thing.)  Everything else went smoothly, and my, they smelled amazing in the oven.  (They tasted pretty darn good, too.  I did think they were a bit sweet yesterday, but I think that was more the contrast of the individual oreo cheesecakes one of my sisters-in-law brought.  Those turned out to be exactly what I wanted at the time, which made the bars too sweet by comparison.  Today, however, those same bars hit the spot very nicely.)

The moral of the story?  Sometimes trying again isn’t worth it.  (It just wastes another cup and a half of sugar.)  Sometimes it’s just plain better to do a little creative problem solving.  The trick, of course, is distinguishing between those times and the other times…

This morning I finished Natalie Kinsey-Warnock’s Lumber Camp Library, which was short and sweet and possibly poorly named.  I suppose you could see the whole book as leading up to the creation of said library, but since that didn’t seem to be the main idea of most of the book–I don’t know.  You’ll have to read it and judge for yourself.

It is a nice little story, though.  And while it all wraps up nicely into a taking-good-care-of-everybody sort of happy ending, there is enough real life in it to save it from being corny.  (The book jacket actually says that Kinsey-Warnock bases all of her stories on either her own life or family stories that have been passed down to her, which may explain that.)  It should be easy reading for my 7-year-old that still has enough meat in it to be worthwhile.

Ruby, the main character, idolizes her lumberjack father, and he dotes on her even while also loving her mother and 10 (yes, 10) siblings.  When he dies while rescuing a fellow lumberjack, however, the Sawyer family’s life changes completely.  How they find a new place in life that they can all be happy with takes the entire rest of the book; to tell more would be spoiling it.

I’d recommend this one for people–like me!–who love either historical fiction or stories of New England.  It’s also a good pick for middle elementary school.  Enjoy!

I’m not sure what attracted me to Zane and the Hurricane, but something did–I grabbed it off the library shelf on a whim.  (I did enjoy Rodman Philbrick’s Newbery Honor book a few years ago–he wrote The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg–and I’ve lived through a couple of hurricanes, so it wasn’t necessarily a surprising whim, but still.)  And I have to say, I’m impressed with his storytelling.  Zane is likable and draws you instantly into the story; he also feels more real, and more individual, than any of the characters in Escape from Mr. Lemoncello’s Library did. (I’m not belittling the one; I’m just saying that Philbrick is impressive at doing approachable with depth.)  If there is a weakness, for me it’s the coincidence of timing that turns the major characters’ luck towards the end; on the other hand, the bad they experience before that is real enough so that it avoids being too much.  In brief, Zane is a New Hampshire boy visiting the great-grandmother he’s never met in New Orleans when Katrina strikes.  He and Grammy are separated, and Zane’s path through the hurricane is a varied one.  I learned more about Katrina in general while being riveted by Zane’s story in particular.  This one kept me going right up to the end, which is pretty good for a book about a modern event with a male protagonist.  (It’s not that I dislike books that fall into that category, mind you, but it’s rare that I really can’t put them down.)

At any rate, I shan’t spoil the story for you with any more details.  What this book got me thinking about, however, were my memories of Katrina.  I was living in Utah and working two jobs at the time, so my memories aren’t incredibly detailed; I do remember, however, that there was a lot of criticism about the federal response to the disaster.  I don’t remember hearing as much criticism of the local government, but then, I wasn’t paying enough attention to guarantee that there wasn’t (not to mention the fact that hurricane news is not as prominently reported in Utah as it was in RI).  I was thinking about this as I was reading this book.  At first I was considering it a sad commentary on our society that we’re so concerned about who’s to blame…after all, a hurricane is a natural disaster.  They happen when they happen.  Then I started to think about how complicated the blame issue really is; those in authority had been warned that the levees might not hold, and those living on the coast had to be aware that hurricanes happen and their location carried some inherent risks, but that doesn’t mean that assigning blame is easy.  I imagine some of those in power put off strengthening the levees, but I also imagine that the people living in those areas wouldn’t have been terribly excited about bearing the financial burden involved.  (Who loves to pay more taxes?)  Yes, people living on the coast were betting against a disaster like Katrina, but then again, if that’s where you’re from and what you know and what you can afford, it’s not exactly easy to pick up and move.  I could sit back and say that those who chose to ride it out and died in the floods brought about their own fate, but where do you evacuate to if you haven’t the money for a hotel and don’t have somewhere else to go?  Ultimately, isn’t it human nature to put off preventative projects that take a great deal of effort and money?  Don’t we all take risks, sometimes extremely foolishly, because we’d rather take our chances than face the alternatives?  And don’t we all, eventually, see our luck run out or our risks fail to carry us through–and want to blame the likeliest culprit?

My junior high band director asked me once, when I was explaining away the blanks on my practice record:  “Is there a reason for it?”  I said yes, because there legitimately was–I was that kind of kid.  His follow-up question gave me pause.  “Is there an excuse for it?”  I was smart enough to understand where he was going; I’m pretty sure I told him no.  I haven’t seen Kevin Kane for well over a decade now, but that’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten.  We all have our reasons, and sometimes they are excellent; often, however, we still know better.  Being human is a complicated thing.

I suppose my point, assuming that I have one in the midst of all of this philosophical rambling, is that rather than pointing fingers–either personally or as a society–isn’t it better to acknowledge the tragedy, admit that we made mistakes, and focus on what we can do to fix them? I’m certainly not claiming that none of that happened at all–like I said, I wasn’t aware enough at the time to know–but I think it’s pretty safe to assume that not enough of it happened.  After all, after 3 kids and almost 8 years of parenting, I still find myself wanting to excuse being impatient or losing my temper by pointing out the behavior of the child (or children) in the situation in question.  I still have to remind myself to stop and think —Earth to Self!  You are the PARENT!  It’s your job to stay patient and deal!  They are CHILDREN!

Then again, as long as I’m trying my best to tell myself that, day after day, well–I’m trying my best.  In doing that, one can only hope that one’s best will get better.

Really, that’s all there was to say on Friday night, especially because BYU’s rising star of a quarterback broke his leg and is (I assume) out for the season.  Which meant that we lost at home to a team that, well, we haven’t lost to in a while.  The bright spot of the evening, then, was definitely Mel’s Caramel Pear Crisp, which both used up some of my Costco Bartlett pears (they always seem to come ripe all at once) and sated some of my fall dessert cravings.  I made the caramel sauce before dinner, and I used half evaporated milk in it–but ONLY because I had half of the cream that I needed and couldn’t deal with dragging all of the kids to the store just to get more.  The rest of the recipe I followed…well, unless you count letting it sit for 30 minutes after it came out of the oven.  I didn’t even get it in the oven until well after the kiddos were in bed, and with the lateness of the hour and how heavenly it smelled, THAT sure wasn’t going to happen.  I’m sure it would have held its shape more had I waited, but really, who cares about that?  (Okay, pretty much everyone on the Food Network does, but this was my hubby and me.  We don’t.)  I plopped some vanilla bean ice cream on top and went to town.

And OH, it was heavenly.  I generally prefer apple crisp, and I haven’t lost any of the love I feel in that direction, but this was lovely and delicious and delightful and more.  I still want to weep knowing that it’s gone (the girls and I may or may not have finished it off for breakfast the next day. The boy may or may not have contrarily screamed when it was offered to him–seriously, who screams at DESSERT FOR BREAKFAST?–and so I may or may not have taken one for the team and eaten his portion, too.).   Then again, I am going to Costco tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll buy pears.

My Newbery quest and my 4th book rule (the one where every fourth book I read has to be a book I actually own) came together this week, and last night I finished Gary Paulsen’s Dogsong.  (Which means, I think, that I’m finished with Gary Paulsen–at least as far as Newberys are concerned.)  And…

Hmmm.  My thoughts on this one are a bit random, so I’ll start with the obvious; from the first page of the first chapter, it was immediately clear that this was another Newbery to really, really stretch the definition of “Children’s” literature.  I didn’t find it offensive, mind you, but the subject matter of the quotes that head the first two chapters is not exactly material for my 7-year-old.  The rest of the book, I have to say, follows suit. Again, there’s nothing offensive or explicit, but the main character saves the life of a pregnant teenage girl, and his experiences helping her are not exactly fluffy.  I’d say 12 and up, maybe, but you probably want to be aware of the basic plot even then.  Depending on the 12-year-old.

Next thought…while it was well done and yes, affecting, the idea of Russell’s real-life experiences and the ones he dreams about melding at the end was executed a little strangely for me.  If life had just mirrored the dream I’d be all for it, but at one point he’s not sure what he actually does and what he dreams, and that went a little far for me.  Gary Paulsen sells it well–the prose certainly has a dream-like quality–but still.

And the last thought?  The basic plot of the book is this:  Russell is troubled by the modern world and yearns towards the old ways, those of his grandparents’ time.  His father can see this, and suggests he seek help from the old man in the village (there seems to be only one that’s old enough to talk about what Russell wants to know).  Russell moves in with him, learns from him, and then takes the old man’s dogs and sled out (with his blessing) on a ‘run’ north to ‘become a man.’  It’s a simple journey–nothing about the old OR new way of Eskimo life portrayed seems attractive to me, what with the harsh environment and comparative lack of contact with the outside world, not to mention the diet of meat, meat, meat–but when Russell sleeps, he becomes a man from the time of woolly mammoths and lives his journeyings as well.  Eventually, the worlds meld together, and Russell is given the chance to save a life in his actual time.

Okay, NOW for my last thought, which is that the book didn’t go either of the ways I assumed it was going.  I figured that Russell was either going to embrace the old ways permanently and (perhaps) alter his lifestyle accordingly, or that he was going to return from his journey more comfortable with all aspects of his life.  Instead, the book simply focused on how Russell became one with his dogs and the journey (possibly I should have paid more attention to the TITLE OF THE BOOK.)  I didn’t really feel like there was resolution to his restlessness, although I suppose if you think about it, as the book ends he is turning toward at least one aspect of modern life without rejecting any of the old that he’s been living.

And there you have it, folks.  Gary Paulsen is a bit of a puzzle for me, because the first book I read by him doesn’t seem to be his typical thing at all; his Newberys, on the other hand, share a common theme or three.  I LOVED my first exposure to him, though, which is why I opted to link Nightjohn to this post.  I can recommend that one to all and sundry–buy it, read it, it’s worth it–whereas Dogsong is not enough my thing for me to rave about it to others.  I certainly respect it, and his outdoors and survival books are worth it if that’s more your style; they just aren’t so much mine.  They are, however, good enough that all three Newberys were worth my time.  I’m glad I’ve read them.

I’m just not sure I’m going to seek out more of his work in the immediate future.

Yesterday was the kind of day that doesn’t go at all like you expect it to, all day long.  As to how it was, well, here’s a bit of a rundown:

1)A lovely woman in my neighborhood stopped by with dinner for us in the morning.  Her son had had shingles at 19, and apparently his misery was memorable.  This is a common thread, by the way; fellow sufferers–or, in more than one case, immediate relatives of fellow sufferers–are very, very sympathetic.

2)My hubby took the littles to the park while my oldest was at dance; he dropped my middle off unexpectedly right as dance was ending, because she had had a bit of an accident.  When she got on the potty, it became apparent that she’d done well only having a bit of one; within 10 minutes, she’d been on the potty again and thrown up on the bathmat.

3)It was a tad chaotic cleaning her up and getting her taken care of while also getting her older sister into bed for school the next morning.  I was settling the oldest, the middle was on the potty, and Daddy and the boy were hanging out when there was a knock at the door.  A family has just moved into our neighborhood from a homeless shelter, starting from scratch; the Young Women leaders in our ward were out with some of the young women (ages 12-18) asking the rest of the neighborhood if they had anything to spare for them.  We scrounged what we could, got the middle squared away in a temporary bed upstairs, and got the boy down (half an hour late).  I also put the bathmat and some towels into the washing machine.  With bleach.

4)I went to switch the wash after the boy was done, and lo and behold! the washing machine had stopped mid-cycle.  It wouldn’t drain.  It still agitates, but it’s also still full of the dirty/bleachy/vomit-y water.  (Ewww!)  My hubby dredged the towels up and I carried them to the downstairs bathtub, where they sat until this afternoon.  (I squeezed the water out as best I could and my neighbors ran them through their washer and dryer.  Bless them.)

5)I sat at the computer to zone before bed and hey, my mouse was on the fritz again.  (This happens sometimes.)  At that point I was kind of afraid to touch anything else.

At first all I could think about was what a HORRIBLE evening it had been–and then I stopped.  Shouldn’t knowing that somewhere nearby was a family starting with NOTHING make me grateful that I’m ONLY out a washing machine for a few days, until we can get it fixed or replace it?  Shouldn’t I be grateful that we were able to take care of our kids, sick and well alike, with only a bit of rushing around?  Shouldn’t I be grateful for a hubby who fixed the mouse, and good neighbors?

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m constantly seeing more items that need washing, because that’s what you notice when you can’t do anything about it.  And yes, it’s driving me crazy.  We are, however, so very blessed.

And I am grateful for it.

It’s not perfect, but it’s the best I could come up with to describe Escape from Mr. Lemoncello’s Library.  The premise is very Charlie and the Chocolate Factory…renowned (eccentric) game inventor Luigi Lemoncello is connected to the fabulous new library in Kyle Keeley’s hometown, and it turns out the extra-credit essay that Kyle forgot to do is his ticket into the grand opening overnight celebration.  Kyle, of course, manages to overcome his memory lapse to end up as one of the 12 12-year-olds who attend the celebration; the event takes a more exciting turn,  however, when they find themselves locked in the next morning, with a set of rules governing their search for a way out.  (Don’t worry.  They have the option to opt out.)  The ensuing twists and turns are always surprising; there is also a bit of a Harry Potter-esque emphasis on friendship and teamwork over ‘every man for himself.’  My favorite thing about the book, though, was Mr. Lemoncello’s sly dropping of book titles into his every conversation.  (Newbery titles abound, but not only Newberys!)  He reminded me–very slightly, you understand–of Robin Williams’ Genie.

This book is a whole lot of fun; it keeps you guessing (mostly because of the sheer number of different puzzles and riddles involved); and it’s very easy to read.  Part of me really wants to give it five stars; the other part of me is struggling because it’s not the perfect fit for me, either topically or stylistically.  The thing is, neither of those things are anyone’s fault but mine.  It’s a good topic, and the writing style is perfect for contemporary, approachable works of intermediate fiction; it just so happens that I prefer historical fiction, with either a more formal or a more poetic style. That’s my thing.  On the other hand, I’m glad I stepped out of my box to read this one.  It was worth it.