tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44208521474240003362024-03-14T03:29:34.163-04:00Mother NecessityThe continuing saga of a 40 something-year old mom's struggle to pinch pennies, go green, and find some time to knit.Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.comBlogger278125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-7917102130224966762018-02-15T17:16:00.000-05:002018-02-15T17:16:33.794-05:00Thinking and PrayingThe eighteenth school shooting this year, and politicians continue to send their thoughts and prayers. Seventeen people killed in a high school, and tweets with prayers and consolations are being sent. Hundreds of students filing out of a school with their hands on their heads while law enforcement is holding assault rifles, and calls are being made to governors and school superintendents. And everyone continues to pocket their money from the NRA and the wide variety of gun lobbyists hard at work in Washington and in governments all around our country.<br />
<br />
I used to think that sensible gun control was a no-brainer. <i>Of course</i> the elected leaders of our country would want to keep their constituents safe. <i>Of course</i> they would want to make sure that assault rifles and high capacity magazines would not fall into the hands of people that have no business having them (which, by the way, is EVERYONE).<br />
<br />
And then Sandy Hook happened. Twenty first graders killed, along wth six of their teachers. First graders are tiny. The visual of a shooter lowering an assault rifle to the height of such a small child is beyond my comprehension. What is also beyond my comprehension is that nothing happened, and nothing changed. Thoughts and prayers were sent, consolations were conveyed, and it was business as usual. Of course, not for the families of these children or their teachers, and not for the community which will never fully heal. I assumed that this would be the tipping point. But, I assumed wrong.<br />
<br />
We have lockdown drills in our school several times a year. We take our children, and sit them in a corner in the dark with our doors locked. And we tell them there is nothing to worry about, and that we will keep them safe. And we know that we are lying. That our officials have put their own interests ahead of them. That they believe that the rights of people to have guns that were created to kill as many people as possible in as short a time as possible is more important than the hundreds of men, women, and children dying violently and long before their time. That the pipeline of money needs to continue to flow, unchecked.<br />
<br />
My thoughts and prayers are with us all.<br />
<br />Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-35998819143349075502018-02-01T19:51:00.000-05:002018-02-01T19:52:51.340-05:00It would be good for hitching a ride...A while back, I got inspired to make some mittens. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that winter was coming, coupled with the loss of a carefully hand-knitted pair from a couple of years ago.<br />
<br />
I like to knit. I like to wear things I knit. I <i>hate</i> to lose things I knit.<br />
<br />
Once you've spent many, many hours on something, both moving forward and ripping back mistakes, it takes on qualities much greater than the sum of its parts. It is no longer just an item of functional clothing, but the end result of what you hope isn't wasted time. Which it isn't. Unless you lose said knitted item.<br />
<br />
The pattern is from <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Mostly-Mittens-Traditional-Knitting-Patterns/dp/1579900593/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1517529854&sr=8-2&keywords=mostly+mittens">Mostly Mittens</a> by Charlene Schurch, a book chock full of lovely, intricate color work mittens. They fit beautifully, and are wonderfully warm.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xTYYBJ_7ONI/WnOtFLoXafI/AAAAAAAABks/kgLX1RY_kJwchbmxOZ55naMeI2Xpi3fPACLcBGAs/s1600/Mitten.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xTYYBJ_7ONI/WnOtFLoXafI/AAAAAAAABks/kgLX1RY_kJwchbmxOZ55naMeI2Xpi3fPACLcBGAs/s320/Mitten.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Pretty, huh? However, those eagle-eyed among you may have picked up on something here. My thumb might be a little cold. As will my left hand. After cruising along happily on this for a quite a while, I somehow lost the knitting mojo. I think it has something to do with the thumb. I like knitting mittens, but the thumb is <i>so</i> tiresome. It's tiny, and fussy, and hurts my hands to knit. And I might be kind of a baby about it, but I can't be absolutely sure.<br />
<br />
I tried to make a pair of gloves a while back (which is basically just like knitting a mitten, but with 5 thumbs, and let me tell you, the whining emanating from this knitter was truly embarrassing), and I could only bring myself to finish one. It's a really nice glove, though. I suppose I could slip it under the mitten and wear them as an ensemble. And put my other hand in my pocket. And be a little sad until spring.Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-88243476835772229912018-01-27T18:57:00.001-05:002018-01-27T19:00:21.234-05:00Fountain of LifeSeveral months ago, on a long car ride, we were fortunate enough to hear a Radiolab podcast about Oliver Sacks. It was a beautiful program centered around recordings that he and his partner Billy had created in the final months before he died. They were often everyday conversations, and somehow the mundanity of the topics discussed made it more poignant than many of the interviews I had previously heard from him.<br />
<br />
Oliver Sacks is one of those people that had so many interesting facets to his life that he makes me feel sad that I have not accomplished more in my life. The fact that I need to take someone else's remarkable life accomplishments and turn them around to create petty thoughts about myself speaks volumes, but it is what it is.<br />
<br />
His writing was thoughtful and elegant. He took scientific subjects and not only made them accessible to those of us who aren't brilliant neurologists, but he made them engaging. No small feat.<br />
<br />
In the podcast, there was mention about his use of fountain pens. Sacks wrote free hand, and in the tapes you can often hear the gentle scratching as he writes. I love to try different pens, and those that write well make me supremely happy. I'd never used a fountain pen, so the next day we found a stationer's store in Boston. In the back of the shop, there was a counter with a huge variety of fountain pens and a wonderfully knowledgeable salesperson. A few minutes later, I was the proud owner of a fountain pen. And then a friend of The Professor's mentioned his own favorite, and I somehow felt the need to pick that one up as well. Now these live with me:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lBAWWvfHm1Q/Wm0P8nDv5NI/AAAAAAAABkQ/6oIl_5n7FiU-fs0tgXYzCa8d95k96FpWACLcBGAs/s1600/Fountain%2BPens.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lBAWWvfHm1Q/Wm0P8nDv5NI/AAAAAAAABkQ/6oIl_5n7FiU-fs0tgXYzCa8d95k96FpWACLcBGAs/s320/Fountain%2BPens.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
So now that I have two, I think that makes me a collector. The salesperson who sold me the one on the left mentioned fountain pen conventions. I wonder what it says about me that I was immediately intrigued? Probably not very positive things.<br />
<br />
I have enjoyed my collection, and expect to expand it soon (there may already be one or two in my Amazon cart, but I can't be sure). I'm also fully anticipating that my writing will be prolific, engaging, and deeply scientific very soon in the near future.<br />
<br />
<br />Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-1723410661495209012018-01-01T11:43:00.003-05:002018-01-01T11:44:44.525-05:00The Icing on the Cake...New Year's (as well as Christmas) really crept up on me this year. I don't know if it's age, or just weariness (or most probably a combination of the two), but I used to be able to keep a lot more balls in the air. Some days they seem to be falling all around me, and keeping up with them seems to have become both more difficult and less interesting.<br />
<br />
Miss Serious commented last night that we weren't doing anything interesting for New Year's this year, so I got up this morning and made these (cinnamon buns from the America's Test Kitchen Baking Book):<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q-SY-0WEV_w/WkpiSywHm1I/AAAAAAAABjQ/8aBvzRUMIQgit4IcgD3vG-gT6xSWCmlTgCLcBGAs/s1600/Cinnamon%2BBuns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q-SY-0WEV_w/WkpiSywHm1I/AAAAAAAABjQ/8aBvzRUMIQgit4IcgD3vG-gT6xSWCmlTgCLcBGAs/s320/Cinnamon%2BBuns.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The picture in the cookbook had a gentle drizzle of icing on the top, but I decided that if I had all that nice icing, we should be eating all that nice icing - thus the less than pretty pile on the top. Delicious though!<br />
<br />
May we all have a healthy, happy, productive, and fulfilling 2018. Happy New Year!Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-71525732457474157942017-12-27T19:10:00.001-05:002017-12-27T19:15:40.323-05:00Tiny SquaresSo a while back, we had gone to New Jersey and taken a hike in the woods. We wore long pants and sleeves, and checked ourselves carefully for ticks on our return. No ticks.<br />
<br />
We stayed the weekend in New Jersey, and returned home. The morning after our return, I was in the shower, and noticed what looked like a poppy seed on my right hip bone. Hmmm. I went to brush it off, and it stayed put. Giving it a little tug, it came off. I put it on the ledge in my shower, not thinking too much about it. When I had toweled off, I gave it a peek - still looked like a poppy seed. After placing it on a pice of paper, lo and behold, it started moving. <i>Yuck</i>. Mind you, this is a full 3 days after our hike in the woods...<br />
<br />
So I bagged up the little offender, and we gave each other a very careful once over. No ticks.<br />
<br />
Next morning, I woke up, and decided to give the spot where the tick had been a look to see if the bite had done anything. The bite was fine, but I was horrified to discover a poppy seed about 2 inches to the right of where the first one had been. And on further inspection, he had a little friend on the other side of my waist as well. Hmmmm.<br />
<br />
So we bagged my new little friends, and gave everybody a check. The Professor and Big Trouble remained uninhabited, but Miss Serious also had a little friend, which got its own special bag. We delivered all of the bags to our respective doctors for testing, and tried to figure out what exactly was happening. I decided to vacuum the heck out of the apartment, and wash everything that was washable. And then we thought of the dog.<br />
<br />
The dog had stayed the weekend with friends who have a backyard while we were away. so our first thought was that he had gotten ticks from the yard and brought them home to visit. We took him to the vet, and decided to toss out many of the items that he liked to sleep on, one of which was the <a href="http://mothernecessity.blogspot.com/2011/07/still-knitting.html">sock yarn blanket</a> I had made. To be fair, it did have several squares that had rips in them, because some of the yarn I used wasn't sock yarn and wasn't as strong as the others. Three hundred dollars later, we learned that the dog had no ticks, and I immediately regretted getting rid of the blanket, as well as having given all those dollars to the vet.<br />
<br />
So, a couple of weeks ago, I decided to start another one:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SQCGv3NUfXM/WkQzoSGGofI/AAAAAAAABik/bOX4dwqOVwc3IZFNzk3uLuHHLpZnXTFhgCLcBGAs/s1600/sock%2Byarn%2Bblanket%2B1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SQCGv3NUfXM/WkQzoSGGofI/AAAAAAAABik/bOX4dwqOVwc3IZFNzk3uLuHHLpZnXTFhgCLcBGAs/s320/sock%2Byarn%2Bblanket%2B1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I've been working on it for a while, and now it looks like this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3I5EAUnkso/WkQzzBqEvXI/AAAAAAAABio/mfXbZATRN2gvcKdob43r_t4S2q0rYQxYwCLcBGAs/s1600/sock%2Byarn%2Bblanket%2B2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3I5EAUnkso/WkQzzBqEvXI/AAAAAAAABio/mfXbZATRN2gvcKdob43r_t4S2q0rYQxYwCLcBGAs/s320/sock%2Byarn%2Bblanket%2B2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
It's nowhere near as big as the one I tossed, but hopefully it will be someday. And of course, tick free.<br />
<br />Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-37532944294169189002017-12-07T19:41:00.001-05:002018-01-01T11:24:44.046-05:00Coronation DaySo it's official. I've entered my elder years. I know this, because I have now had to endure the kind of dental work I only ever heard my grandparents talk about.<br />
<br />
About 10 years ago, while camping in Connecticut, I broke a molar while eating one of the mushiest foods ever, a soft, cheesy breadstick. After breaking off a chunk of said tooth, Miss Serious and Big Trouble insisted that I leave it under my pillow. The next morning, as the sun rose over our little tent, I reached under my pillow and discovered a dollar bill that had been torn in half. The Professor must have his little jokes....<br />
<br />
Upon returning to Chez Necessity, my dentist put a sort of wall around the tooth, and basically gave my a gigantic filling. He stated, not in a particularly comforting way, "It <i>might</i> work." It did, but my new dentist has been eyeing it since I started seeing him, and finally convinced me that I would rather take care of it on my own terms rather than when it breaks (and he assured me that it definitely would).<br />
<br />
My dentist is an older, Russian gentleman with an accent so thick that everything he says sounds like a Dostoyevsky novel. I did not quite understand what getting a crown entailed, and would have enjoyed remaining blissfuly ignorant, but after he finished drilling my tooth, he gave me a mirror so I could see what he had done. Appalled, I gazed at the nub of what used to be a tooth that he had created in my mouth. He stuck the temporary crown on top of this horror, and sent me on my way.<br />
<br />
Two weeks later, weeks in which I learned that it <b>is</b> possible to only chew on one side of your mouth, I returned for the permanent crown. I was thinking of asking him if I could have it bejeweled, but I decided that it is unwise to kid around with the person who holds the dental drill. After my second shot of novocaine (the first one served only to numb my neck, an odd sensation at the best of times), my permanent crown was attached to my little tooth nub, and now lives with me forever. I'm feeling more royal already - maybe I'll pick up a Corgi.Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-11365657464684077052017-11-24T16:23:00.000-05:002017-11-24T16:26:27.662-05:00Like Poofs Through an HourglassYesterday was Thanksgiving, and in the morning, as we have often done, we went to an interfaith service sponsored by the <a href="https://ircnewrochelle.wordpress.com/about-us/">Interreligious Council of New Rochelle</a>. It is enlightening to hear people from many different faiths and walks of life all in one place, sharing together. The speaker was an Imam from a local mosque; in his introduction, it was explained that he is not only an Imam, but a speaker at the UN, a liaison with the police department, a consultant around the country, and, of course, his day job, which was a medical director. You know, like you do. His talk was thoughtful, engaging, and funny.<br />
<br />
When being presented with such an accomplished person, it would be most appropriate to be impressed and interested in hearing the upcoming talk. Instead, I decide to take this opportunity to feel slothful and unhappy that I am somehow unable to accomplish even a small percentage of the resume being presented to me.<br />
<br />
And then I got home and looked at my knitting pile, and decided that he probably isn't spending a lot of his time making these:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ukXcNoop3qM/WhiHHFgy6jI/AAAAAAAABhY/900G3bXYRLII0bWnFU72Ny_0bvRpntioQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_1545.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ukXcNoop3qM/WhiHHFgy6jI/AAAAAAAABhY/900G3bXYRLII0bWnFU72Ny_0bvRpntioQCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_1545.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Who needs to be a speaker at the UN when you can have lots of little poofs made out of sock yarn? These are for <a href="https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/the-beekeepers-quilt">The Beekeeper's Quilt from Tiny Owl Knits.</a> I hope to someday have enough to create a quilt - maybe in time for one of the kids to take to college. Or not.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my wonderful family, who make me smile every day. I am thankful for friends who open their homes to us on this and many other days throughout the year. I am thankful to be able to have a job that fulfills me, and students that are quirky and exhausting and lovable. I am thankful that a group of people from wildly different backgrounds are still able to come together to share their thoughts and beliefs with kind and grateful hearts. And I am thankful that a pile of yarn poofs can make me so happy, even if they aren't truly a replacement for actual accomplishments.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-18587021477246471102017-10-23T21:22:00.001-04:002017-10-23T21:25:35.497-04:00And Back AgainSo, yesterday Miss Serious needed a sweater to match a skirt she was wearing. She hunted through my closet, and came up with one that I <a href="http://mothernecessity.blogspot.com/2008/05/how-green-are-my-gables.html">knit</a> a while back. It looked great on her, and I offered to make her one, but then realized I had no idea where the pattern was. I had downloaded it ages ago, but I did remember that I posted it on this blog, so I decided to do some digging. I scrolled back for several years of posts, and realized I had forgotten how long I had written this blog. It made me laugh and cry, remembering funny things my children did when they were young, and sad things that broke my heart. I've never been one to keep a journal, but it made me understand why people do - it's a treat to have a record of all the quirks and foibles of life. All the things that I was sure, at the time, that I would never forget, were so easily replaced by other memories that were also forgotten disturbingly quickly.<br />
<br />
Writing is one of those things that I often think would be a wonderful thing to do. Unfortunately, I rarely get past the thinking stage. I have read countless books about writing, and spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about writing, but barely any time actually writing. Maybe this is the extent of any writing I will do, but maybe that will be enough.<br />
<br />
<br />Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-10421592215739476622015-07-13T21:06:00.000-04:002015-07-13T21:06:06.687-04:00Sometimes you have to pay the stupid taxI like to think I have a pretty good head on my shoulders; I read a lot, I have a Master's Degree, I am able to generally navigate life in a positive way. But then I get reminded that maybe I don't have everything as together as I think I do.<br />
<br />
Our building has on-street parking. In order to sweep the streets, which, don't get me wrong, I am pro clean streets, you need to move your car off certain streets where we usually park. This is only one day a month, from 9-12 (one side is the 2nd Wednesday of the month, and the other side is the 2nd Thursday of the month). This doesn't sound too complicated. And it usually isn't - when school is in session, both cars are long gone by 9 am.<br />
<br />
But now it's summer. so even though I like to think that the world stops and everyone isn't actually paying attention to what day it is, this is sadly untrue. Thus, exhibit A:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z3PWEemP7B8/VaRe7-rUtdI/AAAAAAAAAqY/MmrZbpX8KqY/s1600/Ticket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z3PWEemP7B8/VaRe7-rUtdI/AAAAAAAAAqY/MmrZbpX8KqY/s200/Ticket.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Bummer. I pulled it off the windshield, and chalked it up to summer brain. The Professor and I looked it over ruefully that night, and put it aside. Now, The Professor is no lightweight in the brain department either, having not only an aforementioned Master's Degree, but a Doctorate as well. Thus, the following day's excitement was even more appalling:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3ILWiUxbo_w/VaRf1RWKgfI/AAAAAAAAAqg/8mqVFTVlbJc/s1600/Ticket%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3ILWiUxbo_w/VaRf1RWKgfI/AAAAAAAAAqg/8mqVFTVlbJc/s200/Ticket%2B1.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
There was an episode of Cheers where Kirstie Alley's character has something awful happen due to her own mistakes, and she cries out, "I am too stupid to live!" Enough said, I think.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-65573973534439763252015-05-13T20:02:00.001-04:002015-05-13T20:02:32.872-04:00And the living is easy...Well, it's not summer yet, but I know it's coming because of this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8qHudaUa8u0/VVKaM54WvlI/AAAAAAAAAlo/Qb331haK3z4/s1600/IMG_1062%2B(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8qHudaUa8u0/VVKaM54WvlI/AAAAAAAAAlo/Qb331haK3z4/s320/IMG_1062%2B(1).JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Another dog, you ask? Why no - it's the remains of Big Trouble's winter 'do. It's always funny to recognize the milestones and turning points of a year. A big pile of hair on my floor is one of those. Every year around this time Big Trouble decides he's ready to be shorn, although the breadth of the pile was definitely more spectacular than usual.<br />
<br />
He decided somewhere along the way this year that he wanted longer hair, and actually ended up with the longest hair in the house. Unfortunately for him, however, he didn't reckon with the fact that longer hair requires some <i>actual</i> care; he showers before bed, and goes to sleep with wet (sometimes even dripping hair) and the morning result was often not to be believed. When faced with the realization that he was going to have to actually spend more than a minute on his hair-care routine, he decided it was time for it to go.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3foBfNPvVd8/VVPlK4RpxjI/AAAAAAAAAl8/SOHJXukrAMo/s1600/IMG_1064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3foBfNPvVd8/VVPlK4RpxjI/AAAAAAAAAl8/SOHJXukrAMo/s320/IMG_1064.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
RIP winter - don't let the door smack you on the way out....Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-19951711878689302182015-05-10T19:48:00.000-04:002015-05-10T19:48:54.241-04:00Happy Mother's Day!<div>
It's Mother's Day. A day set aside to recognize the hard work of mothers everywhere, and I wish my mother, mother-in-law, and grandmother-in-law a wonderful day. Now that my kids are older (12 & 14), Mother's Day has taken on a sweet, relaxing tone. Chocolate croissants for breakfast (Trader Joe's makes a frozen version that you let rise overnight and bake in the morning that are to die for), maybe dinner out. Pretty low key. And let me tell you - I earned it this year - all in one night.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If you have a delicate constitution or are averse to vomit stories, it would probably be best if you moved on at this point. Just saying.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We had attended a fund raising art auction last night, and I got to sleep a little later than usual, probably around 11:00. It wasn't too much later than that when The Professor nudged me awake, uttering my favorite of phrases, "I'm so sorry, but I really need you to come." Big Trouble was in the bathroom getting into the shower, and The Professor explained that he had gotten sick. Now, anyone familiar with Big Trouble's childhood will know that he is a champion vomiter. Before the age of 5, he had probably thrown up at least once in every restaurant we frequented, at most family gatherings, and as a fairly regular occurrence around the house. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now that he's older, this sort of thing either didn't happen, or happened without my involvement and in the proper receptacle. That was not to be this evening. I walked into his bedroom, and it was like a crime scene of vomit. I could re-create the action based on splash and pooling patterns. It was magnificent. And disgusting, And, being the mother, my job. The Professor was also graced with a delicate constitution, and had valiantly tried to start on the cleanup, only to lose his lunch himself (he made it to the toilet, however). I plowed through, and got the room cleaned up in about an hour (yes, it was that bad). By the time everything was said and done, it was after midnight. Mother's Day.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I was young, I completely took my parents for granted. They were the authorities, the ones that knew what to do when you had a temperature, and did the clean-up when things went bad. And then you're the parent. The 105 degree fever is your problem, and you are the one that has to figure out what kitchen implement will best scoop up the pile of goo on your son's floor. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All I can say is a heartfelt thank you - for your help, your advice, and your love. (And for the large pastry scraper you got me for Christmas - it did the trick!) Happy Mother's Day!</div>
Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-62008472219566383502012-12-30T17:43:00.000-05:002012-12-30T17:43:34.210-05:00Tears aren't going to cut itI am an elementary school teacher. My official job is to educate children; my unofficial job is to give hugs when my students are down, to mediate squabbles, and to teach my students how to be good people. I've started this post many times over the last several weeks, and have been unable to complete it.<br />
<br />
The horrific events at Sandy Hook have left us all reeling. I have tried valiantly to avoid news coverage, and have marshaled all of my forces to behave as if everything is the same in my classroom. Except it's not. The parents that picked their children up on 12/14 knew it; they squeezed them extra hard, and one mother with red-rimmed eyes hugged me and simply whispered "thank you." I can't help looking at the first grade classes, continually noting how <i>very</i>, <i>very </i>small they are. We have all shed many tears, both for the children and their teachers, knowing that each one of us would do exactly the same for our students if confronted by the unthinkable.<br />
<br />
There have been many calls for things people can do to honor those killed - performing 26 acts of kindness for each person murdered, creating snowflakes to decorate the new school where the students will be housed. These are loving and generous ideas. But for me, they are not enough.<br />
<br />
I cried when 13 people were killed at Columbine, and again when 12 people were killed at the Aurora movie theater. I have tears springing to my eyes as I type this, and I have realized that my tears, and acts of kindness, and snowflakes are <i>not </i>enough.<br />
<br />
I am a teacher, and I value information. So I started doing some research. And now, after digging through piles of information, though I am still fighting tears, I am also fighting anger. Anger that in a country with incredible resources, these mass murders are allowed to continue. Anger that we seem to value the lives of our youngest, most vulnerable citizens less than the "rights" of gun owners. Anger that the official response of the NRA CEO, Wayne LaPierre, is to call for <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/22/us/nra-calls-for-armed-guards-at-schools.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0">armed guards in every school</a>. I wonder if he realizes what a group of 20 six and seven year old first-graders looks like.<br />
<br />
In a country with immense wealth and education, we have somehow allowed this state of affairs to continue. We have had so many mass murders in America that you can actually see a <a href="http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2012/07/mass-shootings-map">map </a>of them (approximately 62 since 1982). What's even more appalling to realize is the amount of children that are killed by guns in America every year, which last year totaled<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/21/child-gun-deaths-newtown_n_2347920.html"> the equivalent of more than two dozen Sandy Hooks</a>. And still we do nothing. <br />
<br />
I have had enough. America has had enough. I will shed tears, and I will make snowflakes, and I will mourn for all the children who have died. However, I will also take action. I will be writing to my congresspeople, both on the state and federal level. I will be donating to <a href="http://www.bradycampaign.org/">organizations who support gun control action and legislation</a>. I will be writing to my mayor to ask why he is not currently a part of <a href="http://www.mayorsagainstillegalguns.org/html/media-center/letter_121912.shtml">Mayors Against Illegal Guns</a>. And I will return to school next week, and do my best to keep my students safe - with or without the assistance of my duly elected governmental officials.<br />
<br />
We are better than this, and it's time to prove it. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-44363418128933230242012-08-03T10:46:00.000-04:002012-08-03T10:49:12.557-04:00Time Keeps Marching On....Well, it's been over a year since I last posted, which somewhat boggles my mind. I know that I am not alone in the fact that time changes as I age. Twenty-four hours doesn't seem the same as it did when I was young. I still remember the seeming endlessness of summer vacation, with long, lazy days and complaining of being bored. I'm never bored now. I don't know if that's an improvement, but it is what it is. Summer now zips by, and the next one is upon me before I can believe it. I start school again at the end of this month, and as I am lucky enough not to be starting at a new job for the first time in four years, I am looking forward to it.<br />
<br />
I am actually lucky enough to be teaching the same grade in the same school next year - I even get to stay in the same room. It's another one year leave replacement, but I'm relishing the ability to actually build on the work I did last year, rather than leave it in a filing cabinet for the next person.<br />
<br />
One of the reasons I'm now never bored is that there is always something new going on - sometimes good, and sometimes not so good. One of the not so good things happened last week - I was getting ready to go out in the morning, and walked into the kitchen to find a puddle covering the floor. Being the quick-witted gal that I am, I instantly recognized that something was probably not as it should be. Upon closer investigation, I discovered this:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1DreXbnMDe0/UBvhiy2bm4I/AAAAAAAAAVw/4HY__mKQCdA/s1600/P1000665.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1DreXbnMDe0/UBvhiy2bm4I/AAAAAAAAAVw/4HY__mKQCdA/s400/P1000665.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Even without my glasses, the cause was startlingly apparent - who would have thought a pipe could be metal one minute, and fine, dusty particles the next? Luckily, one of the wonderful benefits of owning an apartment and not a house is that I have a super I can call on his cell phone who will come and fix life's little problems. We now have a fully functioning, less airy pipe, and all the sundry nonsense I keep under the sink has been dried out and returned.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10083871613376673665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-56605363111316759772011-07-12T07:55:00.000-04:002011-07-12T07:55:59.837-04:00Still KnittingNow that summer is here and I've packed up my classroom, my brain is free to concentrate on other things besides report cards and grading math homework - things like knitting! Since we're going to Cape Cod soon, I decided I'd better finish the socks I started with the yarn I bought there last year (thus making the case that I definitely need more yarn when we go back). Here they are (complete with Big Trouble's foot, which he felt was a crucial part of the photo):<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ol4mQ5N0R28/Thw07KlFJII/AAAAAAAAA8M/-K4G5KCzH3o/s1600/IMG_7078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ol4mQ5N0R28/Thw07KlFJII/AAAAAAAAA8M/-K4G5KCzH3o/s320/IMG_7078.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">They came together nicely, and passed the itchy test - I had no idea I had such delicate feet until I started knitting socks. There are so many that have ended up with my Mom because after wearing them for about 5 minutes I want to rip my feet off.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The sock yarn blanket continues to make slow progress - in heat of the summer I am somewhat loathe to drape myself in wool as I work on it, but it's growing:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pVEnf-1JXU8/Thw0e4GCxNI/AAAAAAAAA8I/Rw8BEhUe1vs/s1600/IMG_7079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pVEnf-1JXU8/Thw0e4GCxNI/AAAAAAAAA8I/Rw8BEhUe1vs/s320/IMG_7079.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div> I like working on it, because you can get a small square done in under 1/2 an hour - there's definitely something more gratifying about finishing one and cutting off the yarn than just going round and round on something that looks slightly bigger than when you started, but you can't tell for sure how much you've done. Instant gratification is definitely not over-rated!Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-25659453430637941902011-07-10T08:32:00.000-04:002011-07-10T08:32:44.920-04:00Father TimeAs all of us are, I am getting older. It doesn't bother me, and I'm not really doing anything to counteract it. My hair has lots of white in it, which I don't dye. I claim it's because I want to grow old gracefully, but it's really that I'm both lazy and cheap - I only get my hair cut once or twice a year - can you imagine the fabulousness of my roots if I dyed it? I actually had a woman compliment me on my "highlights" and ask me if they were natural. Ummm, yeah! I thought she was joking, but she was looking at me rather earnestly with her 20-year old face, so I simply said they were. Once when I was substituting in a 1st grade class, a little boy walked up to me and said, "You know, your hair is really different - some is brown and some is white." The other 1st graders decided this was worth a look, and I was the object of wonder for several minutes - where I live you don't see much gray hair (you also see a lot of fake body parts, but that's a <a href="http://mothernecessity.blogspot.com/2009/08/lifes-beach.html">different post</a>).<br />
<br />
That all being said, I went into Fairway last week, and along with my groceries I bought a six-pack of beer. As part of the cheapness thing mentioned earlier, I keep track of our spending, so a few days later I was typing the info from the receipt into Quicken. And I noticed something odd on the receipt - where the beer purchase was listed, it had a birthday keyed in. Apparently in this store you need to ask the patron their birthday and key it in when they make an alcohol purchase. I don't expect to get carded, as I have long ago passed the age where anyone would think I am below the drinking age. However, I am not a fan when the cashier simply picks an arbitrary birthday for me and punches it in to the register.<br />
<br />
Especially when the birthday is 2 years too early. It's enough to make your hair go white...Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-47704005799558445232011-06-29T15:17:00.000-04:002011-06-29T15:17:10.168-04:00Summer summer summer summer summer summerYes, it is indeed summer! My last days of school were this week, and my classroom has been packed up and cleared out. My job ended, but as it was a leave replacement for the year, I wasn't exactly blindsided by that fact. I was, however, really sad to leave. It was such a wonderful place to work, and the people I worked with were fabulous. I <i><b>loved </b></i>working there, and it was really hard to drive away for the last time.<br />
<br />
The good news is I have a new job. The bad news is that it's another leave replacement for a year. But, with education tanking left and right, I'm thrilled to have a job at all. It's in a great district, the school is beautiful, and the people I'm working with seem terrific. All in all, a good start. <br />
<br />
The kids are home from school and enjoying the beginning of summer. It's not too hot out, so we can all enjoy the nice weather without melting in our little apartment. Not a bad way to begin (except, of course, for the piles of junk I dragged home from my classroom and haven't yet dug through...).Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-5774887635526899222011-01-22T19:29:00.001-05:002011-01-22T19:50:23.890-05:00Sleeping Under the Stars<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/TTt1Qk7oxuI/AAAAAAAAA7w/8wo01YULIvg/s1600/IMG_6630.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/TTt1Qk7oxuI/AAAAAAAAA7w/8wo01YULIvg/s200/IMG_6630.JPG" width="150" /></a>Well, the pretend stars. Last night Big Trouble and The Professor had their very own version of Night at the Museum. Big Trouble's Boy Scout Troop (and apparently every other little boy in America) had a sleepover at the Museum of Natural History in NYC. The Professor is Big Trouble's adult for all things Boy Scout (you have to have a background check now, and as they only check one guardian, said guardian is the one who goes on all the activities), so he accompanied. <br />
<br />
Apparently, a lovely time was had by all, although apparently not a lot of sleeping was done. Big Trouble usually drops off by 8:30 at the latest, and lights out was 11:45 last night, with the museum staff issuing a firm wake-up call at 7:00 am. Needless to say this has made for a bleary-eyed Big Trouble today, who has not been able to muster up the energy for much trouble at all.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/TTt1c-bnIJI/AAAAAAAAA70/4dBC3J8TKp0/s1600/IMG_6609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/TTt1GGzwrpI/AAAAAAAAA7s/hhaXlZRG2qI/s1600/IMG_6569.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/TTt1GGzwrpI/AAAAAAAAA7s/hhaXlZRG2qI/s200/IMG_6569.JPG" width="150" /></a>They got to walk around the exhibits at night after the museum closed, saw a raptor show, had a late-night IMAX movie, saw Fossils by Flashlight, and got to sleep in the Hall of Planet Earth. This was part of Big Trouble's Christmas present (sleepovers at the museum don't come cheap, I'm afraid....), and he seemed to be truly excited. I could tell, because he was voluntarily trying to carry their items out to the car, rather than claiming that he was having to do it "against his will." (Big Trouble claims he has to do a lot of things against his will. I tell him my whole life is against my will, but he doesn't seem to grasp this....)<br />
<br />
Miss Serious and I stayed home and enjoyed a dinner out and a movie in (and got to sleep in our own beds). Merry Christmas, Big Trouble!Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-24575780810315675592011-01-18T19:14:00.000-05:002011-01-18T19:14:07.269-05:00Neither Rain, Nor Sleet...Add these to some of the many reasons I'm not a mail carrier. Today I woke up to the odd pitter-patter of freezing rain flinging into my windows. I was then greeted by the more pleasant sound of the phone ringing to tell me we had a snow day. <br />
<br />
I like snow days. I think the teachers like them more than the kids. I was thrilled to not have to brave what would have been a slippery and (as I am surrounded by giant SUVs who think they are invincible) scary ride. And since we live in a co-op, we don't have to shovel. (The Professor does dig out my car, for which I am eternally grateful.)<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, since this winter has decided to get all out of control, this is our third snow day. We have three snow days in our calendar. It is only mid-January. So, while I enjoy a day off as much as the next gal, this doesn't bode well for vacations, which start getting pulled the next time all that freezy stuff decides to fall from the sky.<br />
<br />
I do need to remember to thank my mail carrier the next time I run into her, though...Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-78301809036937701612011-01-16T17:12:00.001-05:002011-01-16T17:15:39.658-05:00Goodbye<div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Though it may be very natural for some people, it is extremely hard for me to write about my life when it is sad. I had planned to write this blog more often this year, but I usually try to keep a humorous outlook on my life and family. I guess if all someone wrote about in a journal were the happy stories, you would never get a true picture of their life. When Miss Serious was very young, my parents took her picture as she was pitching a fit in her high chair – she was shocked at the ensuing image of herself. Previously she had only seen a cute, smiling Miss Serious, and this was not the picture she had in her mind of what she looked like.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">On Monday, my mother called with the news that my grandmother had passed away. We knew she was ill, and she was 87 – by all accounts that is a very long time to live. But her mother lived to be 100, and as my grandmother was always healthy and a rather sassy broad, we expected nothing but the same from her. Her decline was fast and of a speed that was unexpected. She had family around her at all times, and was at peace at the end. We all knew she would not have wanted to linger and be in pain. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">But I’ve discovered that all those things don’t make it any less sad. When I got to work on Monday, a colleague asked me how my weekend was. I was still so thrown by the news that I just blurted out that my grandmother died this morning. He asked me how old she was, and when I told him 87, he responded, “Well, that was a really long life. Good for her.” He is a kind, well-meaning person. I know words much like those have come out of my mouth again and again. They were not what I wanted to hear. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I’ve realized that it doesn’t matter that you’re old, or that you had been given a diagnosis and those around you knew it was terminal. It doesn’t make the people who love you feel anything other than sad. And it doesn’t make them miss you any less. And I know that I won’t use those words to anyone ever again.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">We love you Grandma, and will miss you. You were outspoken and opinionated and funny. You could squeeze a nickel until it screamed and knit beautiful blankets for my babies. You helped teach me to drive and to make perfect French Toast. I still sleep under the lovely bedspread you embroidered for us when we got married. We looked through all your old pictures and celebrated your life. And we were happy and sad, and will be for a long time. It was a long life, but now I know it will never be long enough.</span></div>Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-4044559649452188342011-01-04T19:01:00.000-05:002011-01-04T19:01:07.823-05:00But It's Sooooo Dark....One would have thought the first day back would have been the hardest. One would have been wrong. When my alarm clock went off at 5:00 am yesterday, it was sort of novel. Today, however, the crushing realization occurred that this was NOT a novelty, this was the way things are. And it is very dark at 5:00 in the morning, my friends. And cold. And did I mention dark?<br />
<br />
Luckily I love my job, and my room is toasty warm. Very toasty - apparently my heater is malfunctioning, so my room was 82.2 degrees when I walked in yesterday. Rather tropical. Unfortunately I was not sporting beachware, but instead a turtleneck cashmere sweater. And every fifth grader that entered my room (and there were 96 of them) felt the need to ask, "Wow, do you know how hot it is in here?" Because, you know, it's not like I've actually <i>been</i> in that room all day.<br />
<br />
At least now I do know that I am <b>definitely</b> smarter than a fifth grader.Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-975851400236324922011-01-02T10:43:00.001-05:002011-01-02T10:44:17.186-05:00Missed the Possum DropThe new year is here, and we celebrated pretty much the same way we have for 15 years - at home with Chinese food, wine, and general good cheer. When I was young and thought you were supposed to, I used to go out on New Year's Eve. The night always had a whiff of desperation about it - everyone trying to have a good time, because, hey - it was New Year's Eve!!!! After many years of overcrowded restaurants, dangerous drivers, and realizing it wasn't actually that much fun, I learned to embrace the quieter, happier entrance to the New Year.<br />
<br />
I also used to make resolutions, but as they never got me very far, I've become a bit more philosophical about the whole thing, and just have general thoughts for the new year. Who knows if it works better, but at least it doesn't make me feel like a failure when I invariably do something on Jan. 3rd that I've vowed not to do do and decide that the whole thing's off....<br />
<br />
I also no longer try to stay up until midnight - I'm not a late night person, and I never quite got the whole dropping the ball thing, so giving it a miss is a relief. I would however, if only the misguided folks in the media would cover it, stay up for the <a href="http://www.clayscorner.com/">possum dro</a>p in Brasstown, NC.<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/C_xw_ovdmwQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/C_xw_ovdmwQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
<br />
Happy New Year! (The possum is released at the end - I wonder if they release the ball into Times Square?).Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-77914693954188819572010-12-31T16:15:00.000-05:002010-12-31T16:15:31.620-05:00Clearing out the Cobwebs...Even though this place looks so dusty and unused because I haven't set foot in it since beginning my job, I'm going to try to get back on the blogging wagon. Math and fifth graders have taken over my life for a bit, but now that I have a few months under my belt, I'm ready to get back into the habit of thinking about other things once in a while.<br />
<br />
Work has been AWESOME, and this job is everything I could hope for (except, of course, the whole temporary thing). I love my classroom, the kids are fabulous, and I even played in the school concert with the fifth grade band. I've also been saddened by the prospect of having to job-hunt again in a few short months, but you can't have everything, right?<br />
<br />
We all enjoyed Christmas, and the blizzard was an interesting surprise. It upset our travel/family plans a little, but all in all it was more exciting than anything else. After having no snow, a whole pile was dropped on us at once, and the kids have been enjoying the whole thing. Not being a fan of the cold, I could do with it all melting and not snowing again for the season, but I'm pretty sure that isn't going to happen. My body doesn't handle cold well, a fact that was documented scientifically yesterday at the NY Hall of Science. This was a cool camera that detected your heat levels, and showed them on the screen. I'm standing between the kids, and now have objective proof that I get REALLY cold, and this is in a well-heated museum (my gigundo blue muppet nose is especially fetching, I think):<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/TR5HcWSy7gI/AAAAAAAAA7o/odK_UGjmfzw/s1600/IMG_6453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/TR5HcWSy7gI/AAAAAAAAA7o/odK_UGjmfzw/s320/IMG_6453.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Stay warm, and Happy New Year!Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-55547160363546348342010-09-01T08:23:00.000-04:002010-09-01T08:23:26.680-04:00Through the Eyes of a ChildAs the first day of school is approaching at an incredibly fast (and frightening) speed, I've been trying to acclimate my summer (read lazy) body to getting up earlier. As I will be teaching in a middle school, the day starts early (kids arrive at 7:40), and as it's about 40 minutes away, my day will need to start quite a bit earlier than I'm accustomed to.<br />
<br />
Thus, I've started trying to drag myself out of bed early, and setting my alarm back about 15 minutes every couple of days. What I find fascinating is that no matter how early I get up, Big Trouble is already awake and sitting on the couch watching PBS (being the <strike>cheap </strike>frugal family that we are, his early morning choices are limited to morning news shows or the children's offerings on PBS). He greets me with a happy smile, and I try to do the same, though I admit it's a struggle.<br />
<br />
I've been feeling cranky and rather put-out that I have to get up early (while inside I know I should just be thrilled to have a job to get up for, my outside is TIRED), and as my classroom is a frightening mess, I've been going in to the school quite a bit. Apparently, all the teachers from last year were so happy to no longer have to teach math that it seems they took ALL their math materials - I'm talking old photocopies, textbook series that haven't been used for 10 years, etc. - and dumped them in my room. This week has been spent digging through everything, boxing up all the junk, and sending it to the vast abyss of storage.<br />
<br />
When I got up yesterday and shuffled into the kitchen, Big Trouble followed me. He stood in the doorway and announced with shining eyes and a supremely happy voice, "I love it when the light looks like this - it makes the whole kitchen orange! I wonder if the bathroom looks this way?" and he raced over to the bathroom to confirm that it, too, was bathed in orange light.<br />
<br />
I couldn't have been more struck about what a different way this was to start the day. Instead of lamenting that I have to get up with (or before) the sun, I could cherish the way it surrounds my kitchen in soft, beautiful light that can't be seen any other time of the day, and that this is a special moment I get to share with my seven year old son.<br />
<br />
I can't say it will make me happy about getting up at 5:30, but I'm working on it. Thanks, Big Trouble. Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-12306651652188847682010-08-24T08:16:00.000-04:002010-08-24T08:16:25.555-04:00And Now For Something Completely Different...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/THO0lo6VjLI/AAAAAAAAA6c/attIH-Mz2-c/s1600/IMG_5942.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/THO0lo6VjLI/AAAAAAAAA6c/attIH-Mz2-c/s200/IMG_5942.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>A couple of weeks ago, we took the kids to the <a href="http://www.renfair.com/ny/">NY Renaissance Faire</a>; I wanted to write about it sooner, but it's taken me this long to recover.<br />
<br />
I've never been to a Renaissance Faire - I thought it would be something like Old Williamsburg, with historical re-enactors and authentic buildings. I was wrong.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/THO2JJjXAeI/AAAAAAAAA7E/tlue4JGoL0o/s1600/IMG_5959.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/THO2JJjXAeI/AAAAAAAAA7E/tlue4JGoL0o/s200/IMG_5959.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>Apparently, I'm the only one laboring under this misapprehension. I also didn't realize that everyone and his brother would be going to the Renaissance Faire. When we got there, we parked on a huge field labeled Lot Number 3, which was already almost full, and took a Shuttle bus to the fairgrounds, since there were already a zillion cars parked and the original parking lots were full. As we got out of the car, I noticed several people walking with us to the shuttle bus dressed in full Renaissance garb. I assumed they were late to work. Again, I was wrong.<br />
<br />
We got to the fairgrounds, paid our pricey admission (but the kids were free that week-end, so it evened out ok), and started to walk. I'm not sure how long the fair has been going on, but I think many of the buildings and all of the signage have been in use since the beginning. Everything was a bit kitschy, and not exactly what one would call historically accurate - pretty much someone's version of what he thought the Renaissance may have been like, possibly under the influence of some sort of alcoholic substance, and certainly without much help from any reference books....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/THO0tZuaKoI/AAAAAAAAA6k/-UmFxAXz2_Q/s1600/IMG_5949.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/THO0tZuaKoI/AAAAAAAAA6k/-UmFxAXz2_Q/s200/IMG_5949.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>As we were walking, I started to realize something - we were surrounded by LOTS of people in Renaissance garb, some of them wearing such odd items as pointy elf ears to round out their flowing capes, and wildly tight and inappropriate Renaissance-style bustiers. I quietly mentioned to The Professor that there seemed to be an awful lot of people dressed up, and was surprised that they had so many workers/volunteers. He looked at me somewhat oddly, and informed me that they were all just fair-goers like us. I was <i>floored </i>- so apparently this is a big deal - people have their own Renaissance outfits at home and slap them on in billion degree weather to walk around the Renaissance Faire. I spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of shock and confusion, the remnants of which are still lurking in the corners of my mind.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/THO3VU1TaOI/AAAAAAAAA7M/5nUwjl_r63g/s1600/IMG_5981.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-1kwIFcY8Vg/THO3VU1TaOI/AAAAAAAAA7M/5nUwjl_r63g/s200/IMG_5981.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>There was lots of stuff to see, and the kids had a great time. They got to see a joust, a crazy performer named <a href="http://www.dextretripp.com/">Dextre Tripp</a> who did wild things like juggling with a chain saw and strapping fireworks to his chest, saw some neat birds of prey, watched a glassblower, and generally enjoyed themselves.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Now I have to convince Miss Serious that we don't actually need matching Renaissance capes...Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4420852147424000336.post-88055726019204206372010-08-21T18:34:00.002-04:002010-08-21T18:37:57.754-04:00Don't Cry....I am a simple woman with simple needs. I don't consider myself high-maintenance (or maybe I'm fooling myself like in Harry Met Sally), and I don't ask for much out of life. When Friday rolls around, I'm happy that the working week has come to a close (even if the concept of sleeping in on a Saturday has been missing 'round these parts for, oh, about 9 years), and ask for very little - an easy-to-prepare dinner, some English comedies on PBS, maybe a tasty dessert.<br />
<br />
What I don't enjoy on a Friday night is a really odd sound coming from the direction of my kitchen followed by a slightly hysterical, "Help!" called out in the tones that only a nine-year-old with a <i>big</i> problem can muster.<br />
<br />
Now, when I'm in the center of my apartment, I'm only about 10 or 20 feet from the opposite end, and The Professor and I made the short trip from the comparative serenity of the living room to the kitchen in record time.<br />
<br />
The scene which confronted us was distinctly unexpected <i>and </i>horrifying - my kitchen is pretty much all white (cabinets, tile floor, appliances), but it had attained an extra veneer of shiny whiteness because of the <b>FULL GALLON</b> of milk that was currently streaming quickly across my tiles in a race to get under all the appliances where it could stay in milky goodness and produce a smell that would surely force us to leave our home after 2 hot days.<br />
<br />
Leaping into action (as opposed to Miss Serious, who stood in the center of this puddle holding the now-empty and exploded milk container as if transfixed by the beauty of the stream surrounding her), we grabbed all the bath towels we have and threw them down on the milk, jumping up and down on them in some sort of maniacal tribal dance so they could absorb for all they were worth. Tobie helped out on the hardwood floor in the hallway, and took care of the overflow....<br />
<br />
The floor, having been towel-dried, steam-cleaned, and wiped down with cleaner on hands and knees is now dry and no longer sticky. The towels were taken to the basement and washed, and Miss Serious seems to have recovered. The Professor and I treated ourselves to a beer and called it a night.<br />
<br />
This is one of the things no one ever tells you about parenting - that some night, when you least expect it, your kid is going to drop an entire gallon of milk on the kitchen floor, and since you're the grown-up, <i>you </i>have to fix it. Just like scraped knees, high fevers, and questions about why that woman in Costco has so many kids - no one will be taking care of it for you.<br />
<br />
Luckily the fix was quick, we seems to have caught the milk before it went under the stove, and this particular gallon of milk happened to be a cheap gallon from Costco as opposed to the frighteningly expensive organic stuff.<br />
<br />
See - simple needs. Now if only I had some milk for my coffee....Mother Necessityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05635333944068409610noreply@blogger.com2