As I said in my first post, this blog was a trial run to see if I could manage to do it justice. I've concluded that I can't. It's not so much the posting, but the fact that I can't get around to visit y'all's sites and see what you have to say. Since blogging for me is a social activity, it's the equivalent of sitting in a room and talking continuously, and not listening to what anyone else has to say.
I do have another blog, a non-anonymous one for family and friends, and maintaining the two sites is beyond my dialup, homeschooling, Dilly-regulated world. I've had such a good time discovering all of you and hate to leave the party. I'll drop back in now and then. Meanwhile, continue to be funny and thoughtful and don't ever send wedding invitations -- unless you *specify* that it's a save-the-date -- by Facebook. Thus shall you have a blessed life.
Thanks for all!
-- Mairzy
Friday, March 21, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Miss Mairzy Does Not Approve
I'm not a great fan of Facebook. The constant busyness makes my head buzz. About once a month, I log on and take care of all the friend requests, group invitations, and Fun Applications that I can't play with, having dialup.
Facebook sank to a new low ranking on my list when I got a notice in the other day:
Jessica has invited you to the event "Kevin and Jessica's Wedding"
Event: Jessica & Kevin's Wedding
"Once in a lifetime"
What: Ceremony
Host: Jessica & Kevin
When: Sunday, August 24 at 11:00am
Where: Grace Community Chapel
To see more details and RSVP, follow the link below:
--------
I'll go bury my head and pretend I never saw it.
Facebook sank to a new low ranking on my list when I got a notice in the other day:
Jessica has invited you to the event "Kevin and Jessica's Wedding"
Event: Jessica & Kevin's Wedding
"Once in a lifetime"
What: Ceremony
Host: Jessica & Kevin
When: Sunday, August 24 at 11:00am
Where: Grace Community Chapel
To see more details and RSVP, follow the link below:
--------
I'll go bury my head and pretend I never saw it.
Nice Try
August found a quarter and stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans.
"I inserted a coin," he said. "Are you going to dance now?"
"I inserted a coin," he said. "Are you going to dance now?"
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
How Was Your Question Popped?
A cousin of August's just got engaged. His proposal was sweet, but not my style. Not that he consulted me. Many of my friends' husbands went all out for the event: one arranged to have a third party turn on a CD player so there was a soundtrack. Another actually had a family member videotape it, which violates all my notions of proper romance.
August's proposal, on the other hand, was like most everything he does: simple and to the point. We hadn't seen one another for an entire month, and he surprised me with a visit sooner than I was expecting him. We went to a house and garden that was open to the public but deserted on that particular day. (August of course didn't bribe the owners to turn everyone else away. Probably.) Did I know what was up? Well, yes. I even knew the spot where he was going to take me -- beside the lake with the weeping willow -- because we'd spent a lot of time there on previous trips.
So when we got to the enclosed courtyard with the fountain, I was unprepared when August knelt down in front of me. He condensed the question into, oh, two sentences. My answer was one word, but it was the right one. We lived happily ever after and got married two months later.
So I started wondering what sort of proposal story others have. If you don't mind sharing, how did you Get the Question? Or was it an understood thing that never formally got Asked? Or did you, flouting convention, Ask Him? It's a grey midwinter day here and I've got a cold, so I need some romance to brighten the day.
August's proposal, on the other hand, was like most everything he does: simple and to the point. We hadn't seen one another for an entire month, and he surprised me with a visit sooner than I was expecting him. We went to a house and garden that was open to the public but deserted on that particular day. (August of course didn't bribe the owners to turn everyone else away. Probably.) Did I know what was up? Well, yes. I even knew the spot where he was going to take me -- beside the lake with the weeping willow -- because we'd spent a lot of time there on previous trips.
So when we got to the enclosed courtyard with the fountain, I was unprepared when August knelt down in front of me. He condensed the question into, oh, two sentences. My answer was one word, but it was the right one. We lived happily ever after and got married two months later.
So I started wondering what sort of proposal story others have. If you don't mind sharing, how did you Get the Question? Or was it an understood thing that never formally got Asked? Or did you, flouting convention, Ask Him? It's a grey midwinter day here and I've got a cold, so I need some romance to brighten the day.
Friday, March 7, 2008
What Mairzy Did
Okay, y'all. I was in the library, and who should be ringing up my fines but the China-traveling librarian that we'd thought about asking for dessert. I hestitated. I pretended I didn't notice the opportunity. But I could hear y'all behind me: "Come on, just ask her. You're the one who was going on about 'lost social relics.' It won't hurt you. She'll be pleased! Go for it!" (By the way, you need to keep your voices down in the library.)
So I said, "This may seem a bit odd, but my husband and I would love to hear more about your trip to China. Would you like to come over for dessert some evening?"
She stared at me, then called security and hit me with pepper spray.
Not really. She looked surprised, pleased, and said she'd talk to her husband about it. It'll probably be after Easter, as we're both rather busy till then. And it might not come off... but hey! I did it!
(Applause is appropriate here.)
So I said, "This may seem a bit odd, but my husband and I would love to hear more about your trip to China. Would you like to come over for dessert some evening?"
She stared at me, then called security and hit me with pepper spray.
Not really. She looked surprised, pleased, and said she'd talk to her husband about it. It'll probably be after Easter, as we're both rather busy till then. And it might not come off... but hey! I did it!
(Applause is appropriate here.)
Monday, March 3, 2008
Sickness -- Hurray!
Ladybug is sick again. She's lying on the couch having the stomach-bug equivalent of a celebratory party.
"Ooohh!" (Moaning with her eyes closed, but checking our reaction through a tiny slit of eye.) "I'm really, really sick. I need to go to the hospital!"
"You don't have a fever, honey. You're not sick enough to go the hospital."
"I AM sick enough! I won't last the night! Tomorrow you won't have me with you anymore!"
"Would you like some water? And I'll pray for you."
"I won't last the the night, I tell you!"
Daddy prays for her, during which she moans pathetically. Then he announces it's storytime (the usual bedtime routine). Ladybug moans louder.
"I won't last through storytime!"
At August's request, I'm going to Google the symptoms of appendicitis. But we think that involves a fever and pain, not an upset stomach and a dramatic six-year-old.
"Ooohh!" (Moaning with her eyes closed, but checking our reaction through a tiny slit of eye.) "I'm really, really sick. I need to go to the hospital!"
"You don't have a fever, honey. You're not sick enough to go the hospital."
"I AM sick enough! I won't last the night! Tomorrow you won't have me with you anymore!"
"Would you like some water? And I'll pray for you."
"I won't last the the night, I tell you!"
Daddy prays for her, during which she moans pathetically. Then he announces it's storytime (the usual bedtime routine). Ladybug moans louder.
"I won't last through storytime!"
At August's request, I'm going to Google the symptoms of appendicitis. But we think that involves a fever and pain, not an upset stomach and a dramatic six-year-old.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Further Questioning
Yes, yes, I should be writing, not blogging. Stop nagging.
So my highly unofficial findings indicate that we assume that nice people look something like ourselves. Interesting. Here's my next question: How do we imagine beautiful people? (Assuming we don't consider ourselves the epitome of beauty.) Below is a quick sketch -- primarily dialogue, because anytime I sit down with two characters they can talk for pages without actually accomplishing anything. Read the sketch, and then answer the question below. No talking, no looking at your neighbor's paper, and spit out that gum!
***
"I hope you don't mind. You're having a visitor today," said Lacey, comfortably installing herself in her brother-in-law's favorite chair. "You're going to meet the love of your life."
Jonathan peered around the kitchen doorway, looking grumpy. "Since when did I ask you to look for the love of my life?"
"I wasn't looking. But my cousin Delaney is flying in today. I told her Chris was tending to your sick laptop so we'd be here, and gave her directions."
"This relates to my love life how?"
"When you see Delaney, you'll fall in love. Men always do. That's just what happens." She shot a glance at her husband, Jonathan's brother, who was bent over the laptop. "Even Chris is pretty starstruck when she's around. Aren't you, Chris?"
"If you think," Chris said, not looking up, "that I'm even going to pretend that I heard that question, you're wrong."
Jonathan came out carrying a tray of iced tea, which he served to Lacey and Chris before sitting down with his own. Lacey looked him over appraisingly. "I've wanted you and Delaney to meet for a while, anyway. You're a catch yourself. Good-looking, can cook, and even cleaned your apartment today."
"I have no interest in meeting your cousin."
"Well, I can't help that. She's coming in, like, ten minutes. You'll see how uninterested you are then."
"Don't sound so depressed about it. Are you jealous of her, Lacey? Oh, come on."
Lacey sighed. "I know, it's stupid. I'm perfectly happy with Chris..."
"Thank you," said Chris.
"... but still, I wouldn't mind knowing that there are a couple of guys who break out the hard liquor every year on my wedding anniversary. When Delaney marries, she'll singlehandedly push the whiskey market into a boom. Oh, stop sneering. I'm right. You'll see."
The doorbell rang, and Lacey jumped to her feet. But Jonathan, determined to show how unimpressed he was at the prospect of this modern-day Aphrodite, pushed her back in her chair. "I can answer my own door, thank you."
He walked confidently to the door and opened it wide. "Hello?" he said. And that was as far as he got.
A woman was standing on his doorstep. From the toes of her red vintage pumps to the silky lock of hair falling into her luminous eyes, she was beautiful. She smiled nervously at Jonathan. It was a dazzling smile. "Hi, I'm Delaney... Lacey's cousin? I really hope you're Jonathan."
"Yes, I'm Jonathan. Um, good to meet you... Delaney, did you say your name was?"
She smiled with relief. "Yes! I shouldn't have worried, of course. Lacey's directions are always right."
"Yes," Jonathan agreed, feeling a little dizzy. "Lacey is usually right."
***
Question: What does Delaney look like?
So my highly unofficial findings indicate that we assume that nice people look something like ourselves. Interesting. Here's my next question: How do we imagine beautiful people? (Assuming we don't consider ourselves the epitome of beauty.) Below is a quick sketch -- primarily dialogue, because anytime I sit down with two characters they can talk for pages without actually accomplishing anything. Read the sketch, and then answer the question below. No talking, no looking at your neighbor's paper, and spit out that gum!
***
"I hope you don't mind. You're having a visitor today," said Lacey, comfortably installing herself in her brother-in-law's favorite chair. "You're going to meet the love of your life."
Jonathan peered around the kitchen doorway, looking grumpy. "Since when did I ask you to look for the love of my life?"
"I wasn't looking. But my cousin Delaney is flying in today. I told her Chris was tending to your sick laptop so we'd be here, and gave her directions."
"This relates to my love life how?"
"When you see Delaney, you'll fall in love. Men always do. That's just what happens." She shot a glance at her husband, Jonathan's brother, who was bent over the laptop. "Even Chris is pretty starstruck when she's around. Aren't you, Chris?"
"If you think," Chris said, not looking up, "that I'm even going to pretend that I heard that question, you're wrong."
Jonathan came out carrying a tray of iced tea, which he served to Lacey and Chris before sitting down with his own. Lacey looked him over appraisingly. "I've wanted you and Delaney to meet for a while, anyway. You're a catch yourself. Good-looking, can cook, and even cleaned your apartment today."
"I have no interest in meeting your cousin."
"Well, I can't help that. She's coming in, like, ten minutes. You'll see how uninterested you are then."
"Don't sound so depressed about it. Are you jealous of her, Lacey? Oh, come on."
Lacey sighed. "I know, it's stupid. I'm perfectly happy with Chris..."
"Thank you," said Chris.
"... but still, I wouldn't mind knowing that there are a couple of guys who break out the hard liquor every year on my wedding anniversary. When Delaney marries, she'll singlehandedly push the whiskey market into a boom. Oh, stop sneering. I'm right. You'll see."
The doorbell rang, and Lacey jumped to her feet. But Jonathan, determined to show how unimpressed he was at the prospect of this modern-day Aphrodite, pushed her back in her chair. "I can answer my own door, thank you."
He walked confidently to the door and opened it wide. "Hello?" he said. And that was as far as he got.
A woman was standing on his doorstep. From the toes of her red vintage pumps to the silky lock of hair falling into her luminous eyes, she was beautiful. She smiled nervously at Jonathan. It was a dazzling smile. "Hi, I'm Delaney... Lacey's cousin? I really hope you're Jonathan."
"Yes, I'm Jonathan. Um, good to meet you... Delaney, did you say your name was?"
She smiled with relief. "Yes! I shouldn't have worried, of course. Lacey's directions are always right."
"Yes," Jonathan agreed, feeling a little dizzy. "Lacey is usually right."
***
Question: What does Delaney look like?
Friday, February 22, 2008
An Important Notice and a Less-Important Question
Notice:
If I'm going to finish that blasted novel by the end of next month, when my mother comes to visit, I'm going to have to spend pretty much all my computer time working on it. So I'll be a little scarce in the blogworld for a bit. Don't give up on me -- I'll drop in as often as I can.
Question:
I'm reading a name book called "The Baby Name Survey Book." (My question is not, "Isn't that a surprise?") The premise of the book is that it tells you what people actually think of each name, in their very own words. Their very own words are, for the most part, "This name makes me think of somebody snobby and selfish." What I've noticed -- and I'm getting to my question here, for anyone still hanging around -- is that for girl names they like, those surveyed almost always identify her as "blond." Sometimes you get a redhead, and occasionally a brunette. But for the most part, the nice girls are blond.
So, my question! What is your default image of someone nice? For instance, when you read a blog you like. If there's no picture to clue you in, do you imagine the blogger as blond or dark-haired? I almost always assume someone is dark-haired. I know a whole lot more dark-haired people than blond people. How do you imagine me? Naturally -- you'd say red-haired, dazzling green eyes, cute turned-up nose, light dusting of freckles. At least, all of you who have been reading romance novels lately.
(P.S. -- I have short brown hair, glasses, and a dimple when I smile.)
If I'm going to finish that blasted novel by the end of next month, when my mother comes to visit, I'm going to have to spend pretty much all my computer time working on it. So I'll be a little scarce in the blogworld for a bit. Don't give up on me -- I'll drop in as often as I can.
Question:
I'm reading a name book called "The Baby Name Survey Book." (My question is not, "Isn't that a surprise?") The premise of the book is that it tells you what people actually think of each name, in their very own words. Their very own words are, for the most part, "This name makes me think of somebody snobby and selfish." What I've noticed -- and I'm getting to my question here, for anyone still hanging around -- is that for girl names they like, those surveyed almost always identify her as "blond." Sometimes you get a redhead, and occasionally a brunette. But for the most part, the nice girls are blond.
So, my question! What is your default image of someone nice? For instance, when you read a blog you like. If there's no picture to clue you in, do you imagine the blogger as blond or dark-haired? I almost always assume someone is dark-haired. I know a whole lot more dark-haired people than blond people. How do you imagine me? Naturally -- you'd say red-haired, dazzling green eyes, cute turned-up nose, light dusting of freckles. At least, all of you who have been reading romance novels lately.
(P.S. -- I have short brown hair, glasses, and a dimple when I smile.)
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
The Weirdness of Mairzy
Desperate Housewife, who appears to have reached a well-adjusted adulthood despite her childhood quirks, :) tagged me for this meme. I could put as my first item that I'm lazy about links and tagging. If you read this, and haven't done it (although probably most of you have because most of my readers are from the same "neighborhood"), then consider yourself tagged.
I am to list seven weird or random facts about myself. Honestly, it's pretty difficult to come up with seven weird things. I'm so ordinary. What have I done that isn't exactly like everyone else in the world? I mean, just like all the rest of you, I:
1. ... as a child, spent summers catching grasshoppers to feed to my cats. Which kind of grasshopper did your cat like best? Mine liked the green ones.
2. ... have never been pulled over for speeding.
3. ... got my first kiss at 14 (isn't THAT a rosy memory, ugh), and then not again until I was 23. That one was for keepers.
4. ... didn't see snow until I was in fifth grade.
5. ... learned in my Deep South school that "other people pronounce 'vehicle' with a silent H, so that's why it's in your spelling list on silent letters. We don't say it that way.'"
6. ... have to have my dirty dishes arranged a certain way on the counter or otherwise go crazy looking at them.
7. ... used to confuse the word 'condiments' with another, more salacious, word. I was shocked, SHOCKED when a sign at McDonald's blatantly declared that condiments were available upon request.
So, sorry to drum in this boring list of everyday human traits and experiences. Sometimes I wish I were just a little more eccentric and not so much like everyone else!
I am to list seven weird or random facts about myself. Honestly, it's pretty difficult to come up with seven weird things. I'm so ordinary. What have I done that isn't exactly like everyone else in the world? I mean, just like all the rest of you, I:
1. ... as a child, spent summers catching grasshoppers to feed to my cats. Which kind of grasshopper did your cat like best? Mine liked the green ones.
2. ... have never been pulled over for speeding.
3. ... got my first kiss at 14 (isn't THAT a rosy memory, ugh), and then not again until I was 23. That one was for keepers.
4. ... didn't see snow until I was in fifth grade.
5. ... learned in my Deep South school that "other people pronounce 'vehicle' with a silent H, so that's why it's in your spelling list on silent letters. We don't say it that way.'"
6. ... have to have my dirty dishes arranged a certain way on the counter or otherwise go crazy looking at them.
7. ... used to confuse the word 'condiments' with another, more salacious, word. I was shocked, SHOCKED when a sign at McDonald's blatantly declared that condiments were available upon request.
So, sorry to drum in this boring list of everyday human traits and experiences. Sometimes I wish I were just a little more eccentric and not so much like everyone else!
Saturday, February 16, 2008
How August Saved Valentine's Day
We'd planned to go out Friday night. The first babysitter had to cancel (she gave us plenty of notice, bless her), so we set up another. Thursday night, Dilly developed a fever, which persisted all of Friday. So instead of a date out all by ourselves, we were stuck with an evening at home with two kids and a sick baby. The best salvage I could come up with was that August and I could go in shifts to the library. Wow, wasn't that hot romance?
August got home early, bringing with him a Target bag: "Since we can't go out for a date, I thought we'd have a date here."
He'd bought popcorn and some little York mints (it's Lent, so we're technically not eating sweets right now, but the evening seemed to allow it). To go with that, he bought us a new Scene It! game to play when the kids went to bed. Neither of us is a big movie buff, but we're both insatiable trivia geeks.
He'd found a "Luscious Dahlia" scented candle for the evening. (August: "Target's the place to go the day after Valentine's Day." Mairzy: "Oh, I knew that. I read Swistle.") And he also bought me something else -- it was black, what there was of it -- that he assured me I didn't have to accept if I wasn't in the mood... but he wouldn't mind if I were.
Despite the sick baby and canceled evening out, it turned out to be one of the most enjoyable dates we've had. Forget the roses. Bring on the popcorn!
August got home early, bringing with him a Target bag: "Since we can't go out for a date, I thought we'd have a date here."
He'd bought popcorn and some little York mints (it's Lent, so we're technically not eating sweets right now, but the evening seemed to allow it). To go with that, he bought us a new Scene It! game to play when the kids went to bed. Neither of us is a big movie buff, but we're both insatiable trivia geeks.
He'd found a "Luscious Dahlia" scented candle for the evening. (August: "Target's the place to go the day after Valentine's Day." Mairzy: "Oh, I knew that. I read Swistle.") And he also bought me something else -- it was black, what there was of it -- that he assured me I didn't have to accept if I wasn't in the mood... but he wouldn't mind if I were.
Despite the sick baby and canceled evening out, it turned out to be one of the most enjoyable dates we've had. Forget the roses. Bring on the popcorn!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Taking My Own Medicine
Today I certifiably "practiced what I preached." Because, see, there was a Valentine's party we'd said we would attend. Today, the weather was yucky and I figured it would be cancelled... but, nope, it was still on. And I didn't want to go.
I'd have to stop by the store and get snacks on the way. And -- oh yes -- Valentines for 30 kids. I hadn't told Ladybug and Titan about it so they wouldn't even know. I could tell the hostess that, um, "something came up" and I couldn't make it. Since this is a new group and the members don't know each other very well, I probably wouldn't even be missed anyway. It was easier to stay in.
But, if y'all recall, # 3 on my list was "Accept invitations." It was MY VERY OWN ADVICE.
Half an hour later, I was sitting in the van in the grocery store parking lot, scribbling names on cards for a party we were already 20 minutes late for. Once there, we didn't leave for two and a half hours: Ladybug, Titan, and even Dilly had an absolute ball. Plus, I got to meet a couple of new people, and see another friend whom I've gotten to know in the past few weeks. As we left, our arms full of Valentines, Ladybug said rapturously, "Everyone there cares for me! They all gave me Valentines!"
So, just so you know, it's good advice. Even I take it.
I'd have to stop by the store and get snacks on the way. And -- oh yes -- Valentines for 30 kids. I hadn't told Ladybug and Titan about it so they wouldn't even know. I could tell the hostess that, um, "something came up" and I couldn't make it. Since this is a new group and the members don't know each other very well, I probably wouldn't even be missed anyway. It was easier to stay in.
But, if y'all recall, # 3 on my list was "Accept invitations." It was MY VERY OWN ADVICE.
Half an hour later, I was sitting in the van in the grocery store parking lot, scribbling names on cards for a party we were already 20 minutes late for. Once there, we didn't leave for two and a half hours: Ladybug, Titan, and even Dilly had an absolute ball. Plus, I got to meet a couple of new people, and see another friend whom I've gotten to know in the past few weeks. As we left, our arms full of Valentines, Ladybug said rapturously, "Everyone there cares for me! They all gave me Valentines!"
So, just so you know, it's good advice. Even I take it.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Question
August (the introvert who nevertheless loves inviting people over) asked what I thought of inviting one of our local librarians (and her husband)for dessert. We enjoy talking with her, and would like to hear more about her recent trip to China. But, of course, we know her only through book check-outs. I'm not even sure of her name. I know Beth is a librarian, so she'd be able to imagine the situation; and as for the rest of you: Would that completely weird you out if you were invited over by someone you saw occasionally on business?
(For the record, we are a very respectable-looking family with no indications of pathological tendencies.)
(For the record, we are a very respectable-looking family with no indications of pathological tendencies.)
Sunday, February 10, 2008
How To Make Friends
or, How I Made Friends,
or, Things To Do That Will Make Making Friends Easier,
or, Lots of Advice That May or May Not Be Helpful
Every time I tried mentally organizing this post, it came out sounding like a diet-program testimonial. (Wacky coincidence, seeing as I certainly wouldn't *read* diet-program testimonials.) "I was pretty lonely, but then I applied these simple methods, and now I have friends! Tons of friends! I have to circulate a sign-up sheet to fit in all their phone calls! I have so many friends that I couldn't possibly add another until one of my current ones dies!" So as you read, please don't take it as saying that this is a foolproof and exhaustive method for dispelling loneliness. I simply jotted down a few things that have helped me make friends in my new married-with-kids life. (For instance, I don't include 'bribes to make people like you,' but that could be effective on some level).
1. Be approachable. I'm probably revealing a lot about myself here, but it seems that when we grow up and have to make friends as adults, we haven't quite left behind those junior high insecurities. And if you think you look or sound like a dork, and that the other women are going to laugh at you behind your back, then guess what? You're not going to be as welcoming to new friends as you might could be. Now, I was a member of a MOMS Club for four years, and I saw lots of junior high holdovers... including women laughing at others for being dorky. But somebody has to be the grownup, and if it's you, you'll attract the other grownups.
2. Make a date. If your acquaintance says, "We should get together and let the kids play sometime," then your answer should not be, "Yes. We need to do that." Stop. Rewind. "I'd love that! I'm free most mornings. How about next Wednesday?"
3. Accept invitations. Yes, I know, "duh" -- unless you're something of a homebody, like me, and you're a whole lot better at pity-parties than scrapbooking parties. If you are invited to lunch, a playdate, a party, then make the effort to attend. I'm a complete hypocrite, by the way: I blatantly ignored a Pampered Chef invitation last month, from someone I really like and haven't seen in months. Why? Because I hate "paying parties" and it's easier just staying home. Only you don't get as many invitations after a while...
4. Move beyond Mommy Talk. It's a grand thing to share advice, sympathy, and laughs over this bewildering adventure called motherhood. But even adventures need subplots. When you find yourself talking audibly about "pooping" in public, it's time to move the conversation to a new track. The best way to do it is to have questions in mind and work them into the conversation. For instance:
* Where are you from originally?
* What do you enjoy doing to relax?
* Books? Movies? Shows?
* How did you choose your children's names?
* What does your name mean?
* Let's talk about names, names, names
* Sorry. Got carried away there.
* But that's what happens to conversations around me, anyway. We always end up on names. Odd.
Is the idea of scripted questions corny? Yes! That's why nobody does it, and it's why you're stuck talking about potty-training week after week.
5. Invite people over. This is a sadly-neglected relic of our social past. When was the last time you got an invitation to someone's house? Well, except for a paying party, grrr. You don't have to invite people over for an all-afternoon barbecue. "Would you like to eat dinner with us? About 6:30 on Friday," works just fine. If you can't do dinner, invite them for dessert. You can have a great visit from 7:00 to 9:00, and still get to bed in time to get up for work, school, or kids tomorrow. Dessert is also a great way to invite large families over without having to fit everyone in for a meal. We hosted a family of 10 for ice cream almost effortlessly.
6. Keep in touch by email or phone. Again, I'm a hypocrite here, but only because I don't manage my time. Way too much time blogging, and not as much sending emails to non-blogging friends.
7. Converse, don't talk. I had one acquaintance, Liz, whose idea of conversation was to wait for the other person to stop talking so she could pick back up again. The friendship did not blossom.
8. Admire other people's talents, taste, and children. I don't mean you should pile on the, um, flattery to get them to like you. Instead, look for things to appreciate. It helps you step outside yourself if you notice what others do well... and it certainly doesn't hurt others' feelings, either.
As for admiring their children, the flip side of that is not to expect them to admire yours. Liz, mentioned above, could not conceive that I didn't find her child as amazing as she did. Everything he did, from smiling to gaining weight to sitting up by himself, was commented on and displayed. Did Miss Mairzy want her children admired, too? Yes, class! Did Miss Mairzy get tired of having to gush over The Wonder Child? Yes, class! It wasn't that Liz was superior about it -- she was a very good-natured person. She just forgot the cardinal rule of interaction with other moms: Only you think your child is that cute. (The friendship, I repeat, did not blossom.)
9. I did a lot of praying, which may or may not be applicable to your particular worldview.
10. And, of course, there's always the possibility that... well, she's just not that into you. But you never know till you try.
Some friendships start out with a sparkle, but even those take a couple of years to mature into deep heart friendships. Be patient, be friendly, and expect to have friends.
or, Things To Do That Will Make Making Friends Easier,
or, Lots of Advice That May or May Not Be Helpful
Every time I tried mentally organizing this post, it came out sounding like a diet-program testimonial. (Wacky coincidence, seeing as I certainly wouldn't *read* diet-program testimonials.) "I was pretty lonely, but then I applied these simple methods, and now I have friends! Tons of friends! I have to circulate a sign-up sheet to fit in all their phone calls! I have so many friends that I couldn't possibly add another until one of my current ones dies!" So as you read, please don't take it as saying that this is a foolproof and exhaustive method for dispelling loneliness. I simply jotted down a few things that have helped me make friends in my new married-with-kids life. (For instance, I don't include 'bribes to make people like you,' but that could be effective on some level).
1. Be approachable. I'm probably revealing a lot about myself here, but it seems that when we grow up and have to make friends as adults, we haven't quite left behind those junior high insecurities. And if you think you look or sound like a dork, and that the other women are going to laugh at you behind your back, then guess what? You're not going to be as welcoming to new friends as you might could be. Now, I was a member of a MOMS Club for four years, and I saw lots of junior high holdovers... including women laughing at others for being dorky. But somebody has to be the grownup, and if it's you, you'll attract the other grownups.
2. Make a date. If your acquaintance says, "We should get together and let the kids play sometime," then your answer should not be, "Yes. We need to do that." Stop. Rewind. "I'd love that! I'm free most mornings. How about next Wednesday?"
3. Accept invitations. Yes, I know, "duh" -- unless you're something of a homebody, like me, and you're a whole lot better at pity-parties than scrapbooking parties. If you are invited to lunch, a playdate, a party, then make the effort to attend. I'm a complete hypocrite, by the way: I blatantly ignored a Pampered Chef invitation last month, from someone I really like and haven't seen in months. Why? Because I hate "paying parties" and it's easier just staying home. Only you don't get as many invitations after a while...
4. Move beyond Mommy Talk. It's a grand thing to share advice, sympathy, and laughs over this bewildering adventure called motherhood. But even adventures need subplots. When you find yourself talking audibly about "pooping" in public, it's time to move the conversation to a new track. The best way to do it is to have questions in mind and work them into the conversation. For instance:
* Where are you from originally?
* What do you enjoy doing to relax?
* Books? Movies? Shows?
* How did you choose your children's names?
* What does your name mean?
* Let's talk about names, names, names
* Sorry. Got carried away there.
* But that's what happens to conversations around me, anyway. We always end up on names. Odd.
Is the idea of scripted questions corny? Yes! That's why nobody does it, and it's why you're stuck talking about potty-training week after week.
5. Invite people over. This is a sadly-neglected relic of our social past. When was the last time you got an invitation to someone's house? Well, except for a paying party, grrr. You don't have to invite people over for an all-afternoon barbecue. "Would you like to eat dinner with us? About 6:30 on Friday," works just fine. If you can't do dinner, invite them for dessert. You can have a great visit from 7:00 to 9:00, and still get to bed in time to get up for work, school, or kids tomorrow. Dessert is also a great way to invite large families over without having to fit everyone in for a meal. We hosted a family of 10 for ice cream almost effortlessly.
6. Keep in touch by email or phone. Again, I'm a hypocrite here, but only because I don't manage my time. Way too much time blogging, and not as much sending emails to non-blogging friends.
7. Converse, don't talk. I had one acquaintance, Liz, whose idea of conversation was to wait for the other person to stop talking so she could pick back up again. The friendship did not blossom.
8. Admire other people's talents, taste, and children. I don't mean you should pile on the, um, flattery to get them to like you. Instead, look for things to appreciate. It helps you step outside yourself if you notice what others do well... and it certainly doesn't hurt others' feelings, either.
As for admiring their children, the flip side of that is not to expect them to admire yours. Liz, mentioned above, could not conceive that I didn't find her child as amazing as she did. Everything he did, from smiling to gaining weight to sitting up by himself, was commented on and displayed. Did Miss Mairzy want her children admired, too? Yes, class! Did Miss Mairzy get tired of having to gush over The Wonder Child? Yes, class! It wasn't that Liz was superior about it -- she was a very good-natured person. She just forgot the cardinal rule of interaction with other moms: Only you think your child is that cute. (The friendship, I repeat, did not blossom.)
9. I did a lot of praying, which may or may not be applicable to your particular worldview.
10. And, of course, there's always the possibility that... well, she's just not that into you. But you never know till you try.
Some friendships start out with a sparkle, but even those take a couple of years to mature into deep heart friendships. Be patient, be friendly, and expect to have friends.
We Want to Know
If you haven't yet commented on the Mairzy&Swistle name discussion, then pop on over there and Inform Us. Yes, we really do think it's terribly interesting. Yes, we do discuss, at length, the ramifications of names like "Kielyn." No, whether we keep having babies just to name them isn't any of your business (OH how I wish I had the nerve to say things like that in person).
For those of you who find baby naming tedious, you can apply to Mairzy&Swistle, Inc. for all your baby-naming needs. For a reasonable fee, we can identify your style, give you options, and steer you clear of Namer's Remorse. You can pay by credit card, or negotiate your bill in chocolate and toffees.
For those of you who find baby naming tedious, you can apply to Mairzy&Swistle, Inc. for all your baby-naming needs. For a reasonable fee, we can identify your style, give you options, and steer you clear of Namer's Remorse. You can pay by credit card, or negotiate your bill in chocolate and toffees.
Friday, February 8, 2008
About the Novel...
Well, since you said *please.*
I'm torn between being honest ("I don't write for a living, and I've never been published") and avoiding my lifelong habit of devaluing my work ("It's not much, I'm not a real writer, you wouldn't care about it"). So I'll just skip both and tell you about the novel.
The novel is actually a habit, like smoking, that I've tried to give up several times but always return to. I first wrote it when I was 17, and was pretty darn pleased with it. Although I downplayed it when anyone asked about it, I secretly thought it was pretty much the last word in literary achievement. Okay, Jane Austen and Dorothy Sayers and C.S. Lewis were probably better. As for the rest of the world of literature, I had them crushed and vanquished. You can believe things like that when you're young and stupid (otherwise known as 17). I did attempt to have it published back then, and was rejected several times. The world is a better place as a result.
The reading level is somewhere between Young Adult and Juvenile. It involves a princess, her family's fall from power, and What She Learns From the Experience. The moral of the story has evolved as I have grown up, fortunately. Originally the princess learned that "If you aren't good enough, God will punish you." In the current revised version, she learns that "It's impossible to be 'good enough' all the time, but God's mercy is bigger than our mistakes." Better moral to the story, and a much happier outlook on life in general, let me tell you.
Originally, the thing was monstrously long. Like, 300 pages long. I had several friends who actually read the whole thing, for which they should get a Certificate of Affection. After several years of trying to rework it, I stumbled upon the perfect way to streamline it: I told it as a serial bedtime story to Ladybug and Titan. I quickly discovered the parts that didn't work, because Titan would chant, "Talkingtalkingtalkingtalking" whenever the action dragged. It also forced me to concoct a simple, interesting plot based on getting something accomplished, rather than deep character studies that I'm not actually all that good at writing anyway.
I'm trying to get the new version finished by the time my mother (who helped me write the original one) comes to visit next month. I hope to hand her the Princess Story Lite: Same flavor, 50% less fat! After that, I might seek publication, or I might be happy just reading it occasionally to the kids. At this point, it's no longer a creative passion: it's a mountain that I'm determined to move.
And that, since you said please, is the Novel.
I'm torn between being honest ("I don't write for a living, and I've never been published") and avoiding my lifelong habit of devaluing my work ("It's not much, I'm not a real writer, you wouldn't care about it"). So I'll just skip both and tell you about the novel.
The novel is actually a habit, like smoking, that I've tried to give up several times but always return to. I first wrote it when I was 17, and was pretty darn pleased with it. Although I downplayed it when anyone asked about it, I secretly thought it was pretty much the last word in literary achievement. Okay, Jane Austen and Dorothy Sayers and C.S. Lewis were probably better. As for the rest of the world of literature, I had them crushed and vanquished. You can believe things like that when you're young and stupid (otherwise known as 17). I did attempt to have it published back then, and was rejected several times. The world is a better place as a result.
The reading level is somewhere between Young Adult and Juvenile. It involves a princess, her family's fall from power, and What She Learns From the Experience. The moral of the story has evolved as I have grown up, fortunately. Originally the princess learned that "If you aren't good enough, God will punish you." In the current revised version, she learns that "It's impossible to be 'good enough' all the time, but God's mercy is bigger than our mistakes." Better moral to the story, and a much happier outlook on life in general, let me tell you.
Originally, the thing was monstrously long. Like, 300 pages long. I had several friends who actually read the whole thing, for which they should get a Certificate of Affection. After several years of trying to rework it, I stumbled upon the perfect way to streamline it: I told it as a serial bedtime story to Ladybug and Titan. I quickly discovered the parts that didn't work, because Titan would chant, "Talkingtalkingtalkingtalking" whenever the action dragged. It also forced me to concoct a simple, interesting plot based on getting something accomplished, rather than deep character studies that I'm not actually all that good at writing anyway.
I'm trying to get the new version finished by the time my mother (who helped me write the original one) comes to visit next month. I hope to hand her the Princess Story Lite: Same flavor, 50% less fat! After that, I might seek publication, or I might be happy just reading it occasionally to the kids. At this point, it's no longer a creative passion: it's a mountain that I'm determined to move.
And that, since you said please, is the Novel.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Social Tips
1. Don't try to fit into one week: school the kids, write the newsletter article, work on the novel, feed the family, attend special services at church, stay up till 11 with the baby, and get a migraine from lack of sleep at the children's weekly learning co-op. (Yes, AT the co-op. I spent the morning lying on the nursery floor, because it was carpeted, wishing I had something more than ibuprofen to take. Like morphine, for instance.)
How does this type of week negatively impact your social life? Because not only will you not have time to call or email anyone other than your husband ("Could I get you to email me that address? And did I remember to send my library books with you? Oh, and can you make the day go faster? Because I've decided that I just don't feel like going through today.")... you won't have time to even think about any blog posts you may have said you'll do.
2. If you DO manage to get to the computer to compose prose, don't do it within sight of the 17-month-old. She will spend the entire computer session hanging on your leg saying, "Ut! Ut! UT!" When you refuse to pick her "ut," she will grab the mouse. When you move the mouse, she will reach the k00..ey...
00board. When you firmly move her way from the keyboard, she will be overcome by despair and sink her head onto your lap, and bite you.
3. Keep coming to Mairzy's blog. It probably doesn't do a whole lot for your social life, but it certainly helps hers.
How does this type of week negatively impact your social life? Because not only will you not have time to call or email anyone other than your husband ("Could I get you to email me that address? And did I remember to send my library books with you? Oh, and can you make the day go faster? Because I've decided that I just don't feel like going through today.")... you won't have time to even think about any blog posts you may have said you'll do.
2. If you DO manage to get to the computer to compose prose, don't do it within sight of the 17-month-old. She will spend the entire computer session hanging on your leg saying, "Ut! Ut! UT!" When you refuse to pick her "ut," she will grab the mouse. When you move the mouse, she will reach the k00..ey...
00board. When you firmly move her way from the keyboard, she will be overcome by despair and sink her head onto your lap, and bite you.
3. Keep coming to Mairzy's blog. It probably doesn't do a whole lot for your social life, but it certainly helps hers.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
The Dating Game, Round Two
You expect to outgrow it.
Throughout junior high and high school, it's the only thing that matters: I like him, does he like me, will he actually ask me to go with him, blah blah blah. Where I grew up, we didn't call it "going out," we called it "going with." Every single adult who heard us use the term would ask, "Going with him WHERE?" and chortle over how young and dumb we were. This from the generation that invented "going steady." (*grumble grumble Baby Boomers grumble grumble*) Of course we didn't actually go anywhere; once we were old enough to Go On Dates, there just weren't many places to go in a one-stoplight Southern town. But that didn't stop us from talking about the possibility virtually all the time.
As often happens, though, we grew up. I got married, moved away from my hometown, and had a baby all within about a year. That's when I found out that I hadn't put the dating game behind me. Now that it was easy as anything to get a date, get a kiss, get laid -- now I discovered that the playing field was still open. Only I wasn't a young single on the lookout for a boyfriend: I was a young mom on the lookout for friends.
It all felt strangely familiar. I'd catch sight of an interesting mom at the playground and strike up a conversation while our kids played. Maybe, just maybe, the chat would result in an exchange of phone numbers. If I was lucky, she'd be home when I called. We'd meet at the mall, or the library, a few times before venturing to suggest that we could have a playdate at one of our houses. All the while, we were testing the waters, figuring out if we clicked or not. We were always hoping to stumble on that one great friendship story, the one that said, "We met at this random place, started talking, and we haven't stopped for fifteen years!"
But good heavens was it hard to find that kind of friend! I wanted someone I could call up for no reason, or email seven times in one day without apology. Most of all, someone I could "go with": go with to get coffee, go with to browse shops, go with to a movie. I didn't think I was asking for much, but apparently I was asking for the moon. I did spend about a year getting together with one friend, plus exchanging frequent emails and weekly phone conversations... but it never really worked. In the end we tacitly agreed to be just acquaintances. It was pretty frustrating for someone who met, dated, and married the same guy. I thought romance was supposed to be the hard part.
When all else fails, be patient. One friend I particularly liked was Laura, who lived nearby and whose daughter is the same age as Ladybug. We instantly hit it off, but I learned -- painfully slowly -- that those fifteen-year conversations don't really happen instantaneously. It's one thing to spend an afternoon in pleasant chitchat while our children played. It took much longer for her to confide in me that she suffers from anxiety attacks, or for me to admit how lonely it could be as a stay-at-home mom. It's taken five years, in fact.
But finally. She asked me to go with her! For my birthday, no less. We left the kids with our respective husbands, and went out for lunch and coffee. Then we browsed shops together. When we headed home, Laura said, "We finally actually got away! Now that we've done it once, we'll have to do it again!"
It's only one coffee outing, I know. It's really too soon to say. But I think... I think it might be forever.
Throughout junior high and high school, it's the only thing that matters: I like him, does he like me, will he actually ask me to go with him, blah blah blah. Where I grew up, we didn't call it "going out," we called it "going with." Every single adult who heard us use the term would ask, "Going with him WHERE?" and chortle over how young and dumb we were. This from the generation that invented "going steady." (*grumble grumble Baby Boomers grumble grumble*) Of course we didn't actually go anywhere; once we were old enough to Go On Dates, there just weren't many places to go in a one-stoplight Southern town. But that didn't stop us from talking about the possibility virtually all the time.
As often happens, though, we grew up. I got married, moved away from my hometown, and had a baby all within about a year. That's when I found out that I hadn't put the dating game behind me. Now that it was easy as anything to get a date, get a kiss, get laid -- now I discovered that the playing field was still open. Only I wasn't a young single on the lookout for a boyfriend: I was a young mom on the lookout for friends.
It all felt strangely familiar. I'd catch sight of an interesting mom at the playground and strike up a conversation while our kids played. Maybe, just maybe, the chat would result in an exchange of phone numbers. If I was lucky, she'd be home when I called. We'd meet at the mall, or the library, a few times before venturing to suggest that we could have a playdate at one of our houses. All the while, we were testing the waters, figuring out if we clicked or not. We were always hoping to stumble on that one great friendship story, the one that said, "We met at this random place, started talking, and we haven't stopped for fifteen years!"
But good heavens was it hard to find that kind of friend! I wanted someone I could call up for no reason, or email seven times in one day without apology. Most of all, someone I could "go with": go with to get coffee, go with to browse shops, go with to a movie. I didn't think I was asking for much, but apparently I was asking for the moon. I did spend about a year getting together with one friend, plus exchanging frequent emails and weekly phone conversations... but it never really worked. In the end we tacitly agreed to be just acquaintances. It was pretty frustrating for someone who met, dated, and married the same guy. I thought romance was supposed to be the hard part.
When all else fails, be patient. One friend I particularly liked was Laura, who lived nearby and whose daughter is the same age as Ladybug. We instantly hit it off, but I learned -- painfully slowly -- that those fifteen-year conversations don't really happen instantaneously. It's one thing to spend an afternoon in pleasant chitchat while our children played. It took much longer for her to confide in me that she suffers from anxiety attacks, or for me to admit how lonely it could be as a stay-at-home mom. It's taken five years, in fact.
But finally. She asked me to go with her! For my birthday, no less. We left the kids with our respective husbands, and went out for lunch and coffee. Then we browsed shops together. When we headed home, Laura said, "We finally actually got away! Now that we've done it once, we'll have to do it again!"
It's only one coffee outing, I know. It's really too soon to say. But I think... I think it might be forever.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
The Case of the Quirky Ladybug
The Case of the Quirky Ladybug, newly reopened for investigation, is officially underway now.
Shortly after my earlier post, August contacted a special-needs consultant that he's friends with, while I read up a little on Asperger's. What we found out was intriguing. Well, it's intriguing to us. You're allowed to skip this post if you just can't immerse yourself in the inner workings of someone else's child. ("Doing My Best," who commented on my first post -- you should find this discussion interesting and familiar, as I did your comment.)
This week, I talked with the consultant, Sandra, myself. I positively fell in love with her. She affirmed my concerns about Ladybug, but also let me dismiss some of the quirks as "kid things." She was genuinely interested in helping, and she made me laugh quite a bit. It was a relief to talk with someone who understood what it is like living with a quirky child.
It appears that Ladybug's primary symptoms aren't necessarily Asperger's. They're related more to sensory integration (SI) disorder. (As Sandra said, "All Asperger's children have SI, but not all SI have Asperger's.") I'd read up on SI before, but we revisited it and now can see that Ladybug exhibits the three major qualifications of auditory SI: sensitivity to loud noises, eats primarily carbohydrates, and does not handle transition well.
I was surprised when she asked about Ladybug's diet. "We often call these children 'carbivores,'" Sandra said. What do you know, that's what August and I have called Ladybug for years. It turns out that SI children have too much yeast in their digestive systems, which gives off toxins, affecting their nervous systems. They crave carbs because that's what the yeast thrives on.
Secondly, their carbohydrate diet contains too little fat. Evidently, it's fat that forms a sheath around our nerves, buffering us from noises, shocks, and the world in general. SI children don't have that buffer, so everything hits their system as intense and jarring. Ladybug is actually fortunate that her only problem is auditory sensitivity; other children have trouble with everything from the feel of socks to food textures.
The first steps we've taken are to change what Ladybug eats. This week I've served her meat and vegetables, and considerably fewer carbohydrates. Is this easy for a mother who builds her meals around rice, potatoes, or pasta? (Everybody: Noooo.) She hasn't surfaced from her books long enough to pay attention to the change in diet, so it's going easily on her part. Plus, I sprinkle acidophilus powder on her food (to counteract the yeast). You can imagine how delighted she is to have to take vitamins for her frail constitution. This is Lady "Am I Pale" Bug, after all. Next week we'll add fish oil, which helps the nervous system. Did you know that fish oil comes in flavors now? Did you know that you can get cod liver oil in strawberry? Doesn't that sound like a bad joke?
Sandra remarked (as did the commentor on my first post) that it's astonishing what accomodations you make without thinking about it. One boy, she said, would wears socks as long as his parents cut the toes out of them. "They didn't think much about it. As if it's a perfectly normal thing to cut the toes out of socks." So she asked them if their son had problems with the food touching each other. "Oh, that's not even an issue," the dad replied. "We buy divided plates." We laughed, because a moment before, I'd said, "Ladybug is our least picky eater," and Sandra replied, "Except that she won't eat meat." Right. Except for the exclusion of an entire food group.
It's too soon to tell if these relatively simple steps will make any dramatic changes, but I can't help thinking she's been a little more even-keeled, and less prone to disappear into her room because "everything was too crowded." If she does indeed show improvement, then we can discuss therapy, or explore if SI is the extent of her troubles. As it is, I'm absolutely ecstatic that I've found some way to help her, and that I also understand why she reacts the way she does.
More bulletins as events warrant.
Shortly after my earlier post, August contacted a special-needs consultant that he's friends with, while I read up a little on Asperger's. What we found out was intriguing. Well, it's intriguing to us. You're allowed to skip this post if you just can't immerse yourself in the inner workings of someone else's child. ("Doing My Best," who commented on my first post -- you should find this discussion interesting and familiar, as I did your comment.)
This week, I talked with the consultant, Sandra, myself. I positively fell in love with her. She affirmed my concerns about Ladybug, but also let me dismiss some of the quirks as "kid things." She was genuinely interested in helping, and she made me laugh quite a bit. It was a relief to talk with someone who understood what it is like living with a quirky child.
It appears that Ladybug's primary symptoms aren't necessarily Asperger's. They're related more to sensory integration (SI) disorder. (As Sandra said, "All Asperger's children have SI, but not all SI have Asperger's.") I'd read up on SI before, but we revisited it and now can see that Ladybug exhibits the three major qualifications of auditory SI: sensitivity to loud noises, eats primarily carbohydrates, and does not handle transition well.
I was surprised when she asked about Ladybug's diet. "We often call these children 'carbivores,'" Sandra said. What do you know, that's what August and I have called Ladybug for years. It turns out that SI children have too much yeast in their digestive systems, which gives off toxins, affecting their nervous systems. They crave carbs because that's what the yeast thrives on.
Secondly, their carbohydrate diet contains too little fat. Evidently, it's fat that forms a sheath around our nerves, buffering us from noises, shocks, and the world in general. SI children don't have that buffer, so everything hits their system as intense and jarring. Ladybug is actually fortunate that her only problem is auditory sensitivity; other children have trouble with everything from the feel of socks to food textures.
The first steps we've taken are to change what Ladybug eats. This week I've served her meat and vegetables, and considerably fewer carbohydrates. Is this easy for a mother who builds her meals around rice, potatoes, or pasta? (Everybody: Noooo.) She hasn't surfaced from her books long enough to pay attention to the change in diet, so it's going easily on her part. Plus, I sprinkle acidophilus powder on her food (to counteract the yeast). You can imagine how delighted she is to have to take vitamins for her frail constitution. This is Lady "Am I Pale" Bug, after all. Next week we'll add fish oil, which helps the nervous system. Did you know that fish oil comes in flavors now? Did you know that you can get cod liver oil in strawberry? Doesn't that sound like a bad joke?
Sandra remarked (as did the commentor on my first post) that it's astonishing what accomodations you make without thinking about it. One boy, she said, would wears socks as long as his parents cut the toes out of them. "They didn't think much about it. As if it's a perfectly normal thing to cut the toes out of socks." So she asked them if their son had problems with the food touching each other. "Oh, that's not even an issue," the dad replied. "We buy divided plates." We laughed, because a moment before, I'd said, "Ladybug is our least picky eater," and Sandra replied, "Except that she won't eat meat." Right. Except for the exclusion of an entire food group.
It's too soon to tell if these relatively simple steps will make any dramatic changes, but I can't help thinking she's been a little more even-keeled, and less prone to disappear into her room because "everything was too crowded." If she does indeed show improvement, then we can discuss therapy, or explore if SI is the extent of her troubles. As it is, I'm absolutely ecstatic that I've found some way to help her, and that I also understand why she reacts the way she does.
More bulletins as events warrant.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Weekend Frolics (or Not)
It was a jolly weekend here at Chez Mairzy. First Dilly, then Titan, and finally Ladybug got a 24-hour virus. Ladybug was actually very concerned that she wouldn't get it, despite languishing on the couch and asking in a broken voice, "Am I pale, Mama?" When she did get sick, I called August on his cell phone: "Rejoice with Ladybug, for she has finally thrown up and is as special as Dilly and Titan now."
Note that I called August on his cell phone: a business trip cropped up Friday, so on Sunday afternoon he was flying across the country. Fortunately the worst of the upchucking party was over by then, so I didn't have to heap dark thoughts upon every one of the three thousand miles he traveled away from us.
(Completely random side note: Isn't it absolutely astounding that we can talk about traveling three thousand miles... no, six thousand miles... in a single weekend? Occasionally I realize that even if I don't have a flying car and automated housecleaning staff, we really do live in a science-fiction world.)
All three children are fine now, and so far I haven't fallen prey to the bug. I'm also ignoring the hulking, menacing monster of laundry that is lurking in my laundry closet. Whew, after weathering all that, I'm all for collapsing on the couch and taking a couple of days off.
Please don't tell me it's only Monday night.
Note that I called August on his cell phone: a business trip cropped up Friday, so on Sunday afternoon he was flying across the country. Fortunately the worst of the upchucking party was over by then, so I didn't have to heap dark thoughts upon every one of the three thousand miles he traveled away from us.
(Completely random side note: Isn't it absolutely astounding that we can talk about traveling three thousand miles... no, six thousand miles... in a single weekend? Occasionally I realize that even if I don't have a flying car and automated housecleaning staff, we really do live in a science-fiction world.)
All three children are fine now, and so far I haven't fallen prey to the bug. I'm also ignoring the hulking, menacing monster of laundry that is lurking in my laundry closet. Whew, after weathering all that, I'm all for collapsing on the couch and taking a couple of days off.
Please don't tell me it's only Monday night.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
It's Got to Be True Love
August the Precise and Mairzy the Slapdash made up some hot chocolate for ourselves. I like mine a good deal richer than he likes his.
Mairzy: I'll bet I used half the amount of water for my packet than you did.
August: I used exactly the amount they said to on the box.
Mairzy (rolling eyes): Yes, of course you did.
August: I, um, used a measuring cup to make sure.
Mairzy (screeching): A MEASURING CUP to make HOT CHOCOLATE?! And to think that I SLEEP with this person!
Mairzy: I'll bet I used half the amount of water for my packet than you did.
August: I used exactly the amount they said to on the box.
Mairzy (rolling eyes): Yes, of course you did.
August: I, um, used a measuring cup to make sure.
Mairzy (screeching): A MEASURING CUP to make HOT CHOCOLATE?! And to think that I SLEEP with this person!
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Remarks and Retorts
And here you have an example of cheerful plagiarism.
A pregnant friend sent around the email below. Now, what kind of person takes a friend's funny email and saves it to disk to improve it and make it funnier? The same sort of person who then posts it on her anonymous blog without telling her friend. I'm not sure this person is a good influence on you, but it's your call. Anyway.
It's a mix of my words and hers, and I like most of it, but I just can't come up with some snappy answers for a couple of them. Any suggestions are appreciated. Obviously I'm good at building on others' work. By the way, I'm not actually pregnant right now, but I have a great deal of sympathy for my friend who got all these remarks.
***
What They Say, and What You Don't Say...
1.) YOU DON'T LOOK LIKE YOU'VE GAINED ANYTHING
This is a lie.
2.) BUT YOU'RE ALL BELLY
This is another lie. I’m actually all belly, hips, and double chins. But this lie is better than the first one.
3.) YOU'RE DUE WHEN? OH, MY GOSH YOU HAVE A LONG WAY TO GO STILL!
And here I was planning for the first full-term six-month pregnancy in history. Darn it.
4.) OH WOW! YOU'LL BE PREGNANT DURING THE HOTTEST MONTHS OF THE YEAR!!!
And I’ll be in pain when I’m in labor, and I don’t need you to tell me that, either.
5.) WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE ULTRASOUND SHOWS THE BABY WEIGHS TWO POUNDS? I WOULD'VE GUESSED MORE LIKE 6!
Good thing you didn’t because I get violent after 3 pounds.
6.) BUT YOU'RE SO BIG ALREADY. DO THEY HAVE YOUR DUE DATE RIGHT?
They do, because they know the date of my last period. Trust me, they KNOW the date of my last period. They have a morbid interest in it, and manage to work it into most conversations. “Hi, Mairzy. How are you? When was the date of your last period?” “Hello, Mairzy? I’m calling to let you know that you have an appointment with us tomorrow. When was the date of your last period?” “Mairzy, for insurance purposes we need your social security number and the date of...”
7.) ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE NOT HAVING TWINS?
[drawing a blank here]
8.) YOU LOOK REALLY TIRED/UNCOMFORTABLE.
And you look ugly, but only because I’m feeling so tired and uncomfortable.
9.) YOU LOOK ALL SWELLED UP. IS SWELLED UP A WORD? BECAUSE YOU LOOK IT.
No, the word is 'swollen,' as in, "If I punched you in the nose it would become swollen."
So, what is okay to say? Tell me I look cute, that you like my shirt, my jewelry, my pedicure rocks, the color I'm wearing looks good on me... things you would say to a non-pregnant person. If what you're about to say to me is obvious or because you're trying to be funny... skip it. Chances are someone else has said it already. If you really have nothing to say, just give me cash.
A pregnant friend sent around the email below. Now, what kind of person takes a friend's funny email and saves it to disk to improve it and make it funnier? The same sort of person who then posts it on her anonymous blog without telling her friend. I'm not sure this person is a good influence on you, but it's your call. Anyway.
It's a mix of my words and hers, and I like most of it, but I just can't come up with some snappy answers for a couple of them. Any suggestions are appreciated. Obviously I'm good at building on others' work. By the way, I'm not actually pregnant right now, but I have a great deal of sympathy for my friend who got all these remarks.
***
What They Say, and What You Don't Say...
1.) YOU DON'T LOOK LIKE YOU'VE GAINED ANYTHING
This is a lie.
2.) BUT YOU'RE ALL BELLY
This is another lie. I’m actually all belly, hips, and double chins. But this lie is better than the first one.
3.) YOU'RE DUE WHEN? OH, MY GOSH YOU HAVE A LONG WAY TO GO STILL!
And here I was planning for the first full-term six-month pregnancy in history. Darn it.
4.) OH WOW! YOU'LL BE PREGNANT DURING THE HOTTEST MONTHS OF THE YEAR!!!
And I’ll be in pain when I’m in labor, and I don’t need you to tell me that, either.
5.) WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE ULTRASOUND SHOWS THE BABY WEIGHS TWO POUNDS? I WOULD'VE GUESSED MORE LIKE 6!
Good thing you didn’t because I get violent after 3 pounds.
6.) BUT YOU'RE SO BIG ALREADY. DO THEY HAVE YOUR DUE DATE RIGHT?
They do, because they know the date of my last period. Trust me, they KNOW the date of my last period. They have a morbid interest in it, and manage to work it into most conversations. “Hi, Mairzy. How are you? When was the date of your last period?” “Hello, Mairzy? I’m calling to let you know that you have an appointment with us tomorrow. When was the date of your last period?” “Mairzy, for insurance purposes we need your social security number and the date of...”
7.) ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE NOT HAVING TWINS?
[drawing a blank here]
8.) YOU LOOK REALLY TIRED/UNCOMFORTABLE.
And you look ugly, but only because I’m feeling so tired and uncomfortable.
9.) YOU LOOK ALL SWELLED UP. IS SWELLED UP A WORD? BECAUSE YOU LOOK IT.
No, the word is 'swollen,' as in, "If I punched you in the nose it would become swollen."
So, what is okay to say? Tell me I look cute, that you like my shirt, my jewelry, my pedicure rocks, the color I'm wearing looks good on me... things you would say to a non-pregnant person. If what you're about to say to me is obvious or because you're trying to be funny... skip it. Chances are someone else has said it already. If you really have nothing to say, just give me cash.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Bitter Cold
It was cold today. Anytime we had to go out, we rushed as quickly as possible to the next available shelter. At church we all looked at each other and shivered and said, "It's bitter outside!"
This afternoon, we got an email from August's grandmother in Canada. "I remember the day your dad was born," she wrote (it being my father-in-law's birthday). "It was 22 degrees below freezing on the Fahrenheit scale."
August and I looked at each other and shivered and said, "It was 20 degrees ABOVE freezing today." That's a forty-degree difference. That's the difference between 70 and 30. Between spring and winter.
Suddenly I feel like going outside and sunbathing on the trampoline.
This afternoon, we got an email from August's grandmother in Canada. "I remember the day your dad was born," she wrote (it being my father-in-law's birthday). "It was 22 degrees below freezing on the Fahrenheit scale."
August and I looked at each other and shivered and said, "It was 20 degrees ABOVE freezing today." That's a forty-degree difference. That's the difference between 70 and 30. Between spring and winter.
Suddenly I feel like going outside and sunbathing on the trampoline.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Exercise in Futility
Dear Better Homes and Gardens,
This month's issue being an After-Holidays issue, there's a lot of column space dedicated to getting in shape. There's also a spread of twelve different cakes to try for Valentine's Day, but I mention that only in passing. In your "Healthy You" section, you outline how to develop a regular walking-for-exercise habit. You suggest that for motivation I enter a charity 5K walk, or contact the humane society for volunteer dog-walking. To banish any lingering grumbles, your fitness expert addresses the usual excuses not to exercise: Too Tired, No Time, Not Enough Time For Extended Workout... She fells them with easy, doable solutions.
"Got any more exercise excuses?" Well, yes. Three of them, actually.
I have Kids, something that never seems to intrude in your blissful exercise plans. Have you ever tried to exercise with kids, BH&G? I have. Kids don't settle back and leave you to your exercise; they get involved. The six-year-old flings around leg-stretches that would prove fatal if you tried it yourself. The five-year-old talks constantly about what good exercise he's doing are you watching Mama see what I'm doing I'm exercising see Mama? And the one-year-old thinks it's high fun when Mama starts to do situps, and plops herself on your tummy, bounces, and tries to stick her foot in your mouth. Try doing that ten minutes, three times a day.
And walking. Have you ever tried to walk for exercise with kids, BH&G? I have. It impacts my parenting negatively.
There is never a time during my day when I have just the baby to throw in the stroller. That's one of the downsides of homeschooling, I suppose. Or maybe the people in your world have an on-demand nanny service. Me, I'm lucky to get out of the house by 9 p.m. just to walk around the block three times.
Not that I begrudge your cheery advice. It must be nice to be oblivious.
Got any more suggestions?
This month's issue being an After-Holidays issue, there's a lot of column space dedicated to getting in shape. There's also a spread of twelve different cakes to try for Valentine's Day, but I mention that only in passing. In your "Healthy You" section, you outline how to develop a regular walking-for-exercise habit. You suggest that for motivation I enter a charity 5K walk, or contact the humane society for volunteer dog-walking. To banish any lingering grumbles, your fitness expert addresses the usual excuses not to exercise: Too Tired, No Time, Not Enough Time For Extended Workout... She fells them with easy, doable solutions.
"Got any more exercise excuses?" Well, yes. Three of them, actually.
I have Kids, something that never seems to intrude in your blissful exercise plans. Have you ever tried to exercise with kids, BH&G? I have. Kids don't settle back and leave you to your exercise; they get involved. The six-year-old flings around leg-stretches that would prove fatal if you tried it yourself. The five-year-old talks constantly about what good exercise he's doing are you watching Mama see what I'm doing I'm exercising see Mama? And the one-year-old thinks it's high fun when Mama starts to do situps, and plops herself on your tummy, bounces, and tries to stick her foot in your mouth. Try doing that ten minutes, three times a day.
And walking. Have you ever tried to walk for exercise with kids, BH&G? I have. It impacts my parenting negatively.
There is never a time during my day when I have just the baby to throw in the stroller. That's one of the downsides of homeschooling, I suppose. Or maybe the people in your world have an on-demand nanny service. Me, I'm lucky to get out of the house by 9 p.m. just to walk around the block three times.
Not that I begrudge your cheery advice. It must be nice to be oblivious.
Got any more suggestions?
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Oregano, Curry, Lemon Pepper, Oh My!
I am very pleased with myself, and when I'm pleased with myself, I like to share it with everyone else.
The other night for supper, I cut two boneless-skinless chicken breasts in half. I made a little aluminum-foil bowl for each one and squeezed them into a casserole dish. Then I seasoned each one differently: oregano, curry, lemon-pepper, and honey-ginger.
At August's suggestion, I made up some unflavored couscous. It turned out to be a brilliant addition. Not only did we get to have four different flavors for one meal, but you could drizzle the broth of your choice on your couscous.
I have a new company dish. Anyone want to come over?
The other night for supper, I cut two boneless-skinless chicken breasts in half. I made a little aluminum-foil bowl for each one and squeezed them into a casserole dish. Then I seasoned each one differently: oregano, curry, lemon-pepper, and honey-ginger.
At August's suggestion, I made up some unflavored couscous. It turned out to be a brilliant addition. Not only did we get to have four different flavors for one meal, but you could drizzle the broth of your choice on your couscous.
I have a new company dish. Anyone want to come over?
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Food Fights
I thoroughly enjoy cooking, but I'm not a "foodie." When I get in the kitchen to create, I make good, familiar food: Italian, barbecue, and close enough to authentic Southern to taste good but not actually kill you. I don't often branch out into exotic dishes that involve, say, eggplant and saffron.
The other day, I was feeling bold and creative. I found a bottle of red cooking wine in our pantry. (Surely this gives you an idea of how unsurprising my cooking is, if red wine is a daring choice.) I made up a red-wine-honey-rosemary sauce, poured it over chicken breasts, and let it simmer. August, I knew, would be most impressed.
My children were not. Ladybug wandered into the kitchen and wrinkled her nose. "What do I SMELL?" I am still training my children that criticizing Mama's cooking is walking really close to the death penalty. I snapped, "It's not for you. I'm cooking broccoli for you and Titan." They love broccoli (bragging here) with butter and dill weed.
Not deflected, Ladybug wailed, "It smells like mud soup!"
"Get out of the kitchen."
A few minutes later, as the savory aroma and red wine and rosemary filled the kitchen, Titan ran through.
A word about Titan. He's lucky that he isn't known on this blog as "Upchucky." This child has always had a massive gag reflex. Before Titan was born, I had a horror of vomit. Thanks to him, that's a fear I've confronted and conquered. It's getting better as he gets older, but I'm looking forward to turning the care and cleaning of him over to his wife.
So, Titan ran through the kitchen. "Something smells bad!" he wailed.
"Go out of the kitchen!"
Titan clapped a hand over his nose, ran into the back room with the new carpet, and... threw up.
So the chicken almost burned while I desperately scrubbed regurgitated goldfish crackers from the new carpet (vinegar and water does the trick). I saved supper in time for August to come home and say, "Mm, something smells good!"
I banged a few pans around. Meanwhile, Ladybug strolled in. "Do you smell that, Daddy? What we're having for supper is broccoli and something that won't taste very good."
August made Ladybug apologize to me. The next night I made pizza.
The other day, I was feeling bold and creative. I found a bottle of red cooking wine in our pantry. (Surely this gives you an idea of how unsurprising my cooking is, if red wine is a daring choice.) I made up a red-wine-honey-rosemary sauce, poured it over chicken breasts, and let it simmer. August, I knew, would be most impressed.
My children were not. Ladybug wandered into the kitchen and wrinkled her nose. "What do I SMELL?" I am still training my children that criticizing Mama's cooking is walking really close to the death penalty. I snapped, "It's not for you. I'm cooking broccoli for you and Titan." They love broccoli (bragging here) with butter and dill weed.
Not deflected, Ladybug wailed, "It smells like mud soup!"
"Get out of the kitchen."
A few minutes later, as the savory aroma and red wine and rosemary filled the kitchen, Titan ran through.
A word about Titan. He's lucky that he isn't known on this blog as "Upchucky." This child has always had a massive gag reflex. Before Titan was born, I had a horror of vomit. Thanks to him, that's a fear I've confronted and conquered. It's getting better as he gets older, but I'm looking forward to turning the care and cleaning of him over to his wife.
So, Titan ran through the kitchen. "Something smells bad!" he wailed.
"Go out of the kitchen!"
Titan clapped a hand over his nose, ran into the back room with the new carpet, and... threw up.
So the chicken almost burned while I desperately scrubbed regurgitated goldfish crackers from the new carpet (vinegar and water does the trick). I saved supper in time for August to come home and say, "Mm, something smells good!"
I banged a few pans around. Meanwhile, Ladybug strolled in. "Do you smell that, Daddy? What we're having for supper is broccoli and something that won't taste very good."
August made Ladybug apologize to me. The next night I made pizza.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Unmade Bed
I once was grounded for three days for not making up my bed. I guess I’d been told to do it, the week or month or year before. The fact that I couldn’t remember to do it indicated how low a priority my parents’ rules were to me. I think that was my stepfather’s reasoning, anyway, as he shouted, “FROM NOW ON YOU WILL MAKE UP YOUR BED EVERY DAY OF YOUR LIFE!”
Well, news for you, Gary: I’ve been married, oh, roughly 2550 days and I have not made my bed every single one of them. Even though my husband likes a neat bed, and I like making my husband happy – regardless, I won’t make my bed if I don’t want to.
Back in the day, I went along with you on lots of things, mostly without active resistance. I don’t know what kind of daughter you wanted me to be – more spiritual? more sweet-tempered? more logical and calculating? Whatever it was, I wasn’t. Even now: I’ve held to the faith that was your lifeblood and is now mine. But I don’t know if you’d think I’m really holding to it, because I don’t do things exactly the way you said they should be done. And really, I don’t care what you think. Sometimes I drive myself crazy not caring what you think.
I didn’t say goodbye when you left, even though I knew you were leaving. You left, and I said good riddance. For a long time – a couple of years – your absence was a relief, like a toothache that has stopped hurting. The years passed, and I married, and I had children, and – most significantly – I grew up. Half-remembered conversations with you, vivid memories of fights with you, suddenly made more sense as I saw things from an adult’s point of view. You shouldn’t have shouted so much, you know.
You still don’t have a headstone. At first Mom couldn’t afford one, and later... well, I think Mom has her own vivid memories to deal with. You’re buried right beside my father, who does have a headstone. That’s not very fair for you, I suppose. You always had it hard, marrying a widow whose husband died young, inheriting a household of unruly children. Even after ten years, our conversations of you are bittersweet, and nobody talks about you at great length. As for me, who knew you from a very young age, there is much I’d like to say and apologize for – and be apologized to. Thanks to the faith we both held to, I can hope to see you hereafter, and finally put to rest my restless memories.
And, actually, I do sometimes make up my bed, just because I want to.
Well, news for you, Gary: I’ve been married, oh, roughly 2550 days and I have not made my bed every single one of them. Even though my husband likes a neat bed, and I like making my husband happy – regardless, I won’t make my bed if I don’t want to.
Back in the day, I went along with you on lots of things, mostly without active resistance. I don’t know what kind of daughter you wanted me to be – more spiritual? more sweet-tempered? more logical and calculating? Whatever it was, I wasn’t. Even now: I’ve held to the faith that was your lifeblood and is now mine. But I don’t know if you’d think I’m really holding to it, because I don’t do things exactly the way you said they should be done. And really, I don’t care what you think. Sometimes I drive myself crazy not caring what you think.
I didn’t say goodbye when you left, even though I knew you were leaving. You left, and I said good riddance. For a long time – a couple of years – your absence was a relief, like a toothache that has stopped hurting. The years passed, and I married, and I had children, and – most significantly – I grew up. Half-remembered conversations with you, vivid memories of fights with you, suddenly made more sense as I saw things from an adult’s point of view. You shouldn’t have shouted so much, you know.
You still don’t have a headstone. At first Mom couldn’t afford one, and later... well, I think Mom has her own vivid memories to deal with. You’re buried right beside my father, who does have a headstone. That’s not very fair for you, I suppose. You always had it hard, marrying a widow whose husband died young, inheriting a household of unruly children. Even after ten years, our conversations of you are bittersweet, and nobody talks about you at great length. As for me, who knew you from a very young age, there is much I’d like to say and apologize for – and be apologized to. Thanks to the faith we both held to, I can hope to see you hereafter, and finally put to rest my restless memories.
And, actually, I do sometimes make up my bed, just because I want to.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Comparatively Speaking
Browsing through stores like T.J. Maxx, I look at price tags and feel dizzy. I'm surrounded by bargains! Look, this one on this shirt says, "OUR PRICE: $19.99. COMPARE TO: $39.99." And these jeans say, "OUR PRICE $34.00 COMPARE TO $49.99!" Wow, this is great! I need to snap up these great prices now! Everything is, like, seriously discounted!
Wait a minute.
Everything is, like, compared to a price double the amount. Any price looks good when compared to a bigger one. What a gyp. Then again, I could apply the same principles to my eating habits. Suddenly I come out looking a lot better. Suddenly I wonder why those extra 25 pounds aren't simply melting away. Anything looks good when you compare it to something worse.
OUR BREAKFAST:
Two chocolate graham crackers and a cup of 2% milk.
COMPARE TO:
Three chocolate-chip cookies and a cup of whole milk.
OUR LUNCH:
An entire piece of leftover sausage pizza (instead of the half I originally got), salad with Italian dressing, and water.
COMPARE TO:
TWO pieces of pizza, NO salad, and soda. A whole glass of it.
OUR SNACK:
M&Ms and milk
COMPARE TO:
Um, MORE M&Ms and milk
OUR SUPPER:
Two hefty servings of homemade beef stew, six gumball-sized rolls
COMPARE TO:
Two hefty servings of CANNED beef stew, six BIG rolls. Or maybe seven rolls.
OUR COFFEE BREAK:
A chai latte and an entire package of chocolate-covered toffees, even though I'd promised the kids I'd bring some home for them so I had to buy another package.
COMPARE TO:
Actually, that's pretty bad. Time to bring out the big guns:
Lent is coming. I'm eating sweets while I can.
Wait a minute.
Everything is, like, compared to a price double the amount. Any price looks good when compared to a bigger one. What a gyp. Then again, I could apply the same principles to my eating habits. Suddenly I come out looking a lot better. Suddenly I wonder why those extra 25 pounds aren't simply melting away. Anything looks good when you compare it to something worse.
OUR BREAKFAST:
Two chocolate graham crackers and a cup of 2% milk.
COMPARE TO:
Three chocolate-chip cookies and a cup of whole milk.
OUR LUNCH:
An entire piece of leftover sausage pizza (instead of the half I originally got), salad with Italian dressing, and water.
COMPARE TO:
TWO pieces of pizza, NO salad, and soda. A whole glass of it.
OUR SNACK:
M&Ms and milk
COMPARE TO:
Um, MORE M&Ms and milk
OUR SUPPER:
Two hefty servings of homemade beef stew, six gumball-sized rolls
COMPARE TO:
Two hefty servings of CANNED beef stew, six BIG rolls. Or maybe seven rolls.
OUR COFFEE BREAK:
A chai latte and an entire package of chocolate-covered toffees, even though I'd promised the kids I'd bring some home for them so I had to buy another package.
COMPARE TO:
Actually, that's pretty bad. Time to bring out the big guns:
Lent is coming. I'm eating sweets while I can.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Charting -- The Great Revelation
My question is, How did you find out about charting?
Several of you have mentioned it in your Finding Out stories, and I'm curious. See, I just discovered charting. For anyone checking the sidebar, yes, I have three children. I'm nearly 31. In all these years, I've operated on vague and general ideas of what happened every month. I have just in the past year discovered how to pinpoint my fertile phase, predict my period, and understand what the heck is going on inside me.
I'm especially indignant about my ignorance because I grew up around hyperconservatives who said even trying to avoid a pregnancy, and therefore all contraception, is sinful. You'd think somebody could have found a segue into the topic of fertility tracking. And when I visited the OB/GYN for my pre-marriage exam and birth control discussion, the only mention of charting was that it was cumbersome to take my temperature every morning and why bother when there are all sorts of other methods that don't require any work?
I'm actually having a great time with my chart. We're currently using it to avoid pregnancy, but I enjoy just seeing what happens day by day.
So did you chart for fertility purposes, or to figure out when to use a form of birth control to prevent pregnancy? And when you did chart, did you record only temperatures, or temperatures and cervical fluid?
Possibly if I'd had a clear understanding of my cycle, I wouldn't have gotten pregnant so soon with my first child. But then, why would I want to give up Ladybug? And speaking of Ladybug, she and Dilly will be properly educated in the facts of femaleness in the future. Twenty-five years from now, they'll be posting on their own blogs (which probably will be holographic with theme music): "One thing I wish my mom had done differently was not talk so much about cycles and charting. Honestly, who needs to know all that?!"
Several of you have mentioned it in your Finding Out stories, and I'm curious. See, I just discovered charting. For anyone checking the sidebar, yes, I have three children. I'm nearly 31. In all these years, I've operated on vague and general ideas of what happened every month. I have just in the past year discovered how to pinpoint my fertile phase, predict my period, and understand what the heck is going on inside me.
I'm especially indignant about my ignorance because I grew up around hyperconservatives who said even trying to avoid a pregnancy, and therefore all contraception, is sinful. You'd think somebody could have found a segue into the topic of fertility tracking. And when I visited the OB/GYN for my pre-marriage exam and birth control discussion, the only mention of charting was that it was cumbersome to take my temperature every morning and why bother when there are all sorts of other methods that don't require any work?
I'm actually having a great time with my chart. We're currently using it to avoid pregnancy, but I enjoy just seeing what happens day by day.
So did you chart for fertility purposes, or to figure out when to use a form of birth control to prevent pregnancy? And when you did chart, did you record only temperatures, or temperatures and cervical fluid?
Possibly if I'd had a clear understanding of my cycle, I wouldn't have gotten pregnant so soon with my first child. But then, why would I want to give up Ladybug? And speaking of Ladybug, she and Dilly will be properly educated in the facts of femaleness in the future. Twenty-five years from now, they'll be posting on their own blogs (which probably will be holographic with theme music): "One thing I wish my mom had done differently was not talk so much about cycles and charting. Honestly, who needs to know all that?!"
Finding Out
Swistle, who can garner 55 comments just asking about calendars, has asked a seriously interesting question: how did you Find Out you were pregnant? Here are my stories:
* Ladybug: Well, do we count the few weeks before I took the test, when August and I both knew what was up but were in complete denial? Even when I spent all day lying on the couch feeling icky? Even when I was too icky to cook supper, but when he made hamburgers, I ate TWO of them? August and I had been married for, oh, three months at that time, and had reserved that first year of marriage just for us. God and biology had other plans. I finally broke down and took the test. Two of them. I remember sitting in our sparsely-furnished living room, feeling a mixture of happiness and sadness. I was happy about the new end-tables we just bought. The blue lines on those tests, however, were pretty shattering. It need not be said, but I will anyway, that my feelings changed dramatically once The Pregnancy became Ladybug.
* Titan: Well, THIS pregnancy was undertaken with due consideration. As in: *Pause* "Um, I'm pretty sure I'm fertile right now." *Pause to calculate* "That would make, what, falltime? We could do that." "Okay!" Unpause. Titan arrived nine months later.
* Dilly: She was the first one that we really actively hoped for. The others, thanks to my easy fertility, just sort of happened. But between Titan and Dilly were four years of nothing, and I was getting concerned. When I had a miscarriage at nine weeks, I was at least reassured that I could get pregnant. The following month, Dilly came into existence. I burst out of the bathroom and waved the test in front of August's face, while he tried not to think about what was on that stick.
I actually know I'm pregnant with a day or so of conception. I feel icky and sleepy and hungry. With Titan and Dilly both, I argued with the pregnancy tests (took about five tests each) before I was far enough along for the test to detect it. It's never a surprise for either of us.
* Ladybug: Well, do we count the few weeks before I took the test, when August and I both knew what was up but were in complete denial? Even when I spent all day lying on the couch feeling icky? Even when I was too icky to cook supper, but when he made hamburgers, I ate TWO of them? August and I had been married for, oh, three months at that time, and had reserved that first year of marriage just for us. God and biology had other plans. I finally broke down and took the test. Two of them. I remember sitting in our sparsely-furnished living room, feeling a mixture of happiness and sadness. I was happy about the new end-tables we just bought. The blue lines on those tests, however, were pretty shattering. It need not be said, but I will anyway, that my feelings changed dramatically once The Pregnancy became Ladybug.
* Titan: Well, THIS pregnancy was undertaken with due consideration. As in: *Pause* "Um, I'm pretty sure I'm fertile right now." *Pause to calculate* "That would make, what, falltime? We could do that." "Okay!" Unpause. Titan arrived nine months later.
* Dilly: She was the first one that we really actively hoped for. The others, thanks to my easy fertility, just sort of happened. But between Titan and Dilly were four years of nothing, and I was getting concerned. When I had a miscarriage at nine weeks, I was at least reassured that I could get pregnant. The following month, Dilly came into existence. I burst out of the bathroom and waved the test in front of August's face, while he tried not to think about what was on that stick.
I actually know I'm pregnant with a day or so of conception. I feel icky and sleepy and hungry. With Titan and Dilly both, I argued with the pregnancy tests (took about five tests each) before I was far enough along for the test to detect it. It's never a surprise for either of us.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
You Have No Idea
If you met Ladybug in person, you'd probably think she was charming. She's never very neatly dressed, but she'll curtsey to you as if she's a princess. Her conversation is remarkably articulate and expressive, although often a bit oblique: you're left feeling as if you're almost sure what she was talking about. She displays no shyness or fear of people, and gives out spontaneous hugs. You'd probably turn to me -- her mother -- and say, "What a sociable little girl!"
I'd smile back and say thank-you, and if Ladybug was present I'd say something nice so she could hear it. But you might wonder about the expression in my eyes -- as if I were thinking more than I was saying.
What I'm thinking is, You Have No Idea.
Because Ladybug was my first baby, I didn't know what was typical and what wasn't. She smiled at about six weeks and continued to smile a lot. She ate well. She was agile -- I remember watching her on her back, picking up a glass candleholder with her feet and transferring it to her hands without dropping it. She crawled right on schedule and walked by her first birthday. Any concerns I had, other moms assured me, "Oh, yes, my child does that, too!"
So there were lots of children who burst into hysterical crying when people applauded at church, or when somebody laughed too loud. There were lots of children who smiled but never laughed. There were lots of children who didn't want Mama to sit down and play with them. There were lots of children who didn't speak until age two and a half. The problem was, I never saw any of these other children, and life with my Perfectly Normal child was difficult.
We had Titan a year and a half after Ladybug, and that's when our suspicions were confirmed. Titan would laugh if we scrunched our noses at him. He had words for ball, bird, and bottle. (They were all the same word -- "Ba!" -- but that's not too bad for an 11-month-old.) He insisted on being played with, and loved nothing better than crawling up into August's lap. Even allowing for personality differences, it was obvious that Ladybug didn't process things the same way that Titan did.
As the two got older, they became very good playmates. Ladybug began to talk, and soon was speaking in complete thoughts. Possibly because of Titan's influence, she became less distant, more cuddly. Some things got easier. But she still ignored people, hated loud noises, and went into hysterical meltdowns over unexpected changes. By the time she was three years old, we seriously began reading up on autism.
Our research ruled out autism, and I looked into sensory disorders and Asperger's syndrome. About that time, however, Ladybug turned a corner. She began responding to people, playing with her friends, and handling new situations better. Over the next three years, we still had episodes and challenges, but for the most part she appeared to behave mostly normally. Maybe she outgrew it, we thought. Granted, we had to be careful how we said things to her, keep her from loud or too much activity, and we had to shield her from people -- mostly kids -- who overwhelmed her with attention. But that was second nature: we'd always done that. And she was so much better than she used to be.
Today, however, while was outside with the kids -- on a glorious 65-degree January day, thank you Southern weather -- my good friend said very hesitantly, "I'm concerned about Ladybug."
Her daughter is the same age as Ladybug, and we've been friends since our girls were toddlers. Furthermore, she teaches learning-disabled elementary children. If she had something to say, it was important. Even more reluctantly, she said, "I think... she displays signs of... Asperger's syndrome."
I almost laughed out loud. "Oh, you don't say?"
I'd taken all my concerns and questions, packed them into a box, and stuck it into the back of mind. Now, however, I think we need to revisit the whole issue. Should we have her evaluated and diagnosed? Get her involved in a developmental class? We're homeschoolers, so we're not quick to get our children into The System. But today, being able to talk about my concerns with someone who wouldn't dismiss them, I've realized how tiring it is to work, worry, and fret over Ladybug. Maybe there are ways I can help Ladybug face her challenges and understand her world, without getting frustrated with her.
Ladybug is a pretty little girl who enjoys her books, loves her siblings and friends, and is eager to be grown-up and helpful. Here's to choosing the path that will let her get the most out of her world.
I'd smile back and say thank-you, and if Ladybug was present I'd say something nice so she could hear it. But you might wonder about the expression in my eyes -- as if I were thinking more than I was saying.
What I'm thinking is, You Have No Idea.
Because Ladybug was my first baby, I didn't know what was typical and what wasn't. She smiled at about six weeks and continued to smile a lot. She ate well. She was agile -- I remember watching her on her back, picking up a glass candleholder with her feet and transferring it to her hands without dropping it. She crawled right on schedule and walked by her first birthday. Any concerns I had, other moms assured me, "Oh, yes, my child does that, too!"
So there were lots of children who burst into hysterical crying when people applauded at church, or when somebody laughed too loud. There were lots of children who smiled but never laughed. There were lots of children who didn't want Mama to sit down and play with them. There were lots of children who didn't speak until age two and a half. The problem was, I never saw any of these other children, and life with my Perfectly Normal child was difficult.
We had Titan a year and a half after Ladybug, and that's when our suspicions were confirmed. Titan would laugh if we scrunched our noses at him. He had words for ball, bird, and bottle. (They were all the same word -- "Ba!" -- but that's not too bad for an 11-month-old.) He insisted on being played with, and loved nothing better than crawling up into August's lap. Even allowing for personality differences, it was obvious that Ladybug didn't process things the same way that Titan did.
As the two got older, they became very good playmates. Ladybug began to talk, and soon was speaking in complete thoughts. Possibly because of Titan's influence, she became less distant, more cuddly. Some things got easier. But she still ignored people, hated loud noises, and went into hysterical meltdowns over unexpected changes. By the time she was three years old, we seriously began reading up on autism.
Our research ruled out autism, and I looked into sensory disorders and Asperger's syndrome. About that time, however, Ladybug turned a corner. She began responding to people, playing with her friends, and handling new situations better. Over the next three years, we still had episodes and challenges, but for the most part she appeared to behave mostly normally. Maybe she outgrew it, we thought. Granted, we had to be careful how we said things to her, keep her from loud or too much activity, and we had to shield her from people -- mostly kids -- who overwhelmed her with attention. But that was second nature: we'd always done that. And she was so much better than she used to be.
Today, however, while was outside with the kids -- on a glorious 65-degree January day, thank you Southern weather -- my good friend said very hesitantly, "I'm concerned about Ladybug."
Her daughter is the same age as Ladybug, and we've been friends since our girls were toddlers. Furthermore, she teaches learning-disabled elementary children. If she had something to say, it was important. Even more reluctantly, she said, "I think... she displays signs of... Asperger's syndrome."
I almost laughed out loud. "Oh, you don't say?"
I'd taken all my concerns and questions, packed them into a box, and stuck it into the back of mind. Now, however, I think we need to revisit the whole issue. Should we have her evaluated and diagnosed? Get her involved in a developmental class? We're homeschoolers, so we're not quick to get our children into The System. But today, being able to talk about my concerns with someone who wouldn't dismiss them, I've realized how tiring it is to work, worry, and fret over Ladybug. Maybe there are ways I can help Ladybug face her challenges and understand her world, without getting frustrated with her.
Ladybug is a pretty little girl who enjoys her books, loves her siblings and friends, and is eager to be grown-up and helpful. Here's to choosing the path that will let her get the most out of her world.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Resistance is Futile
It had been a long day. When August got home, he let me escape to a coffee shop for an hour. Once home, I found that August had comandeered the kids into picking up the living room and dining room. The dishwasher was running. August even cleaned up our bedroom. He'd laid out my pajamas and bathrobe. Once to bed, he made sure the candles over the bed would light easily. He had some massage oil. The whole evening, I realized, was calculated and masterful. How was I to resist? I didn't.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Do Like, Don't Like
What I Like About Being Mother:
* When August tells the kids, "I brought this candy bar just for Mama because she's special," they don't question that I deserve it.
What I Don't Like About Being A Mother:
* Being omniscient. Not that I know ALL things -- I still haven't figured out what happened to all of Dilly's new socks I just bought. But when I see Titan playing with a new gumball-machine necklace that isn't knotted at either end, and I'm tired of trying to prevent disasters so I don't say anything to him... Seven minutes later I'm scouting out the parking lot in a bitter wind trying to find a cheap plastic pendant that (unaccountably) fell off the string on the way to the van. And I knew it would happen all along.
* When August tells the kids, "I brought this candy bar just for Mama because she's special," they don't question that I deserve it.
What I Don't Like About Being A Mother:
* Being omniscient. Not that I know ALL things -- I still haven't figured out what happened to all of Dilly's new socks I just bought. But when I see Titan playing with a new gumball-machine necklace that isn't knotted at either end, and I'm tired of trying to prevent disasters so I don't say anything to him... Seven minutes later I'm scouting out the parking lot in a bitter wind trying to find a cheap plastic pendant that (unaccountably) fell off the string on the way to the van. And I knew it would happen all along.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Namer's Remorse
I talked to a lady recently who said her son's middle name was the same as my son's first name (which, I hope you assume, isn't really Titan). Titan's name isn't really trendy -- when he was born, one nurse simply assumed that he was named for his father, and was surprised to find out that we'd chosen it because we liked it. So when the lady told me that her son's first name is Grover, I felt a sinking feeling for that poor boy.
"I don't know why I did that," she added. "It was his father's name and his grandfather's name. But still."
It is in cases like that that I have sympathy for parents besieged by namer's remorse. I narrowly escaped it myself. If Dilly had been a boy, and if we'd gone with the boy name we'd chosen, I think I'd have had some moments of soul-searching to decide if this name was really one we could live with. The name was Emeth, which is the Hebrew word meaning "truth." It has a contemporary sound and a great meaning, but it's just a little too outside the lines to be comfortable. Fortunately we were spared the dilemma, and we'll probably stick to more mainstream names from now on.
All that said, I can't dredge up a lot of sympathy for the parents in this article. They aren't rescuing their children from burdensome or ill-considered names; they just changed their minds about what they liked. The only distinctive change was from Luke to Beckett, and even that has the same sound to it. As for the others, what's the difference between Emma and Caroline, Sophie and Isadora? It's like changing a red sweater for a green one: you still won't stand out in the holiday crowds.
I think many who read baby-name books take to heart the warning that we are doing an Important and Vital thing for our children by giving them names. So important and vital, in fact, that a bad choice can ruin their future careers, love life, and mental health. The pressure throws parents into a panic. Some get over it, decide on a good name, and learn to live with their choices. Others, however... well, let me just say, if you think choosing a name is tough, wait till you get to potty-training.
There are viable reasons for changing a child's name... I guess... but from the looks of it, there are simply a lot of parents who need to take deep breaths, relax, and realize that they are bringing forth a miracle of life who is, ultimately, just as ordinary as all the rest of us.
"I don't know why I did that," she added. "It was his father's name and his grandfather's name. But still."
It is in cases like that that I have sympathy for parents besieged by namer's remorse. I narrowly escaped it myself. If Dilly had been a boy, and if we'd gone with the boy name we'd chosen, I think I'd have had some moments of soul-searching to decide if this name was really one we could live with. The name was Emeth, which is the Hebrew word meaning "truth." It has a contemporary sound and a great meaning, but it's just a little too outside the lines to be comfortable. Fortunately we were spared the dilemma, and we'll probably stick to more mainstream names from now on.
All that said, I can't dredge up a lot of sympathy for the parents in this article. They aren't rescuing their children from burdensome or ill-considered names; they just changed their minds about what they liked. The only distinctive change was from Luke to Beckett, and even that has the same sound to it. As for the others, what's the difference between Emma and Caroline, Sophie and Isadora? It's like changing a red sweater for a green one: you still won't stand out in the holiday crowds.
I think many who read baby-name books take to heart the warning that we are doing an Important and Vital thing for our children by giving them names. So important and vital, in fact, that a bad choice can ruin their future careers, love life, and mental health. The pressure throws parents into a panic. Some get over it, decide on a good name, and learn to live with their choices. Others, however... well, let me just say, if you think choosing a name is tough, wait till you get to potty-training.
There are viable reasons for changing a child's name... I guess... but from the looks of it, there are simply a lot of parents who need to take deep breaths, relax, and realize that they are bringing forth a miracle of life who is, ultimately, just as ordinary as all the rest of us.
Small Talk
It happened again.
I was in the library, watching one-year-old Dilly climb on and off a child's rocker. Another mother sat nearby with her six- or seven-month-old in his stroller. We struck up a conversation, discussing the weather (in the South, the weather is a topic of genuine interest) and admiring each other's children. "Is she your only one?" asked the lady. I replied, no, I have two more, and pointed out Ladybug and Titan.
Then I asked, "How many children do you have?"
Those are the words that came out of my mouth. But as happens so very many times, the other mom completely misheard what I asked. What she heard, evidently, was, "How many children do you have, and do you plan to have any more, and can you assure me that you're well within the culturally-sanctioned limits for family size? For added interest, can you tell me what delicate procedures have been performed on your body that will keep you within those limits?"
By the time Dilly lost interest in the chairs and I was compelled to follow her to another section of the library, I knew all about this stranger's family plans. I knew she had two children, one in kindergarten because they wanted to wait until their first was older before having their second. I knew that they had trouble conceiving this second child, even though she'd been off birth control for a year. I knew that this is her last child, and that she'd had her tubes tied to ensure it. In all this gush of information, I never actually got her name.
I, like almost any woman who has given birth, find the topic of childbirth and fertility fascinating. My sister and I have long, detailed conversations about topics that makes my husband, August, run for cover. ("I just don't need to know that much about your sister.") I spent many a playgroup discussing sensitive material with other moms while our toddlers played obliviously nearby. If that's the topic at hand, I'm all ears. But a casual inquiry into how many children you have, especially from someone you've never seen before, does not qualify as introducing that particular topic. The inquiry is called small talk, which rarely if ever involves bodily functions.
Often these women assume that I enjoy the same open dialogue, and ask me, "And are you going to have any more kids, or are you done?" Increasingly, I want to reply, which of course I won't although my friend Swistle says she'd pay money to hear me say it, "Oh, I don't know. I still enjoy having s*x, personally. Was it hard for you to give up?"
Then again, that might inspire an entirely new turn of small talk. Best just to stick with the polite smile and quick escape.
I was in the library, watching one-year-old Dilly climb on and off a child's rocker. Another mother sat nearby with her six- or seven-month-old in his stroller. We struck up a conversation, discussing the weather (in the South, the weather is a topic of genuine interest) and admiring each other's children. "Is she your only one?" asked the lady. I replied, no, I have two more, and pointed out Ladybug and Titan.
Then I asked, "How many children do you have?"
Those are the words that came out of my mouth. But as happens so very many times, the other mom completely misheard what I asked. What she heard, evidently, was, "How many children do you have, and do you plan to have any more, and can you assure me that you're well within the culturally-sanctioned limits for family size? For added interest, can you tell me what delicate procedures have been performed on your body that will keep you within those limits?"
By the time Dilly lost interest in the chairs and I was compelled to follow her to another section of the library, I knew all about this stranger's family plans. I knew she had two children, one in kindergarten because they wanted to wait until their first was older before having their second. I knew that they had trouble conceiving this second child, even though she'd been off birth control for a year. I knew that this is her last child, and that she'd had her tubes tied to ensure it. In all this gush of information, I never actually got her name.
I, like almost any woman who has given birth, find the topic of childbirth and fertility fascinating. My sister and I have long, detailed conversations about topics that makes my husband, August, run for cover. ("I just don't need to know that much about your sister.") I spent many a playgroup discussing sensitive material with other moms while our toddlers played obliviously nearby. If that's the topic at hand, I'm all ears. But a casual inquiry into how many children you have, especially from someone you've never seen before, does not qualify as introducing that particular topic. The inquiry is called small talk, which rarely if ever involves bodily functions.
Often these women assume that I enjoy the same open dialogue, and ask me, "And are you going to have any more kids, or are you done?" Increasingly, I want to reply, which of course I won't although my friend Swistle says she'd pay money to hear me say it, "Oh, I don't know. I still enjoy having s*x, personally. Was it hard for you to give up?"
Then again, that might inspire an entirely new turn of small talk. Best just to stick with the polite smile and quick escape.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
A Tale of a Pen Name
When I was about nine years old and already planning to be a famous writer, I knew I'd need a pen name. I'm not sure why I thought I needed one. Probably because at the time we were playing with the Jem dolls. Remember Jem? She was the 80s Hannah Montana: She was the blond-haired Jerica by day, and the pink-haired rock star Jem by night. Both Jerica and Jem had a true love: dark and handsome Rio, who couldn't decide between the two of them. Obviously, it was cool to have an alter identity. (Apparently it was also cool to have such serious insecurity issues that you would stick with a guy who was cheating on you WITH YOURSELF.)
So, looking ahead to my glittering literary career, I considered possible pen names. I rejected any form of my own name as Boring. I wanted something elegant, mysterious, and uncommon. My decision?
Sophie.
Twenty-two years later, the literary career is still waiting with bated breath. My chosen pen name, however, has gone from uncommon to practically threadbare. Apparently there were lots of elementary-aged girls standing in the lunch line thinking of names that were elegant, mysterious, and uncommon, with the result that lunch lines now are full of Isabelles, Olivias, and, of course, Sophies.
What could I choose for my exotic pen name now? Maybe something retro, like Betty. Or there was always that bandmember of Jem's, the blue-haired one, that I liked. She never caught Rio's eye back then, but maybe there's still a chance for Aja.
So, looking ahead to my glittering literary career, I considered possible pen names. I rejected any form of my own name as Boring. I wanted something elegant, mysterious, and uncommon. My decision?
Sophie.
Twenty-two years later, the literary career is still waiting with bated breath. My chosen pen name, however, has gone from uncommon to practically threadbare. Apparently there were lots of elementary-aged girls standing in the lunch line thinking of names that were elegant, mysterious, and uncommon, with the result that lunch lines now are full of Isabelles, Olivias, and, of course, Sophies.
What could I choose for my exotic pen name now? Maybe something retro, like Betty. Or there was always that bandmember of Jem's, the blue-haired one, that I liked. She never caught Rio's eye back then, but maybe there's still a chance for Aja.
Happy? New Year
It's January First. This fact was commemorated very characteristically by my two older children this morning.
My firstborn, who will be known as Ladybug, is six years old and takes a very serious view of life. If there aren't any dark, looming portents of doom readily available, she makes them up.
My second-born, who will be known as Titan (as in mythology, not as in a football movie), is a happy-go-lucky five-year-old whose greatest concern in life is that he won't get his full 30-minute allotment of computer time.
This morning, Titan noticed the date on the computer. "Is it JANUARY?" he exclaimed in wonder, as if this were the best surprise since Christmas.
Ladybug looked over his shoulder. "Oh, no!" she groaned tragically. "It's JANUARY!"
So, from Mairzy's house, Happy New Year! Or, if you prefer, Horrors! It's a New Year!
My firstborn, who will be known as Ladybug, is six years old and takes a very serious view of life. If there aren't any dark, looming portents of doom readily available, she makes them up.
My second-born, who will be known as Titan (as in mythology, not as in a football movie), is a happy-go-lucky five-year-old whose greatest concern in life is that he won't get his full 30-minute allotment of computer time.
This morning, Titan noticed the date on the computer. "Is it JANUARY?" he exclaimed in wonder, as if this were the best surprise since Christmas.
Ladybug looked over his shoulder. "Oh, no!" she groaned tragically. "It's JANUARY!"
So, from Mairzy's house, Happy New Year! Or, if you prefer, Horrors! It's a New Year!
Trial Run
I'm trying out this blog for a short while to see if I can maintain it faithfully enough to warrant its existence. Why would I not be able to maintain it? Because we have dial-up so my computer runs much slower than my life. Because I have three children, two of whom I homeschool and the youngest of whom wants all my attention. And because I'm not a superhero like, evidently, many other women who have wonderful blogs and even less time than I do.
But here's to a valiant effort!
But here's to a valiant effort!
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