Night Owls say Yawn not hoot

We’re all a little jet lagged around here. Sadly, we’ve come from no exotically far locale… but, just the same, we’re wonky with lack of sleep.

Robby’s working nights this week. It’s part of his company’s plan to encourage and support communication between “team members.” It’s a good idea to have the Day People meet the Night People. They communicate usually by email or the rare late night phone call– so it’s good to have a face to pin to the email.

But it’s not easy to go from day to night. Robby’s a walking zombie. Sleeping in odd snatches and naps. Jack and I have ruined our schedule, too. We’re not used to bedding down for the night without Robby here. I’ve let Jack stay up later and later each night. He ends up curled on the couch asleep next to me while I work on the computer. Eventually I carry him upstairs and let him sleep in my bed with me until Robby comes in in the wee smas and carries Jack off to his little crib.

It’s worked out great for me. I’ve had a lot of meetings and appointments this week and I’ve been able to go without worrying about where Jack could go… but I’m tired from staying up too late waiting for Robby to come home.

It’s made me appreciate our normal schedule. I’m glad that Robby is here for as many of Jack’s waking hours as he is and that there’s still some time at the end of the day for us, too.

Next week can’t come soon enough.

Is it over yet?

Reason #427 I’m Not a Good Christian:

I don’t really like Easter service.

There. I’ve said it. I realize that Easter is the whole point. Jesus the Lord is risen! It’s really a great day to be a Christian… but the reality is that on Easter Sunday there’s a chaos that I don’t really like. I’m glad that all sorts of people “Chreasters” come out for it and are there– but I want to whisper to each one, “Come back next week or the week after– church isn’t really like this… it’s calmer, warmer, more peaceful–.”

I wonder about the Chreasters– do they think that every week has such pomp and circumstance? That the pulpits are covered in lilies or garlands? That the choir puts forth extra efforts? That the organ is played with all stops pulled out? That the congregants are always so bedecked in such finery? That the pews are always so crowded??

From that perspective I wouldn’t want to come more than twice a year either.

For our family, however, this Easter was a hoot– the JackRabbit’s little Angel Choir sang their little Easter song for the church. It was a symphony of wiggling three-five year olds. The little boys pressed neat and clean, the little girls in lovely little pastel frocks. The left half of the line had all the obediant children– they with their stilled bodies and nice voices… Jack was on the right hand side with the other defectors… He did great during the rehearsal but decided to sit on the top step of the altar dias when it came time to sing in front of the congregation. To be fair– he did sing. Mary told the good news, good news, good news. He just chose to do it from a comfortable, reclined position. And then, with each line of the song, Mary told the good news– Jesus lives! he slipped down a little bit more Fear not said the angels and be not afraid to the next step, For the one you seek is risen up from the place where he was laid– Jesus lives!and the next. With a smile on his face.

Oh well. It’ll give the Chreasters something to talk about until December.

Jack version 3.5

We’re trying, today, to convince the JackRabbit that he’s three and a half years old now. He had his half-birthday yesterday. He’s skeptical about this “half” addition to his age. “I’m free!” he insists. (Free and a half.)

He’s also wildly resisting the idea of wearing Big Boy Underpants (not Big Boy from the restaurant chain– that would be creepy… but big boy with Captial Letters for emphasis). He’ll sit on the potty– he’ll sit for hours if we let him. He’s perfectly happy to sit in the bathroom and leaf through a book. Once we took the mini-dvd player up and he watched half of Cars while sitting, just sitting, on the potty. We’ve bribed him and praised him and cajoled him. Maybe next month. It’s not a battle really worth the fight.

He’s really into Cars lately. It’s the Disney/Pixar movie about little cars and Route 66. It’s a sweet movie and one that even we, the parents, can sit through without reaching for something sharp to cut an artery. It’s his first full length movie. He’s also partial to The Jungle Book. (Me, too. Except for Kaaa. Shudder.)

Jack’s nightly prayers are something to hear. They all start off the same– little hands folded, “Tank you Jesus for a wonerful day.” We get to come first. “Tank you for Daddy, Tank you for Mommy. Tank you for Philbin. Tank you for Jacky.” And then it’s a long list of friends and family in various order: Tank you for AunT and Maddee and Keegy and Un’le Aundy and Tarzan. Tank you for Momma and Eric. Tank you for Grandpa and Lady. Tank you for Granny…” The list goes on for another dozen people– and we are amazed that he remembers them each night. Some topical thing might get thrown in and then always, the closer is “Help me be a good boy. Help me be a good listener. Help me sleep all through the night! Help me have sweet dreams. Amen!” It’s a pretty decent prayer for any one let alone a three and a half year old.

And he’s starting to reach some edge of reason. He’ll melt down over some great injustice to pre-schoolers everywhere and we’ll be able to coax him out of it. This is a subtle but major shift in our universe. And he’s able to think about why he’s “sorry” when he says it.

Little by little he’s growing up. We’re still as in awe as we were three and a half years ago today–. Still marveling that we are entrusted with this little creature. And still very, very thankful.

Atta boy Clarence.

I feel sorry for people that don’t believe in angels. It must be a pretty dreary existence. And those people would hate the story I’m about to tell.

The other day Robby, JackRabbit, myself, and the Little Black Dog were all on the couch together. Jack was being silly and flopping himself this way and that. We were catching him and he was giggling. All was well. Then he leaned to far the other way and tumbled off my lap and onto the sleepy pup. I scooped up Jack and, as I did, put my face close to where the pup had retreated, in the couch corner next to the end pillow. Long story short– Philbin latched on to my nose in his funny little way of biting. He doesn’t bite hard– it’s more like a clamping then a piercing but on the bridge of a nose that is already taxed from a cold, well, it hurt awfully. I burst into tears. Robby took the dog out to the kitchen (the dog, by the way, had his tail tucked between his legs and was exceedingly sheepish.) while Jack stood by, wide-eyed and unsure about his mother crying. Robby tried to show Jack that I was okay– but Jack didn’t buy it– tears are tears after all. Robby left the room again and Jack came over and patted my hand and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. Don’t cry. You be okay now.”

I’m ashamed that I couldn’t stop crying. My nose hurt. My pride hurt– Philbin doesn’t snap at me. (He saves that for Robby and Robby’s Dad who tries to convince Philbin that he enjoys a good brush out once in a while. Martinis and dog grooming aren’t really a good combination.) Jack put his arms around me and told me again, “It’s okay, Mommy! You no be sad! You be happy?” and I patted him back and said that I was okay.

And– cue the skeptics, he said, “Mommy– Don’t be sad– See angels?!” and looked, past me towards the bookcases. I turned myself, saw only books, and asked him, “What did you say Jack?” “See– angels, Mommy! Be happy!” and again, he looked at the same spot and at me and back again.

There are all sorts of theories about angels and children and abilties or “openess” to see such things…

As for me, I know my son. And I can only say that, for a minute, I cried harder knowing that I couldn’t see what he could at that moment.

It’s okay. I haven’t ever seen Africa either– but I don’t doubt that it’s there.

All Talk Soup Part 2: For the Record

Okay, Okay. This is the email I got from my sister this morning:

Dear �CommonTerri�:

I regret to inform you that a copy of your blog entry dated March 17, 2008 has been forwarded to my attorney. While I understand a retraction was promised, it has not occurred as of 8:14 am. This gravely disappoints me and I feel I can no longer discuss this in a rational matter.

Fondly,

Trish

So let the record show that she made me chicken noodle soup last night. It was carroty and celery-y and delicious. She made homemade noodles that raised the integrity of the soup to Comfort Food (even if they were thick noodles.) And she left the rest of the pot for Robby and I to eat tonight. (The Little Boy will not eat noodles. Or carrots. Or celery.)

Anybody have bail money?

All Talk Soup

The blog is mightier than the sword… I mentioned my friend Sue’s wistful offer that she’d make me chicken soup if she weren’t so far away and her assumption that surely my sister, known for her chicken noodle soup, would have done that already. (I believe there was a HA! thrown in by moi?)

Within minutes of that posting I heard from said sister who promised a batch on Sunday… It was something to look forward to. All day Saturday I thought, ‘tomorrow is soup day!’ and eagerly anticipated each bite of carrot and celery and noodle.

Sunday dawned with the crowing of rooster Terri– a hacking fit of coughs and whooping breaths that seemed to go on forever. Robby and Jack went off to church without me. I don’t like missing Palm Sunday. I took my blanket out to the kitchen so I could listen to the service on the radio and cough without disturbing anybody in the imaginary pew around me. And I thought, thankfully, of good, hot soup.

Good, hot chicken noodle soup– carroty and noodley and delicious– that my dear sister FORGOT TO MAKE. “Ooops!,” she said. Ooops. Robby went out and foraged a rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans in an effort to distract me. And the Trish Formerly Known As My Sister brought over unbelieveably good Ranger Cookies…

And a promise to make soup tonight.

I’m holding my breath against coughing anyway.

Skip the #%@! cough syrup and crack open the whiskey

If you read this often enough you know that I’m not a big fan of vomiting. I avoid it at all costs.

The Little Host Carrier, as Jack is known this week, brought down a plague upon our house in the form of some nasty bug that lingers still. The JackRabbit, of course, is fine– bouncing around and demanding, “Let’s go ride car! Mommy! Now!” while I do my best to keep from coughing. Breathing, it seems, brings on the coughing. You hold your breath for most of the day– it’s exhausting.

Yesterday I coughed until I threw up. The last thing I ate was– heretofore a delicious Chocolate Pudding Pie piece from Cracker Barrel. Needless to say it doesn’t sound nearly as appealing now. Robby asked if I wanted him to do anything while I wretched– like what, I wondered– hook a rug? sing an operattic version of the theme from Gilligan’s Island? bake a bundt cake? Jack, for his part, imitated the sounds emanating from his doubled-over Mommy. Charming.

My friend Sue said that if we lived closer together she’d buy a stewing chicken and make me homemade chicken soup but then remembered that my sister is known for her chicken noodle soup and asked if she’d made any. HA! (Okay– the sister did take the Host Carrier out to breakfast so I could sleep.)

And what the h ever happened to good cough syrup with alcohol!? The crap in our medicine cupboard doesn’t have any. All the foul, awful taste without the sweet, sweet buzz? I’m pretty sure that cough syrup only treats on a pyschosymatic (spelling?) level anyway– so what good is there without the hard stuff!??

Yesterday I resorted to hot, sweet tea. I hate sweet tea. I’m pretty sure there’s a direct corelation between the South losing the War Between the States and their dependency on sweetened tea… Some friends brought us a jar of honey that I spread on my oatmeal or toast– I hauled that out and loaded a cup of tea with it. It worked for about 20 minutes. Apparently, to be effective, it would have to be constantly dripping down my throat. Well that’s conducive.

Hack. Ack. Arrrgh.

Hullo Guv’ner!

I went to my annual Spring Museum conference this weekend. I could wax on about being in the esteemed company of brilliant colleagues who preserve, collect, and keep the history of Us… but really– wouldn’t you rather hear about a swimming penquin and chance meeting with government officials?

Our organization’s President, Rick, is a tall and bearded man. His voice is gravelly and full of gravitas. And yet, in the name of fundraising, he allowed us to dress him a penguin costume for the conference dinner/dance. (The penguine costume, it should be noted, was worn by my friend Chris in his own good endeavor to raise over $500 for Special Olympics by jumping into a frozen lake…) The night’s theme was a WWII USO Party and most of us were clad in some semblance of 1940s clothing (Best Homefront Housewife, here, thankyouverymuch!) so it’s not as though Rick wasn’t in costumed company… He just happened to be the only flightless, aquatic bird in the room. (That’s all.) Of course, it occurred to us that perhaps he should complete our joy in his quasi-humiliation by immersing his 6′ penguin self in a body of water… Which led to a dramatic parade of costumed professionals leading him to the hotel’s indoor (it could have been worse) pool. A gauntlet was formed of ourselves and the strangers that assembled (apparently a tall man dressed as a penguin is somewhat irresistable to the average hotel user. Cries of, “Let’s see what they’re doing to the penguin” were heard.) and poor, dear, waddling Rick was forced to jump into the pool.

The pool, it should be noted, was filled with pre-school children and their parents. An inordinate amount of pre-school children as there had been, earlier that evening, a “DoodleBops” concert nearby. The pre-school children were delighted with the Penguin Man, by the way. The parents of the pre-school children were not as delighted. They instinctively gathered their little wet little offspring to them with panicked looks on their adult faces as they wondered if they were safer should they stay in the pool or get out.

Rick, for his part, waved his wings at us and backstroked under the pool’s waterfall and back in an attempt to appease the mob.

Someone handed him a towel on his return to land which he used to dab at the torrents of water streaming from his costume… and we scattered with the arrival of hotel security.

I ran up to drop off my camera and pick up my autoharp case, eager to join the boys in our band for some play. Still in my War Bride get-up I wandered back towards the banquet room where, in a nearby lobby area, I found a gaggle of girlfriends and joined them. We sat in a circle with our feet up on the coffee table and “smoked” candy cigarettes and laughed about how “delicate and pretty” we must look. (Cigarettes, candy or not, haven’t been attractive looking since Katherine Hepburn was in her childbearing years.) We made silly jokes about mowing over the Victory Gardens and how we might spend our time now that Bill was Overseas…

We thought we were hysterical. It was one of those magical nights when everything was funny and our sides ached from too much laughter…

And that’s when the four suits approached us. “Well, well now!.” said the littlest man, “I see this is where the real party is!” We paused our laughter long enough to politely acknowledge him even while we were wary at what might be a bad pick-up-line. He asked who we were– why we were assembled… and we explained ourselves. Were any of us from the great state of Indiana? We weren’t– we were from Michigan, Ohio, Wisconsin, Illinois, Missouri… He thought that was a shame– being the governor!

“I’m Mitch Daniels, Govenor of Indiana…” Immediately, all the feet on the coffee table simultaneously went on to the floor while skirts and spines were straightened. Our group photo was taken with Ericka’s cell phone by one of the other suits. (Turns out the other three suits with him were two security types and a nervous looking man that must have been his handler. He had that look of, “Well, I know what Monday’s going to start out like…” about him.)

I asked the governor to sign my autoharp case– he whipped out a Sharpie and rather lecherously noted that he’d been asked to sign a lot of strange things. My horror must have been apparent because he shifted gears and talked about signing a goat once. Yikes.

Again– I might have written today about the interesting session I attended on Ethics or the fascinating penman that taught us Spenserian exercises or the long conversations on our Museum sites and the good work we do… but really, in the end, a pool soaked Penguin and a tiny Governor are what we’ll remember.

And oh– how we’ll remember.

Curious George

Jack might have an imaginary friend.

My sister, Jack’s AunT, met us for lunch. Jack was full of information for AunT– we’d been to gymnastics today and he was eager to tell her he’d “bounced on the trampoline!!” And then he interrupted himself to babble something to a “George” then returned to us. Later he waved “byebye!” to George.

We don’t know who George is. Jack knows a George where I work– and there’s George the steamrolling Thomas character… but he’s talking about/to a different George.

His imagination is developing. He has nightmares now that wake him up and leave him shuddering and weepy. Whatever it is that so frightens him is quickly dispelled when either his Daddy or I scoop him up. Last night he slept between us and felt safe enough to finish out the night without any disruptions. And sometimes he’ll come up with a way out of something or try to wheedle us into something in a way that means he’s creatively thinking around the realities of his world and testing out his imagination. Rob replaced the heater in Jack’s room the other night while Jack slept. The old one wasn’t operating reliably anymore. It happened to be white with red lights. The new heater is black with green lights. Jack is terrified of it. He woke up screaming, “No black fan! No black fan!” It’s as dreaded as the vaccuum cleaner which is also a mystery because, well, we don’t vaccuum nearly as much as we should.

And that’s the sad thing –with all the good his imagination will bring– jokes and stories and imaginary friends and fantastic inventions… it will also bring nightmares about household appliances and the ability to lie.

It’ll be interesting to see what comes of George.

Be Kind, Rewind

My youngest niece came by tonight to babysit. We weren’t expecting her which made it all the more nice to slip away for a few hours. We went to a table-top Japanese place we like and ate ourselves sick.

She brought with her a VHS tape that’s been making her laugh. It would. It was a tape my parents made to introduce our new pup to my sister and her husband who, at that time, lived several states away. Today it would all be done with webcams or the like but in the late ’80s our clunky old video camera did the job nicely.

So there was my Dad again. For 10 minutes or so he laid out on the floor with our little black and white shi-tzu Ali bouncing under the crooks of his arms while the new pup, a tiny Yorkie we called Fergie, tried to get Ali to play. His voice is the high, soft voice he used to coo to the dogs or, much later, to my baby nieces, and it took me by surprise to hear it again. I’d forgotten how gooey Dad could get over the dogs. But, then again, his first born had married and moved 10 hours away and his baby was in her last year of school. The dogs were, as Dad put it, now at least numbers 2 and 3 in the line up, if not 1 and 2.

My babysitting niece doesn’t remember much of my Dad and Jack, in her arms, only knows him from pictures… but Robby and I remember and the sound and sight of Dad again stayed with us this night. It struck me though how that tape is different for all of us– Keegan thinks it great fun to see me in full on late ’80s wardrobe (pegged jeans, keds, and a huge sweatshirt… and we won’t even discuss the hair); Robby got a kick out of seeing Dad so unabashedly smitten with the puppies; Jack thought the little barking Ali and spastic puppy movements of Fergie hysterical; and me, well, it was nice to see my Daddy again.

The next time I curse technology (and that, I’m sure, will be in the next 48 hours) remind me of this, won’t you?