Not that our bedtime was a scene tonight, which it can be when we miss the beautiful window of sleepy opportunity and pass into the carnal mysteries of being 5 and being overtired, but the boys probably could have benefited from a 7:30 bedtime. There were signs all day of caught-up fatigue. I actually heard these words as we were heading home from the splash park and errands: "I want to take a rest with you, Mommy." There were no requests for particular songs in the car. After rest when we were at the pool, Dietrich watched more people dive off the boards than he took turns jumping in himself. And there were no arguments about eating dinner.
We could have just sent them up to a bath, found pajamas, and called it an early night. But the humidity has left us, a breeze is keeping the mosquitoes away, and the sun is still high at 7 at night. So instead, we suggested getting ice cream at Michael's. "What?" Dietrich asked. "Ice cream, at Michael's. Do you want to go?" "Yes! I do!" "What?" Elliott asked followed by one more, "What?" from Dietrich. We left the dishes, found shoes, hopped on bikes, pedaled down to the custard shop, and ate sweet, creamy custard.
It was almost 9 by the time everyone was settled down, changed pajamas (it has cooled off, but not enough for fleece penguin jammies), dressed the bear in pajamas, sang to each other, fought about the direction of the fan, moved one child to our room and finally fell asleep. But in the archives of our life with little ones, we will remember the sweet, creamy custard and the bike ride. The perfect bedtimes? Can't think of any worth remembering even now. Never mind that my toe was crushed in a scramble to press the garage door button rendering me on a couch with an ice pack while Ryan told bedtime stories. But still, there will be plenty of time for perfect (or at least early) bedtimes this winter.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Maternity Yoga
It is usually not called that, but when Rob referred to it that way, I thought it was a good twist. I went to "prenatal" yoga last night at a studio a few blocks from our house. The first thing I noticed was the swept porch that invited me into an open room. Flip flops lined up under the bench and handbags dangled from the hooks above. A small line of cheerful women was formed at the restroom, the first feature our teacher pointed out to me. A row of dimmer lights hung on one wall, pegs for another class lined the other. We could see out to the street where college kids toted laundry to the building next door, but the tinted glass did not hint to them that the studio was filled with pregnant women. As Ryan and the boys dropped me off after T-Ball, they had never seen so many mommies-to-be at once, all heading to the porch.
It was my first yoga class. Many years ago, when I was training to get a Boston time, I would wake before the sun watching a DVD of three completely toned human beings stretch as they gazed over Montana mountains. It felt good afterwards, which was the only thing that kept me doing it. After the marathon, the yoga and pilates came and went in rhythm with the semester's work. I eventually could do the routine without the DVD and the mountains, but it was solely to keep me up and running.
Maybe yoga is meant to be shared in a class, because after last night I had a new sense of what it was about. Or maybe it is that since I'm pregnant, it feels even better to stretch and breath deeply and be still in my body. But I think the real power was simply being in the presence of a group of 15 other women approaching childbirth. Everyone in different stages of the journey, carrying different expectations of birth and parenting but all carrying a child. It was many of the same moves from the DVD but I felt rooted and connected, not just to the cushy mat under my bare toes, but to the power of childbearing that we all shared.
The mat I have in the basement has a train track, airport, small town, and football field on it. It works just as well as the roll-up mats I see peeking out of bike baskets as people make their way home from the yoga studio in the mornings and evenings. Maybe the energy of being with these women will be the encouragement I need to start up a practice again. And it just might keep me running, too.
It was my first yoga class. Many years ago, when I was training to get a Boston time, I would wake before the sun watching a DVD of three completely toned human beings stretch as they gazed over Montana mountains. It felt good afterwards, which was the only thing that kept me doing it. After the marathon, the yoga and pilates came and went in rhythm with the semester's work. I eventually could do the routine without the DVD and the mountains, but it was solely to keep me up and running.
Maybe yoga is meant to be shared in a class, because after last night I had a new sense of what it was about. Or maybe it is that since I'm pregnant, it feels even better to stretch and breath deeply and be still in my body. But I think the real power was simply being in the presence of a group of 15 other women approaching childbirth. Everyone in different stages of the journey, carrying different expectations of birth and parenting but all carrying a child. It was many of the same moves from the DVD but I felt rooted and connected, not just to the cushy mat under my bare toes, but to the power of childbearing that we all shared.
The mat I have in the basement has a train track, airport, small town, and football field on it. It works just as well as the roll-up mats I see peeking out of bike baskets as people make their way home from the yoga studio in the mornings and evenings. Maybe the energy of being with these women will be the encouragement I need to start up a practice again. And it just might keep me running, too.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
8 pounds of cherries?
My first thought when I saw that we would be picking up 8 pounds of cherries tomorrow as part of our fruit share was: that is the size of a newborn baby! I just met with our potential doula, so baby is on the brain. But seriously, what are we going to do with 8 pounds of cherries? I don't even own a pitter. Can they be frozen? Pie? Sauce? The newsletter suggested keeping them at the back of the refrigerator. And then what? Maybe we should just eat them and forsake all other fruit for the near future.
When the boys were newborns, Rob took a week-long shift taking care of us and helping with his new nephews. He was mostly away from work, but he logged in for a few hours each day, usually at a coffee shop. But when he was at our house, he was changing diapers, sushing squaky babies, making dinner, mowing the lawn, and helping us laugh.
Somewhere in between work, washing burp clothes and playing Monopoly with us, he found time to harvest the fig crop. We hardly noticed the figs the previous year but this year, they were weighing down the branches and dropping onto the brick patio. Rob made it his project -- in the midst of keeping up with work back home, taking care of two 6 week-olds, and keeping two tired parents in good spirits -- to harvest the figs. All of them. He could have set up a stand and just sold them (and we would have had plenty left over) but instead Rob scoured the internet for recipes. Fig sauce (great over vanilla ice cream); roasted figs (great with whatever); fig saute; fig paste (not sure if this one ever happened); and of course just plain raw figs. We invited the neighbors over for ice cream and fig sauce multiple times and pushed seconds and thirds on dessert. We had figs on pancakes. We ate them raw. And they just kept coming in the door. We ate them for breakfast, we ate them for desert. I ate them in the middle of the night while pacing the house with Dietrich propped on my shoulder.
The plenty in our backyard was matched by the plenty in our house -- plenty of fatigue, plenty of crying from parents and newborns alike, plenty of questions as to how we would make it through to the next day. But we also had plenty of help, and encouragement, and love in the arms of brothers and parents and friends across the alley. We looked at the boys in our brief moments of clarity and marveled at their every move and that we had even made it this far. We learned how small we once were, how cared for we needed to be, how we still need care in our grown up lives.
I wonder if there has ever been a bumper crop on that tree like that summer. I hope someone is there to climb the ladder, pick the figs, and find new ways to eat them.
Our cherry pick-up is the day before we go camping -- with Rob. We will be limited to a small camp stove and an open pit fire, but surely we can come up with a way to work through a few pounds of cherries.
When the boys were newborns, Rob took a week-long shift taking care of us and helping with his new nephews. He was mostly away from work, but he logged in for a few hours each day, usually at a coffee shop. But when he was at our house, he was changing diapers, sushing squaky babies, making dinner, mowing the lawn, and helping us laugh.
Somewhere in between work, washing burp clothes and playing Monopoly with us, he found time to harvest the fig crop. We hardly noticed the figs the previous year but this year, they were weighing down the branches and dropping onto the brick patio. Rob made it his project -- in the midst of keeping up with work back home, taking care of two 6 week-olds, and keeping two tired parents in good spirits -- to harvest the figs. All of them. He could have set up a stand and just sold them (and we would have had plenty left over) but instead Rob scoured the internet for recipes. Fig sauce (great over vanilla ice cream); roasted figs (great with whatever); fig saute; fig paste (not sure if this one ever happened); and of course just plain raw figs. We invited the neighbors over for ice cream and fig sauce multiple times and pushed seconds and thirds on dessert. We had figs on pancakes. We ate them raw. And they just kept coming in the door. We ate them for breakfast, we ate them for desert. I ate them in the middle of the night while pacing the house with Dietrich propped on my shoulder.
The plenty in our backyard was matched by the plenty in our house -- plenty of fatigue, plenty of crying from parents and newborns alike, plenty of questions as to how we would make it through to the next day. But we also had plenty of help, and encouragement, and love in the arms of brothers and parents and friends across the alley. We looked at the boys in our brief moments of clarity and marveled at their every move and that we had even made it this far. We learned how small we once were, how cared for we needed to be, how we still need care in our grown up lives.
I wonder if there has ever been a bumper crop on that tree like that summer. I hope someone is there to climb the ladder, pick the figs, and find new ways to eat them.
Our cherry pick-up is the day before we go camping -- with Rob. We will be limited to a small camp stove and an open pit fire, but surely we can come up with a way to work through a few pounds of cherries.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Caterpillar
I remember the confusion between brand names (Kleenex, Joy) and their bland counterparts (tissue, dish soap). It worked both ways, too. When ordinary things were also the brand name for something specific, I would wonder how they were related. What does a slowly moving creature with a lot of legs have to do with a bulldozer pushing dirt out of the way? When I was the boys' age (now 5, I really need to update this blog page), Caterpillar was both the most popular brand of dirt moving machinery and a sometimes furry creature that fascinated me as it crawled across sticks during its short life before it became something completely different. The dirt moving company is still around, but there has been enough competition (John Deere, Kobota) that we don't refer to every digger as a "Caterpillar".
So it wasn't a matter of confusing word meaning when Dietrich began making road ways on his painting of what was "supposed" to be a caterpillar. At a park this morning a florescent green caterpillar found its way to the strap of my handbag which was hanging off of a bench. When I put it there, I consciously made the strap shorter so that the pesky ants would have to work harder to get to the raisins that were inside. Instead, the caterpillar fell out of the tree and landed there, or somehow navigated the bench leg to get to the bag, and caught us all by surprise. A few kids came over to watch it crawl, slowly. We noticed its yellow stripes had a speck of purple at the tip, and that it had three tinier "arms" that must be for eating. I suggested that we remember what it looks like and when we go home, we could paint what we remember -- the colors, the stripes, the little arms. It took us two sticks and a weed (as Dietrich helped me remember tonight) to get the caterpillar off the bag and back into a tree. Then we were on our way.
We mixed up as close to florescent green as we could come. Elliott's patience was about at its end, so he quickly made a head, a body, and six legs, all green. Dietrich began making lines, globs, and square dots. I asked him what he remembered about the caterpillar, but he was clearly more interested in how the paint was getting on the brush, then on the paper, then being transformed on the paper by what he did with the brush, than in recreating the creature we saw. I pestered him a few more times, but then let it go. He was making roads. He laid the paint on think, then thinned it out, as a roller would do. He then took the black and put another layer on, the whole time explaining how roads are constructed. He watched as the smooth glob of paint became a stripe with tiny lines from the sponge brush. He covered the paper in roads before declaring he was all done.
On our table, all dried from sitting in the sun, is a small painting clearly of a caterpillar stuck on something black (my rendition). There is another painting of a huge caterpillar with a few stripes. And there is a series of roads, with a caterpillar hidden at the bottom.
So it wasn't a matter of confusing word meaning when Dietrich began making road ways on his painting of what was "supposed" to be a caterpillar. At a park this morning a florescent green caterpillar found its way to the strap of my handbag which was hanging off of a bench. When I put it there, I consciously made the strap shorter so that the pesky ants would have to work harder to get to the raisins that were inside. Instead, the caterpillar fell out of the tree and landed there, or somehow navigated the bench leg to get to the bag, and caught us all by surprise. A few kids came over to watch it crawl, slowly. We noticed its yellow stripes had a speck of purple at the tip, and that it had three tinier "arms" that must be for eating. I suggested that we remember what it looks like and when we go home, we could paint what we remember -- the colors, the stripes, the little arms. It took us two sticks and a weed (as Dietrich helped me remember tonight) to get the caterpillar off the bag and back into a tree. Then we were on our way.
We mixed up as close to florescent green as we could come. Elliott's patience was about at its end, so he quickly made a head, a body, and six legs, all green. Dietrich began making lines, globs, and square dots. I asked him what he remembered about the caterpillar, but he was clearly more interested in how the paint was getting on the brush, then on the paper, then being transformed on the paper by what he did with the brush, than in recreating the creature we saw. I pestered him a few more times, but then let it go. He was making roads. He laid the paint on think, then thinned it out, as a roller would do. He then took the black and put another layer on, the whole time explaining how roads are constructed. He watched as the smooth glob of paint became a stripe with tiny lines from the sponge brush. He covered the paper in roads before declaring he was all done.
On our table, all dried from sitting in the sun, is a small painting clearly of a caterpillar stuck on something black (my rendition). There is another painting of a huge caterpillar with a few stripes. And there is a series of roads, with a caterpillar hidden at the bottom.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Robots and the Psalms
I've never been one to sleep in. Even in college, when I stayed awake as late as my peers (though may have been dozing during every late night movie) I sprang out of bed with the sun. Ryan was even warned by college friends that this would be the case, and watch out, because she doesn't seem to notice that others don't share this communion with the sun. I was usually quiet, but would appreciate some company, in other words. Having newborns and babies and even toddlers wore away at this (once two college friends visiting our newborn twins were astonished to find me in bed at 11 am) but once we were all caught up on sleep, I returned to my sun up-sun down rhythm, more or less.
What does this have to do with robots or the psalms? Today Ryan and I were making coffee by 6 am and I was well into a NYT article on robotic teachers by 6:10. There are big dollars being spent to develop robots being designed to interact with children in such a way to teach them various things from social interactions to foreign languages to primary language. The catcher story is about an autistic child who sees a robot mimicking his behaviour. When the child withdraws, the robot draws him back by doing one of the behaviours he had exhibited. The boy sees the robot remembering his move, say, lifting a hand, and he responds. Having babysat for two autistic children, I appreciated the way this child was drawn in by the robot's reflective behavior. But the article goes on to show how robots are being programed to teach toddlers and babies vocabulary. The research shows -- gasp -- that the little ones were retaining 10-20 words after a robotic vocab session. Kids retain everything! Why wouldn't they from a robot? Robots are being "hired" as teacher assistants and the companies selling them are trying to get the cost down to less that 10K so they are affordable. Right now, they are close to entry wage for a real person assisting (24-34K). Maybe it is better than a video. These robots can change their tone of voice, their questions, their tactics, based on the students' responses. And the article admits that in many ways these robots are glorified toys (better than anything you can find at Brookstone). But using robots for teaching? Really?
A few hours (and pancakes, and arguments about clothing, and locating shoes) I was sitting on a wood pew next to a fidgeting child when the choir introduced the Psalm of the day: "Show me your ways, O Lord, and teach me your paths". Psalm 25, the teacher. Dietrich Bonhoeffer preached a sermon on just one verse from this Psalm. If I remember right it was the verse just following what the choir sang: "Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; in you have I trusted all the day long". The student stands before the holy and asks to be led. There is no agenda or standard or requirement save for openness to the ways of God and willingness to trust, all the day long. I always feel a sense of intrusion when I read or pray this psalm. Who am I to hear the longing words of this person who leans so closely to God? It feels too intimate, and yet, I long to be in that place of trust and openness where I let God do the teaching and leading.
I used to play this verse over in my head as I ran around the lakes in Minneapolis. It had a sort of rhythm to it that matched my foot strikes, or even made them faster. The words rolled around, "truth, and teach me". The end of the verse was both a challenge, "in you I have trusted all the day long" and a promise, that trusting in God for the day, whatever it held, was an option. But it is the verse that the choir sang, "Show me your ways, O Lord, and teach me your paths" that made me hear what was nagging at me, but I could not name, as I read the article about the robot.
A glorified toy is fine -- there is a market for just about anything automated and interactive. But a robot that is programed to anticipate and respond is hardly a teacher. Teaching begins with trust. It begins where the psalmist begins in opening herself to God. There is something deeply lost when teaching becomes measurable, achievable rather than relational and compassionate. The psalmist goes on to ask God to remember God's compassion and love, to forgive the sins of her youth and to remember her as she stands now, a student, trusting in her teacher.
Maybe tomorrow I'll open to the Psalms with the sun, and save the robots for dozing off.
What does this have to do with robots or the psalms? Today Ryan and I were making coffee by 6 am and I was well into a NYT article on robotic teachers by 6:10. There are big dollars being spent to develop robots being designed to interact with children in such a way to teach them various things from social interactions to foreign languages to primary language. The catcher story is about an autistic child who sees a robot mimicking his behaviour. When the child withdraws, the robot draws him back by doing one of the behaviours he had exhibited. The boy sees the robot remembering his move, say, lifting a hand, and he responds. Having babysat for two autistic children, I appreciated the way this child was drawn in by the robot's reflective behavior. But the article goes on to show how robots are being programed to teach toddlers and babies vocabulary. The research shows -- gasp -- that the little ones were retaining 10-20 words after a robotic vocab session. Kids retain everything! Why wouldn't they from a robot? Robots are being "hired" as teacher assistants and the companies selling them are trying to get the cost down to less that 10K so they are affordable. Right now, they are close to entry wage for a real person assisting (24-34K). Maybe it is better than a video. These robots can change their tone of voice, their questions, their tactics, based on the students' responses. And the article admits that in many ways these robots are glorified toys (better than anything you can find at Brookstone). But using robots for teaching? Really?
A few hours (and pancakes, and arguments about clothing, and locating shoes) I was sitting on a wood pew next to a fidgeting child when the choir introduced the Psalm of the day: "Show me your ways, O Lord, and teach me your paths". Psalm 25, the teacher. Dietrich Bonhoeffer preached a sermon on just one verse from this Psalm. If I remember right it was the verse just following what the choir sang: "Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; in you have I trusted all the day long". The student stands before the holy and asks to be led. There is no agenda or standard or requirement save for openness to the ways of God and willingness to trust, all the day long. I always feel a sense of intrusion when I read or pray this psalm. Who am I to hear the longing words of this person who leans so closely to God? It feels too intimate, and yet, I long to be in that place of trust and openness where I let God do the teaching and leading.
I used to play this verse over in my head as I ran around the lakes in Minneapolis. It had a sort of rhythm to it that matched my foot strikes, or even made them faster. The words rolled around, "truth, and teach me". The end of the verse was both a challenge, "in you I have trusted all the day long" and a promise, that trusting in God for the day, whatever it held, was an option. But it is the verse that the choir sang, "Show me your ways, O Lord, and teach me your paths" that made me hear what was nagging at me, but I could not name, as I read the article about the robot.
A glorified toy is fine -- there is a market for just about anything automated and interactive. But a robot that is programed to anticipate and respond is hardly a teacher. Teaching begins with trust. It begins where the psalmist begins in opening herself to God. There is something deeply lost when teaching becomes measurable, achievable rather than relational and compassionate. The psalmist goes on to ask God to remember God's compassion and love, to forgive the sins of her youth and to remember her as she stands now, a student, trusting in her teacher.
Maybe tomorrow I'll open to the Psalms with the sun, and save the robots for dozing off.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
All tired out
There is the day to day fatigue (and the amazing ability to fight it off) of being five with the running, rarely walking, to get trinkets and items that will make the latest space shuttle and its control panel ever more realistic, and the chasing down the side walk on the way to the store, and the climbing over the seat of the van while I am putting in the new booster, and the multiple trips up and down the stairs to get more things for who-knows-what and then there is the fatigue induced by a new activity: swim camp. The boys and their neighbor friend spent nearly 2 hours in the pool, then did crafts, ate snacks and ran around. On the 10 minute ride home, there was a sleeper. In the 10 minutes upon arrival, there was a pitiful meltdown. But then in the 10 minutes after we tucked our droopy faced swimmers into bed? There was still playing space shuttle!
I remember my mom countless times saying, "If I had only half the energy you had..." or "where to you get all of that energy?" or another variation referring to the combination of an abundance of energy and a disinterest in slowing down. I remember thinking, "what is the big deal? I don't feel particularly energetic!" But I appreciated my constant action being noticed, and watching her try to keep up with me. I never expected that I would witness the same phenomena: in the energy department, kids outlast their parents.
I don't think it is simply age, but the way we interact with the world that reshapes our feelings about our energy. It isn't enough for us to experience the world and then recreate it in our own way using whatever tools and toys and scotch tape we can find. For us adults, we are too busy judging the world, protecting ourselves and our kids, worrying about the next thing, and feeling guilty about forgetting what has already happened. It isn't enough for us to splash and slide and make hanging fish out of CD's and googlie eyes and make friends. We need to workout and worry about how our head will feel if we just jump (or dive!) in the water and where we will hang that fish once it comes home and can we now maybe throw out that painted paper lizard on the window that has faded into a mundane off-white?
No, for us adults we thinly spread out our energy over a field of endeavors and their accompanying worries. But it isn't always like that. No matter how distracted we can get, the world calls us back to experience it. It may be the yellow-orange sky after a mid-sunset storm passes by. Or it may be a friend calling to just say hello. For me, it was Elliott's thanksgiving tonight: he leaned his head back and gave God thanks for looking up in the sky.
I had forgotten what he said by the time I finished the kitchen and turned on the computer and hollered (for the third time) for them to stop talking and stay in their own beds. But now I remember, and I remember how my energy soared, just for that moment, even though I am all tired out (but happily willing to slow down!) as they are. And I am grateful, too. For being reminded by a child to look up in the sky, to see what is there, and just let it be.
I remember my mom countless times saying, "If I had only half the energy you had..." or "where to you get all of that energy?" or another variation referring to the combination of an abundance of energy and a disinterest in slowing down. I remember thinking, "what is the big deal? I don't feel particularly energetic!" But I appreciated my constant action being noticed, and watching her try to keep up with me. I never expected that I would witness the same phenomena: in the energy department, kids outlast their parents.
I don't think it is simply age, but the way we interact with the world that reshapes our feelings about our energy. It isn't enough for us to experience the world and then recreate it in our own way using whatever tools and toys and scotch tape we can find. For us adults, we are too busy judging the world, protecting ourselves and our kids, worrying about the next thing, and feeling guilty about forgetting what has already happened. It isn't enough for us to splash and slide and make hanging fish out of CD's and googlie eyes and make friends. We need to workout and worry about how our head will feel if we just jump (or dive!) in the water and where we will hang that fish once it comes home and can we now maybe throw out that painted paper lizard on the window that has faded into a mundane off-white?
No, for us adults we thinly spread out our energy over a field of endeavors and their accompanying worries. But it isn't always like that. No matter how distracted we can get, the world calls us back to experience it. It may be the yellow-orange sky after a mid-sunset storm passes by. Or it may be a friend calling to just say hello. For me, it was Elliott's thanksgiving tonight: he leaned his head back and gave God thanks for looking up in the sky.
I had forgotten what he said by the time I finished the kitchen and turned on the computer and hollered (for the third time) for them to stop talking and stay in their own beds. But now I remember, and I remember how my energy soared, just for that moment, even though I am all tired out (but happily willing to slow down!) as they are. And I am grateful, too. For being reminded by a child to look up in the sky, to see what is there, and just let it be.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Mile Posts
Today the boys had their first point-to-point bike trip powered by their own two legs. There was the expected complaining: "I won't bike on a crushed gravel path!" and the delayed getting-shoes-on before we left. Once we started there were some mosquitoes to contend with, but they weren't the only wildlife we saw. We watched a hawk fly up from the path to a branch, then off the branch and over a field. Cranes walked slowly through a marshy field and many chipmunks scrambled for cover in their path-side holes when we came by. We passed horse farms and cattle and rows and rows of corn that are already looking like September. Raindrops spotted our t-shirts by the time we reached the half-way point, but by then Elliott had adapted a Justin Roberts song to fit his 5-year-old interest in all-things-potty (I won't repeat the lyrics here, though they were pretty mild) and was pedaling along in such a rhythm I don't think he even noticed. My dad and I took turns keeping up with Dietrich while my mom shuttled a car (and could clock a workout pace on her way back) and met us for a few miles in the middle. When we reached the end of the trail, just 10 miles east of Madison, we found a restaurant still serving breakfast (though only for 10 more minutes!).
I remember a time when a seven mile bike ride wouldn't be worth changing out of flip flops for. But watching the boys meet each new mile marker made it as much of an adventure as my first 50 mile ride. Way to go, guys! Now, why did it take you an hour to fall asleep? What more can we do?
I remember a time when a seven mile bike ride wouldn't be worth changing out of flip flops for. But watching the boys meet each new mile marker made it as much of an adventure as my first 50 mile ride. Way to go, guys! Now, why did it take you an hour to fall asleep? What more can we do?
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