Don't you remember we moved here specifically because it rains?
We got a sympathetic phone call last night from across the country from folks who'd seen on the news that the NW is practically drowning. Yep, lots of rain, just the way we like it. Nope, we wouldn't trade it in for sunny skies and warm weather (ask us again in June, though).
On the down side, as I've said a hundred times and I'll say again, the rain in the NW tries to bore one to death instead of actually tossing lightning, tornadoes, hurricanes or even a solid downpour our way. I am surprised that northwesterners haven't come up with 57 words describing the 57 varieties of light rain we get. Ed and I have one: misting. Nothing really falls from the sky when it is misting, but it isn't exactly not falling either, and it'll get you plenty wet when you're out in it.
Anyway, yesterday we had the remnants of some Pacific typhoon. We got some good solid Rain. I wouldn't even have categorized it as pouring most of the time, but it was well worth going out and playing in.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
Sunday, November 05, 2006
There is some very cool art in November's issue of Ladybug Magazine. I credit entirely the inspiring poem.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Crisis
Two hours before time to head out Wrigley decides she hates her Halloween costume. It's pretty tragic when the imagination run head on into reality. Lesson to mom: try on the costume 3 days in advance and get signed contract that minds won't change.
For the record, I thought Bat Princess was a fabulous idea and when she'd let me try a few different things with the scarves she looked great, but she rejected the scarves all together.
Also for the record, when you're running from house to house demanding candy, it doesn't matter how your costume turned out.
For the record, I thought Bat Princess was a fabulous idea and when she'd let me try a few different things with the scarves she looked great, but she rejected the scarves all together.
Also for the record, when you're running from house to house demanding candy, it doesn't matter how your costume turned out.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Happy Birthday
I'm posting this 9 days late, but we did celebrate on time. I swear.
A couple of days before of her birthday, in proper alomost 5 year old exuberance, Wrigley proclaimed, "I'm so glad I was born!"
So am I. So am I.
Matrimony?
W: Mom, did you know that I'm the Mom of Marble, you're the Mom of me, and Daddy's the Mom of you. Even though you're not from the same family, the taller one takes care of the little bit shorter one.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
What Do You Get The Girl Who Has Everything?
Well, a little more than a week before her fifth birthday ... Wrigley got her first nightmare!
On three consecutive nights, she had three tiny nightmares. One was about a river (that's all she could tell me about it); one was about falling off a cliff ("and then ..." quothe the Wrig, "... and then ... that's all I remember."); and one was about falling over a waterfall and "Mommy and you were on the shore and that wasn't fun."
On the third night, she refused to even try to fall asleep. So I blatantly plagiarized from a story that someone wrote during the children's writing conference I attended this summer. The story was about a boy who had nightmares, so his mom helped him make "nightmare spray."
Wrig and I came upstiars and I hollered, "Chris, can you look up the recipe for the nightmare spray on the internet?" Not exactly dying to relinquish valuable computer time, she hollered back, "Oh, I already printed it up. It's in the back of the purple book [where we keep our recipes]."
I flipped open the purple book, found a recipe that didn't have a picture of food on it, and said, "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh." I took Wrig into the kitchen where we filled a spray bottle with 1 c. of water, 1/8 tsp. of salt, and two drops of lavender oil. I told Wrig the recipe says you have to shake it up and say, "No more nightmares" three times. I have never heard her say anything more passionately than those three "no more nightmares." We went downstairs, sprayed a little nightmare spray outside the bedroom doors, and cuddled blissfully to sleep.
After about three nightmareless nights (spraying the doors carefully each night), Wrig - ever the scientist - asked, "I wonder how the nightmare spray works?"
The answer, my friends, is that nightmare spray works quite well, thank you very much.
On three consecutive nights, she had three tiny nightmares. One was about a river (that's all she could tell me about it); one was about falling off a cliff ("and then ..." quothe the Wrig, "... and then ... that's all I remember."); and one was about falling over a waterfall and "Mommy and you were on the shore and that wasn't fun."
On the third night, she refused to even try to fall asleep. So I blatantly plagiarized from a story that someone wrote during the children's writing conference I attended this summer. The story was about a boy who had nightmares, so his mom helped him make "nightmare spray."
Wrig and I came upstiars and I hollered, "Chris, can you look up the recipe for the nightmare spray on the internet?" Not exactly dying to relinquish valuable computer time, she hollered back, "Oh, I already printed it up. It's in the back of the purple book [where we keep our recipes]."
I flipped open the purple book, found a recipe that didn't have a picture of food on it, and said, "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh." I took Wrig into the kitchen where we filled a spray bottle with 1 c. of water, 1/8 tsp. of salt, and two drops of lavender oil. I told Wrig the recipe says you have to shake it up and say, "No more nightmares" three times. I have never heard her say anything more passionately than those three "no more nightmares." We went downstairs, sprayed a little nightmare spray outside the bedroom doors, and cuddled blissfully to sleep.
After about three nightmareless nights (spraying the doors carefully each night), Wrig - ever the scientist - asked, "I wonder how the nightmare spray works?"
The answer, my friends, is that nightmare spray works quite well, thank you very much.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Planning
W: Mom, some people grow up to be old and crabby, but I am planning to not be old and crabby when I grow up.
M: (trying my very best not to crack up) Do you know anyone old and crabby?
W: No.
M: How do you know about being old and crabby?
W: Oh, Ed told me about it.
Hmmm, what else is Ed filling this kid's brain with, I wonder all the time.
M: (trying my very best not to crack up) Do you know anyone old and crabby?
W: No.
M: How do you know about being old and crabby?
W: Oh, Ed told me about it.
Hmmm, what else is Ed filling this kid's brain with, I wonder all the time.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Lord, What Have I Become?
I was at a store the other day, buying a new pair of used shoes. I'm waiting in line for way too long in a store that's way too loud, and suddenly this little girl, 'bout three and a half, starts howling. She's five feet away from me, fifteen feet from the door, clinging to her sippy and wailing away.
The old me, the sensible me, would have rolled his eyes. He would have thought sarcastic thoughts inwardly and groaned outwardly. He probably would have taken this opportunity to make an already unpleasant situation more unpleasant.
But the new me? Something twanged inside my belly. I started to wonder if the kid was lost. I looked around for something that might look like a parent. I swear, I was even thinking about going up to the kid, kneeling down, and asking if she was okay. Seriously.
Clearly, fatherhood changes a man, and not always for the better.
The old me, the sensible me, would have rolled his eyes. He would have thought sarcastic thoughts inwardly and groaned outwardly. He probably would have taken this opportunity to make an already unpleasant situation more unpleasant.
But the new me? Something twanged inside my belly. I started to wonder if the kid was lost. I looked around for something that might look like a parent. I swear, I was even thinking about going up to the kid, kneeling down, and asking if she was okay. Seriously.
Clearly, fatherhood changes a man, and not always for the better.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Am I Really That Easy?
Wrig: It's four days until chocolate night, but it's only three days until Saturday!
Me: What's Saturday?
W: Eleanor's birthday party!
Christie: You gonna go?
E: Um ... No.
W: But, Ed, you might get a piece of cake at the birthday party ...
Me: What's Saturday?
W: Eleanor's birthday party!
Christie: You gonna go?
E: Um ... No.
W: But, Ed, you might get a piece of cake at the birthday party ...
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Where Ya' Been?
1. Back in the middle of July, we went to a conference for children's writers down in Netarts, OR. I had a great time talking with an editor, an agent, and published authors about my writing. It turns out, unfortunately, that praise is totally debilitating to me as a writer. Sigh. Christie and Wrig joined me at the coast, where they spent five solid days playing in the sand.
2. We returned home to a heat wave and an invitation from Jeff and Cindi to join them at the beach. So we washed a load of laundry, piled into the car, and headed back to the coast. The bonus time at the beach was very cool: I got to help Jeff repair a deck and I got to rock out on my guitar with Jeff's friend Eric (who can actually play songs and stuff); Jeff accompanied us, of course, on the accordion. Party on, dude!
3. About 15 minutes after we returned my dad arrived from Phoenix for the beginning of a month long visit. Two days later, Mom joined us. We've been very busy in town - swimming, cooking, playing blackjack, eating out, walking around. Wrig has had four sleepovers with Grammers and Gramps, which means four - count 'em, four! - dates for Christie and me. We went to a baseball game (the Beavers got killed), rented a movie (I'd forgotten what it was until Christie reminded me that it was Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. It was pretty amusing but not exactly memorable), went bowling (Christie rolled a 147 on her first game in five years, but her back has been complaining ever since), and spent three - count 'em, three! - hours at Powell's (actually, we spent three hours and $130 - expensive, but way cheaper than a massage). Grammers and Gramps are heading home tomorrow and they'll definitely be missed.
4. During the visit, the nuclear family (or nuke-u-lur, if you attended Yale) headed east to Camp Creek for another weekend of camping (we really are that sort of family, now). Wrig had a great time exploring the creek and splashing around in Trillium Lake with Mia and Miles, and the parents had a great time trying to stay out of the cold water. Up at Trillium Lake we found hundreds, if not thousands, of butterflies. You'd think you could find one lousy poem amidst a thousand butterflies, but no such luck.
So that's about it. Back to school is breathing down my neck and I haven't even opened the bag of files I was planning on perusing over the summer. I hope there wasn't anything important in there ...
2. We returned home to a heat wave and an invitation from Jeff and Cindi to join them at the beach. So we washed a load of laundry, piled into the car, and headed back to the coast. The bonus time at the beach was very cool: I got to help Jeff repair a deck and I got to rock out on my guitar with Jeff's friend Eric (who can actually play songs and stuff); Jeff accompanied us, of course, on the accordion. Party on, dude!
3. About 15 minutes after we returned my dad arrived from Phoenix for the beginning of a month long visit. Two days later, Mom joined us. We've been very busy in town - swimming, cooking, playing blackjack, eating out, walking around. Wrig has had four sleepovers with Grammers and Gramps, which means four - count 'em, four! - dates for Christie and me. We went to a baseball game (the Beavers got killed), rented a movie (I'd forgotten what it was until Christie reminded me that it was Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. It was pretty amusing but not exactly memorable), went bowling (Christie rolled a 147 on her first game in five years, but her back has been complaining ever since), and spent three - count 'em, three! - hours at Powell's (actually, we spent three hours and $130 - expensive, but way cheaper than a massage). Grammers and Gramps are heading home tomorrow and they'll definitely be missed.
4. During the visit, the nuclear family (or nuke-u-lur, if you attended Yale) headed east to Camp Creek for another weekend of camping (we really are that sort of family, now). Wrig had a great time exploring the creek and splashing around in Trillium Lake with Mia and Miles, and the parents had a great time trying to stay out of the cold water. Up at Trillium Lake we found hundreds, if not thousands, of butterflies. You'd think you could find one lousy poem amidst a thousand butterflies, but no such luck.
So that's about it. Back to school is breathing down my neck and I haven't even opened the bag of files I was planning on perusing over the summer. I hope there wasn't anything important in there ...
Friday, July 14, 2006
Big Finish!
This is another poem from Oswalt West. I feel kind of bad posting two poems with "birdsong" in a single week, but that's the kind of camping trip it was. If I'd written about our trip to Beverley Beach, I would have had a lot of "frogsong" imagery. You build with the tools you've got, right?
All Women are Beautiful
All women are beautiful
while camping:
hair styled by
birdsong and breeze,
perfumed with
campsmoke and dust,
makeup lovingly applied
all night long by
shooting stars.
All Women are Beautiful
All women are beautiful
while camping:
hair styled by
birdsong and breeze,
perfumed with
campsmoke and dust,
makeup lovingly applied
all night long by
shooting stars.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Guess Where This One was Written
Poem Behind Ponytail Falls
I wonder how fast the water
must flow to make it thunder so.
Perhaps I will bring a high school
science class here to conduct experiments,
clanking their way to the top, laden
with beakers and balances. I wonder if they will care,
or if they will notice the way the leaves
change color as they flicker in the breeze.
I wonder how deep the pool is.
Or rather, was, before the eager
water pounded away at the stone.
If I donned scuba gear and flippers,
I could measure the generations:
here is the time before cell phones,
the time before television, and even
deeper, the time before poems.
I wonder if we will swim here, you and I,
naked in the nighttime, our legs twined together
against the icy water. We will spin in lazy circles
beneath the stars, kissing once for each star
and once again for each drop of water.
And I will wonder which tastes sweeter:
snow fresh from the waterfall
or the honeyed milk of your kisses.
I wonder how fast the water
must flow to make it thunder so.
Perhaps I will bring a high school
science class here to conduct experiments,
clanking their way to the top, laden
with beakers and balances. I wonder if they will care,
or if they will notice the way the leaves
change color as they flicker in the breeze.
I wonder how deep the pool is.
Or rather, was, before the eager
water pounded away at the stone.
If I donned scuba gear and flippers,
I could measure the generations:
here is the time before cell phones,
the time before television, and even
deeper, the time before poems.
I wonder if we will swim here, you and I,
naked in the nighttime, our legs twined together
against the icy water. We will spin in lazy circles
beneath the stars, kissing once for each star
and once again for each drop of water.
And I will wonder which tastes sweeter:
snow fresh from the waterfall
or the honeyed milk of your kisses.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
We Interrupt Ed's serious series with....
find your inner PIE @ stvlive.com
I usually do get sidetracked and take these quizzes (as long as they are short - ugh to those who write long ones), I never post my "results" because I just don't think I post frequently enough for you to have come all this way just to read some cheesy thing that made me smile. But Pie? Pie is serious stuff.
For the record, apple pie is the apple of my eye, but I am okay with being blueberry pie.
This is Turning Into a Travelogue
This poem followed me home from our trip to Austin over Spring Break.
High Above the Blanco in Hill Country
Vulture is an ugly word,
bitter on the tongue,
hunched in the back of your mouth
when you dare to say it.
And it is a foul business, after all,
the cleaning of meat from bone,
funeral rites for the animal kingdom.
But the vulture in flight,
high above the Blanco
in Hill Country,
hovers as elegantly as any eagle,
its arcs mathematical, methodical,
its patience that of the saint,
not the gravedigger.
And to see a vulture
perched on your rooftop,
high above the Blanco
in Hill Country,
is not an omen
of impending doom,
but rather a symbol
of flight, of light,
of unexpected grace.
High Above the Blanco in Hill Country
Vulture is an ugly word,
bitter on the tongue,
hunched in the back of your mouth
when you dare to say it.
And it is a foul business, after all,
the cleaning of meat from bone,
funeral rites for the animal kingdom.
But the vulture in flight,
high above the Blanco
in Hill Country,
hovers as elegantly as any eagle,
its arcs mathematical, methodical,
its patience that of the saint,
not the gravedigger.
And to see a vulture
perched on your rooftop,
high above the Blanco
in Hill Country,
is not an omen
of impending doom,
but rather a symbol
of flight, of light,
of unexpected grace.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Blogcast For This (Heart)Breaking News ...
I got bad news this morning from, Kathy, a friend of mine at work. OCHS has lost its third student in a year. By lost, of course, I don’t mean misplaced, though that seems likely to happen in a school with over 2,200 kids. By lost, I mean died. Danielle died in a rafting accident this weekend.
The headline in the Oregonian read “Teen did everything right on rafting trip,” which pretty much sums up Danielle’s life. She was a sweet kid, but somehow a little bit jinxed. A lot jinxed, I guess.
As Kathy was telling me about the accident, I was sad, but not shaken. I’m worried for the survivors. They will have a lot of shame and guilt and anger to deal with. Danielle knew a lot of kids, so a lot of kids will have a hole in their lives. I can’t imagine how awful the adult supervisors must feel. There is the weight of gravity and then there is the weight of responsibility.
But that’s just pain, after all, and pain I understand and accept. Pain, I expect.
Then Kathy told me about what she called the “little miracles” afterwards. A boy ran up a mountainside to try to get cell phone reception. One of the parents on the trip flagged down a train. She made a train stop. What kind of courage, what kind of sheer will power does it take for an ordinary person to make a train stop? I’m reminded of Superman. Maybe Everyman is Superman.
Other things, too. Little things. A couple of doctors on a fishing trip happened upon the accident and helped the other girls set up camp, helped them not think about their missing friend. After the parents of the survivors were notified, they rushed to the woods and managed to find the kids in the middle of nowhere by sheer … luck? Divine intervention? A miracle?
The pain I understand. The tragedy I can deal with. It is the kindness in the aftermath of disaster, the confluence of the decency of human nature and the capriciousness of Mother Nature, the meeting of good luck after bad fortune, that kills me.
Christie and Wrigley went to Jamison Park today for a birthday party. A total stranger brought two garbage bags filled with miniature beach balls and dumped them into the fountain for anybody and everybody to play with.
Danielle’s death doesn’t make me want to cry; that stranger’s kindness does.
The headline in the Oregonian read “Teen did everything right on rafting trip,” which pretty much sums up Danielle’s life. She was a sweet kid, but somehow a little bit jinxed. A lot jinxed, I guess.
As Kathy was telling me about the accident, I was sad, but not shaken. I’m worried for the survivors. They will have a lot of shame and guilt and anger to deal with. Danielle knew a lot of kids, so a lot of kids will have a hole in their lives. I can’t imagine how awful the adult supervisors must feel. There is the weight of gravity and then there is the weight of responsibility.
But that’s just pain, after all, and pain I understand and accept. Pain, I expect.
Then Kathy told me about what she called the “little miracles” afterwards. A boy ran up a mountainside to try to get cell phone reception. One of the parents on the trip flagged down a train. She made a train stop. What kind of courage, what kind of sheer will power does it take for an ordinary person to make a train stop? I’m reminded of Superman. Maybe Everyman is Superman.
Other things, too. Little things. A couple of doctors on a fishing trip happened upon the accident and helped the other girls set up camp, helped them not think about their missing friend. After the parents of the survivors were notified, they rushed to the woods and managed to find the kids in the middle of nowhere by sheer … luck? Divine intervention? A miracle?
The pain I understand. The tragedy I can deal with. It is the kindness in the aftermath of disaster, the confluence of the decency of human nature and the capriciousness of Mother Nature, the meeting of good luck after bad fortune, that kills me.
Christie and Wrigley went to Jamison Park today for a birthday party. A total stranger brought two garbage bags filled with miniature beach balls and dumped them into the fountain for anybody and everybody to play with.
Danielle’s death doesn’t make me want to cry; that stranger’s kindness does.
In Case Your Subscription Ran Out ...
I wrote this a long time ago (not sure when exactly, but definitely pre-Wrigley), while driving home from a trip to Seattle. It was just published by Kent State University, in the Spring 2006 issue of Icon Magazine.
standing still
on an overpass
in a small town
looking down
the highway strives
for the horizon
like a sunbleached
yellow brick road.
I do not think
it leads to Oz.
carsandtrucks
rush towards me,
flee from me
passing through
for home or holiday.
growing and shrinking –
a trick of the eye.
carsandtrucks
rush towards me
flee from me
until the sun
buries itself
for the day
and the sheer
tangibility of
carsandtrucks
is reduced to
streaks of
redlight/yellowlight.
this moment,
this spot
on an overpass
in a small town
looking down
is not a destination
for these streaks of light -
not even mine -
as we strive towards Oz.
standing still
on an overpass
in a small town
looking down
the highway strives
for the horizon
like a sunbleached
yellow brick road.
I do not think
it leads to Oz.
carsandtrucks
rush towards me,
flee from me
passing through
for home or holiday.
growing and shrinking –
a trick of the eye.
carsandtrucks
rush towards me
flee from me
until the sun
buries itself
for the day
and the sheer
tangibility of
carsandtrucks
is reduced to
streaks of
redlight/yellowlight.
this moment,
this spot
on an overpass
in a small town
looking down
is not a destination
for these streaks of light -
not even mine -
as we strive towards Oz.
Monday, July 10, 2006
My Solemn Pledge to You ...
Five days. A poem a day. Here's that camping poem I mentioned.
Morning at Oswald West State Park, or
The Atheist’s Dilemma
Fed by birdsong,
The warming sun
stretched seven fingers
from behind a
Sitka Spruce who had watched
two centuries of sunrises,
And I did not know who
to thank.
Morning at Oswald West State Park, or
The Atheist’s Dilemma
Fed by birdsong,
The warming sun
stretched seven fingers
from behind a
Sitka Spruce who had watched
two centuries of sunrises,
And I did not know who
to thank.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Apparently, we're that sort of family now ...
People always used to ask us, "Do you camp?" And we'd always say, "No. We're the sort of people that should like camping, we just don't."
That, my friends, is no longer true. Let me tell you about the genesis of the Kline family as camping "experts." (Translation: expert=survivor).
Last August, we borrowed a bunch of equipment and went camping with about 14 million preschoolers from HFP. This wasn't exactly roughing it - the trip involved a camping blender and a lot of margaritas - but we watched people use camp stoves and saw how they packed their gear and picked up a whole bunch of neat ideas. We also learned that you will NOT freeze to death if you sleep in a tent. Valuable info.
Back on Mother's Day, we scaled down in size and went to Beverly Beach with our friends Jack, Stephanie, Mia, and Miles. We bought a bunch of our own equipment instead of borrowing it, but we still weren't roughing it. We stayed in yurts (highly recommend the yurt, btw, jsut for the sheer joy of saying "yurt" over and over). The cmping blender made another appearance, but we didn't have nearly so many maragaritas. We did, of course, pick up more tips and tricks. Stephanie showed Christie how to make a little fire starter out of wax, woodchips, and egg cartons. Christie confirmed that she does, in fact, know how to start a fire. Ed watched. Ed fears fire.
Last weekend, we went solo. We went to Oswald West State Park. We slept in our own sleeping bags in our own tent. Christie started our own fire with her own firestarters. We ate camp food. We cooked on a cookstove and Wrigley ate about 14 million marshmallows. Now this, this was roughing it: no camping blender. We didn't even bring beer. The beach was amazing - it had good surf to watch (surfers, too), rocks to climb on, rocks to skip on a little river, tide pools to explore, a waterfall, and plenty of driftwood. A blast was had by all.
Christie has some pictures posted at flickr (I hear her site it "to die for"), if you're interested.
And I know you're only supposed to take out what you bring with you, but I found some nice poems out in the woods. They wanted to come home with me, so I let them. Maybe I'll type 'em up tomorrow.
That, my friends, is no longer true. Let me tell you about the genesis of the Kline family as camping "experts." (Translation: expert=survivor).
Last August, we borrowed a bunch of equipment and went camping with about 14 million preschoolers from HFP. This wasn't exactly roughing it - the trip involved a camping blender and a lot of margaritas - but we watched people use camp stoves and saw how they packed their gear and picked up a whole bunch of neat ideas. We also learned that you will NOT freeze to death if you sleep in a tent. Valuable info.
Back on Mother's Day, we scaled down in size and went to Beverly Beach with our friends Jack, Stephanie, Mia, and Miles. We bought a bunch of our own equipment instead of borrowing it, but we still weren't roughing it. We stayed in yurts (highly recommend the yurt, btw, jsut for the sheer joy of saying "yurt" over and over). The cmping blender made another appearance, but we didn't have nearly so many maragaritas. We did, of course, pick up more tips and tricks. Stephanie showed Christie how to make a little fire starter out of wax, woodchips, and egg cartons. Christie confirmed that she does, in fact, know how to start a fire. Ed watched. Ed fears fire.
Last weekend, we went solo. We went to Oswald West State Park. We slept in our own sleeping bags in our own tent. Christie started our own fire with her own firestarters. We ate camp food. We cooked on a cookstove and Wrigley ate about 14 million marshmallows. Now this, this was roughing it: no camping blender. We didn't even bring beer. The beach was amazing - it had good surf to watch (surfers, too), rocks to climb on, rocks to skip on a little river, tide pools to explore, a waterfall, and plenty of driftwood. A blast was had by all.
Christie has some pictures posted at flickr (I hear her site it "to die for"), if you're interested.
And I know you're only supposed to take out what you bring with you, but I found some nice poems out in the woods. They wanted to come home with me, so I let them. Maybe I'll type 'em up tomorrow.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Kudos to me
Wow! My folks always tell me they like my photos of W, but that is to be expected. Apparently other folks do as well! Picture This. The contest was on movement (blur) in photos and how it doesn't necessarily ruin a shot. Here is the competition along with Tracey's insightful comments on technique.
Yeah me!
Yeah me!
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Monday, June 12, 2006
Contemplations
Mommy, did you know that my pinkie toe can stretch farther away from the rest of my toes than the others can? None can go farther than the pinkie toe.
I just love warm spring days, because all the flowers make me so romantic.
Did you know, Mommy, that sandals are the king of shoes?
I just love warm spring days, because all the flowers make me so romantic.
Did you know, Mommy, that sandals are the king of shoes?
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Oh, the possibilities
A clean new notebook is so hopeful. What to fill it with? New knowledge? Love letters? Quoteable quotes? Deep thoughts?
Wrigley was given a notebook. She's pretty excited by it. She's getting a little help with the actual writing part, but the journal entries are all hers. Here's the third:
Once Marble was sitting on the arm of the couch, and then she decided to jump from the arm of the couch to the project table. And then from there she decided to grab her rainbow and jumped back to the arm of the couch. And then play with her rainbow.
I gave the cat cat treats for Christmas and the rainbow for Christmas, too. And I put the present in front of her hoping that she would tear it open with her claws. But no, she didn't tear it open with her claws. She merowed and wanted me to help open it for her.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Sunday, May 28, 2006
NANOWRIMO - Winner!
November is NANOWRIMO, which stands for National Novel Writing Month. Some organization of sadists created a website for a collection of masochists who try to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. If you pace yourself, that amounts to just over 1,500 words a day. Most people write 200 words a day for the first 25 days, then 9,000 a day for the last five.
Me? I started my NANOWRIMO in November of '04 - that's right: '04. Right around 19 months ago. And I hit the big 5-0 last week. 50,181 words, to be exact, at a blazing clip of 87 words per day. It's not even done, but I've reached a resting place (and at 87 words a day, I need a looooong rest).
Three cheers for me!
PS It's crap.
PPS And no, you can't read it. Thanks for asking. ;)
Me? I started my NANOWRIMO in November of '04 - that's right: '04. Right around 19 months ago. And I hit the big 5-0 last week. 50,181 words, to be exact, at a blazing clip of 87 words per day. It's not even done, but I've reached a resting place (and at 87 words a day, I need a looooong rest).
Three cheers for me!
PS It's crap.
PPS And no, you can't read it. Thanks for asking. ;)
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Feliz
We spent yesterday at the Cinco de Mayo festival yesterday. I went to see the dancers, but Wrigley discovered the vendors that hand out free stuff. They even give you a bag to put it all in!!! Wrigley wants to go to Cinco de Mayo every year.
Wrig says, "Yum, it was a good strawberry dessert. It had a lot of whipped cream. And I liked it a lot." The dessert was in addition to umpteen lollipops.
Wrig says, "Yum, it was a good strawberry dessert. It had a lot of whipped cream. And I liked it a lot." The dessert was in addition to umpteen lollipops.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Dinner Conversation
The other night at dinner, Wrigley asked me "What else exists that I don't know there is?"
At first blush, you'd think this is an easy question. She's four (and a half), for Chrissakes. There's an entire universe of stuff she doesn't know about. But I was pretty stumped. The rusty little gears that spin my brain cranked and wheezed a bit. I ran through categories of things she knows - space, animals, the ocean - and tried to think of things we hadn't talked about. I couldn't think of an animal that exists that she doesn't know of. I drew a blank. A musical instrument? Another blank. How about a fruit? Apparently, my daughter is a know-it-all and she doesn't even know it!
I finally managed to spit out a few ideas - "tuba" was one, I believe - but she was pretty unimpressed with my selections.
And this would be another one of those "Aw, ain't they cute?" entries if it weren't for all the things that I could think of that exist that Wrigley doesn't know about yet. Date rape jumps to mind. Racism. She doesn't know about that one yet. She doesn't know about state sponsored torture. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. I just deleted a list of five things because it got too dark and my carefully masked bitterness began to show through too clearly.
This is not, I relaize, an earth shattering revelation: bad things exist. But right now, Wrig doesn't know that yet. And I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do with this lack of information. Am I supposed to nurture her ignorance for as long as I can? Am I supposed to protect from all the bad guys and boogeymen? Am I supposed to ease her into the world of disappointment, one little heartbreak at a time?
Or do I just sit by and watch, letting her learn about all the things that exist that she doesn't know there is?
At first blush, you'd think this is an easy question. She's four (and a half), for Chrissakes. There's an entire universe of stuff she doesn't know about. But I was pretty stumped. The rusty little gears that spin my brain cranked and wheezed a bit. I ran through categories of things she knows - space, animals, the ocean - and tried to think of things we hadn't talked about. I couldn't think of an animal that exists that she doesn't know of. I drew a blank. A musical instrument? Another blank. How about a fruit? Apparently, my daughter is a know-it-all and she doesn't even know it!
I finally managed to spit out a few ideas - "tuba" was one, I believe - but she was pretty unimpressed with my selections.
And this would be another one of those "Aw, ain't they cute?" entries if it weren't for all the things that I could think of that exist that Wrigley doesn't know about yet. Date rape jumps to mind. Racism. She doesn't know about that one yet. She doesn't know about state sponsored torture. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. I just deleted a list of five things because it got too dark and my carefully masked bitterness began to show through too clearly.
This is not, I relaize, an earth shattering revelation: bad things exist. But right now, Wrig doesn't know that yet. And I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do with this lack of information. Am I supposed to nurture her ignorance for as long as I can? Am I supposed to protect from all the bad guys and boogeymen? Am I supposed to ease her into the world of disappointment, one little heartbreak at a time?
Or do I just sit by and watch, letting her learn about all the things that exist that she doesn't know there is?
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Breakfast Conversation
M: I think we went there when I was preganat.
D: You were pregnant?
M: I think so. Wrigley, was I ever pregnant or were you delivered by a stork?
W: I was delivered by a ... dolphin!
D: I don't know. She was ten days late. She might have been delivered by UPS.
W: That's not funny! I know I was delivered by a dolphin!
D: You were pregnant?
M: I think so. Wrigley, was I ever pregnant or were you delivered by a stork?
W: I was delivered by a ... dolphin!
D: I don't know. She was ten days late. She might have been delivered by UPS.
W: That's not funny! I know I was delivered by a dolphin!
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Slow-mo Meme
I was tagged a while back by David to list "five weird habits." It's taken a while to respond because I've been much more interested in reading blogs than blogging lately, but here goes:
1. I've never met a word I can't mispronounce. This is particularly unfortunate if you are a four year old trying to learn how to speak the English language. The exception to this rule: the word "meme." I have no idea how it's supposed to be pronounced, so I can't deliberately mispronounce it.
2. Despite an utter and complete lack of interest in fashion, I compulsively collect Converse All-Stars. I currently have 20 active pairs. I can't begin to count how many pairs I've gone through in the last twenty years.
3. Despite an utter and complete lack of musical skill, I am a walking jukebox. There is nothing you can say that I can't turn into a song. Try me. The exception: most French or Latin phrases.
4. This is more annoying than weird: I keep forgetting whether I've asked you (by which I really mean Christie) whether I've asked a question or not. And if I have, I surely don't remember your answer. Be patient. I usually get it by the third time.
5. I live for baseball on the radio. My favorite thing to do is nap while listening to a ball game. Baseball on tv is okay, too. Baseball live is a little stressful lately. But give me a couch, the low buzz of an am radio, and a lazy afternoon, and I am a happy man.
I'm supposed to tag 5 people now, but I'm not convinced we have five readers. If you wanna list five of your weird habits on your blog, be my guest!
And come back tomorrow. I have three more things to blog, but I'm pacing myself.
1. I've never met a word I can't mispronounce. This is particularly unfortunate if you are a four year old trying to learn how to speak the English language. The exception to this rule: the word "meme." I have no idea how it's supposed to be pronounced, so I can't deliberately mispronounce it.
2. Despite an utter and complete lack of interest in fashion, I compulsively collect Converse All-Stars. I currently have 20 active pairs. I can't begin to count how many pairs I've gone through in the last twenty years.
3. Despite an utter and complete lack of musical skill, I am a walking jukebox. There is nothing you can say that I can't turn into a song. Try me. The exception: most French or Latin phrases.
4. This is more annoying than weird: I keep forgetting whether I've asked you (by which I really mean Christie) whether I've asked a question or not. And if I have, I surely don't remember your answer. Be patient. I usually get it by the third time.
5. I live for baseball on the radio. My favorite thing to do is nap while listening to a ball game. Baseball on tv is okay, too. Baseball live is a little stressful lately. But give me a couch, the low buzz of an am radio, and a lazy afternoon, and I am a happy man.
I'm supposed to tag 5 people now, but I'm not convinced we have five readers. If you wanna list five of your weird habits on your blog, be my guest!
And come back tomorrow. I have three more things to blog, but I'm pacing myself.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
On turning four and a half
Dear Wrigley,
Your favorite things to do are hatching out of an egg, going to the south pole, buying toys from me, then selling them back, making books and making and wearing mud.
Your actually not much interested in toys, but you do always like a good toy car. We recently went to the toy store and you were able to pick out anything you wanted. You wanted MORE polished rocks. You have dozens of polished rocks. We got more polished rocks, some stickers, and this slippery gel thing. I convinced you to get a new Playmobile horse and wagon, but we could have been out of there with spending only $7.
Your sharing is hit or miss. You don't want anyone one to touch your stuff, but other times you like to give away toys. And not even just toys you don't care for anymore. Today you gave a brand new squishy-stick-on-the-wall bumblebee to our neighbor Abe.
You're learning how to do the monkey bars with a charming mix of determination and helplessness. You are an expert in the leaping hug. Let's learn to give a little warning, please. You have yet to meet a book you don't like, but poetry isn't you r favorite. We go to two storytimes a week, and we couldn't possibly skip one. If only I'd tell it that often, you'd like to hear the story of "How Marble got Lost" six times a day. You can remember things that happened way back. It is stunning.
You are a resiliant, exuberant, thoughtful, observant, methodical, happy kid, who Daddy and I are unbelievably lucky to have in our lives. You have taught me how to accept help, have fun without thinking too hard, receive sympthy, hatch out of an egg, do an arabesque, and finally learn that a hug really does help when I'm feeling grumpy.
Four and a half years into being your Mom, I can only wish for you more of the same. More books, more ice cream, more painted toes, and especially more leaping hugs.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Monday, April 10, 2006
Alright, Alright
Alice wants to know how she is to stalk us if we never post. Let's shake off the dust here and show you some photos from the past 2 months.
It snowed here in Portland in March. It didn't stick, but the snow was huge huge flakes, and it was fun to watch.
Here's Wrig's favorite spot every morning in the winter.
Over Spring Break we visited the folk's new house in Austin.
They finally have a great place to display all that Peruvian pottery they got back in the early 70's.
And a grand staircase around which to display about 50 family photos. That's me on the left in the red tub and a couple photos to the right about to do a backflip.
In Austin Wrig did many of the things she does in Portland: convincing people to read to her
chasing bubbles
drawing with chalk, and
running.
Aunt Hilary taught Wrig how to try and get koi to nibble your fingers, but these fish were wiser than that.
We had a great time in Austin. While the warm weather was nice, we also got a good thunderstom. Wrigley discovered thunder scares her a bit, but not as much as it scares Sally the dog. Sally was happy to have such a small and willing body to snuggle with when the thunder arrived.
It snowed here in Portland in March. It didn't stick, but the snow was huge huge flakes, and it was fun to watch.
Here's Wrig's favorite spot every morning in the winter.
Over Spring Break we visited the folk's new house in Austin.
They finally have a great place to display all that Peruvian pottery they got back in the early 70's.
And a grand staircase around which to display about 50 family photos. That's me on the left in the red tub and a couple photos to the right about to do a backflip.
In Austin Wrig did many of the things she does in Portland: convincing people to read to her
chasing bubbles
drawing with chalk, and
running.
Aunt Hilary taught Wrig how to try and get koi to nibble your fingers, but these fish were wiser than that.
We had a great time in Austin. While the warm weather was nice, we also got a good thunderstom. Wrigley discovered thunder scares her a bit, but not as much as it scares Sally the dog. Sally was happy to have such a small and willing body to snuggle with when the thunder arrived.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
