Toilet Trouble

My kids are complainers. There is no way to sugarcoat it. Even the slightest bit of work causes them to moan and whine. When the murmurs start to fly, my standard way to deflect them is to say, in an equally whiny voice, "Ooohhh, double double toil and trouble!" I was surprised one day to have Son #1 shoot back at me "Cauldron burn and cauldron bubble!" I asked how he knew the next line and he said "They said it on Mythbusters." Oh. I guess they're learning more than how to blow stuff up. I rounded out this "education" by explaining to them that it was a very well-known line from the Shakespeare play "MacBeth". I felt satisfied that I had taught them something and that they were just the tiniest bit more culturally literate for my having done so. Until a few days later, that is.
Once again, the whining started. I had dared to ask them to help me pair up the socks while I folded laundry. That's how mean I am. Anyway, as I began my mantra, the same Son #1 cut me off mid sentence and said "Yeah, yeah, double double toilet trouble." Stifling laughter I asked, just to make sure, "What did you say?" "Double double toilet trouble." I can accept him thinking that's what they were saying on Mythbusters...but that's what he thinks I've been saying all this time. Why would I say toilet trouble? That would make sense if I was complaining about one of them forgetting to flush, but not when work is the issue. I clarified for him that the phrase is toil and trouble, not toilet trouble. He agreed this made more sense and now understood why I say that when they complain about work.
I wonder what other stuff they think I'm saying? I'm not sure I even want to know.

Travel Size

I'm sure everyone has things they swore they'd never do as a parent, only to end up doing them. Things like "I'll never park my kids in front of the TV, not for any reason" and "I'll never reward my kids with candy". And one The Mailman and I firmly agreed on; We will never, under any circumstances, buy our children gummy bear vitamins. The Mailman loves gummy bears, he buys them three pounds at a time, so it's not like he has anything against them. The problem comes from mixing the idea of candy and medicine, a definite no-no. Like business and pleasure, these two must never meet.
I don't know what happened, exactly. I can't remember anymore if it was because of the omega-3 fish ones or that the vitamin ones were the only kids' vitamins I could find with no artificial colors. The details are unimportant. For the last year or so, I have broken my own vow and given the children gummy vitamins. Every time The Mailman hears them exclaim "Yay! Vitamins!", he shoots me that Look. You know, the one that says simultaneously "I'm disappointed in you, you've gone against me, I told you so, this is exactly why I was against this, and you've possibly ruined the children." Most of the statements in the Look I can get behind as being true and he has a point, but ruined the kids? Please! I haven't ruined them, I'm making them strong and healthy. They will thank me for years to come, and when they do, I will remind them that Dad didn't want them to have gummy vitamins and omega-3 fish. That will teach him to include ruining them in the Look.
But then again, maybe he's right. I had to admit this to myself when we were at Target last night. Not for any of the reasons he thinks, no. Normally, I buy these offensive supplements how I buy most things--in a giant container from Costco, with one of their coupons when I can. As far as the children are concerned, this is the "normal" size. I guess it was this that prompted Miss P, upon walking past the gummy vitamin display, to pick up a truly "normal" size bottle of them and declare with surprise and giddiness, "Mommy, look! Travel size gummy bears! We can get this for when we go on a trip!" I didn't correct her. I just hung my head in shame and tried to catch up to The Mailman as he searched for a giant bag of gummy bears.

Makin' Whoopee!

I'm ashamed to say that it was me who started it. In Target, of all places. The Mailman said no, but the temptation was too great. I put the package of rocket balloons in the cart anyway. The kids will like them, I thought. They are only $2.49 and will keep them quiet for a while. They will enjoy seeing them zoom all over the living room.
Being a female and over the age of 12, it never occurred to me what else they would like about them. When you let them go and they fly about the room, they make a most magnificent farting sound. I'm surprised they could still hear it over the giggling and the peels of laughter and the arguing over whose turn it was to blow one up and "let it rip" next. Morning, noon, and night they tormented me with these balloons.
This time also happened to intersect with a trip to the boardwalk and the arcade. What better to buy with your skee-ball tickets than a brand new whoopee cushion? Nothing, apparently. Well, nothing but more packs of individually wrapped rocket balloons. So, in between launching rocket balloons, each of the kids took turns being angry with me for not buying the kind of furniture with detached cushions that you can hide a whoopee cushion under. No worries, though. It would seem it's just as much fun to blow it up and sit on it yourself.
I can only imagine what the neighbors think. I doubt I'll invite them to dinner any time soon as they must be highly suspect of my cooking. In fact, there goes one right now! A rocket balloon, that is, not a neighbor. I suppose it could be worse. I can't help but wonder if the Summer of Whoopee will be something they look back on fondly when they are older or something they collectively deny ever happened and use as proof that Mom is losing it and put me in a home. Either way, for me I think it will be like so many other things about being a mom. As maddening as it is right now, once it's gone I'm sure I will miss it.

Uncle Hank and the Great Vegetable Cover-up

The Mailman comes complete with his own cast of characters from the post office and his mail route. As a writer, this is good for me, especially since truth is stranger than fiction and most of them are better than anything I could ever make up.
Perhaps his dearest friend from work is Uncle Hank. Of course that's not his real name and he isn't even related to us, but whenever he sends cast off toys and treasures home to the kids, that's who we say they came from. A Toy Story book for the boys, outgrown Hello Kitty toys and clothes for Miss P, articles and recipes for The Mailman and me. Sometimes it is phone messages alerting us to great deals on Amazon or Woot!; Uncle Hank is the master of The Deal. It is this endearing aspect of his character that brings us to today's subject.
Two of the highlights of my day are when The Mailman calls me; once in the morning before he leaves "for the road" to deliver the mail, and once in the afternoon when he's done and on his way home. Since he gets home at different times depending on the day's mail volume, this ritual helps me plan my day. On Wednesday afternoon, amid the normal conversation he threw in "Oh, we have a juicer now." I didn't need to hear that it was from Uncle Hank, I knew that already. I knew that meant there was a story behind it and decided it was probably longer than I wanted to get on a cell phone and waited the hour till he got home to be enlightened.
Turns out, Uncle Hank spent his 4th of July holiday cleaning out the basement so he could get a new furnace. That is another story in itself, but it was during this that he ran across the juice machine and all the bad memories associated with it. It had been purchased at a yard sale, sealed and seemingly new. This is how it was sold by he and his wife on ebay, only to have the buyer discover it was not new and send it back. Our task is simply to make sure he never sees it again. We can handle that.
Well, the kids have loved it! Son #2, who never met a vegetable he didn't detest, will happily drink carrots and celery that have been turned into juice. Maybe he likes seeing the machine destroy them, I don't know. I don't care, either. I know drinking vegetables is not the same as eating them, and I will continue to do nightly battles with him to eat the tablespoon or two of veggies he is served with dinner. But still, I can't help feeling somewhat victorious when he asks me things like "Do you think we could put broccoli in there?" or "Can we get some beets to put in the juicer?". Even more than that, though, I feel grateful once again to have someone like Uncle Hank in our lives.

Ubuntu to you, too!

As you can imagine, it can get lonely out in a mail truck by yourself for three or more hours at a time. What is The Mailman's solution to all this deafening solitude? Podcasts, people, podcasts! Near the top of his list is The Tech Guy with Leo Laporte. The Mailman and Leo go way back, all the way to our old house where we used to have cable and he could watch him on TV. I find his show about tech and helping people troubleshoot their techy problems enjoyable and entertaining. But The Mailman is way into it; he gets all the podcasts that come with it. Things like, This Week in Tech, This Week in Google, The Daily Giz Whiz, it just goes on like that. It is from somewhere in this realm that he learned the word "ubuntu".
Now, he already knew some other foreign words like Linux and Mozilla. Technically speaking, ubuntu is an ancient African word which means humanity to others, but technoligically speaking, it is an open source Linux operating system for desktops and laptops. Upon hearing this new word, The Mailman thought of our old, rather slow but quite reliable Dell Inspiron 1000 laptop. Like The Mailman and this Leo character, the laptop and I go way back.
Not quite as far back, but at least back to the time that it decided it didn't want to work anymore, right around a time when we didn't have money in the budget to replace it, and I spent several afternoons coaxing it back into utility with updates, defrags, disk sweeps, and whatever else it took to breathe life back into it. Eventually, it was replaced as the family computer by a new desktop, and the laptop was relegated to schoolwork for the kids and occasionally being pressed into service as a dvd player. Everyone seemed happy with this arrangement. Happy, that is, until ubuntu came along.
"What are you looking at?" I said one day to The Mailman as he sat at the computer. "Ubuntu", he said. Tempted to say bless you but suspcious already about what was coming next I said, "Oh, what's that?" An operating system, he said; we should put it on the laptop, he said. I'll order a disk from the Netherlands and create more postage, he said. When do you think it will come, he said. "Just when you've forgotten about it", came my standard reply to such questions.
Well, he must have forgotten about it on Wednesday, because that's when it came. Eagerly he opened it and looked it over as he waited for one of the children to bring him the laptop from its perch in the attic. With visions of sugarplums and a rocket-like ascent into the stratosphere of geekiness dancing in his head, the disk was slipped into the drive.
Were we through the looking glass? No, not yet. Not until the moment that I made the decision and said "Yeah, go ahead and install it over the Windows if you want." Or maybe it was the moment that ubuntu didn't install quite right on the laptop and he declared "I knew I should have gotten xubuntu instead. It's for older machines." Maybe it was when he spent 2 hours downloading xubuntu and burning it to a disc, or maybe it was when I spent half an hour installing xubuntu, or maybe when that didn't install right either...I'm not really sure anymore.
All I'm sure of is that the laptop needs me again. Can I bring it back one more time? We'll have to wait and see. Until then, I have at least learned two things. One, beware of husbands muttering strange words after listening to podcasts. Being alone in the hot sun inside of an aluminum can of a truck for hours and listening to geeky gurus can put crazy ideas into a person's head. And second, like Leo always says, before you do something to your computer, always back it up. Turns out, that's good advice.

April Showers in July

I would actually wish for April showers right now. We are on our second day of 100 degree temperatures here, with a couple more to come. No, the April Showers I am referring to is the latest Oddball Blanket I have contributed to. I knit the last section (the one at the top on the photo) and crocheted the border.

This blanket is actually April Showers II, the original one being knit last year. I did the last two sections (again, toward the top of the photo) and the border on that one as well.

I think that, looking at the two together, they came out pretty similar. The stitch patterns in this year's were all very vertical, suggesting falling rain. As always, it was a treat to be involved with these blankets and all the good ladies (and gents) of the Northeast regional group of Oddball Charity Knitters.

Postage Due

So, The Mailman is into self-preservation. I'm not talking about the wheat in the basement or the life hammer thing in the car, I mean postage. There are several ways this impacts our lives. Rule #1 is no electronic bill paying. Every month I write a pile of checks and stuff them into envelopes and put these pretty little stickers called "stamps" on them. Quaint, I know. I've written in the past about my Oddball Blankets and how I know he's calculated the amount of postage spent collectively on that project by all the knitters in all the groups in the US. We won't talk about the time one of my packages showed up on a UPS truck. He was not amused. And then there's his Swaptree. Swaptree is a site that facilitates trades of CD's, books, DVD's, and video games. I know he loves to get new CD's in the mail, but I think part of its appeal is the postage people spend on it.
Our most recent endeavor to Save the Mail is actually my fault. I was reading a magazine at the library called "Practical Homeschooling" and came across an article about a site called Postcrossing. This site gives you an address of a registered user somewhere in the world to send a postcard to. When they receive it and log it into the website, someone else is given your address, and you get a postcard from them. Now, Postal Preservation was not the first thing that came to mind. No, I am a mom, not a mailman. I thought of how wonderful it would be for the kids, how it would improve their writing skills, their penmanship, their geography, their understanding of different people and places and cultures. I pictured how we would track our sent and received postcards on the giant world map, the excitement every time a new one came. It was with all these lofty ideas swirling in my head that I showed the article to The Mailman and said breathlessly, "Read this!"
I watched anxiously as he read it and waited for his response. Yes, he agreed, it sounded like a good idea. So, once we registered and got our first address, all we need to do is find a postcard. Easy, right? No, not easy. I can't find a postcard anywhere. This has been incredibly frustrating as I have spent most of my holiday weekend searching out postcards in what seemed to me the most obvious places. Forget that the lady in Leipzig, Germany we are sending it to has requested postcards of libraries or reading related themes. I'd settle for any old postcard. On the way home from another fruitless search last night, I had a brainstorm...I wonder if you can get postcards made from your photos at Costco?
Yes, hooray, yes you can! For 69 pennies they will turn any photo you take into a postcard! My project has become fun once again. We will take a picture of the library in the town we live in and make a postcard. The children will indeed hone their writing, penmanship, and geography skills. We will generate postage, even international postage. What joy I have found thanks to two of my favorite places: the library and Costco.

The Parent Trap

What is the first sign of hope after a long, cold winter that warmer weather and sunny skies are on the way? Well, for the eight years we've lived here it's been the same. Usually late in March, on the evening of a day that's been nice enough to infect you with a touch of spring fever, you will hear it. Faintly at first, then loud enough to know you really heard it and aren't just imagining it, then closer and closer until even the kids hear it and everyone shouts in joy and unison..."Mr. Softee!"
For the uninitiated, Mr. Softee is the ice cream truck. But not the kind that just sells overpriced novelty treats you can buy in the grocery store. No, Mr. Softee is different. He has a soft serve machine in the truck and sells cones, sundaes, and shakes. I don't know why we get so excited; we almost never buy anything from him. If I were to count the number of times we have, I wouldn't need to borrow anyone's fingers or toes to do it. But last night, I guess I was feeling benevolent. Maybe I was swayed by how they ate their roasted broccoli, with most of the complaining being confined to the size of the pieces. Maybe it was the serendipitousness of how the siren song sounded just as they had finished asking for ice cream, thinking only of what was in the freezer and not of what was around the corner.
Whatever the reason, I gave in. I said, "Let's get Mr. Softee." Yay, they cried. Then the wait. The interminable wait as he was audible but not yet visible; the torment of being sent to play in the back yard while Mom stands vigil on the porch. Then, the magical moment his truck comes into view and the tangible anticipation as he moves closer, closer, and slides to a stop.
I admit that I enjoyed watching them share their cone, savoring every bite and every second of the experience. When Son #2 had nothing but the point of the cone left I said "Eat it." No, he said. He wanted to save it, so he could always remember the day he got Mr. Softee. I convinced him to eat it and we would memorialize the day on the calendar instead. Hearing him say that touched me in a way I hadn't expected. I thought, do I not do things like this enough? Should I get them Mr. Softee more often? And there it was--I was caught in the trap. You know, the one that snares you as a parent and tells you to indulge your children in the things they like, that more is more and that too much is never enough. I quickly freed myself as I remembered that exactly what made this day so special was that it doesn't happen very often. By only getting Mr. Softee every year or two, I had preserved it as something to treasure, and I'm glad. I'm sure I'll get caught in the trap again, but hopefully I will also remember The Day We Got Mr. Softee and be able to free myself once more.

Tree of Life

While I've still been sneaking in some charity knitting time, my main project over the last three weeks has been a Tree of Life baby afghan for The Mailman's friend, The Kid. Actually, I guess this is technically for The Kid's Kid, who was born on June 7. I enjoyed making this blanket and hope she and her parents will enjoy it also. I particularly love the tree of life motif for baby blankets, with the two trees intertwining to become one. The symbolism is perfect.

He's done already?

All good things must come to an end, it is said. The kids are back home from spending the weekend at Grandma's house. Having the house to ourselves for three days and actually missing the kids by the time we got to pick them up was a good thing, and now it has ended. Right about the same time they started arguing in the car on the way home is when I think that ended.
For the last seven years, I have homeschooled all three of my children. On one particularly frustrating day in February, I shouted "That's it! You're all going to school next year!" in exasperation. This is a standard empty threat, in heavy rotation with "I'm running away when your father gets home and never coming back" and "Clean up this room or I'll clean it with a trash bag and a shovel." Son #2 and The Princess issued the standard cries of "No, no! We'll do our work, we promise!" This promise is as empty as my threat. Son #1, however, looked thoughtful and said "I guess I could do that."
What's a mother to do? So, without meaning to, in that moment of frustration, I changed the course of our lives. Son #1 will be going to school next year, starting in the 7th grade. He's registered, the vaccine exemption letter is on file with the school nurse, and the only thing left was for the school to give him a placement test. This was scheduled for June 24th, 8:30 am. The day loomed large on the calendar and in our minds. I felt very much like it was a test of me, of all I had done all these years. Had I taught him well, had he learned, had I let him down and let him fall behind. The principal had said it was a three hour test, half math and half what you may know as English but is now called literacy. We reminded him he must do his best and try hard to do well. Finally, the day came.
It came as the hottest day of the year; it was already 90 degrees when we set out at 8 am to walk the mile or so to school for the test. Once we arrived and met with the principal, he gave us a tour of the school while he worked out some logon problems with the test (all on computers now, apparently). With Son #1 settled, I wished him luck one last time and before setting off for home asked the principal "Do you think it will take the whole three hours?" No, he said, more like two, and that he'd call me when he was almost done. Off we went toward home, playing a game as we went; walking quickly through the sunny spots and lingering in the shade. Once we were home, had our shoes off and had a nice cold drink, we were ready to relax...
Which is when the phone rang. It was the principal, chirping merrily "He's done. We'll let him chat with our counselor till you get here." He's done? Already? It's only been forty five minutes! It was supposed to take two hours! Ack! Shoes back on, let's go get him.
In case you're wondering, he and I did well on the test. I can't believe how quickly it's gone. I hope when we all look back on it, we will think it was the opposite of the walk home, that we lingered in the sunny spots and went quickly through the shadowy ones. The true test left for me now is how well I do in September when it's time to let him go, for me to let go of the way I've done things for the last seven years, to accept that when it comes to being homeschooled, he's done already.

Dark Secrets

Oh, come on, everyone has them. I realized mine one day when The Mailman accidentally knocked a bottle of V8 out of the fridge and it broke and went all over the floor. But we'll come back to that.
I consider myself to be rather environmentally responsible. I compost, I recycle, I buy environmentally friendly detergent. We eat organic and local to the extent we are able and don't eat meat on Mondays because commercial meat production is a huge polluter. I have a dual flush, low flow toilet and a front loading washer. I cloth diapered three kids! I think that is the critical point of the story.
Once our last child, The Pretty Pretty Princess (Miss P for short) was potty trained, the old diapers became rags. What wonderful rags they were! They were absorbent and I had a ton of them. Until one day I didn't anymore. I don't really know what happened to them all. I guess some wore out and some got used for car oil and had to be thrown out. And that's when it happened. I bought some (gasp!) paper towels.
Just one roll. Bounty, with the select-a-size sheets. Oh, I know they're wasteful and they kill trees, but see, I"m only using half a sheet. Not everyday, of course. The roll will last for months. Then months will go by before I replace it. And I will put the little cardboard tube into the recycling. No guilt, no worries. Then, it was a two pack. Then it happened. The Mailman bought a twelve pack of the super size rolls that only have full sheets. I take full responsibility; I did not give clear instructions.
Back to the wounded V8 that is bleeding on the kitchen floor. I grab a wad of paper towels and hand it to him. I see he already has one, and it becomes clear to me. I am addicted to paper towels. I love them. I love cleaning up something icky and just throwing them away. They absorb better than any rag I've ever knit and nearly as well as a cast off prefold. They're always there for me and when they run out, there's more in the laundry room. So there you have it, my dark secret. Hello, my name is Christine, and I am a paper towel addict. Thanks for listening.

But how many grams is it?

There are things that I love and things that drive me mad. To my detriment, one thing I love is good food. One thing that drives me crazy is children (or husbands) who eat giant, heaping bowls of cereal. These two passions of mine converge on one of my favorite pieces of kitchen equipment; the food scale. If I want something yummy, I can weigh out a serving or a half serving and indulge with moderation and responsibility. The kids can weigh out their cereal in the morning and have one serving, keeping Mommy happy. I look the other way while they shove a few more pieces in their mouths once the bowl has achieved its goal weight. The Mailman only uses the food scale to weigh his Swaptree packages, not bowls of cereal. For him, I look the other way while he eats the aforementioned giant, heaping bowl of cereal.
Another thing I despise giant, heaping bowls of is ice cream. So, this treat also must make weight before it is served. Now, the kids are trained at this point to look at the serving size on something before they eat it. So, they know that one serving of Costco's Super Premium Vanilla ice cream is 108 grams. Being miniature foodies, they understand that this is because it has less air than the Turkey Hill ice cream, which weighs 69 grams for the same half cup serving. Armed with this knowledge, they demand a full 108 grams and don't go quietly when I serve them 81 and say "No, really, that's enough. Especially since you're having berries (or fudge sauce or whatever) with it." Whoever thought children could pout while they eat ice cream?
I realized what monsters I had created with my food scale on Monday at lunch. The children wanted ice cream for dessert, and I gave in. While they played in the yard, I had a brainstorm. "Make them banana splits, you have bananas and fudge and sprinkles", the good mommy voice said. I did just that. Pleased with myself, I carried the treats out to the picnic table. They came running from the swings, sat down and grabbed the spoons and smiled. They looked up at me and said, not thank you, not wow mom you're great, but simply "How many grams is it?"
It's okay, though. At least I know I've taught them to be conscious of what they eat and how much. I hope that knowledge will stay with them and serve them well for a lifetime, though I have seen them look longingly at their father's bowls of cereal and ice cream and imagine what their lives might be like when they are grown-ups.

Small Wonder

Knitting is a path to sanity for me. In the midst of the chaos that composes my daily life, knitting is a little oasis of calm and peace. Because of the chaos, I don't often knit anything complicated; I need to be able to put it down and deal with whatever situation comes up, be it a math problem someone doesn't understand or an argument or whatever. Charity projects fit the bill nicely for this, and one of my favorites is the Oddball Charity Knitters. I belong to the Northeast region, and we make baby blankets that go to Montefiore hospital in NYC and the Special Delivery Unit at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. Each blanket is made by several knitters, traveling through the mail after each one completes his or her section. Then a border is added, and the blankets are washed and delivered to the hospitals. The Mailman is quite supportive of me in this endeavor, likely because he has calculated the amount of postage that is spent on the project. Or maybe because he sees how happy it makes me to be a part of it, to be able to use my talents to bring comfort to those in need. Probably, it's both.
Small Wonder is a blanket to represent the state of Delaware, which is part of our region. I didn't get a chance to knit on this one, but I did crochet the border. I think it came out beautifully. Take a look for yourself:

I'm grateful that I get to be a part of this group. What an amazing group of people that pool their time and talents to improve the lives of sick children and their families. And that is no small thing but a wonder indeed.

But I already have a plan!

Our family enjoys playing board and card games very much. Tonight, we decided to play Niagara. To win, you either need to have four gems of one color, one of each color, or any combination of seven. I had three purple gems and was poised to get a fourth; in short, I was about to win. The Mailman noticed, and tried to convince Son #2 to use his move to steal my gem. "But I already have a plan!", he countered. "Yes, but your plan won't matter if Mommy wins. You have to steal her gem." "No. I have a plan, I told you." As much as I would like to think he just didn't want to steal from me and cost me the win, I know better. I owe my victory to stubbornness, not compassion.
I'll take the win, no problem. Son #2 took the heat from everyone else. "Why did you let her win?" By now you know the answer, because he had a plan. What he didn't have, and what we all often lack, was flexibility and perspective. Had my son changed his plan tonight, he might very well have ended up the winner. I wonder how often we hold ourselves back by holding on to our plans. Coming to this realization hadn't been part of my plan when I pulled out the game tonight, but as we now see, sometimes plans change.

When it all comes together

When things seem to just come together and work out perfectly, beware. This is a lesson that I fail to learn over and over again. My latest example of this begins Wednesday night. One of the charity projects I do is to knit sections of blankets that eventually end up at children's hospitals in NY and Philly. The latest one was called Beach Ball and was ready to be mailed. They each have a card enclosed to the recipient, and I wanted some great beach ball stickers to use to make mine, and I found them at Target. Woo hoo! Then, The Mailman and I stuck the kids in babysitting and had a swimming date at the Y. Again, woo hoo, and this is looking like a great evening. A little dinner, then swing by the Mt. Laurel post office, which is right on the way home and has a self serve postal thing called an APC so I can weigh and mail my package even at 8 o'clock. The only thing left to do is return the library books. Hey, look! A library! Right next to the post office. This is a perfect night indeed. I love it when everything comes together and works out just right.

Fast forward to Thursday afternoon, and The Mailman is using the computer. Once iTunes is launched to start the podcasts downloading and the fantasy baseball has been checked, it's on to managing the library. Why are my books overdue, he wonders? Oh, crap! The Mt. Laurel library is not part of the county library. Call them and ask, "What would you have done with the books I returned last night?" "You'll have to call tomorrow and check with the woman who does interlibrary loan." So now my evening of it all coming together has turned into not quite an international incident, but an interlibrary loan incident at the very least.

I should have known better. When I saw that library sitting there right next to the post office I should have turned and run. But the great and spacious building beckoned me, and I did deposit the books in the bin. I'm sure by week's end the books will be tracked down and returned, the fines will be paid, and all will be forgotten. Which means the next time it all seems to be coming together, I will probably fall for it again.

Y is for Yoga

As I mentioned yesterday, The Mailman and I have yoga class on Monday nights at the Y. In fifteen years of marriage, this has been one of my favorite things we have done together. I never knew how much fun it would be to watch the teacher demonstrate a pose, then look at each other, laugh, shake our heads and say "I don't think so." Or then to try it anyway, and, upon succeeding, turn back to each other and say, "I did it, did you?" This is how it's gone for so many poses; the Fish, the Swan, the Sun Salute, Upward Dog, Downward Dog, Cobra, Bridge, Boat, Bow. But not the shoulder stand.

The Mailman can execute a beautiful shoulder stand. It is graceful, it is elegant, demonstrating both strength and balance simultaneously. I know this because I can do little more than admire it as I struggle to lift my ample hips more than three or four inches off the mat. But it's not all in vain. The longer I lay there and struggle against gravity and 30 years of bad eating habits, the more I find to admire about him. I admire the support he offered by taking the class with me in the first place, the honest effort and dedication he has given it, the joy he has brought to it for me. I admire the flexibility of his mind that allows him to move from doing this for me to doing it for himself, to discover and embrace that he enjoys it and looks forward to it.

As I move on to the Fish, which I don't mind saying I excel at, I feel profoundly happy to have him there with me. Not just in class, but in life as well. Because life and marriage tend to be a lot like yoga class. A serious of challenges put before you that make you laugh and shake your head and say "I don't think so!" But when you push through and give it a try, you often get to look at each other and say "We did it!" And often the best part is doing it together.

Meatloaf, Smeatloaf, Double Beetloaf

What on Earth do you call meatless meatloaf? I tried to come up with the answer to this as many times as the kids asked me the question (no, not where did I come from...what's for dinner) yesterday. I settled on loaf, but being as it was Meatless Monday, they quickly decoded my response, narrowed their eyes and asked disgustedly "Does that mean it has tofu in it?" What could I say? "Yes", I confessed, as they walked off to plot their next move. Once I had served it to them, the questions began again. "What is this green stuff?" "Celery. You like celery." "What else is in it?" "Ketchup, egg, bread crumbs, onion, garlic salt, and liquid aminos. And some agave barbecue sauce on top." "Do I have to eat it?" "All of it?" "Yes, and hurry up, cause Mom and Dad have yoga class and we need to go!" So, eat it they did, and off we went. The Mailman and I ate when we got home; he asked fewer questions and declared it to be good, but was not helpful in coming up with what to call it. All in all, loaf was a moderate success, and as for the kids, well...Nothing erases the memory of Meatless Monday like bacon on Tuesday.

Who Needs a Blog?

Is what I've said to myself and anyone who dared ask me if I had one over the years. However, here I sit, posting for the first time on my very own blog. In my mind, I've elevated this moment to something grander than I'm sure it really is. While I like to think of it as some giant step forward, the beginning of a journey from which there is no turning back, the suspicion that it is much more like the proverbial tree falling in the woods with no one around to hear it lurks ominously close. For right now, though, I will bask in the reflected glow of the LCD monitor that son #2 scratched with a pin when it was nearly new and he old enough to know better. I will believe that I have done something big, something bold, and proudly answer "Yes, I do have a blog." the next time someone asks.