Okay, maybe not soooo all-fired up weird, certainly not vasoline-in-your-underpants weird. But, still, a little off—like, maybe, socks-with-sandals weird? You be the judge.
Weirdness #1:
My father-in-law called last week. Mister and FIL have a tendency to gossip and twitter like school girls when they talk on the phone, which, in itself, is a little weird, but not the point here. I only mention it now because I had tuned them out so thoroughly that half way through their conversation, Mister had to call my name three times to get my attention before I was able to tear myself away from the riveting game of Spider Solitaire I was playing (and winning, I might add) to mutter a terse, “What!”
“When has your mother bought tickets for Disneyland?”
I’m immediately wary. Extenuating circumstances have conspired in such a way that we’ve been obliged to share Mister’s last two consecutive summer vacations with FIL. I like the guy. I do. But I do not fancy a third. I hope, no doubt in vain, that Mister hears this in my voice when I carefully bite out, “July 6th. To the somethingth. I think.”
The rest of the one-sided conversation I listen to more carefully. But all I get is, “So most of July then. Uh-huh. Yeah. Sounds good. No. No. Yeah. Okay then. Right. Uh-huh. Bye then.”
“What was that?” I ask, all pleasant smiles and feminine wiles, as soon has he hangs up.
“Well, this is so weird. And a little flattering. I think.”
“Oh?” Through clinched teeth.
“It seems B (FIL’s second wife) wants to spend her summer vacation next year at our place.”
“In Utah?” Aghast.
“No. Here. In our house.”
“Eh?” Confused.
“It is a lake house, you know. Many people would consider this a vacation home.”
“Yeah, but. Eh?”
“I guess she just wants to spend some time by the lake.”
“But it’s……it’s just……Eh?”
“What? Are you saying they can’t come?”
“No! Hell no! Free house-sitters. By all means come. They know that Puss comes with the house, right? They have to feed the cat. And B better keep my roses alive, goddammit!
FIL has done so much of the building and remodeling in and around this house that he probably has a legitimate claim to partial ownership of the place. So I really don’t mind that he stays here while we’re gone. I just think it’s weird that he wants to.
Weirdness #2:
Mister and I are going to Iceland this weekend. Yeah, you heard right. Iceland. This makes me perfectly awesome, and, in itself, is an example of Norwegians behaving rather wonderfully because it’s Mister’s company who’s sponsoring the trip. More about that later, when I have pictures to demonstrate how perfectly awesome I was—in Iceland.
My mother-in-law is taking the kids for us while we’re gone. A very nice thing for her to do because we don’t fly back into Bergen until almost midnight Monday night, so she’s going to have to take Monday off work. But first, we have to get the kids to Rosendal, where MIL lives.
There are two ways to get to Rosendal from Bergen: option 1) a 2 ½ to 3 hour drive by car, depending on how you hit the 2 ferries that stand between here to there; option 2) a fast ferry (catamaran thingy, passengers only) that takes only 50 minutes, and drops you off right in Rosendal. What we’ve done in the past when we’ve needed to ditch the kids for the weekend is MIL will get on the fast ferry in Rosendal, we meet her in Os (closest stop to us) where we simply usher the kids onto the ferry and into her loving arms; boat turns around, takes them all back to Rosendal. Hey, presto! Mister and I are free!
Unfortunately, MIL doesn’t want to do that this time around. It is both time consuming and expensive, and not something I’d personally be willing to do myself. So I can’t really blame her for not wanting to do it now. Her alternative plan, however, is both reckless and negligent in its weirdness. She wants us to put the kids—ALONE—on the fast ferry in Os, and let her collect them in Rosendal when the ferry docks.
When Mister told me about this proposed plan of action, I said, “Tell me you know what an incredibly bad idea that is.”
“Do I? No, you’re right. It probably wouldn’t work.”
“No, honey. I need to know that you know that not only would it not work, but it would be foolish and cruel, criminal maybe, to even attempt such a magnificently stupid thing. Tell me you get this. Please tell me now. Because I might drop dead someday—tomorrow, next week, later tonight maybe—and before I go, I need to know that you’re with it enough to know that our children are neither old enough, responsible enough, nor smart enough to be left alone, unsupervised on a ferry—fast or otherwise!”
“Sure, sure. I get it. Missy might have to pee or something…..”
“Pee or something? PEE OR SOMETHING! They might get off at the wrong stop. They might lose or miscount the money meant to pay for their tickets. They might be approached by a friendly grey-haired gentleman who wants to help Missy ‘pee or something’. The motherfucking boat MIGHT! SINK! At the very least they might be so rambunctiously annoying that the other passengers on board might be compelled to judge the wisdom and parenting acumen of the morons who saw fit to loose such godless urchins ALONE on a boat. And so help me God MISTER! So long as I live, this cannot, will not, happen!”
A few days after this conversation, I asked him again if he had talked to his mom and figured out how they were going to get the kids to her. “Hmm, not really,” he said, “She still doesn’t quite get why we can’t just put them on the ferry.”
My eyes dimmed. My mouth watered. I was prepared for war. But he put his hands up, cutting me off before I could even get started. “I know, I know. Weird, right?”
And now to better illustrate the above point—
Weirdness #3:
Tuesday morning EM somehow managed to pinch a nerve in her neck. Don’t ask me how. The deed was already done by 7 a.m. when I went in to see if she was up and getting dressed.
My darling EM tends to panic when she’s suffering a good deal of pain she can’t control. So rather than grimacing and muttering curses under her breath like a sane person, EM was HOWLING and CRYING, SCREAMING DEAR GOD PITY ME FOR I DO SUFFER SO! Mah-ah-ah-ahhhhhhhhhh
Annoying. And more than a little bit weird. But again, not the point.
There was no way I could put her on a bus when she was carrying on as she was. So, lame as I though she was being, I sent her back to bed, and asked Boy if he was ready to take the bus by himself. Sure, he said, but he’d prefer it if I walked up to the bus stop with him.
No problem. Off we went.
The proud smile and friendly wave I directed towards the driver quickly faded as I noticed he slammed the door shut and pulled off before Boy had found a seat. Asshole, I thought. Then shrugged it off, and frankly, didn’t give it another thought as I squared my shoulders and headed home to deal with EM’s weirdness.
Later that evening we were all chatting over dinner, when Boy broke in and casually said, “Hey Mom, know what? You thought it was the right bus, but it wasn’t. It was the wrong bus. It didn’t go to my school. I had to walk.”
“You always have to walk across the street. It’s just the afternoon bus that picks you up right at school.”
“No but, it didn’t stop where it should have. I had to walk.”
“What? What do you mean it didn’t stop? Where did you get off? How far did you walk? WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT DIDN’T STOP?”
Now here’s the deal folks, some Norwegian kids—the ones who live in densely populated areas with say 30 or 40 school aged children—climb on busses every day specially designated as ‘School Busses’. These busses are only for the children, and they drive right onto the school grounds, and deliver their charges safely onto the playground. My Norwegian kids are not so lucky. We live in a narrow valley with no more than (maybe?) a dozen or so school aged children that need transportation to and from school. My kids climb onto a public bus every morning; a public bus, full to bursting with Mr. and Mrs. John Q Public, that stops very near the school, but then continues on its merry way on into the city.
You’d think, wouldn’t you, that that stop near the school would be absolute. You stop the bus of a morning for a skinny kid with an oversized backpack. Wave to his anxious mother hovering protectively in the background. You pretty much know that kid is headed to school, right? So even if—for whatever reason—that string doesn’t get pulled, and the signal to stop at that particular stop doesn’t go off, you’d still know, right? You’d still know that there’s a skinny little kid here that needs to get to school. If he doesn’t get off here, he won’t know where else to go. What else to do. So, you’d stop. Right? Keep in mind too, that that skinny little kid wasn’t the only skinny little kid to climb on your bus that morning. There were at least 4 other skinny little reminders that part of your job is to ferry skinny little school children safely to their school. So, of course, you’d stop.
But the guy didn’t stop. Now how weird is that?
It’s hard to get a clear narrative out of Boy, but here’s what I was able to piece together. He said the string thingy didn’t work. He said he was scared when the bus didn’t stop. When it finally did stop (I think) another kilometer or so up the line, he said he heard M (friend of Elder Miss, in the 3rd grade) call his name, so he followed her. I’ve always liked M. I’m pretty sure she’s the only reason Boy ended up where he was supposed to be Tuesday morning. In the end, I don’t think they were even late for the first bell.
I sort of have to limit my commentary on this one to ‘weird’, because if I start to think of it as anything more than that, I immediately picture Boy stranded alone on that bus heading straight to the seething den of urine-reeking iniquity that is the city bus station, and I start to lose my mind a little.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
By The By
Let us not forget, Elder Miss started school on Monday too.
She's in the 3rd grade this year.
They spent most of that first day doing the usual: getting reacquainted, settling into their new classroom, sharpening their pencils, and admiring each other's new shoes. Apparently, their teachers somehow managed to squeeze in a mini sort of assignment thingy into that pressing agenda: the obligatory--tell us a little about your vacation, then draw us a picture of your favorite memory of the summer.
Naturally, I asked what she drew. Know what she said? Ah, you're gonna love it!
Grandma Gae falling into the lake.
Ha! You hear that Grandma? Your grace has been immortalized.
Behold!
She's in the 3rd grade this year.
They spent most of that first day doing the usual: getting reacquainted, settling into their new classroom, sharpening their pencils, and admiring each other's new shoes. Apparently, their teachers somehow managed to squeeze in a mini sort of assignment thingy into that pressing agenda: the obligatory--tell us a little about your vacation, then draw us a picture of your favorite memory of the summer.
Naturally, I asked what she drew. Know what she said? Ah, you're gonna love it!
Grandma Gae falling into the lake.
Ha! You hear that Grandma? Your grace has been immortalized.
Behold!
Clearly EM was a little stoned when she dressed you. Tell us, Grandma, when exactly was the last time you wore a micro-mini?
And when I asked her what the backwards question mark was supposed to mean, she said she didn't know how to spell 'whoopsy daisy'. Pfft. More like 'shitting whoops on a fucking daisy', I'd say, but I didn't disillusion her on that point.
For those of you who weren't there to witness EM's favoritest memory of the whole entire summer, here's a little taste of what you missed:
You've gotta give EM some credit for the details in that picture. The wharf and the half-painted fence are post Grandma's visit, but it's a damn fine approximation of what it looks like down there right this minute. And the table and chairs are spot on! She's even got our ugly green water pitcher in there!
Her art classes start next week. Her teacher will find her brilliant. Her classmates will be intimidated. Her portfolio will be prolific, and highly valued, maybe even in her own lifetime. But only if she learns how to do hands....
Monday, August 18, 2008
Back to School
Today was Proud Boy's first day of school.
He said he wasn't at all nervous; he said he was actually pretty excited. But the closer we got to the playground, the more he dragged his feet. Eventually he stopped altogether. Then he turned tail and ran. I found him like this, staring at the waves on a small wharf just behind his old barnehage.
He still insisted he wasn't nervous,
said he just wanted to wait for Daddy.
And so we did.
After that one tiny hiccup, he was great.
He didn't hesitate to go up to get his name tag when he was called.
When his teacher asked if he could count to 10,
he confidently announced that he could count to 110!
(a blatant lie)
Tomorrow he has to navigate the busses to and from school.
But he'll have EM with him, so I don't anticipate any big problems there.
So that's it then.
Looks like my days are my own again.
For a while at least.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Varsel Om Feiing
Settle in class, I'm about to add to your budding Norwegian vocabulary.
We covered 'luftambulanse' yesterday. That should be about all you need to know about the health sector.
Let us move on to the fire department. 'Feiing' (pronounced with a long 'i', as in 'dying') is a worthy service the fire department provides to every Norwegian household, (I believe) every two years.
Chimney sweeping, right? It's great. They send you a form letter saying we'll be here on this day, between these hours, please be ready for us. You, in turn, are obliged to set up a ladder for them (no less than one meter over the eaves), secure it with ropes, make sure all your dampers and doors and what not are closed (obviously), and provide free and easy access to the indoor flue hatch (which for us means moving the washer into the guest room). Do this all ahead of time; do it right. 'Cuz safety first blah blah, and also, frankly, we can't be bothered to do any of it ourselves.
In theory, none of this should be that much of a problem. Mister can easily provide for all of it before he goes to work. I just have to be around to let them in, and sign whatever forms they shove in front of my face when they're done. In practice, however, we always manage to forget the day they're scheduled to arrive.
Today was just such a day.
I was still lazing in bed at (blush) 9 a.m. when the doorbell rang. Boy thundered downstairs to answer it while I hastily threw on some clothes. I remembered the second I saw her standing there, of course. Shit! Feiing! Where's the bloody ladder!
It should be said that today's 'feier' was a pretty young thing--at least 10 years younger than me, and a good 15-20 pounds lighter (the filthy bitch). She didn't seem even a little bit amused when I smiled sheepishly, and said, "I'm so sorry, we totally forgot. Give me a sec. I need to call my husband."
I knew perfectly well that there was nothing he could do for me over the phone, but I was nervous about that ladder. It's a massive big thing, and has latches and pullies, and God only knows what incantations have to be said in order to keep the thing upright. So I called and whined until he finally said, "For God's sake, Jamie. Just go do it."
So I shuffled out bowing and apologizing all over again, then climbed into the bush to retrieve the ladder. After a few minutes of huffing and puffing to loose it from all the crap that had fallen and/or grown over it since the last time it had been used, Mademoiselle Feier finally took pity on me and said, "Would you like some help?" As I hefted it off the ground and handed it down to her, she grunted "I can't put this up alone."
"No, " I said, "Neither can I."
It took me a few minutes to figure out the latch and pully thingy to lengthen it. Mademoiselle Feier didn't have much of a clue either. Once it was long enough, we had to scrutinize it a minute or two to figure out which end was supposed to be up. Yes, both of us together really were just. that. stupid.
And then we tried to lift it into position. Awkward. Much. She was muttering instructions to me in Norwegian that I didn't quite understand. It didn't help that my mind was preoccupied trying to translate instructions from English into Norwegian that I wanted to mutter to her. In the end, it wasn't exactly a college try we put into the effort...more of a community college moment...and an aborted one at that. After less than a minute of awkward fumbling, she dropped her end to the ground and said, "Ya' know, you can reschedule....." Yeah, let's do that.
There are two things that really bother me about this whole incident:
We covered 'luftambulanse' yesterday. That should be about all you need to know about the health sector.
Let us move on to the fire department. 'Feiing' (pronounced with a long 'i', as in 'dying') is a worthy service the fire department provides to every Norwegian household, (I believe) every two years.
Chimney sweeping, right? It's great. They send you a form letter saying we'll be here on this day, between these hours, please be ready for us. You, in turn, are obliged to set up a ladder for them (no less than one meter over the eaves), secure it with ropes, make sure all your dampers and doors and what not are closed (obviously), and provide free and easy access to the indoor flue hatch (which for us means moving the washer into the guest room). Do this all ahead of time; do it right. 'Cuz safety first blah blah, and also, frankly, we can't be bothered to do any of it ourselves.
In theory, none of this should be that much of a problem. Mister can easily provide for all of it before he goes to work. I just have to be around to let them in, and sign whatever forms they shove in front of my face when they're done. In practice, however, we always manage to forget the day they're scheduled to arrive.
Today was just such a day.
I was still lazing in bed at (blush) 9 a.m. when the doorbell rang. Boy thundered downstairs to answer it while I hastily threw on some clothes. I remembered the second I saw her standing there, of course. Shit! Feiing! Where's the bloody ladder!
It should be said that today's 'feier' was a pretty young thing--at least 10 years younger than me, and a good 15-20 pounds lighter (the filthy bitch). She didn't seem even a little bit amused when I smiled sheepishly, and said, "I'm so sorry, we totally forgot. Give me a sec. I need to call my husband."
I knew perfectly well that there was nothing he could do for me over the phone, but I was nervous about that ladder. It's a massive big thing, and has latches and pullies, and God only knows what incantations have to be said in order to keep the thing upright. So I called and whined until he finally said, "For God's sake, Jamie. Just go do it."
So I shuffled out bowing and apologizing all over again, then climbed into the bush to retrieve the ladder. After a few minutes of huffing and puffing to loose it from all the crap that had fallen and/or grown over it since the last time it had been used, Mademoiselle Feier finally took pity on me and said, "Would you like some help?" As I hefted it off the ground and handed it down to her, she grunted "I can't put this up alone."
"No, " I said, "Neither can I."
It took me a few minutes to figure out the latch and pully thingy to lengthen it. Mademoiselle Feier didn't have much of a clue either. Once it was long enough, we had to scrutinize it a minute or two to figure out which end was supposed to be up. Yes, both of us together really were just. that. stupid.
And then we tried to lift it into position. Awkward. Much. She was muttering instructions to me in Norwegian that I didn't quite understand. It didn't help that my mind was preoccupied trying to translate instructions from English into Norwegian that I wanted to mutter to her. In the end, it wasn't exactly a college try we put into the effort...more of a community college moment...and an aborted one at that. After less than a minute of awkward fumbling, she dropped her end to the ground and said, "Ya' know, you can reschedule....." Yeah, let's do that.
There are two things that really bother me about this whole incident:
- This chick works for the fire department but didn't know how to work a ladder. Sure, neither did I. But, I don't work for the FIRE DEPARTMENT!
- This chick works for the fire department but wasn't strong enough to lift a ladder. Sure, neither was I. But, again, I don't work for the frigging FIRE DEPARTMENT!
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Enough With That Depressive Shit
So I was on my way out the door this morning when I heard the phone ring. Thinking it might be someone with news on the new washer I just ordered, I yelled to the kids to go ahead and get in the car, then rushed in to answer it.
"God dag! Blahdy blah.....norsk luftambulanse....blah blahdy blah...."
Basically, the Norwegian version of Life Flight grubbing for money.
Naturally, I couldn't be bothered. So I deployed my standard defense against such intrusions by cutting him off midsentence saying, "I'm sorry, sir. I don't speak any Norwegian.
"Oh, yes," There was a long pause, presumably while he gathered his wits about him, "I UNDERSTAND!" he continued, slowly and very loudly, "WE ARE NORWAY! WE! SAVE! LIVES!"
Riiiiiight.
Bloody foreigners. Learn some English.
Click.
"God dag! Blahdy blah.....norsk luftambulanse....blah blahdy blah...."
Basically, the Norwegian version of Life Flight grubbing for money.
Naturally, I couldn't be bothered. So I deployed my standard defense against such intrusions by cutting him off midsentence saying, "I'm sorry, sir. I don't speak any Norwegian.
"Oh, yes," There was a long pause, presumably while he gathered his wits about him, "I UNDERSTAND!" he continued, slowly and very loudly, "WE ARE NORWAY! WE! SAVE! LIVES!"
Riiiiiight.
Bloody foreigners. Learn some English.
Click.
I'm sure I'll regret posting this. I'll probably delete it in the morning. But for now...
I worked really hard today. I baked two cakes. I made chili and prepared munchies for 15 people. I cleaned the house up. I cleaned myself up.
I knew it would be hard for the kids, especially Daniel, to wait until 5 o’clock when our guests were supposed to arrive, so I made sure I had distractions: Pokeman balls just before lunch, then an early present of Spiderman movies around 2.
Just after 1 o’clock I got a message from Michelle (representing a third of our invited guests) saying she was sick or whatever, and wouldn’t be coming. Somehow, I was neither as surprised nor as sympathetic as perhaps I should have been.
At exactly 5:05, Daniel got the go ahead to start opening presents. A bit of a frantic moment ensued as I tried to get rolls out of the oven at the same time as keep Daniel focused on which gift came from whom, and the whole “come on now, let’s not be so greedy” meme. None of the other adults in the room took a break from their own scintillating conversation, nor even spared a glance at the birthday boy as he tore through his pile of packages. And, let me think, did they help clean up the wrapping paper? Um, no. They did not.
After dinner, I made coffee, found candles, carried both cakes over to the table and asked everyone back for dessert. Only Daniel, Emma, and Amanda came. I was the only one willing to sing. My asshole husband, who was out on the veranda talking to his father about some goddamn fish, couldn’t be bothered to come in until the candles had been blown out and the coffee had been poured.
Daniel didn’t touch his cake.
No one thanked me for all the worked I’d done to make that dinner something slightly special.
In fact, the only thing I did all day that I feel like made the slightest bit if difference, was even remotely worthwhile, was hear Amanda’s cry of true pain when Daniel tore the Nintendo she was holding out of her hands, pinching the tender skin between her thumb and pointer finger as it snapped shut. I was doing the dishes; once again the others around the table didn’t skip a beat in their conversation, even when she howled a second time and ran off to her room. But I recognized the cry for what it was. I went into her, and soothed her, and shushed her as she sobbed into my neck that she was only trying to help.
Daniel wouldn’t hug me tonight before he went to bed.
And I know it’s just because he was too excited, too pre-occupied with his new toys to be bothered with his mother’s prickly pride. But it’s just too much. All these minor slights, all these trivial disappointments of the day are ricocheting through me tonight, lighting up all my edgy buttons and making me feel like a faulty pinball machine.
I feel so sad, and so alone. And I don’t want to feel this way on my son’s 6th birthday.
I knew it would be hard for the kids, especially Daniel, to wait until 5 o’clock when our guests were supposed to arrive, so I made sure I had distractions: Pokeman balls just before lunch, then an early present of Spiderman movies around 2.
Just after 1 o’clock I got a message from Michelle (representing a third of our invited guests) saying she was sick or whatever, and wouldn’t be coming. Somehow, I was neither as surprised nor as sympathetic as perhaps I should have been.
At exactly 5:05, Daniel got the go ahead to start opening presents. A bit of a frantic moment ensued as I tried to get rolls out of the oven at the same time as keep Daniel focused on which gift came from whom, and the whole “come on now, let’s not be so greedy” meme. None of the other adults in the room took a break from their own scintillating conversation, nor even spared a glance at the birthday boy as he tore through his pile of packages. And, let me think, did they help clean up the wrapping paper? Um, no. They did not.
After dinner, I made coffee, found candles, carried both cakes over to the table and asked everyone back for dessert. Only Daniel, Emma, and Amanda came. I was the only one willing to sing. My asshole husband, who was out on the veranda talking to his father about some goddamn fish, couldn’t be bothered to come in until the candles had been blown out and the coffee had been poured.
Daniel didn’t touch his cake.
No one thanked me for all the worked I’d done to make that dinner something slightly special.
In fact, the only thing I did all day that I feel like made the slightest bit if difference, was even remotely worthwhile, was hear Amanda’s cry of true pain when Daniel tore the Nintendo she was holding out of her hands, pinching the tender skin between her thumb and pointer finger as it snapped shut. I was doing the dishes; once again the others around the table didn’t skip a beat in their conversation, even when she howled a second time and ran off to her room. But I recognized the cry for what it was. I went into her, and soothed her, and shushed her as she sobbed into my neck that she was only trying to help.
Daniel wouldn’t hug me tonight before he went to bed.
And I know it’s just because he was too excited, too pre-occupied with his new toys to be bothered with his mother’s prickly pride. But it’s just too much. All these minor slights, all these trivial disappointments of the day are ricocheting through me tonight, lighting up all my edgy buttons and making me feel like a faulty pinball machine.
I feel so sad, and so alone. And I don’t want to feel this way on my son’s 6th birthday.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
O Danny Boy
Get your hankies ready, and remember: I paid for the full screen option, so by all means, use it; also, no free rides--you have to click the arrows to turn the pages yourself.
P.S. This one takes longer to load. I don't know why.
P.P.S. The song choice comes from two t-shirts he has. One says "Hello! My name is Trouble" the other one says "I'm Trouble. Don't make me prove it". He loves them; I think they're hysterical. His daycare teachers chided me everytime he wore them because, according to them, "He's NOT! He's just NOT! He's a little piece of wonderful is what he is." And I'm all like, "Dudes, I know! I'm pretty sure there's some real irony in there somewhere. Embrace it."
P.S. This one takes longer to load. I don't know why.
P.P.S. The song choice comes from two t-shirts he has. One says "Hello! My name is Trouble" the other one says "I'm Trouble. Don't make me prove it". He loves them; I think they're hysterical. His daycare teachers chided me everytime he wore them because, according to them, "He's NOT! He's just NOT! He's a little piece of wonderful is what he is." And I'm all like, "Dudes, I know! I'm pretty sure there's some real irony in there somewhere. Embrace it."
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Saturday, August 09, 2008
This One's For Alpha Grandma
The next line of the song is:
And the prince I hope that comes with this
But Missy, of course, is ambitious. So when she sings it, it goes:
And the king who-oo-oo must do this
Ah, bless her.
I pity the poor king she decides to sink her claws into. I really do.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Just Call Me 'Weezie'
Cuz' I'm movin' on up, baby!
Papers have been signed. Hands have been shook.
No backing out now.
The car--so brand-spanking-2009 new it hasn't even been made yet--is on order.
We do not deserve this car. I cannot believe Mister sprang for this car. It's got leather interiors for God's sake. What is he thinking!
He's actually a little white knuckled and pale this evening. He may be experiencing a wee bit of buyer's remorse.
I wasn't with him when he went in to finalize the deal, so for my part I just keep asking him things like, "So will it have the rain sensor?"
"Yes."
"The rear parking sensor, will it have that?"
"Yes."
"And that automatic parallel parking thingy. Will it have that?"
"Yes, dear, it will have everything we talked about."
"How about gps navigation? Will it have that?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Dual climate control? Cuz' you know how you always whine about air conditioning. It would be so nice to be able to have different tempura...."
"Got it."
"And you really got the leather seats? Cuz' that was quite a bit extra...."
"Two-toned even."
"What did you decide about the trailor hitch?"
"Got it."
"Will it play my iPod."
"Honey, it will do everything."
"But will it bring you a cold beer and give you a blow job?"
"No, dear. Even the Germans haven't figured out a way to make a car do that."
"But you think you deserve it. Don't you?"
"Absolutely."
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
From The File Marked 'dadvisit08'
The bladder infection I had last week has come back with a vengence. I'm all sweaty. My back hurts. I'm a touch worried, actually.
In the meantime: Pictures!
EM was being such a pussy, so I had to do something ever so slightly unforgivable. I lured her onto a float, pulled her out into the middle of the lake, then I dumped her off. She screamed bloody murder at me, and made for shore with the fastest little dog-paddle she could muster. But once she realized that the lifevest really did exactly what everyone had been telling her it would do--namely, keep her afloat--she was hooked, and willing to swim pretty much everywhere on her own. Boy, on the other hand, never made it past ankle depth. And Missy would only go in if you were willing to let her maintain a death grip around your neck, and dig her toes into your swimsuit like a monkey. Mister says I have to wait until next summer to toss them in.
I wasted some money on some adorable, but utterly useless floats--a giant whale, and a slightly less giant shark. They were so cute and looked like so much fun on the pictures on the box, but in the water they had no stability and just rolled over. The kids took them up on the lawn and had a grand time with them up there. Here's Boy embracing his inner Ahab.
The body language of this shot speaks volumes. Clearly, EM and Missy are not the best of friends. This long, lazy summer has not done much to enrich the relationship either. I feel like I've spent the past two months saying nothing but, "EM be nice to your sister. Missy stop bugging EM. Girls, just shut up and deal with each other!"
The positioning of this shot is a little ambiguous, but that's what I love about it. She looks for all the world like she's half a meter from the end of a long and arduous free-style climb up a sheer, rocky cliff. And look at that face--by Christ, she's going to make it too! On the other hand, that's the same pained, constipated expression she has on her face in the lake when she's clinging for dear life to your neck.
The positioning of this shot is a little ambiguous, but that's what I love about it. She looks for all the world like she's half a meter from the end of a long and arduous free-style climb up a sheer, rocky cliff. And look at that face--by Christ, she's going to make it too! On the other hand, that's the same pained, constipated expression she has on her face in the lake when she's clinging for dear life to your neck.
More From The Files of 'dadvisit08'
I had to do this in two posts because Blogger is stupid and won't let me post more that four pictures at a time.
The rest of these are just lovely and pretty much self-explanitory.
There's something rather Catherine and Heathcliff about this first one that kind of love.
The rest of these are just lovely and pretty much self-explanitory.
There's something rather Catherine and Heathcliff about this first one that kind of love.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Honor Thy Father
Two weeks ago when I was on the phone with dad making final arrangements for his and my step-mother’s upcoming visit, I said,”Look, I’m hoping against hope for at least one nice, sunny day while you’re here. But it’s been cold and rainy for weeks now. So for heaven’s sake bring a sweater, and try to get excited about drizzle and fog.”
He dismissed my warnings with a casual, “No. No. Don’t worry. I’ll see what I can do.”
As long as I can remember, see—as long as anyone, apparently, can remember—my sweet daddy has had a bit of a God-complex. He’d like us all to believe that it is perfectly within his power to get Jesus on the horn, call in a favor, thus arranging the weather to his liking for any given week.
He went a long way last week towards proving his point.
A week ago Thursday, just about the time they would have been leaving American airspace, I’ll be damned if the clouds overhead began breaking up, the temperature nudged up a bit, and a mother-fucking rainbow appeared on the western horizon heralding their impending arrival. By the time they landed in Bergen on Friday morning, summer had officially—emphatically—returned to Norway. All week long—‘twas sunny, ‘twas hot, ‘twas glorious. And my daddy ‘twas one smug son of a bitch.
Oh sure, there were a few glitches in his order. Two thunderstorms rolled through mid-week making a God awful racket and hammering the hell out of my new roses. But Camelot-like, they didn’t blow in till after sundown, and by 8 their attending fog had entirely disappeared. Then yesterday evening during our farewell, lakeside barbeque, an almighty freak of a windstorm blew in out of nowhere scattering napkins and empty beer cans thither and yon, and sending me into a bit of a panic about not getting to introduce more initiates into my new cult of the Smorsh. While I was running around trying to gather up all our picnic bits for a hasty retreat once the rain started, dad sat cool as you please, wine glass in hand, saying, “Tut tut, Jamie. Not to worry. It’ll die down any minute now. This is just a little preview of what’s to come once I leave. Besides, we need to get those coals stoked up a bit for premium marshmallow roasting, don’t we now.”
Five minutes later—the wind (no gentle summer zephyr, mind you, nor even a bracing Autumn bluster, but a full out batton-down-the-hatches, tape-up-the-windows, and give-it-an-old-fashioned-antiquated-name-for-emphasis windstorm ) had blown itself out, the lake had regained its preferred reflective properties, and the coals of our little campfire were all aglow—whipped into a radiating frenzy by the wind, they practically begged us to stick a marshmallow within reach of their throbbing, toasty goodness.
And so we did.
And we ate the Smorsh. And the Smorsh was good.
Two or three beers into the party, Anita (my not even remotely wicked step-mother) leaned over and said, “It’s really me, you know. I’m the one who brought the good weather. I just let him think he’s doing it to prop up the old man’s flagging ego.”
This may be so. Not the flagging ego bit. Dad would want me to hasten to assure you all that his ego is in perfect working order. But it’s true that Anita can only speak of rumors of rain in Bergen for she’s never actually seen any. Every time she’s been here the weather has been on its very best behavior. So maybe she really is our lucky charm.
Either way I’m grateful for it, because we really did have a wonderful week. Or, at least I did. I suppose it’s presumptuous to speak for everyone else (obviously nothing wrong with my ego either, winkwink). We were limited in what we could do because we only had the one car and no where near enough room in it to fit everyone. So for the most part we contented ourselves with swimming in the lake, and taking short walks on some of the local trails. Nothing terribly exciting, and yet somehow everything a summer vacation should be.
I’ll post a few pictures tomorrow. Dad got some beauties of the kids. I totally covet his camera. The stingy bastard refused to leave it here for me though. Maybe it was because I kept making him eat fish…..
He dismissed my warnings with a casual, “No. No. Don’t worry. I’ll see what I can do.”
As long as I can remember, see—as long as anyone, apparently, can remember—my sweet daddy has had a bit of a God-complex. He’d like us all to believe that it is perfectly within his power to get Jesus on the horn, call in a favor, thus arranging the weather to his liking for any given week.
He went a long way last week towards proving his point.
A week ago Thursday, just about the time they would have been leaving American airspace, I’ll be damned if the clouds overhead began breaking up, the temperature nudged up a bit, and a mother-fucking rainbow appeared on the western horizon heralding their impending arrival. By the time they landed in Bergen on Friday morning, summer had officially—emphatically—returned to Norway. All week long—‘twas sunny, ‘twas hot, ‘twas glorious. And my daddy ‘twas one smug son of a bitch.
Oh sure, there were a few glitches in his order. Two thunderstorms rolled through mid-week making a God awful racket and hammering the hell out of my new roses. But Camelot-like, they didn’t blow in till after sundown, and by 8 their attending fog had entirely disappeared. Then yesterday evening during our farewell, lakeside barbeque, an almighty freak of a windstorm blew in out of nowhere scattering napkins and empty beer cans thither and yon, and sending me into a bit of a panic about not getting to introduce more initiates into my new cult of the Smorsh. While I was running around trying to gather up all our picnic bits for a hasty retreat once the rain started, dad sat cool as you please, wine glass in hand, saying, “Tut tut, Jamie. Not to worry. It’ll die down any minute now. This is just a little preview of what’s to come once I leave. Besides, we need to get those coals stoked up a bit for premium marshmallow roasting, don’t we now.”
Five minutes later—the wind (no gentle summer zephyr, mind you, nor even a bracing Autumn bluster, but a full out batton-down-the-hatches, tape-up-the-windows, and give-it-an-old-fashioned-antiquated-name-for-emphasis windstorm ) had blown itself out, the lake had regained its preferred reflective properties, and the coals of our little campfire were all aglow—whipped into a radiating frenzy by the wind, they practically begged us to stick a marshmallow within reach of their throbbing, toasty goodness.
And so we did.
And we ate the Smorsh. And the Smorsh was good.
Two or three beers into the party, Anita (my not even remotely wicked step-mother) leaned over and said, “It’s really me, you know. I’m the one who brought the good weather. I just let him think he’s doing it to prop up the old man’s flagging ego.”
This may be so. Not the flagging ego bit. Dad would want me to hasten to assure you all that his ego is in perfect working order. But it’s true that Anita can only speak of rumors of rain in Bergen for she’s never actually seen any. Every time she’s been here the weather has been on its very best behavior. So maybe she really is our lucky charm.
Either way I’m grateful for it, because we really did have a wonderful week. Or, at least I did. I suppose it’s presumptuous to speak for everyone else (obviously nothing wrong with my ego either, winkwink). We were limited in what we could do because we only had the one car and no where near enough room in it to fit everyone. So for the most part we contented ourselves with swimming in the lake, and taking short walks on some of the local trails. Nothing terribly exciting, and yet somehow everything a summer vacation should be.
I’ll post a few pictures tomorrow. Dad got some beauties of the kids. I totally covet his camera. The stingy bastard refused to leave it here for me though. Maybe it was because I kept making him eat fish…..
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Reluctant Teetotaler
It seems I have a drinking problem.
Now before you commence with all your smug mmm-hmming and well-I-might-have-guessed-ing, allow me to clarify: it's not a slurring, drooling, shame your children, wreck your marriage, blight your liver kind of drinking problem I'm talking about. And no Jilly, it's not the Airplane kind either (funny as that would be).
It's to do with my sleep, see. Alcohol is fucking with my sleep. And it's really starting to piss me off.
I don't deserve to be fucked with in this manner. It's not like I drink massive amounts of alcohol. Sure, I'll admit to drinking often. Especially now during summer when Mister is on vacation, and working in the yard building flower beds and wharfs and garden stairs and whatnot; and a cold beer at the end of a long, hard day of physical labor is right and just; and I would be remiss in my wifely duties if I let him drink alone, wouldn't I? Because drinking alone--now, I'm pretty sure that does qualify as a drinking problem, and we wouldn't want that now, would we? That would get the neighbors talking.
But even with this near daily indulgence of a beer here, or a shared bottle of wine there, I hardly ever drink to excess.
Shut up!
I don't!
Holidays notwithstanding, I seriously mean it! My drinking habits are modest----ish.
But I'm figuring out that every evening I do choose to enjoy my trifling bit of alcohol, I'm pretty much guaranteed to spend the night tossing, turning, and drifting in and out of the shallowest of sleeps. Maddening, I tell you. Vexing to the extreme.
Last night, just as a little experiment, I politely declined Mister's kind offer of a glass of port after the kids had gone to bed. Slept like a goddamn baby all night long. Eight straight hours of blissful repose.
It felt so fantastically good, that tonight I refused the cold beer that was proffered over the dinner table. I'll admit, I'm jonesing for that beer a bit right now. The crisp SNAP as the seal on the can cracks open. The glug-gurgle-fizzzzzz as the glass fills. The faint whiff of yeast in the air as foam settles.......JEDA wants......
But no. I shall remain firm. I SHALL SLEEP TONIGHT!
And if I don't, if my little experiment fails--it's going to be Chianti for breakfast, a six-pack over lunch, and a god-damn pitcher of margaritas for dinner because I'm only human, all right!
Now before you commence with all your smug mmm-hmming and well-I-might-have-guessed-ing, allow me to clarify: it's not a slurring, drooling, shame your children, wreck your marriage, blight your liver kind of drinking problem I'm talking about. And no Jilly, it's not the Airplane kind either (funny as that would be).
It's to do with my sleep, see. Alcohol is fucking with my sleep. And it's really starting to piss me off.
I don't deserve to be fucked with in this manner. It's not like I drink massive amounts of alcohol. Sure, I'll admit to drinking often. Especially now during summer when Mister is on vacation, and working in the yard building flower beds and wharfs and garden stairs and whatnot; and a cold beer at the end of a long, hard day of physical labor is right and just; and I would be remiss in my wifely duties if I let him drink alone, wouldn't I? Because drinking alone--now, I'm pretty sure that does qualify as a drinking problem, and we wouldn't want that now, would we? That would get the neighbors talking.
But even with this near daily indulgence of a beer here, or a shared bottle of wine there, I hardly ever drink to excess.
Shut up!
I don't!
Holidays notwithstanding, I seriously mean it! My drinking habits are modest----ish.
But I'm figuring out that every evening I do choose to enjoy my trifling bit of alcohol, I'm pretty much guaranteed to spend the night tossing, turning, and drifting in and out of the shallowest of sleeps. Maddening, I tell you. Vexing to the extreme.
Last night, just as a little experiment, I politely declined Mister's kind offer of a glass of port after the kids had gone to bed. Slept like a goddamn baby all night long. Eight straight hours of blissful repose.
It felt so fantastically good, that tonight I refused the cold beer that was proffered over the dinner table. I'll admit, I'm jonesing for that beer a bit right now. The crisp SNAP as the seal on the can cracks open. The glug-gurgle-fizzzzzz as the glass fills. The faint whiff of yeast in the air as foam settles.......JEDA wants......
But no. I shall remain firm. I SHALL SLEEP TONIGHT!
And if I don't, if my little experiment fails--it's going to be Chianti for breakfast, a six-pack over lunch, and a god-damn pitcher of margaritas for dinner because I'm only human, all right!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Meh
I don't know. Whaddaya' think?
Too pretentious?
Tis', tisn't it?
Alpha Grandma left today, and I'm bored.
And more than a little moody.
Remind me again how I ended up in this situation where I'm forever saying goodbye to people I love very, very dearly indeed; often with no hope of seeing said loved ones for a good year or more.
Don't say for love of Mister, because it just ain't cuttin' it tonight.
It's not that I want to go home with her, because I don't.
And it's not that I desperately want her to stay, because clearly she was ready to go home. She was ready for some peace and quiet. I respect that. We were both ready to have our respective spaces back. She'll respect that.
It's kind of like I have no anchor without my extended family around me. I spend 98% of my life absently adrift, 5,000 miles away from my safe harbor. Then, once a year or so, for this all too brief interlude, I get pulled in and lovingly surrounded by my people--people who've known me forever, and speak my language, and love me because they have to on account of the blood and all. But then, very abruptly, I'm cut loose again. And even though I know this adopted place of mine--I'm comfortable here, reasonably safe, and wildly loved by my own small brood--I can't help but feel miserably alone and completely misunderstood so far away from the people and places who raised me.
I feel this riduclous metphor most keenly immediately after a departure. And let me add this, it's much, much worse to be the one left behind than to be the one leaving. Something I don't always appreciate because it's usually me doing the leave-taking.
In just over a week my dad and step-mom will be coming for a visit. They too will leave me in their turn.
Again, I say MEH!
Self-pitying ennui. I'm a master at it. Pour me onto a sofa in a dimly lit room, and crack open the wine. I may be here awhile.
In the meantime, let me know what you think of my new masthead. I was just futzing around a little. I can give it another whirl, if this one doesn't suit.
Too pretentious?
Tis', tisn't it?
Alpha Grandma left today, and I'm bored.
And more than a little moody.
Remind me again how I ended up in this situation where I'm forever saying goodbye to people I love very, very dearly indeed; often with no hope of seeing said loved ones for a good year or more.
Don't say for love of Mister, because it just ain't cuttin' it tonight.
It's not that I want to go home with her, because I don't.
And it's not that I desperately want her to stay, because clearly she was ready to go home. She was ready for some peace and quiet. I respect that. We were both ready to have our respective spaces back. She'll respect that.
It's kind of like I have no anchor without my extended family around me. I spend 98% of my life absently adrift, 5,000 miles away from my safe harbor. Then, once a year or so, for this all too brief interlude, I get pulled in and lovingly surrounded by my people--people who've known me forever, and speak my language, and love me because they have to on account of the blood and all. But then, very abruptly, I'm cut loose again. And even though I know this adopted place of mine--I'm comfortable here, reasonably safe, and wildly loved by my own small brood--I can't help but feel miserably alone and completely misunderstood so far away from the people and places who raised me.
I feel this riduclous metphor most keenly immediately after a departure. And let me add this, it's much, much worse to be the one left behind than to be the one leaving. Something I don't always appreciate because it's usually me doing the leave-taking.
In just over a week my dad and step-mom will be coming for a visit. They too will leave me in their turn.
Again, I say MEH!
Self-pitying ennui. I'm a master at it. Pour me onto a sofa in a dimly lit room, and crack open the wine. I may be here awhile.
In the meantime, let me know what you think of my new masthead. I was just futzing around a little. I can give it another whirl, if this one doesn't suit.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Heaven On A Stick
Being the fine, upstanding American citizens that we are, Alpha Grandma and I decided to spend our expatriated 4th of July energies getting pleasantly buzzed on French rosé and then inventing new and ever more delectable ways to devour a bag of the Norwegian delicacy that is Smash.
Think Bugles dipped in chocolate, then try not to whince, for while I admit that this combination might sound odd and unpalatable, I assure you that it is not. It is, infact, pure mana sent down from the boisterous bounty of very Valhalla. Pure Viking genius I tell you! Because you know how vexing it is sometimes when you can't decide if you want something salty or something sweet? Well fret no more, friends and neighbors, because Smash has made it so you never have to decided again! Salt and sweet in one glorious, crunchy bite. Perfection. And incidently, one of only 5 material benefits that make life in Norway marginally more sustainable than life in America.
Yet somehow, Alpha Grandma and I have found a way to improve on this already heavenly treat.
So without further ado I give you--the Smorsh--
Think Bugles dipped in chocolate, then try not to whince, for while I admit that this combination might sound odd and unpalatable, I assure you that it is not. It is, infact, pure mana sent down from the boisterous bounty of very Valhalla. Pure Viking genius I tell you! Because you know how vexing it is sometimes when you can't decide if you want something salty or something sweet? Well fret no more, friends and neighbors, because Smash has made it so you never have to decided again! Salt and sweet in one glorious, crunchy bite. Perfection. And incidently, one of only 5 material benefits that make life in Norway marginally more sustainable than life in America.
Yet somehow, Alpha Grandma and I have found a way to improve on this already heavenly treat.
So without further ado I give you--the Smorsh--
The Method:
First off, you poor sods stateside are going to have to ask me to send you a bag of Smash, for as far as I know, it's not available over yonder. You're on your own for the marshmallows and the roasting sticks. Once you've gathered these key raw materials, you'll need to stoke up your campfire, then lay out your coals in the usual fashion. Begin by roasting a single marshmallow on all sides to golden, bubbly goodness. Then remove the marshmallow from the coals, and gently lift what Grandma and I hilariously (and not at all childishly) referred to as its foreskin about halfway up the *snickersnickersnortsnort* shaft. Carefully place a single Smash (coneside down) into the resulting sticky hallow, then gently fold the foreskin over the Smash. Now return the whole thing to the coals, and further roast the sticky underbelly of the marshmallow until you see the chocolate tip of the Smash begin to melt. Behold--the Smorsh!
Here's a magnificent picture of Grandma deep throating one of our creations. Observe the quiet rapture. The private ecstasy. I assure you, the Smorsh is every bit as good as it looks.
I'm going to let Alpha Grandma tell you the rest of the story of our 4th of July campfire barbeque. It was, after all, her grace under pressure that got us into the mess in which we ultimately landed. Suffice it to say, it involved skipping stones and two fully-clothed, semi-sober women dragging their sorry American selves out of the lake. There may have been some screeching and extremely hysterical laughter, as well, but it was largerly drowned out by the children's shouts of, "Do it again! Do it again!" and "Me too! Me too!"
Good times, people. Good times.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
So Far
July? Already? Seriously? I know we've been busy. We've been places and seen stuff. But I can't think what it all was.
Let's see......
And a bit more of this.
Yesterday we nearly killed Grandma doing this.
And at night, of course, we all have to sleep like this on account a' how the bloody sun won't just stay the fuck down long enough to get a decent night's sleep.
Let's see......
We've done a lot of this.
And a bit more of this.
When the rain lets up, we head out for a bit of this.
Yesterday we nearly killed Grandma doing this.
And at night, of course, we all have to sleep like this on account a' how the bloody sun won't just stay the fuck down long enough to get a decent night's sleep.
For the most part, we're enjoying ourselves.
Kind of.
Sort of.
I think.
I find myself fantasizing about day camp and summer school a lot, but then the kids get busy collecting blueberries, or building tents and playing baby crocodiles out by the lake, and I think "Isn't summer just the greatest thing EVER!"
I've read half a dozen books since school let out.
A few days ago I ran a 30 minute 5K (personal record).
And I sit here now with wickedly sunburned chest and shoulders (just reward, no doubt, for the attempted matricide of yesterday's aforementioned 5 hour hike).
So things are pretty much as they should be. Except I don't have nearly enough time for blogging.
Friday, June 20, 2008
How To Unload On The Nearest Available Punching Bag, Or
Why I'm An Unfit Mother
—early this morning—
EM: Mom? Can I play on your computer?
Me: NO! grrrrrrnashgrumblegrrrrrr IT’S LATE! grrrrrrrr BUS COMING! ahrrrrgggggg EAT BREAKFAST! NOW! FASTER! EATEATEAT! grumblegrumblegrrrrrrrrr
room fills with disgusting slurping, sucking, crunching noises as EM warily munches on her Cheerios, earning her several more grumblegrumblepissmoanstinkeye’d grrrrrrrrrs while my tea takes a FUCKING ETERNITY to steep
EM: Um. Mom?
Me: grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
EM: Um. Can you, um. Can you make a different lunch for me today? I’m bored with bologna lately.
Me: AHHHHRRRRRGGGGGG grrrrrrrrrrr NEVER GOOD ENOUGH
grrrrrrrrrrrr ALWAYS COMPLAINING nashgrumblegrrrrrrrrrrrr UNGRATEFUL mumblemumblegrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr SPIT IT OUT THEN. WHADDUHYA' WANT! nostrilsflairingunattractivelygrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
EM: Um. I always like peanut butter and honey.
Me: FINE!
grrrrrrrrcupboardsbangingdrawersslammingshouldbloodywellmakeityourselfgrumblegrumblegrrrrrrrrrr
EM: Mom?
Me: WHAT! NOW! grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
EM: I’m sorry I made you in a bad mood.
room fills with foul smelling vapor as hot air seeps slowly pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff out of my fat head
Me: I woke up in a bad mood, EM. It’s not your fault.
EM: Why are you in a bad mood?
Me: mumblemumblegrrrrrr Dunno
EM: Was it your date with dad last night? Was it Daddy? thoughtful silence Did he embarrass you? I get mad like that when he embarrasses me.
Director's Note: In order to do this piece the dramatic justice it deserves, you will need to study any of the brilliantly rendered battle scenes from the Power Rangers television series. Pure theatrical genius, those.
—early this morning—
EM: Mom? Can I play on your computer?
Me: NO! grrrrrrnashgrumblegrrrrrr IT’S LATE! grrrrrrrr BUS COMING! ahrrrrgggggg EAT BREAKFAST! NOW! FASTER! EATEATEAT! grumblegrumblegrrrrrrrrr
room fills with disgusting slurping, sucking, crunching noises as EM warily munches on her Cheerios, earning her several more grumblegrumblepissmoanstinkeye’d grrrrrrrrrs while my tea takes a FUCKING ETERNITY to steep
EM: Um. Mom?
Me: grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
EM: Um. Can you, um. Can you make a different lunch for me today? I’m bored with bologna lately.
Me: AHHHHRRRRRGGGGGG grrrrrrrrrrr NEVER GOOD ENOUGH
grrrrrrrrrrrr ALWAYS COMPLAINING nashgrumblegrrrrrrrrrrrr UNGRATEFUL mumblemumblegrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr SPIT IT OUT THEN. WHADDUHYA' WANT! nostrilsflairingunattractivelygrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
EM: Um. I always like peanut butter and honey.
Me: FINE!
grrrrrrrrcupboardsbangingdrawersslammingshouldbloodywellmakeityourselfgrumblegrumblegrrrrrrrrrr
EM: Mom?
Me: WHAT! NOW! grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
EM: I’m sorry I made you in a bad mood.
room fills with foul smelling vapor as hot air seeps slowly pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff out of my fat head
Me: I woke up in a bad mood, EM. It’s not your fault.
EM: Why are you in a bad mood?
Me: mumblemumblegrrrrrr Dunno
EM: Was it your date with dad last night? Was it Daddy? thoughtful silence Did he embarrass you? I get mad like that when he embarrasses me.
Director's Note: In order to do this piece the dramatic justice it deserves, you will need to study any of the brilliantly rendered battle scenes from the Power Rangers television series. Pure theatrical genius, those.
P.S.
Just after I finished writing that little drama about all the grrrr-ing and the argggg-ing over breakfast this morning, EM came home from school with a backpack full of this past year's notebooks, workbooks, and art projects. On the very last page of the very last notebook, I found this little drawing:
Has she not captured my very essence? The very pith and marrow of my soul?
On the one hand, I feel terrible that she was so vexed by my rage this morning she felt the need to draw a picture about it. On the other hand, I'm utterly delighted that she felt the need to draw a picture because she was so vexed by my rage this morning.
I just found out a few days ago that I finally succeeded in getting her into art classes at the Kulturskole starting in the Fall. I was sort of dreading the hassle of having to get her into the city once every damn week for a 2 hour class that she may or may not give a shit about. But having seen this, I'm more convinced than ever that it's the right thing to do by her. Drawing/art is clearly her preferred mode of expression. It's the one thing her teachers are always sure to rave about: "EM's doing fine in school, a delight to have in class, and her drawings are aMAzing!"
I can't wait to see where she'll go with it once she's got someone who can offer her a little technical support. Hands, for example. Let us hope that they tackle the fine art of hands early on in the program.
Has she not captured my very essence? The very pith and marrow of my soul?On the one hand, I feel terrible that she was so vexed by my rage this morning she felt the need to draw a picture about it. On the other hand, I'm utterly delighted that she felt the need to draw a picture because she was so vexed by my rage this morning.
I just found out a few days ago that I finally succeeded in getting her into art classes at the Kulturskole starting in the Fall. I was sort of dreading the hassle of having to get her into the city once every damn week for a 2 hour class that she may or may not give a shit about. But having seen this, I'm more convinced than ever that it's the right thing to do by her. Drawing/art is clearly her preferred mode of expression. It's the one thing her teachers are always sure to rave about: "EM's doing fine in school, a delight to have in class, and her drawings are aMAzing!"
I can't wait to see where she'll go with it once she's got someone who can offer her a little technical support. Hands, for example. Let us hope that they tackle the fine art of hands early on in the program.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
I Promise There Is A Perfectly Reasonable Explanation For What You Are About To See
Here's a summer challenge for all of ya'll while you're waiting for something more substantial to read.
A little game of Caption This Photo!
A little game of Caption This Photo!
Writer of the most amusing, plausible, and/or enchanting caption gets to name my next cat. Extra credit given for entries submitted in limerick form (haiku is also acceptable, but not recommended).
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Begging Your Pardon, But
You're all going to have to cut me a bit of slack for the next week, or six--or eight--or ten maybe...
Look, the first day of school is August 18. I should be able to resume regular posting then.
In the meantime, my dear ol' ma' is here visiting, and while I can assure you we're having a great time, and the kids are all over her like cute on kittens, I can't seem to get her to hush up long enough to finish a half-way decent post. I do have a few things in the works, but clearly it's going to take more time than usual for me to pull them into decent enough shape to publish.
Please be patient.
Cym--I'll be in touch with you about this illicit memory chip business. Shhhhh--makes me feel all dirty inside and stuff....
Look, the first day of school is August 18. I should be able to resume regular posting then.
In the meantime, my dear ol' ma' is here visiting, and while I can assure you we're having a great time, and the kids are all over her like cute on kittens, I can't seem to get her to hush up long enough to finish a half-way decent post. I do have a few things in the works, but clearly it's going to take more time than usual for me to pull them into decent enough shape to publish.
Please be patient.
Cym--I'll be in touch with you about this illicit memory chip business. Shhhhh--makes me feel all dirty inside and stuff....
Sunday, June 08, 2008
The Dread Retainer
Nine months.
That’s how long the orthodontist said he expected EM to have to wear The Dread Retainer.
Nine months.
Give or take a few weeks, of course.
But still—nine months.
I could make a whole other baby in nine months, the prospect of which—even given the long term consequences incumbent on said baby—is not nearly as distasteful to me as the thought of making The Dread Retainer feel welcome and comfortable in my home for nine full months.
I’ve spent some time online searching for a picture of The Dread Retainer. But I couldn’t find anything that looks even remotely like it. Sufficed to say, it’s all twisted, looping wires, and bulging, mesh cages; more crude instrument of Medieval torture than sophisticated device of modern dentistry. And it’s been permanently glued to EM’s back molars for the next—did I mention?—nine months.
Of course, on some remote level, I’m aware that it’s wrong of me to make The Dread Retainer sound like my cross to bear, rather than EM’s. After all, it was her gums that were scraped all to hell Friday afternoon while it was being fit into place. And she’s the one who hasn’t been able to eat much more than yogurt and runny oatmeal all weekend because her teeth are too tender to bite down on anything more substantial. But, gentle reader, please consider that I’m the one who has to listen to her suck and gurgle excess saliva until her mouth grows accustomed to the alien metal. I’m the one who has to endure the lisped and slurred speech as her tongue learns to speak around all that hardware. And I’m the one who has to hand pluck stringy bits of fruit and goo out from underneath the wires until she relearns how to chew and swallow.
The orthodontist tells me the excess saliva shouldn’t last more than 3 or 4 days. Same goes for the tender, aching gums and teeth. The more she talks, of course, the faster her tongue will learn to work around the metal. The swallowing, however, is likely to take some time, apparently. It is, after all, half the reason she has to have The Dread Retainer in the first place—to teach her tongue where it needs to be (roof of her mouth) when she swallows.
In case you missed the bit where I explained the story behind The Dread Retainer, here’s a quick synopsis: EM sucked her thumb a bit longer than she should have, ergo EM’s tongue has learned the bad habit of lazing sluggishly on her lower palette like a baby’s, rather than pressing firmly against her upper palette where it’s supposed to be. This, in turn, has led to a series of apparently untenable alignment issues that The Dread Retainer is meant to correct. Never mind that her teeth were neither crooked nor disfigured in anyway prior to treatment. Never mind that everything appeared to be in perfect working order—minus the trivial fact that she has been unable to use her front teeth to bite into a sandwich or apple or any other such food for that matter ever since her permanent teeth grew in. Is this an important ability? I seem to have lost my perspective somewhere between the drool and the lisp.
*sigh*
At least she didn’t embarrass me in front of the orthodontist again. Other than a bit of gratuitous whimpering before he’d even touched her, she behaved more or less decently. And I only had to threaten her Nintendo once to elicit such compliance! I consider this progress, no?
That’s how long the orthodontist said he expected EM to have to wear The Dread Retainer.
Nine months.
Give or take a few weeks, of course.
But still—nine months.
I could make a whole other baby in nine months, the prospect of which—even given the long term consequences incumbent on said baby—is not nearly as distasteful to me as the thought of making The Dread Retainer feel welcome and comfortable in my home for nine full months.
I’ve spent some time online searching for a picture of The Dread Retainer. But I couldn’t find anything that looks even remotely like it. Sufficed to say, it’s all twisted, looping wires, and bulging, mesh cages; more crude instrument of Medieval torture than sophisticated device of modern dentistry. And it’s been permanently glued to EM’s back molars for the next—did I mention?—nine months.
Of course, on some remote level, I’m aware that it’s wrong of me to make The Dread Retainer sound like my cross to bear, rather than EM’s. After all, it was her gums that were scraped all to hell Friday afternoon while it was being fit into place. And she’s the one who hasn’t been able to eat much more than yogurt and runny oatmeal all weekend because her teeth are too tender to bite down on anything more substantial. But, gentle reader, please consider that I’m the one who has to listen to her suck and gurgle excess saliva until her mouth grows accustomed to the alien metal. I’m the one who has to endure the lisped and slurred speech as her tongue learns to speak around all that hardware. And I’m the one who has to hand pluck stringy bits of fruit and goo out from underneath the wires until she relearns how to chew and swallow.
The orthodontist tells me the excess saliva shouldn’t last more than 3 or 4 days. Same goes for the tender, aching gums and teeth. The more she talks, of course, the faster her tongue will learn to work around the metal. The swallowing, however, is likely to take some time, apparently. It is, after all, half the reason she has to have The Dread Retainer in the first place—to teach her tongue where it needs to be (roof of her mouth) when she swallows.
In case you missed the bit where I explained the story behind The Dread Retainer, here’s a quick synopsis: EM sucked her thumb a bit longer than she should have, ergo EM’s tongue has learned the bad habit of lazing sluggishly on her lower palette like a baby’s, rather than pressing firmly against her upper palette where it’s supposed to be. This, in turn, has led to a series of apparently untenable alignment issues that The Dread Retainer is meant to correct. Never mind that her teeth were neither crooked nor disfigured in anyway prior to treatment. Never mind that everything appeared to be in perfect working order—minus the trivial fact that she has been unable to use her front teeth to bite into a sandwich or apple or any other such food for that matter ever since her permanent teeth grew in. Is this an important ability? I seem to have lost my perspective somewhere between the drool and the lisp.
*sigh*
At least she didn’t embarrass me in front of the orthodontist again. Other than a bit of gratuitous whimpering before he’d even touched her, she behaved more or less decently. And I only had to threaten her Nintendo once to elicit such compliance! I consider this progress, no?
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Two Things
Thing the First: I saw the season finale of Lost last night, and great glorious God on a hot dog was it ever good! But two ancillary things:
A) Why Jack’s dad? As far as I’m concerned the back story they built up around him doesn’t nearly justify his suddenly showing up everywhere to run the show. Speaking for Jacob? Showing up to tell Michael he can go now? I mean, didn’t Charlie and Jin deserve at least that much courtesy? Though, it has occurred to me that maybe Charlie and Jin aren’t all dead (only kinda/sorta island dead) which, I guess, would account for the difference, but still…Meh—the whole ‘Jack’s dad’ element confuses and annoys me.
B) Move the island by turning a great big icy cog? Seriously? That’s the best they can come up with? After turning us around to homicidal smoke clouds, time travel, and the freely roaming dead you’d think they would have put a bit more thought into it than that. I mean, come on! Here’s my disbelief willingly--wantonly--suspended for the next hour. At the very least light a fire with your eyes and chant some ancient Polynesian verse before you turn that cog!
Otherwise—brilliant! Desmond and Penny--swoon. How sweet was that?
Oh, and C) I hope Daniel Faraday isn’t dead, cuz’ I found myself kind of liking the dude. That new Asian guy, Whatshisname, too—he’s just pretty to look at.
Thing the Second: Boy had the open house at his new school today. He met his new teachers (all 4 of them) and his classmates (all 49 of them). He even got his first lesson book with 8 math problems he’s supposed to master by the first day of school in August (hint: the answer is always 10). God was he ever cute! And so excited! And so unbelievably ready! And I was so overcome by emotion, and pride, and excitement for him that I…
Shit! What did I just do? Did I really just agree to sit on the PTA committee?
Oh hell. I really just did. Sucker!
A) Why Jack’s dad? As far as I’m concerned the back story they built up around him doesn’t nearly justify his suddenly showing up everywhere to run the show. Speaking for Jacob? Showing up to tell Michael he can go now? I mean, didn’t Charlie and Jin deserve at least that much courtesy? Though, it has occurred to me that maybe Charlie and Jin aren’t all dead (only kinda/sorta island dead) which, I guess, would account for the difference, but still…Meh—the whole ‘Jack’s dad’ element confuses and annoys me.
B) Move the island by turning a great big icy cog? Seriously? That’s the best they can come up with? After turning us around to homicidal smoke clouds, time travel, and the freely roaming dead you’d think they would have put a bit more thought into it than that. I mean, come on! Here’s my disbelief willingly--wantonly--suspended for the next hour. At the very least light a fire with your eyes and chant some ancient Polynesian verse before you turn that cog!
Otherwise—brilliant! Desmond and Penny--swoon. How sweet was that?
Oh, and C) I hope Daniel Faraday isn’t dead, cuz’ I found myself kind of liking the dude. That new Asian guy, Whatshisname, too—he’s just pretty to look at.
Thing the Second: Boy had the open house at his new school today. He met his new teachers (all 4 of them) and his classmates (all 49 of them). He even got his first lesson book with 8 math problems he’s supposed to master by the first day of school in August (hint: the answer is always 10). God was he ever cute! And so excited! And so unbelievably ready! And I was so overcome by emotion, and pride, and excitement for him that I…
Shit! What did I just do? Did I really just agree to sit on the PTA committee?
Oh hell. I really just did. Sucker!
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Saturday, May 31, 2008
I spent WAY too much time on these stupid things. WAY WAY WAY too much time.
Then I discovered the music library, and proceeded to waste ever more ill considered hours on them. Housewifery is a blast, man. A fucking hoot, I tell ya'!
Heh heh--it occurs to me upon proof-reading, that that first sentence could be misconstrued as having spent way too much time on the kids--which is all too true. But, as I'm sure you must realize, I meant the futzy picture dealies.
Then I discovered the music library, and proceeded to waste ever more ill considered hours on them. Housewifery is a blast, man. A fucking hoot, I tell ya'!
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Heh heh--it occurs to me upon proof-reading, that that first sentence could be misconstrued as having spent way too much time on the kids--which is all too true. But, as I'm sure you must realize, I meant the futzy picture dealies.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Sticky
Missy's birthday party with all her little friends from barnehage was yesterday. Details and pictures later--for now I have a bit of a poser for you all.
For reasons entirely too lame to dwell on, I ended up inviting ALL the girls--not just the girls Missy's age, not just the ones she plays with regularly, but ALL the girls at the barnehage--and in so doing, managed to invite 2 little ones that have never been to a birthday party before. Their mothers (in one case, a foster mother) were so pleased, yet nervous about the prospect, that they both called to ask if it would be okay if they stayed for the party--just to be on the safe side.
Fine. Fine. Whatever. I had no problem with that. More adult supervision is always a bonus at these events.
The one mother (the non-foster one) is a foreigner like me. From the Philippines. Been here nearly 10 years. Very quiet. Even more tortured than me by small talk, it would seem. Anyway, she didn't bring a gift, just a card with money. While I think it's a little chicken shit to give a 4 year old cash for her birthday, it's not unheard of here, and that's not my problem. My problem is the amount of cash she gave: 350 kroner (about $70).
It's too much--crazy too much--and I don't feel good about keeping it. Do I approach her about returning some of it? Or, would that just embarrass the hell out of everyone, and insult her entire family and 6 generations of ancestors? Keep in mind that even though she's been here nearly 10 years and one would think that she would have learned by now that the accept norm for a birthday gift in these parts is closer to 100 kroner: a) this is her only child, b) this was said only child's first birthday party, so no etiquette setting precedent to go on, c) she made several comments while she was here that led both Mister and me to believe that her family's contact with other Norwegians is limited, so it stands to reason that she had no one to ask "Hey what would be considered appropriate here?"
I would feel differently--like maybe she meant to give us that much, rather than she just didn't know how much to give--if both her and her husband where high earning professionals. But they're not--he's a farmer, she's a checker at a grocery store. Surely, they don't have this kind of money to throw around. I know we don't. Also, by approaching her, awkward as it would be, we would be letting her know the local standard for the next party they're invited to. So, you know....civil service, and all that?
I honestly don't know. Do I say something or not?
For reasons entirely too lame to dwell on, I ended up inviting ALL the girls--not just the girls Missy's age, not just the ones she plays with regularly, but ALL the girls at the barnehage--and in so doing, managed to invite 2 little ones that have never been to a birthday party before. Their mothers (in one case, a foster mother) were so pleased, yet nervous about the prospect, that they both called to ask if it would be okay if they stayed for the party--just to be on the safe side.
Fine. Fine. Whatever. I had no problem with that. More adult supervision is always a bonus at these events.
The one mother (the non-foster one) is a foreigner like me. From the Philippines. Been here nearly 10 years. Very quiet. Even more tortured than me by small talk, it would seem. Anyway, she didn't bring a gift, just a card with money. While I think it's a little chicken shit to give a 4 year old cash for her birthday, it's not unheard of here, and that's not my problem. My problem is the amount of cash she gave: 350 kroner (about $70).
It's too much--crazy too much--and I don't feel good about keeping it. Do I approach her about returning some of it? Or, would that just embarrass the hell out of everyone, and insult her entire family and 6 generations of ancestors? Keep in mind that even though she's been here nearly 10 years and one would think that she would have learned by now that the accept norm for a birthday gift in these parts is closer to 100 kroner: a) this is her only child, b) this was said only child's first birthday party, so no etiquette setting precedent to go on, c) she made several comments while she was here that led both Mister and me to believe that her family's contact with other Norwegians is limited, so it stands to reason that she had no one to ask "Hey what would be considered appropriate here?"
I would feel differently--like maybe she meant to give us that much, rather than she just didn't know how much to give--if both her and her husband where high earning professionals. But they're not--he's a farmer, she's a checker at a grocery store. Surely, they don't have this kind of money to throw around. I know we don't. Also, by approaching her, awkward as it would be, we would be letting her know the local standard for the next party they're invited to. So, you know....civil service, and all that?
I honestly don't know. Do I say something or not?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
This is terribly silly, and hopelessly sentimental. But I get that way--kind of, sort of, a little bit--around the kids' birthdays.
What.Ever.
Just click play, and deal with it. Oh, and by all means, click on the full screen link when you see it. It helps.
Edited to add: Mark's Jenn's Oldest Younger Sister makes a valid point--you have to turn the pages yourself people. Point and click, point and click.
Also, you'll be singing that stupid song all day. You're welcome.
What.Ever.
Just click play, and deal with it. Oh, and by all means, click on the full screen link when you see it. It helps.
Edited to add: Mark's Jenn's Oldest Younger Sister makes a valid point--you have to turn the pages yourself people. Point and click, point and click.
Also, you'll be singing that stupid song all day. You're welcome.
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Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Reading, Writing, And A Smattering Of Arithmatic
I had a meeting with Elder Miss’s math teacher today.
Gøril.
How’s that for a name? Think ‘good reel’ only without the ‘d’.
It says something about how long I’ve lived here that that kind of name no longer even fazes me. Hell—I kind of like it. And Vigdis has grown on me to the point where I’d even consider bestowing it on a treasured cat. Not Ragnhild though; never Ragnhild. And Gaute is still something contagious, and spoken of only in furtive whispers. But Gøril I like. Gøril is sporty and fun; Gøril would buy you a round of Jello shots on your birthday—‘course, she’d call them géle shots and order ‘em full of aquavit instead of vodka, but the night out itself would be a riot.
Hold up. Where was I?
Oh yeah, math. My Elder Miss, she struggles mightily with the arithmetic.
Okay, not mightily, but I suspect there are issues which I wanted to address while they’re still young and largely imagined. So I requested a conference.
Right away Gøril assured me that in her opinion EM is fine—right on track with her progress. She showed me the standardized test that EM and her entire class took last week. EM scored a 56 out of a total of 74 possible points. A solid middle pack performance according to Gøril, and far, far from the panic threshold of 36 or lower. So what the fuck are you doing here? You pushy, demanding, critical, harping tart of a mother you.
I jest. She was really very pleasant. And, truth be told, she gave me a fair amount of kudos for being so engaged and interested in my daughter’s schooling—rare in these parts, apparently.
I will admit to being relieved to hear that EM is not the dumbest kid in the class. I will even admit that that very reassurance was 50% of the reason I asked for the meeting in the first place. The difficulty EM is having understanding and finishing her assignments is common and shared with a good half of her classmates.
But. But but…..
56 out of 74? I’m being patted on the head with 56 out of 74? That’s pretty crap, isn’t it? She showed me the actual test too. This was basic, basic stuff: greater than/less than, find the number on the number line, count by twos, count by threes, fill in the missing numbers in the equation 21+__ =30, 15-__ =8, and so on. Easy, easy stuff. 8 problems per page, and the only page where she was able to finish every problem in the allotted time was the one where she had to find the number on the number line.
She’s in the 2nd grade. Shouldn’t there be more to a 2nd grader’s understanding of basic arithmetic than this?
There was one page where she managed to miss every single problem. The instructions were to finish the equation by finding the 10’s and the 1’s. So something like this: 34=__ +4. The answer EM wrote was 38. Gøril told me not to worry. Many of the kids were unable to do this page. She felt it was because they don’t have any real understanding of what the ‘=’ sign actually means.
Why? How? What the everloving fuck? How does a kid, let alone ‘many’ kids, get to the 2nd grade without knowing what the ‘=’ sign means?
I do not mean to malign the teacher. I really don’t. I have every reason to believe this Gøril’s as competent and caring a teacher as I could hope for for EM. It’s the method and the book from which she teaches that I hate—the convoluted, wordy, theoretical, mumbo-jumbo, concept driven bullshit that bathes these kids in a gentle sprinkle of mathematical ideas without ever teaching them any actual skillz yo.
Grumble, grumble.
In the end we agreed that EM could use some linguistic reinforcement. So for the next month or so, until the end of the school year, she’s going take the time to go over some of these concepts with EM in English after she’s instructed the rest of the class in Norwegian. And I’m supposed to encourage EM to learn how to speak up and admit when she really doesn’t get it. EM is a master at nodding and feigning interest when really she’s just counting freckles on her arms and biding her time until all the tiresome yapping from the grown-ups ceases. It would be helpful, says Gøril, if she quit that.
Yeah. So, so much for my proactive meeting of the minds. Wish I could say I felt better about everything now, but I don’t. She’s average. Fine. I neither expect nor require genius from my kids. I just wish I didn’t feel like the standard she’s being held to was so woefully low. Even after seeing that bungled test of hers, I can’t help but feel she’s capable of so much more, if only someone would issue the challenge and teach her the necessary skills.
I feel utterly trapped by this laissez-faire school system, but see absolutely no viable alternatives.
Grumble, grumble, grumble. I’m going to bed now.
Gøril.
How’s that for a name? Think ‘good reel’ only without the ‘d’.
It says something about how long I’ve lived here that that kind of name no longer even fazes me. Hell—I kind of like it. And Vigdis has grown on me to the point where I’d even consider bestowing it on a treasured cat. Not Ragnhild though; never Ragnhild. And Gaute is still something contagious, and spoken of only in furtive whispers. But Gøril I like. Gøril is sporty and fun; Gøril would buy you a round of Jello shots on your birthday—‘course, she’d call them géle shots and order ‘em full of aquavit instead of vodka, but the night out itself would be a riot.
Hold up. Where was I?
Oh yeah, math. My Elder Miss, she struggles mightily with the arithmetic.
Okay, not mightily, but I suspect there are issues which I wanted to address while they’re still young and largely imagined. So I requested a conference.
Right away Gøril assured me that in her opinion EM is fine—right on track with her progress. She showed me the standardized test that EM and her entire class took last week. EM scored a 56 out of a total of 74 possible points. A solid middle pack performance according to Gøril, and far, far from the panic threshold of 36 or lower. So what the fuck are you doing here? You pushy, demanding, critical, harping tart of a mother you.
I jest. She was really very pleasant. And, truth be told, she gave me a fair amount of kudos for being so engaged and interested in my daughter’s schooling—rare in these parts, apparently.
I will admit to being relieved to hear that EM is not the dumbest kid in the class. I will even admit that that very reassurance was 50% of the reason I asked for the meeting in the first place. The difficulty EM is having understanding and finishing her assignments is common and shared with a good half of her classmates.
But. But but…..
56 out of 74? I’m being patted on the head with 56 out of 74? That’s pretty crap, isn’t it? She showed me the actual test too. This was basic, basic stuff: greater than/less than, find the number on the number line, count by twos, count by threes, fill in the missing numbers in the equation 21+__ =30, 15-__ =8, and so on. Easy, easy stuff. 8 problems per page, and the only page where she was able to finish every problem in the allotted time was the one where she had to find the number on the number line.
She’s in the 2nd grade. Shouldn’t there be more to a 2nd grader’s understanding of basic arithmetic than this?
There was one page where she managed to miss every single problem. The instructions were to finish the equation by finding the 10’s and the 1’s. So something like this: 34=__ +4. The answer EM wrote was 38. Gøril told me not to worry. Many of the kids were unable to do this page. She felt it was because they don’t have any real understanding of what the ‘=’ sign actually means.
Why? How? What the everloving fuck? How does a kid, let alone ‘many’ kids, get to the 2nd grade without knowing what the ‘=’ sign means?
I do not mean to malign the teacher. I really don’t. I have every reason to believe this Gøril’s as competent and caring a teacher as I could hope for for EM. It’s the method and the book from which she teaches that I hate—the convoluted, wordy, theoretical, mumbo-jumbo, concept driven bullshit that bathes these kids in a gentle sprinkle of mathematical ideas without ever teaching them any actual skillz yo.
Grumble, grumble.
In the end we agreed that EM could use some linguistic reinforcement. So for the next month or so, until the end of the school year, she’s going take the time to go over some of these concepts with EM in English after she’s instructed the rest of the class in Norwegian. And I’m supposed to encourage EM to learn how to speak up and admit when she really doesn’t get it. EM is a master at nodding and feigning interest when really she’s just counting freckles on her arms and biding her time until all the tiresome yapping from the grown-ups ceases. It would be helpful, says Gøril, if she quit that.
Yeah. So, so much for my proactive meeting of the minds. Wish I could say I felt better about everything now, but I don’t. She’s average. Fine. I neither expect nor require genius from my kids. I just wish I didn’t feel like the standard she’s being held to was so woefully low. Even after seeing that bungled test of hers, I can’t help but feel she’s capable of so much more, if only someone would issue the challenge and teach her the necessary skills.
I feel utterly trapped by this laissez-faire school system, but see absolutely no viable alternatives.
Grumble, grumble, grumble. I’m going to bed now.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Who-ray For Norway Day
Tomorrow it will be my singular pleasure to celebrate yet another 17th of May, Constitution Day with my adopted countrymen and women.
Woo Fucking Hoo
I’ve never much liked 17. Mai (pronounced soot-en-eh my), except for the bunads. I like the bunads; they’re fun to gawk at. Truth be told, I kind of want one for myself because I think they make chicks look hot—hot in a repressed yet buxom, puritanical sort of way, but still hot. Other than that, 17. Mai =big, fat yawn in my book.
We, like every other family with school-aged children, will be contenting ourselves with passing the business end of 17.Mai—the parade (they call it a parade, but I assure you, it’s nothing like; it’s really just a drab procession of bunad clad families walking down the street waving flags and congratulating one another on being Norwegians), the speeches, the carnival games, the over priced helium balloons and cotton candy—at the kids’ school. Again I say, Woo Fucking Hoo.
If you don’t have kids, or your kids are all old and grown, according to the standard issue The Good Norwegian Citizen’s Guide to Good Norwegian Citizenry, you’re expected to head into the nearest city center, where you will spend your day jostling enormous crowds for a glimpse of the parade (same sort of procession seen at the local schools only bigger, and therefore longer, and infinitely more dull), and searching (largely in vain) for the tiniest of café tables and the chance to ease your bloodied and blistered feet out of your dress shoes. Then, if you’ve been doubly lucky enough to have caught the attention of one of the two working waiters on duty, you may hunker down in this prized spot with a pint of beer and a plate of fenalår, and observe (in a good-humored, non-judgmental fashion) the loud antics of the hordes of drunken teenagers. For it is further noted in The Good Norwegian Citizen’s Guide to Good Norwegian Citizenry that if you are a child you are expected to spend the day gorging yourself silly on bowel shaking quantities of ice cream and cotton candy, and if you are a teenager you are expected to spend it drunk off your ass. It’s a patriotism thing. Apparently, it’s how you express love of country in Norwegian.
And speaking of patriotism, I’ve been getting quite a kick out of how much effort good Norwegian citizens put into their 17. Mai preparations. Yesterday Boy and Missy’s barnehage spent two hours of their afternoon marching around the soccer field shouting “Hurra for 17. Mai! Hurra for 17. Mai!” Then the teachers would go “Hip hip!” and the kids would go, “Hurra!” Teachers, “Hip hip!” Kids, “Hurra!” And so on and so forth. Apparently it took them two hours to get this liturgy down pat.
Today Elder Miss’s entire school dedicated their entire morning to much the same thing: marching about the school grounds, shouting socialist propaganda at one another, and working hard to get just the right amount of snap in the flip of their waving flags. All morning they worked on this.
And I’m thinking, “Lookit citizens—a lawn chair, a bucket of chicken, and a cooler full of ice and beer. Keep one semi-intelligent adult semi-sober enough to light the sparklers after dark. And that’s your Independence Day. Done.”
All this fuss and bother over a constitution that only granted them partial sovereignty anyway. Woo Fucking Hoo.
Oh well, at least the girls are going to look fabulous in their bunads. I’ve had Farmor ironing them all evening while I swill beer and type at you fine people.
Gratulerer med dagen!
Woo Fucking Hoo
I’ve never much liked 17. Mai (pronounced soot-en-eh my), except for the bunads. I like the bunads; they’re fun to gawk at. Truth be told, I kind of want one for myself because I think they make chicks look hot—hot in a repressed yet buxom, puritanical sort of way, but still hot. Other than that, 17. Mai =big, fat yawn in my book.
We, like every other family with school-aged children, will be contenting ourselves with passing the business end of 17.Mai—the parade (they call it a parade, but I assure you, it’s nothing like; it’s really just a drab procession of bunad clad families walking down the street waving flags and congratulating one another on being Norwegians), the speeches, the carnival games, the over priced helium balloons and cotton candy—at the kids’ school. Again I say, Woo Fucking Hoo.
If you don’t have kids, or your kids are all old and grown, according to the standard issue The Good Norwegian Citizen’s Guide to Good Norwegian Citizenry, you’re expected to head into the nearest city center, where you will spend your day jostling enormous crowds for a glimpse of the parade (same sort of procession seen at the local schools only bigger, and therefore longer, and infinitely more dull), and searching (largely in vain) for the tiniest of café tables and the chance to ease your bloodied and blistered feet out of your dress shoes. Then, if you’ve been doubly lucky enough to have caught the attention of one of the two working waiters on duty, you may hunker down in this prized spot with a pint of beer and a plate of fenalår, and observe (in a good-humored, non-judgmental fashion) the loud antics of the hordes of drunken teenagers. For it is further noted in The Good Norwegian Citizen’s Guide to Good Norwegian Citizenry that if you are a child you are expected to spend the day gorging yourself silly on bowel shaking quantities of ice cream and cotton candy, and if you are a teenager you are expected to spend it drunk off your ass. It’s a patriotism thing. Apparently, it’s how you express love of country in Norwegian.
And speaking of patriotism, I’ve been getting quite a kick out of how much effort good Norwegian citizens put into their 17. Mai preparations. Yesterday Boy and Missy’s barnehage spent two hours of their afternoon marching around the soccer field shouting “Hurra for 17. Mai! Hurra for 17. Mai!” Then the teachers would go “Hip hip!” and the kids would go, “Hurra!” Teachers, “Hip hip!” Kids, “Hurra!” And so on and so forth. Apparently it took them two hours to get this liturgy down pat.
Today Elder Miss’s entire school dedicated their entire morning to much the same thing: marching about the school grounds, shouting socialist propaganda at one another, and working hard to get just the right amount of snap in the flip of their waving flags. All morning they worked on this.
And I’m thinking, “Lookit citizens—a lawn chair, a bucket of chicken, and a cooler full of ice and beer. Keep one semi-intelligent adult semi-sober enough to light the sparklers after dark. And that’s your Independence Day. Done.”
All this fuss and bother over a constitution that only granted them partial sovereignty anyway. Woo Fucking Hoo.
Oh well, at least the girls are going to look fabulous in their bunads. I’ve had Farmor ironing them all evening while I swill beer and type at you fine people.
Gratulerer med dagen!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Legs, Meet Hills. Hills, Meet The Relentless Churning Power Of My Mighty Hams.
I recently added hills to my running regimen. Gruesome, but oh. so. satisfying.
If you had told me even just this past Christmas that, come May, I'd be running up the mountain roads I've been running these past two weeks, I'd have listened politely with mock-stern interest, then I'd have had you burned as a heretic.
I freely admit to occasionally underestimating myself and my modest potential.
If you had told me even just this past Christmas that, come May, I'd be running up the mountain roads I've been running these past two weeks, I'd have listened politely with mock-stern interest, then I'd have had you burned as a heretic.
I freely admit to occasionally underestimating myself and my modest potential.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
The Couple Who Drinks Together, Stays Together
The Scene:
Friday night. 9-ish. Kids are in bed. So far no one has come out puking. Looks to be a quiet night.
Explanatory note:
We have one TV in the house located in the upstairs living room; we spend most of our time in the downstairs living room where there’s nothing but each other and the fire by way of entertainment—and the ipod of course, which is on low, rotating through a playlist of late 80’s-era Sting, U2, and Springsteen, with an occasional dash of REM, which may or may not be contributing to Mister’s brooding.
One last thing:
“underholdning” is Norwegian—means “entertainment”
Him: So. You didn’t like your birthday present very much, did you?
Me: 50” wide-screen TV? What every girl dreams of. Why?
Him: We never watch it. Not together anyway.
Me: We’ve talked about this before, dearest. You and I have a conflict of interests where our TV viewing is concerned.
Him: So? You know I’m not picky. I’ll watch whatever.
Me: You say that now. You might even mean it. But when we're sitting up there together, I feel obligated to watch something you’ll like.
Him: Nobutno. But seriously. I’m fine with whatever. You always get the remote anyway. Do whatever you want with it. Except flip channels. I hate that.
Me: But that’s what I do.
Him: Why? Why do you do that? How can you know whether or not a program is worth watching unless you sit still and watch it?
Me: Look. I know myself well enough to know that I’m not going enjoy anything with the words “norsk” or “underholdning” in the description. Ditto the words “dance”, “idol”, “reality” and/or “contestant”. So why wouldn’t I quickly flip past any and all of that crap?
Him: But some of those Norwegian talk shows can be kind of funny sometimes.
Me: To you maybe. Not to me.
Him: I’m sure you’d like them if you’d just give them a chance.
Me: *heavy sigh* So what are you trying to tell me here? Would you like to go upstairs and watch the Friday night talk shows? Cuz’ you can. You’re certainly free to do that if that’s what you want to do.
Him: Not necessarily.
Me: But you want to watch TV?
Him: I don’t know. Maybe.
Me: And the talk shows are what you’d be watching if it were up to you?
Him: Well. That’s really hard to say when I’m not sitting right there in front of the TV. How am I supposed to know what I’ll be in the mood for.
Me: *heavy, heavy sigh* Honey. Help me out. What are we talking about right now?
Him: Just wondering what it says about us as a couple if we can’t even watch TV together. That’s all.
Me: Not much! I mean, honestly! I don’t get my mother’s TV viewing pleasures either, and I still like her a lot, and consider us quite close.
Him: *silent pout*
Me: And besides, every pop psychologist’s guide on how to build a stronger relationship with your partner begins and ends with TURN THE TV OFF! According to their logic, we’re like the healthiest couple we know.
*thoughtful pause*
Him: So, I’ll open another bottle then?
Me: Christ, I thought you’d never ask!
Friday night. 9-ish. Kids are in bed. So far no one has come out puking. Looks to be a quiet night.
Explanatory note:
We have one TV in the house located in the upstairs living room; we spend most of our time in the downstairs living room where there’s nothing but each other and the fire by way of entertainment—and the ipod of course, which is on low, rotating through a playlist of late 80’s-era Sting, U2, and Springsteen, with an occasional dash of REM, which may or may not be contributing to Mister’s brooding.
One last thing:
“underholdning” is Norwegian—means “entertainment”
Him: So. You didn’t like your birthday present very much, did you?
Me: 50” wide-screen TV? What every girl dreams of. Why?
Him: We never watch it. Not together anyway.
Me: We’ve talked about this before, dearest. You and I have a conflict of interests where our TV viewing is concerned.
Him: So? You know I’m not picky. I’ll watch whatever.
Me: You say that now. You might even mean it. But when we're sitting up there together, I feel obligated to watch something you’ll like.
Him: Nobutno. But seriously. I’m fine with whatever. You always get the remote anyway. Do whatever you want with it. Except flip channels. I hate that.
Me: But that’s what I do.
Him: Why? Why do you do that? How can you know whether or not a program is worth watching unless you sit still and watch it?
Me: Look. I know myself well enough to know that I’m not going enjoy anything with the words “norsk” or “underholdning” in the description. Ditto the words “dance”, “idol”, “reality” and/or “contestant”. So why wouldn’t I quickly flip past any and all of that crap?
Him: But some of those Norwegian talk shows can be kind of funny sometimes.
Me: To you maybe. Not to me.
Him: I’m sure you’d like them if you’d just give them a chance.
Me: *heavy sigh* So what are you trying to tell me here? Would you like to go upstairs and watch the Friday night talk shows? Cuz’ you can. You’re certainly free to do that if that’s what you want to do.
Him: Not necessarily.
Me: But you want to watch TV?
Him: I don’t know. Maybe.
Me: And the talk shows are what you’d be watching if it were up to you?
Him: Well. That’s really hard to say when I’m not sitting right there in front of the TV. How am I supposed to know what I’ll be in the mood for.
Me: *heavy, heavy sigh* Honey. Help me out. What are we talking about right now?
Him: Just wondering what it says about us as a couple if we can’t even watch TV together. That’s all.
Me: Not much! I mean, honestly! I don’t get my mother’s TV viewing pleasures either, and I still like her a lot, and consider us quite close.
Him: *silent pout*
Me: And besides, every pop psychologist’s guide on how to build a stronger relationship with your partner begins and ends with TURN THE TV OFF! According to their logic, we’re like the healthiest couple we know.
*thoughtful pause*
Him: So, I’ll open another bottle then?
Me: Christ, I thought you’d never ask!
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Things You Don't Want To Hear From Your Career Counselor
Boy: Mom? Is EM going to be a doctor?
Me: That’s what she says. Yes.
Boy: And I’m going to be a paramedic?
Me: That’s been the plan for awhile now. Have you changed your mind?
Boy: No.
Missy: What should I be then?
Me: What do you want to be?
Missy: I want to be a princess.
Boy: Oh come! on! Where are we going to find a prince who’ll take you?
Me: That’s what she says. Yes.
Boy: And I’m going to be a paramedic?
Me: That’s been the plan for awhile now. Have you changed your mind?
Boy: No.
Missy: What should I be then?
Me: What do you want to be?
Missy: I want to be a princess.
Boy: Oh come! on! Where are we going to find a prince who’ll take you?
Saturday, April 26, 2008
English Lessons
Remember EM's English book? That intellectually jarring, spiritually jolting, psycologically altering work of developmental genius I shared with you a while back about dead mice and hungry cats?
When we eventually returned it to her classroom, I added a note in which, rather than question the suitability of the subject matter or the accessibility of the overarching theme of spiritual struggle between grace and sin it clearly symbolizes, I simply suggested that perhaps the text was a bit simplistic for EM. Have you got anything more challenging?
Her teachers responded by skipping two levels. We then endured three more editions in the same series--slightly less weird, yet infintely more dull: Mary and Steven Go to a Birthday Party, Mary and Steven Find a Snake in the Grass, Mary and Steven Love Each Other Like the Osmonds (or something, I might have misremembered that third one).
Finally I sent another note: Still too easy! Lace us up with all you've got ma'am. We can take it.
This is what she came home with:
When we eventually returned it to her classroom, I added a note in which, rather than question the suitability of the subject matter or the accessibility of the overarching theme of spiritual struggle between grace and sin it clearly symbolizes, I simply suggested that perhaps the text was a bit simplistic for EM. Have you got anything more challenging?
Her teachers responded by skipping two levels. We then endured three more editions in the same series--slightly less weird, yet infintely more dull: Mary and Steven Go to a Birthday Party, Mary and Steven Find a Snake in the Grass, Mary and Steven Love Each Other Like the Osmonds (or something, I might have misremembered that third one).
Finally I sent another note: Still too easy! Lace us up with all you've got ma'am. We can take it.
This is what she came home with:
That kindly blond man posing as her doctor ends up pimping her out to drug lords and arms dealers in the inner city. Meanwhile Steven, seeing his sister's sad fate, seeks redemption for them both by joining a seminary, but tragically winds up as the senior priest's favorite little bitch.
It is the 9th and highest level to be sure, so obviously it is intended for a slightly older reader than EM. But I don't know. Just seems to me like they've gone a bit too far with the hard-hitting morality bit. I'm considering a strongly worded letter to the superindendent.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Figuratively Speaking
The following is a snippet of a conversation Elder Miss and I had a few nights ago. We had just finished the first book in the American Girls series about Kaya, a Nez Perce girl living during the late 18th century. I had asked her what she thought had been the most interesting part of the book. She talked for a minute about an exciting river rescue scene, then asked me the same question. I responded that I thought the part about all the village children being punished by the Whipwoman for Kaya’s mistake was interesting.
EM: Why?
Me: I just think it’s interesting that all the kids had to be punished because one kid did something wrong.
EM: Why?
Me: Well, how would you feel if I whipped all three of you kids every time Boy pushes the cushions off the couch. (something he does every other God damn day, and it pisses me off)
EM: We would cry.
Me: But would you let him do it over and over again if you knew you were going to get whipped for it?
EM: I’m glad there are no Whipwomen in Norway.
Me: I’m sure you are. But you didn’t answer my question.
EM: In Norway, tree branches are for roasting hot dogs, not for whipping children.
Me: Yes, but focus darling. What would happen if, for example, all the kids in your class were punished because one boy was teasing a 1st grader and stealing his lunch?
EM: That’s bullying! Bullying isn’t allowed.
Me: I know. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Would you be more or less willing to let a classmate bully a 1st grader if you knew you might be punished for it?
EM: Punished how?
Me: A whip, EM. Remember the Whipwoman?
EM: There are no Whipwomen in Norway.
Literal much?
Her father is exactly the same way. Try playing the ‘what would you do if you won a million dollars?’ or ‘were granted three wishes?’ game with him, and you’ll soon find yourself casting about for the nearest large, preferably jagged object with which to knock him over his pee-brained head, and put him out of his pee-brained misery.
Willing suspension of disbelief, and unnecessary expeditions into the realm of the hypothetical are not things that either one of them do willingly. I do not have a million dollars, so why would I pretend that I do? There are no Whipwomen in Norway, so why are we talking about being beaten by one? If you can’t say something sensible, please don’t say anything at all.
Which is not to say that they are so starkly dull in all aspects of their lives. You’d think, for example, someone so married to the literal truth as EM would approach her clothing choices with a bit more sobriety. But no. Elder Miss mixes colors and patterns, in improbable layer after improbable layer with the fanciful whimsy of a kindergarten teacher. I have no idea why she’s so blind to the ghastly wrongness of most of her fashion combinations. I guess because in her very literal world blue is blue, pink is pink, and the tedious parsing of all the clashing tones and hues in between is for artsy–fartsy types like myself who waste their time finding beauty in moonscapes and poetry in waterfalls.
Boy, by the way, is shaping up to be the polar opposite of EM in the cloudy intangibles department. Boy, it seems, is my spiritual apprentice in all things artsy-fartsy.
Last year I posted some examples of the random, illogical leaps conversations with him would often take. He doesn’t do that anymore—thank God—but it seems obvious to me that those loopy rejoinders were early indications of the looser, more abstract way his mind works.
You can see the natural progression of that conceptual freewheeling when he’s trying to tell a story and can’t remember some simple word in English. Rather than simply use the Norwegian word as EM would have done, he manages to throw in the most wonderful descriptive substitutes like chocolate water for mud, or wiggly stick lights for candles, or, my personal favorite, rock-sky day to describe dark, overcast weather.
He’s also always been better at pretend play than EM; since they were of an age to start playing together, EM has had to follow Boy’s lead. It was Boy who taught EM that it was okay for her Polly Pockets to live in the castle next door to his Transformers, that they could even gasp talk to one another. And when the two–headed dragons came to attack, it was Boy who showed EM what effective missiles Duplo Legos made against them. EM was scandalized that Legos should be used for anything other than building the officially sanctioned figures that came illustrated with the factory instructions. She actually came to ask me if it was okay.
EM: Boy is making the Duplos act like bombs.
Me: Say what?
EM: He’s using the Duplos to kill the dragons. He’s throwing them.
Me: Is he throwing them at you?
EM: No.
Me: Sounds like fun EM. Death to the dragons!
EM: But what if we want to build something with them later?
Me: Then you’ll pick them up off the floor and build something.
EM: Oh.
I know that all of this must sound like I’m pitting one kid against the other and saying, “Look how dumb that one is compared to this one.” I swear that’s not what I’m driving at. In fact, I don’t think any of this has anything to do with intelligence at all. I’d be remiss at this point if I didn’t mention that EM has a remarkable aptitude for practical problem solving—there is no obstacle you could put in front of that kid for which she couldn’t come up with at least 3 different alternatives inside a minute. Boy would just stare slack-jawed at the very same obstacle and cry, then later he’d describe that bleak moment as unto a journey into the very foothills of darkest Purgatory (or maybe just the dentist’s office, he is only five after all).
All I’m really trying to say (and I’m ashamed and humiliated that it’s taken me this long to say it) is that it is becoming ever more apparent that EM thinks like her father and Boy thinks like me.
One last story to illustrate my point, then I’ll shut up.
I’ve been reading the Magic Tree House series to Boy and Missy every night at bedtime. About a week ago we were in the middle of an adventure set in the Wild West, and a cowboy character said something like “I’m going to round up all them thur’ horses, then split the wind over that thur’ ridge.” It’s a phrase I’d never heard before, so I paused to ask Boy what he thought “split the wind” might mean. He didn’t stop to think even a second before he shot his hand out in a half karate chop and shouted, “GO FAST!”
Almost a week later we were all in the car when we hit a long, straight stretch of road (very rare in these parts) and Mister laid on the gas--revving the engine, and noticeably speeding up. From the back seat Boy cried out, “This car is splitting the wind!” I laughed out loud, and so would have high-fived him if we had been face to face. EM and Mister, on the other hand, snorted simultaneously with intellectual distain, “You can’t cut air, Boy."
"And besides,” EM added helpfully, “Air is a gas. Didn’t you know?”
EM: Why?
Me: I just think it’s interesting that all the kids had to be punished because one kid did something wrong.
EM: Why?
Me: Well, how would you feel if I whipped all three of you kids every time Boy pushes the cushions off the couch. (something he does every other God damn day, and it pisses me off)
EM: We would cry.
Me: But would you let him do it over and over again if you knew you were going to get whipped for it?
EM: I’m glad there are no Whipwomen in Norway.
Me: I’m sure you are. But you didn’t answer my question.
EM: In Norway, tree branches are for roasting hot dogs, not for whipping children.
Me: Yes, but focus darling. What would happen if, for example, all the kids in your class were punished because one boy was teasing a 1st grader and stealing his lunch?
EM: That’s bullying! Bullying isn’t allowed.
Me: I know. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Would you be more or less willing to let a classmate bully a 1st grader if you knew you might be punished for it?
EM: Punished how?
Me: A whip, EM. Remember the Whipwoman?
EM: There are no Whipwomen in Norway.
Literal much?
Her father is exactly the same way. Try playing the ‘what would you do if you won a million dollars?’ or ‘were granted three wishes?’ game with him, and you’ll soon find yourself casting about for the nearest large, preferably jagged object with which to knock him over his pee-brained head, and put him out of his pee-brained misery.
Willing suspension of disbelief, and unnecessary expeditions into the realm of the hypothetical are not things that either one of them do willingly. I do not have a million dollars, so why would I pretend that I do? There are no Whipwomen in Norway, so why are we talking about being beaten by one? If you can’t say something sensible, please don’t say anything at all.
Which is not to say that they are so starkly dull in all aspects of their lives. You’d think, for example, someone so married to the literal truth as EM would approach her clothing choices with a bit more sobriety. But no. Elder Miss mixes colors and patterns, in improbable layer after improbable layer with the fanciful whimsy of a kindergarten teacher. I have no idea why she’s so blind to the ghastly wrongness of most of her fashion combinations. I guess because in her very literal world blue is blue, pink is pink, and the tedious parsing of all the clashing tones and hues in between is for artsy–fartsy types like myself who waste their time finding beauty in moonscapes and poetry in waterfalls.
Boy, by the way, is shaping up to be the polar opposite of EM in the cloudy intangibles department. Boy, it seems, is my spiritual apprentice in all things artsy-fartsy.
Last year I posted some examples of the random, illogical leaps conversations with him would often take. He doesn’t do that anymore—thank God—but it seems obvious to me that those loopy rejoinders were early indications of the looser, more abstract way his mind works.
You can see the natural progression of that conceptual freewheeling when he’s trying to tell a story and can’t remember some simple word in English. Rather than simply use the Norwegian word as EM would have done, he manages to throw in the most wonderful descriptive substitutes like chocolate water for mud, or wiggly stick lights for candles, or, my personal favorite, rock-sky day to describe dark, overcast weather.
He’s also always been better at pretend play than EM; since they were of an age to start playing together, EM has had to follow Boy’s lead. It was Boy who taught EM that it was okay for her Polly Pockets to live in the castle next door to his Transformers, that they could even gasp talk to one another. And when the two–headed dragons came to attack, it was Boy who showed EM what effective missiles Duplo Legos made against them. EM was scandalized that Legos should be used for anything other than building the officially sanctioned figures that came illustrated with the factory instructions. She actually came to ask me if it was okay.
EM: Boy is making the Duplos act like bombs.
Me: Say what?
EM: He’s using the Duplos to kill the dragons. He’s throwing them.
Me: Is he throwing them at you?
EM: No.
Me: Sounds like fun EM. Death to the dragons!
EM: But what if we want to build something with them later?
Me: Then you’ll pick them up off the floor and build something.
EM: Oh.
I know that all of this must sound like I’m pitting one kid against the other and saying, “Look how dumb that one is compared to this one.” I swear that’s not what I’m driving at. In fact, I don’t think any of this has anything to do with intelligence at all. I’d be remiss at this point if I didn’t mention that EM has a remarkable aptitude for practical problem solving—there is no obstacle you could put in front of that kid for which she couldn’t come up with at least 3 different alternatives inside a minute. Boy would just stare slack-jawed at the very same obstacle and cry, then later he’d describe that bleak moment as unto a journey into the very foothills of darkest Purgatory (or maybe just the dentist’s office, he is only five after all).
All I’m really trying to say (and I’m ashamed and humiliated that it’s taken me this long to say it) is that it is becoming ever more apparent that EM thinks like her father and Boy thinks like me.
One last story to illustrate my point, then I’ll shut up.
I’ve been reading the Magic Tree House series to Boy and Missy every night at bedtime. About a week ago we were in the middle of an adventure set in the Wild West, and a cowboy character said something like “I’m going to round up all them thur’ horses, then split the wind over that thur’ ridge.” It’s a phrase I’d never heard before, so I paused to ask Boy what he thought “split the wind” might mean. He didn’t stop to think even a second before he shot his hand out in a half karate chop and shouted, “GO FAST!”
Almost a week later we were all in the car when we hit a long, straight stretch of road (very rare in these parts) and Mister laid on the gas--revving the engine, and noticeably speeding up. From the back seat Boy cried out, “This car is splitting the wind!” I laughed out loud, and so would have high-fived him if we had been face to face. EM and Mister, on the other hand, snorted simultaneously with intellectual distain, “You can’t cut air, Boy."
"And besides,” EM added helpfully, “Air is a gas. Didn’t you know?”
Sunday, April 20, 2008
A Clever Title Eludes Me--Suck On This For A While, Then Volunteer One Of Your Own
I spoke to Alpha Grandma on the phone on Friday. She tells me I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread and that she misses me. Of course, I already knew this, but it’s nice to hear it out loud like that. She also told me a delightful story about my 3 year old niece calling her to boast, “I’ve been to the dentist, and I don’t have any cavities.”
“Isn’t that cute,” said I, “How terribly adorable of her to want to share that with you. Which reminds me, did I happen to mention what happened the last time I took Elder Miss to the dentist? Or more specifically, the orthodontist? No? Oh well then, prepare to be enchanted and enthralled all over again. Because my daughter? Why my eldest daughter never fails to charm and delight.”
Some background information—however disruptive it may be to the narrative flow of my tale, is rather necessary. Especially for those of you who are not privy to the same weekly updates regarding the everyday minutia of our lives that Alpha Grandma endures.
Early last fall a routine dental check-up revealed no cavities (huzzah!) but a potential problem with EM’s bite. I wasn’t clear at the time on the specifics—something about upper/lower palette alignment blah blah blah. Frankly, I was more absorbed by the fact that times had changed so drastically that dentists were now routinely referring children as young as 7 years old to orthodontists to pay too much attention to anything else the woman had to say.
Of course the waiting list for a first time appointment with any of the orthodontists in the area was eternal, so we didn’t get in to see one until just after Christmas. But when we finally did, our guy wasn’t two minutes into his examination before he pulled his fingers out of EM’s mouth, peered at me over those ridiculous goggles dentists sport, and asked, “So does she still suck her thumb?” And that, friends, is the exact moment I discovered that crow feathers don’t tickle so much as chaff going down, and egg will cause a rash if left on the face too long.
EM was an ardent thumb sucker from 7-8 months of age to about 5 ½ years. Yes, I had heard all the dire warnings about allowing children to continue this habit into their later years, but naturally, I assumed that “later years” meant something more like “marriageable age”. And besides, I had also heard all the dire warnings about allowing your child to fuss and cry for more than 5 seconds at a time, or feeding them whole grapes and peanut butter before the onset of puberty—alarmist bullshit, obviously—so I ignored the thumb sucking admonitions, just like I ignored nearly every other piece of parenting advice I ever read in a magazine.
EM’s orthodontist—a large and imposing Greek man who reminds me very much of my own beloved D.D.S Dr. Floyd Tanner, so I’m inclined to like him otherwise—tells me this was probably a mistake.
Because she sucked her thumb for so long, her tongue, rather than resting in its natural position against the roof of her mouth, has developed the habit of protruding slightly to rest always on her lower teeth. The absence of her tongue’s pressure pushing against the upper teeth has made her entire upper palette too narrow, causing not only the misalignment that the dentist noticed, but also a glaring gap between her upper and lower front teeth. Or, to be fair, maybe not so glaring since I never noticed it until it was pointed out to me. But now I can’t seem to stop looking at it. Ditto the tip of her tongue which I suddenly can’t not notice sticking out from between her teeth all the time.
Happily, all of this is easily correctable with a dread retainer. But before he committed us to this costly apparatus, he wanted to try filing down a few of her molars, wait three or four months, then come back in and see if anything shifted into place. So that’s what we did. Last Wednesday was the follow-up to that protocol.
Background complete. Now pay attention. We’re getting to the charming bit.
Recall again little Zoe, my niece, strapped into her car seat in the back of her mother’s car. Tracy speed dials Alpha Grandma on her cell, tells her Zoe has some important news she wants to share, then passes the phone back. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts, Zoe’s got a kick ass pair of miniature pink sunglasses on when she announces, in that deadly serious toddler lisp of hers, “Grandma, I’ve been to the dentist, and I don’t have any cavities.” EM was still grunting and gesturing like a well trained monkey at 3 years old, but whatever. That’s not the funny part.
Wednesday afternoon, it was the assistant who got EM settled, and bibbed, and stretched out in the exam chair. When the orthodontist came in, we exchanged a few pleasantries, as you do, then he turned to EM and asked her to open up. And what does EM do in response to this simple request?
My very nearly 8 year old daughter flips over on her side, and sticks her thumb in her mouth. I assure you, I’ve never been so proud.
Of course, the whole appointment went down hill from there. She refused to speak, just sort of whimpered and moaned to all his questions and proddings. More than once he asked me, “What is wrong? I am not hurting her.”
“I know. I know,” I assured him, “She’s just a god-awful idiot sometimes. I’m open to a series of shots and drills if you think it would straighten her out. That’s a killer set of pliers you’ve got over there. Let’s attach them to her fingers and toes and start twisting until she promises to act her age.”
In the end x-rays were shot, molds were made, and the dread retainer was ordered—all by the assistant, as the orthodontist clearly didn’t want to deal with her. Sadly, I don’t think I ever managed to convince him that she really isn’t retarded, and she really doesn’t suck her thumb anymore.
“Isn’t that cute,” said I, “How terribly adorable of her to want to share that with you. Which reminds me, did I happen to mention what happened the last time I took Elder Miss to the dentist? Or more specifically, the orthodontist? No? Oh well then, prepare to be enchanted and enthralled all over again. Because my daughter? Why my eldest daughter never fails to charm and delight.”
Some background information—however disruptive it may be to the narrative flow of my tale, is rather necessary. Especially for those of you who are not privy to the same weekly updates regarding the everyday minutia of our lives that Alpha Grandma endures.
Early last fall a routine dental check-up revealed no cavities (huzzah!) but a potential problem with EM’s bite. I wasn’t clear at the time on the specifics—something about upper/lower palette alignment blah blah blah. Frankly, I was more absorbed by the fact that times had changed so drastically that dentists were now routinely referring children as young as 7 years old to orthodontists to pay too much attention to anything else the woman had to say.
Of course the waiting list for a first time appointment with any of the orthodontists in the area was eternal, so we didn’t get in to see one until just after Christmas. But when we finally did, our guy wasn’t two minutes into his examination before he pulled his fingers out of EM’s mouth, peered at me over those ridiculous goggles dentists sport, and asked, “So does she still suck her thumb?” And that, friends, is the exact moment I discovered that crow feathers don’t tickle so much as chaff going down, and egg will cause a rash if left on the face too long.
EM was an ardent thumb sucker from 7-8 months of age to about 5 ½ years. Yes, I had heard all the dire warnings about allowing children to continue this habit into their later years, but naturally, I assumed that “later years” meant something more like “marriageable age”. And besides, I had also heard all the dire warnings about allowing your child to fuss and cry for more than 5 seconds at a time, or feeding them whole grapes and peanut butter before the onset of puberty—alarmist bullshit, obviously—so I ignored the thumb sucking admonitions, just like I ignored nearly every other piece of parenting advice I ever read in a magazine.
EM’s orthodontist—a large and imposing Greek man who reminds me very much of my own beloved D.D.S Dr. Floyd Tanner, so I’m inclined to like him otherwise—tells me this was probably a mistake.
Because she sucked her thumb for so long, her tongue, rather than resting in its natural position against the roof of her mouth, has developed the habit of protruding slightly to rest always on her lower teeth. The absence of her tongue’s pressure pushing against the upper teeth has made her entire upper palette too narrow, causing not only the misalignment that the dentist noticed, but also a glaring gap between her upper and lower front teeth. Or, to be fair, maybe not so glaring since I never noticed it until it was pointed out to me. But now I can’t seem to stop looking at it. Ditto the tip of her tongue which I suddenly can’t not notice sticking out from between her teeth all the time.
Happily, all of this is easily correctable with a dread retainer. But before he committed us to this costly apparatus, he wanted to try filing down a few of her molars, wait three or four months, then come back in and see if anything shifted into place. So that’s what we did. Last Wednesday was the follow-up to that protocol.
Background complete. Now pay attention. We’re getting to the charming bit.
Recall again little Zoe, my niece, strapped into her car seat in the back of her mother’s car. Tracy speed dials Alpha Grandma on her cell, tells her Zoe has some important news she wants to share, then passes the phone back. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts, Zoe’s got a kick ass pair of miniature pink sunglasses on when she announces, in that deadly serious toddler lisp of hers, “Grandma, I’ve been to the dentist, and I don’t have any cavities.” EM was still grunting and gesturing like a well trained monkey at 3 years old, but whatever. That’s not the funny part.
Wednesday afternoon, it was the assistant who got EM settled, and bibbed, and stretched out in the exam chair. When the orthodontist came in, we exchanged a few pleasantries, as you do, then he turned to EM and asked her to open up. And what does EM do in response to this simple request?
My very nearly 8 year old daughter flips over on her side, and sticks her thumb in her mouth. I assure you, I’ve never been so proud.
Of course, the whole appointment went down hill from there. She refused to speak, just sort of whimpered and moaned to all his questions and proddings. More than once he asked me, “What is wrong? I am not hurting her.”
“I know. I know,” I assured him, “She’s just a god-awful idiot sometimes. I’m open to a series of shots and drills if you think it would straighten her out. That’s a killer set of pliers you’ve got over there. Let’s attach them to her fingers and toes and start twisting until she promises to act her age.”
In the end x-rays were shot, molds were made, and the dread retainer was ordered—all by the assistant, as the orthodontist clearly didn’t want to deal with her. Sadly, I don’t think I ever managed to convince him that she really isn’t retarded, and she really doesn’t suck her thumb anymore.
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