Monthly Archives: August 2009
Moments after that last picture, there were some brief tears and a little leg-clinging, but after being walked to his classroom, I was able to send him in on his own. He hung up his backpack and sat down on the carpet with the other children. I saw him look to his left apprehensively at another child, then to his right, and suddenly saw his face light up in a friendly smile.
So I left. He was good.
He was full of bubbly information this afternoon about which playground they played on, and how weird it was to not have lunch (his pre-school was full-day and kindergarten is only half), the location of the bathrooms, and the book Mrs. Hillman read to them. All is well for the first day.
Today was H’s very last day before starting Kindergarten tomorrow. He is the most cautious child I can imagine, and a lot of things scare him. I really don’t know why this is. It just is. Here are some things he did this weekend that stretched him:
-Rode his bike, which he has flatly refused to do for many months. Brad made him. There were tears. We’ve found that every once in a while this approach is necessary. H was happy and proud afterward.
-Took a shower instead of a bath, which led him to –
-Dunk his head underwater at the swimming pool.
He also read a lot of new words this weekend and practiced knitting (he is getting much better at that, but he still recites a little rhyme with each and every stitch. Very cute.)
In addition, he also acted like a total pill many, many, many times over the past few days. I guess he’s entering a willful phase or something. Bleah. I have a feeling deep down that he is needing more challenges, and meeting them will help him feel happier and more affable too.
I think he is ready for Kindergarten and I hope he learns to do a lot more things that are a little scary right now.
I feel much better after that last post. The situation persists, but I’ve calmed down now.
Now I can get on with the important business of proving with pictorial evidence that Baby C can, indeed, crawl. And open cabinets. And spread paper CD covers all over the floor.
That’s right. The Woodward-Johnson DNA can actually produce a
crawling infant. I had suspected that was not the case.
Oh man, it was nice to just do a stupid beer post a couple days ago. I have stuff on my mind.
Baby C has definitely learned to crawl, and he is verrrrrry interested in the vertical aspects of his surroundings. Baby H was not like this at all — my parenting life has gone to a new involvement level. Baby C has also cut three more teeth in the last 48 hours, so that’s been a lot of worry for a little guy. Still, that’s all regular stuff as far as human development.
I spent much of Monday at the ER with H. Fortunately, that’s the extent of the bad news. The good news is that, even though H’s heart beat is kind of irregular, that’s, well, regular for him. That was on my mind heavily Monday, but it’s off now — whew.
Due to the ER thing, we canceled all but one of the house visits we had planned in the ongoing soul-crushing exercise of finding a house. We did make it to that one house, though, irregular-heart-child and all.
I am sort of meh about this latest house. Its best descriptor is adequate. It is in a nice enough but boring neighborhood. It is advantageous in size, price, and condition. It needs some work, but nothing too dire. The non-meh aspect of it is that it is the first house we’ve seen that fits this adequacy description at all. I guess we can paint it and I can plant a bunch of stuff in the yard (after some chainsaw usage out there) and I’ll feel more enthusiastic.
I guess we’d put an offer on it, except.
While I was at the ER, Brad got a surprise phone interview from a place to which he applied a while back, long enough back that he thought the position was filled and there was nothing more to think about. But no, it’s not filled. And it’s not in The Place Where We Live. Oh no, it’s entirely across the country. In A Place Where I’d Love to Try Living. Specifically, it’s in a hamlet (I checked. Wikipedia calls this place a hamlet and you know Wikipedia cannot be wrong) and it’s IN ADIRONDACKS STATE PARK. I’m not angry, I’m just being really, really emphatic. It’s IN THE PARK. IN IT. IN. INSIDE.
I would so like to move (somewhere! anywhere! please?!), but being in the stay-at-home, work-from-home parenting mode, as well as the slowly-slog-on-to-finish-grad-school mode, I’m not exactly in a position right now to fling my resume out far and wide and make it happen. Brad is more in that position. So it was flung far, all the way to NY, and NY answered. Apparently, lots of people don’t find it appealing to live in a hamlet in a big rural park. Those people are idiots. OK, maybe they’re just different from me, but seriously y’all. If anyone thinks I wouldn’t like to live in a huge, rugged, bear-infested, hamleted, forested, not-so-arid, park … well. Maybe you haven’t talked to me recently.
I have exactly no control of this situation. Brad has only very slightly more. I have no doubt that he’d be grand in the position, but what I think doesn’t much matter to the committee, and it’s a long shot to convince someone over the phone of anything. I’m not saying it’s too long to take the shot, but oh man.
Regardless of the outcome of the NY thing, the situation raises a new issue — can any place that’s not, you know, IN A HUGE AWESOME PARK now seem really adequate? The sense of perspective I should have has been killed — that momentous feeling I should have about plunking down a whole bunch of money that’s been carefully saved for a long time for the express purpose of buying a house. I could do the plunking, I guess, but I’m just not that interested in what I’m getting in exchange right now.
My head, no my whole self, hurts from the intensity of this situation. Everything is waiting and I’m trying not to think too much about it.
I’m failing, obviously.
I think I’m falling for you. And that’s saying something for a confirmed beer-hater. I love that you’re from Texas. I love that you’ve been cheap lately at Smith’s. I love that you don’t taste too hoppy but have more flavor than a lager. Also? I love the mountain goat on your label. I’m a sucker for those. And I love that Brad likes you too, enough that I don’t feel “fake” when drinking you, like I do when I drink girl-beers. You know the kind — the flavored malt beverages and hard lemonades I always opt for at summer barbecues. You, Shiner, are so much less girly.
We’re not moving, but we’re pretending that we are. And by that I mean that we’ve taken everything that will probably not be needed for a while and are putting it in storage. The size of the pile of “unnecessary stuff” is revolting to me.
But at least the condo will look more spacious for showings. I hope. Good-bye for a bit, slow cooker and double boiler. I literally hardly know ye.
My parents visited this past weekend. Normally, I fail to take any pictures and later think, “Boy, I sure wish I’d taken some pictures.” So here, I made myself take some pictures:
And here’s just another nice one to share.
The house search continues. No weeping has occurred for two days, so the record is improving.
The cover on my spare tire on the Honda CR-V is getting ripped up.
I want to crochet a wild multi-colored new one.
H doesn’t think that’s a good idea. I want to know how a five-year-old manages to develop good taste when he clearly isn’t learning it at home.
His opinion won’t stop me, by the way. I don’t know when it will happen, but someday I will have a red, blue, and green granny-style tire cover. Mabye some yellow or pink too. So help me.
Last week was the county fair. I like the fair; I like to attend and I like to exhibit. I entered stuff for the first time last year, and was embarrassed to realize that, well, there’s not much competition. The number and size of the ribbons I brought home made me feel something like a prize-winning horse.
Nevertheless, I entered stuff again this year (no pictorial proof, sorry). I sort of spaced the deadline, so I didn’t have my best lace pieces freshly blocked. Due to that, I submitted only the small shawl and the knitted elephant (both of which have been documented on this here blog). They did okay — no sweepstakes this year, but almost everything wins first prize in its division (except Brad’s entry, but really, that was due to the fact that he entered in the Drop Cookies division, which gets more entries, making it an actual competition. Apparently the judge was not a licorice-lover, since his fennel cookies got second).
I do really, really enjoy looking at the other textile goods that are submitted. I don’t tend to look much at the animals at the county fair, reserving all the animal-looking time for the state fair in September. The state fair isn’t huge in this state, but it is still fun. And I gotta get my huge sheep/pig/cow/horse looking in sometime during the year, eh?
I entered several canned goods at the county this year as well. The pickled Brussels sprouts won best in show, which was pleasing. Still, they don’t open and taste the canned goods, which makes any victory quite hollow. I can’t explain why I so enjoy entering — pride, I suppose.
I plan to enter the state fair this year. Last year I was expecting to deliver pretty much any day, so I decided not to bother. I am curious, though, about the competition there. There is one lace knitter who is very good and very prolific who exhibits there. Not much question in my mind that she deserves to beat me. But we might not be in the same division, who knows?
The county mayor has suggested cutting the county fair next year to save the dough. While I don’t enjoy that thought, I do think it is a sensible option to consider. Some people are very up in arms, saying if it’s cut for one year, it will never come back. I don’t know about that; county fairs are a pretty deep-rooted tradition. I really do love the mayor; he stands alone among the local elected officials in my esteem (now that the governor, who I had also come to really like, has been swept away to become the ambassador to China. Sigh. I do not have high hopes for his replacement. Then again, I didn’t have high hopes for him, either, and I was wrong.)
We went on a hike on Sunday. Since I took no pictures, there is really nothing more to say than it was nice, too bad I can’t share it better. The weather has been wonderful the last week or so, and it was such a beautiful, pleasant day for a jaunt.
Quick subject change from the above meandering thoughts: Here’s what you get from planting four shallots from the grocery store (well, these plus two more big ones already eaten). They were very easy to grow:
I am totally psyched about this. For years I have read recipes this way, “Hm, what ingredients do I need for this one? Potatoes, okay. Creme fraische, hmm, that’s expensive, I’ll sub sour cream. Shallots. Ha! I am no sucker! I will use the 40-cent plain old onions and not the $4.00 fancy pants onion-y type things!” But still, there must be a reason shallots are called for in practically every savory recipe in practically every cooking magazine. Other than the obvious fact that all cooking magazines are hopelessly hoighty-toighty, I mean.
Baby C is just on the cusp of crawling. H never crawled. He eventually learned to scoot around on his butt, and was just fine with that thank you very much. I thought Baby C would maybe go that route, too, from all signs up to this point. But he is constantly getting into almost-crawling position. So, you know. Mebbe.