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.
Tuesday, July 6
Friday, July 2
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 29
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.
Monday, June 28
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.
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.
Monday, June 21
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.
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.
Thursday, June 17
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 15
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
