Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
What's in a name?
June 22nd, 2008
Our newly-purchased pop-up camper (for our South Dakota trip) was taken on a maiden voyage a few weeks ago. It seems prudent to learn how to use it before taking it for our 1300 mile adventure. And, even better, our friends from whom we purchased it were coming along to show us the ropes.
As we drove down to a local campsite, Andrew announced that our new camper needed a name. It should have a name, after all, it had immediately become part of the family. Without much hesitation, Jay suggested the name “Bessie.” Really? Bessie? I squirmed in my seat. Sometime when we were naming our first born, we had agreed to not use family names for the kids – too much pressure. After all, we weren’t going to have enough children to use everyone’s name, so why use any? And, I thought it might put undo pressure on the child to follow in the footsteps of someone – maintain a legacy that may not even exist. So, no family names. Period. Someone would get hurt.
“You want to name the camper after Grandma?” I asked softly. In the background, I heard Andrew already saying that it was the perfect name!! “Jay, why Bessie?” I continued to squirm. Why would he pick my father’s mother? What about our three other grandmothers, not to mention the kid’s grandmothers? “What an awesome name, Dad! Bessie is a great choice!!” Andrew’s comments continued, and were ringing in my ears. Jay shot me a funny look. “I’ve always like the name Elizabeth,” he explained (which is true, we couldn’t use it because we have a niece named Eliza), “I just thought Elizabeth was a little formal, Bessie just fit better.” Andrew continued to repeat his praises . . . what was he saying, exactly?
Finally, I listened. “Mom,” he repeated “Grandma’s name isn’t Bessie, don’t you even know your own mother’s name? (said with that fabulous undertone of – duh – that only a 5 year old can master) Bessie is perfect because it’s the name of the big, old road-laying trailer in the movie Cars. Its big and old and a trailer, just like our Bessie! Its perfect!” I smiled. “Oh, THAT Bessie, I get it.” Andrew went on, now requesting middle and last names. John looked at me again. “How about Bessie G?” (G for my mother’s mother). I shook my head laughing. “You guys are ridiculous, but I guess its Bessie G.”
Our newly-purchased pop-up camper (for our South Dakota trip) was taken on a maiden voyage a few weeks ago. It seems prudent to learn how to use it before taking it for our 1300 mile adventure. And, even better, our friends from whom we purchased it were coming along to show us the ropes.
As we drove down to a local campsite, Andrew announced that our new camper needed a name. It should have a name, after all, it had immediately become part of the family. Without much hesitation, Jay suggested the name “Bessie.” Really? Bessie? I squirmed in my seat. Sometime when we were naming our first born, we had agreed to not use family names for the kids – too much pressure. After all, we weren’t going to have enough children to use everyone’s name, so why use any? And, I thought it might put undo pressure on the child to follow in the footsteps of someone – maintain a legacy that may not even exist. So, no family names. Period. Someone would get hurt.
“You want to name the camper after Grandma?” I asked softly. In the background, I heard Andrew already saying that it was the perfect name!! “Jay, why Bessie?” I continued to squirm. Why would he pick my father’s mother? What about our three other grandmothers, not to mention the kid’s grandmothers? “What an awesome name, Dad! Bessie is a great choice!!” Andrew’s comments continued, and were ringing in my ears. Jay shot me a funny look. “I’ve always like the name Elizabeth,” he explained (which is true, we couldn’t use it because we have a niece named Eliza), “I just thought Elizabeth was a little formal, Bessie just fit better.” Andrew continued to repeat his praises . . . what was he saying, exactly?
Finally, I listened. “Mom,” he repeated “Grandma’s name isn’t Bessie, don’t you even know your own mother’s name? (said with that fabulous undertone of – duh – that only a 5 year old can master) Bessie is perfect because it’s the name of the big, old road-laying trailer in the movie Cars. Its big and old and a trailer, just like our Bessie! Its perfect!” I smiled. “Oh, THAT Bessie, I get it.” Andrew went on, now requesting middle and last names. John looked at me again. “How about Bessie G?” (G for my mother’s mother). I shook my head laughing. “You guys are ridiculous, but I guess its Bessie G.”
You want to buy WHAT?
June 21st, 2008
My husband has always looked forward to taking the kids Out West. He talked about taking the kids Out West before we had kids. So, it came as no surprise when he asked me a year ago springtime how I felt about taking the kids to South Dakota in the summer. At the time, we had a 4-yr-old, a 2-yr-old and a 6-mos-old (by summertime). I was more reluctant than usual. I cited my concern for sun exposure on the infant. I hadn’t completely weaned yet, but there would be bottles and baby food to pack and all the associated baby gear. I don’t recall the exact conversation, but we chose to tent camp locally, and we had a really nice time.
So, it came as no surprise when he asked me this year wintertime how I felt about taking the kids to South Dakota in the summer. They are a year older, after all. So, now we have a 5 ½-yr-old, a 3-yr-old and an 18-mos-old. “I guess,” I told him reluctantly. You are always so good about taking care of all the details, and at least the oldest would remember it. South Dakota would be an adventure. We would go tent camping in South Dakota.
I spent the next couple of months thinking about the trip, a little worried. Although I have traveled a lot, tent camping Out West with a toddler is a little different. Adventurous, yes, romantic, yes, practical, NO! I had convinced myself that the very worst thing that could happen was that we get whatever we need at the local Walmart and check into a local hotel. It would be okay. Sigh. It would be memorable for sure.
Then one day in April I was checking an e-mail account that I rarely check and found a note from a friend. “Hey, do you want to buy our pop-up camper? We’re upgrading. I’ll sell it for cheap.” For the first time in my life, the idea of a camper actually seemed like a reasonable idea. I thought about just buying it and surprising my husband, but its difficult to sneak a ball-and-hitch onto a minivan. So, I just asked him. “My friend is selling their pop-up, maybe we should buy it . . .”
“You want to buy WHAT?”
“A pop-up. You know, a Coleman pop-up camper, for South Dakota. We can sell it when we get home.”
“What’s wrong with tent camping?”
“Nothing, really. I just thought you would like it. I thought about surprising you with it, I was so sure you’d be excited. I’m surprised that you aren’t excited. The price is very reasonable. Less than a few nights hotel plus breakfast.”
“You don’t like camping that much.”
“Well, you do.”
We bought a pop-up camper. The only thing more shocking to me than the fact that I own a pop-up camper is the fact that it was actually my idea.
My husband has always looked forward to taking the kids Out West. He talked about taking the kids Out West before we had kids. So, it came as no surprise when he asked me a year ago springtime how I felt about taking the kids to South Dakota in the summer. At the time, we had a 4-yr-old, a 2-yr-old and a 6-mos-old (by summertime). I was more reluctant than usual. I cited my concern for sun exposure on the infant. I hadn’t completely weaned yet, but there would be bottles and baby food to pack and all the associated baby gear. I don’t recall the exact conversation, but we chose to tent camp locally, and we had a really nice time.
So, it came as no surprise when he asked me this year wintertime how I felt about taking the kids to South Dakota in the summer. They are a year older, after all. So, now we have a 5 ½-yr-old, a 3-yr-old and an 18-mos-old. “I guess,” I told him reluctantly. You are always so good about taking care of all the details, and at least the oldest would remember it. South Dakota would be an adventure. We would go tent camping in South Dakota.
I spent the next couple of months thinking about the trip, a little worried. Although I have traveled a lot, tent camping Out West with a toddler is a little different. Adventurous, yes, romantic, yes, practical, NO! I had convinced myself that the very worst thing that could happen was that we get whatever we need at the local Walmart and check into a local hotel. It would be okay. Sigh. It would be memorable for sure.
Then one day in April I was checking an e-mail account that I rarely check and found a note from a friend. “Hey, do you want to buy our pop-up camper? We’re upgrading. I’ll sell it for cheap.” For the first time in my life, the idea of a camper actually seemed like a reasonable idea. I thought about just buying it and surprising my husband, but its difficult to sneak a ball-and-hitch onto a minivan. So, I just asked him. “My friend is selling their pop-up, maybe we should buy it . . .”
“You want to buy WHAT?”
“A pop-up. You know, a Coleman pop-up camper, for South Dakota. We can sell it when we get home.”
“What’s wrong with tent camping?”
“Nothing, really. I just thought you would like it. I thought about surprising you with it, I was so sure you’d be excited. I’m surprised that you aren’t excited. The price is very reasonable. Less than a few nights hotel plus breakfast.”
“You don’t like camping that much.”
“Well, you do.”
We bought a pop-up camper. The only thing more shocking to me than the fact that I own a pop-up camper is the fact that it was actually my idea.
Just the two of us
June 19th, 2008
Last Saturday, my husband took our two older children on errands for the day so I could focus on organizing our house. George stayed home. After all, he does nap for nearly two hours some days. And, truthfully, he is such a sweet boy he will generally play quietly in the room while I work. Perfect.
George and I were together all day without the others, which is rare. He played near me most of the morning, took his usual nap, and followed his day as usual without the pleasure or interference of his older siblings. We played a few puzzles, read a book. My organizing was very successful. I was a little surprised that his missing siblings didn’t seem to impress him particularly, but at 18 months he does not have many words. Perhaps, I thought, he just doesn’t express it.
Most evenings after dinner, if not before, Andrew practices the piano. I can’t recall the last time I needed to ask him to play, at some point I just hear him playing. (Occasionally, it is about the time I would prefer he set the table or clean up toys). During that time, Gladys and George dance around the living room, do flips, scream, and wrestle. I have come to understand that this should be considered “music appreciation.” Fortunately, Andrew seems to accept it that way. But, that day, he wasn’t home.
Back to last Saturday. From the kitchen, George suddenly runs into the living room. He runs back and pulls my leg. Then back to the living room. Then back to the kitchen, with a demand to be picked up. I picked him up and he pointed to the living room. So, I followed him in. Wiggling out of my arms, he ran to the piano and reached up to play a few keys. I clapped my hands. “Nice playing, George, very pretty music.” He ran back to me, then to the piano and played again, then ran back and tugged at me. I clapped again. “Do you miss Andrew, Sweetie?” Finally, he ran to the middle of the room and flopped on his back giggling. “Oh!!” We spent the next 20 minutes wrestling in the living room: just the two of us.
Last Saturday, my husband took our two older children on errands for the day so I could focus on organizing our house. George stayed home. After all, he does nap for nearly two hours some days. And, truthfully, he is such a sweet boy he will generally play quietly in the room while I work. Perfect.
George and I were together all day without the others, which is rare. He played near me most of the morning, took his usual nap, and followed his day as usual without the pleasure or interference of his older siblings. We played a few puzzles, read a book. My organizing was very successful. I was a little surprised that his missing siblings didn’t seem to impress him particularly, but at 18 months he does not have many words. Perhaps, I thought, he just doesn’t express it.
Most evenings after dinner, if not before, Andrew practices the piano. I can’t recall the last time I needed to ask him to play, at some point I just hear him playing. (Occasionally, it is about the time I would prefer he set the table or clean up toys). During that time, Gladys and George dance around the living room, do flips, scream, and wrestle. I have come to understand that this should be considered “music appreciation.” Fortunately, Andrew seems to accept it that way. But, that day, he wasn’t home.
Back to last Saturday. From the kitchen, George suddenly runs into the living room. He runs back and pulls my leg. Then back to the living room. Then back to the kitchen, with a demand to be picked up. I picked him up and he pointed to the living room. So, I followed him in. Wiggling out of my arms, he ran to the piano and reached up to play a few keys. I clapped my hands. “Nice playing, George, very pretty music.” He ran back to me, then to the piano and played again, then ran back and tugged at me. I clapped again. “Do you miss Andrew, Sweetie?” Finally, he ran to the middle of the room and flopped on his back giggling. “Oh!!” We spent the next 20 minutes wrestling in the living room: just the two of us.
The lost shoes
June 18, 2008
Not more than three weeks prior, our family of five took a journey to Washington D.C. While I will not describe that in full now, I will say that it was within days of our return that the mystery began. Two shoes went missing. Not a pair mind you, but two shoes none-the-less. Gladys’ sparkly sneaker (purchased reluctantly for half-price from Stride Rite in a moment of weakness) and George’s left sandal, a handsome brown one that covered the toes. After a mild and polite interrogation of the children, I searched through all of the obvious locations . . . the shoe closet, the bedrooms, the bathroom . . you understand, I am sure. Nothing was found. Days went by. “Wear your sandals on the hike, Gladys, with socks please so you don’t have blisters.” With great humility I accepted a pair of hand-me-down sneakers for George from a friend. “I’ll return them tomorrow when the sandal turns up,” I reassured her. “Certainly, they couldn’t be far, I was in a hurry, and . . .” Two and a half weeks later, the mystery continued. The borrowed sneakers stared guiltily from the front hall.
The past year has brought great and positive changes to our household. The fact that our youngest (and last) has now begun to outgrow certain equipment has given me a new lease on space in my house. The great purge has begun. It was during this very purge that I happened to notice a sparkly sneaker nestled behind the television in our master bedroom. Hmm. Perhaps not-so-coincidentally, Gladys enjoys hiding in small spaces. Enthused, I peaked behind the other televisions in our home and was delighted to find a small, handsome, brown sandal. Hmm. I am not a detective, but I couldn’t’ help but have some suspicions. Without a word, I put both shoes next to their pairs in the shoe closet and waited for our next departure.
The next morning, we were heading out and Gladys looked for her shoes. She came charging out of the front hall with both sneakers “Mommy!! Mommy!! I found my sneaker!! It was in the closet!!” I told her how delighted I was that she found it. She put them on the wrong feet, and we went out the door. Surely, I thought, this is the end to the story.
The very next day, a very dear friend came to visit with her two children. Our children played for about three hours until we could no longer justify withholding their dinners. As she prepared to leave, she noticed that one of her sandals was gone. We looked high and low. I laughed to myself. I looked behind the television. My friend was a little embarrassed. While our 3-yr-old daughters ran off to look for her sandal, I whispered the story. My friend left giggling in the only pair of flip flops I have ever owned. A full 48-hours later, I have not seen her black sandal.
Not more than three weeks prior, our family of five took a journey to Washington D.C. While I will not describe that in full now, I will say that it was within days of our return that the mystery began. Two shoes went missing. Not a pair mind you, but two shoes none-the-less. Gladys’ sparkly sneaker (purchased reluctantly for half-price from Stride Rite in a moment of weakness) and George’s left sandal, a handsome brown one that covered the toes. After a mild and polite interrogation of the children, I searched through all of the obvious locations . . . the shoe closet, the bedrooms, the bathroom . . you understand, I am sure. Nothing was found. Days went by. “Wear your sandals on the hike, Gladys, with socks please so you don’t have blisters.” With great humility I accepted a pair of hand-me-down sneakers for George from a friend. “I’ll return them tomorrow when the sandal turns up,” I reassured her. “Certainly, they couldn’t be far, I was in a hurry, and . . .” Two and a half weeks later, the mystery continued. The borrowed sneakers stared guiltily from the front hall.
The past year has brought great and positive changes to our household. The fact that our youngest (and last) has now begun to outgrow certain equipment has given me a new lease on space in my house. The great purge has begun. It was during this very purge that I happened to notice a sparkly sneaker nestled behind the television in our master bedroom. Hmm. Perhaps not-so-coincidentally, Gladys enjoys hiding in small spaces. Enthused, I peaked behind the other televisions in our home and was delighted to find a small, handsome, brown sandal. Hmm. I am not a detective, but I couldn’t’ help but have some suspicions. Without a word, I put both shoes next to their pairs in the shoe closet and waited for our next departure.
The next morning, we were heading out and Gladys looked for her shoes. She came charging out of the front hall with both sneakers “Mommy!! Mommy!! I found my sneaker!! It was in the closet!!” I told her how delighted I was that she found it. She put them on the wrong feet, and we went out the door. Surely, I thought, this is the end to the story.
The very next day, a very dear friend came to visit with her two children. Our children played for about three hours until we could no longer justify withholding their dinners. As she prepared to leave, she noticed that one of her sandals was gone. We looked high and low. I laughed to myself. I looked behind the television. My friend was a little embarrassed. While our 3-yr-old daughters ran off to look for her sandal, I whispered the story. My friend left giggling in the only pair of flip flops I have ever owned. A full 48-hours later, I have not seen her black sandal.
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