Precious Moments

Beautiful day today.  And the weather was nice, too.  

$2.11

This morning didn't start out well. I work up cranky, congested, and late. After deciding to work from home instead of dragging my stuffy nose and bad attitude to the office, I pulled on a sweatshit and baseball hat and headed out to get coffee from the closest coffee shop. My first meeting was at 8am, so I was going to have to haul ass to get to the coffee shop and back in time. Caffeine will always win over punctuality.

10 minutes later, I was delighted to see the drive-through lane at Dunkin' Donuts was exceptionally short. I yelled my order into the static box (extra large coffee extra hot with cream, please) and dug through my purse for exact change.

But guess what!

When I got to the window, the clerk let me know that the car in front of me paid for my coffee. I looked up and saw a lady in a red SUV in front of me, waving and giving me a thumbs-up as she drove away. I waved back, dumbfounded, and offered her a ridiculously huge smile. I took my free coffee from the clerk and felt the irritation of my cranky morning melt away. Two points for humanity!

Talk about small things making a big difference. A stranger spent $2.11 on me this morning, and she expected nothing in return. Maybe a stranger did something similar for her and she wanted to share that feeling with someone else. I'll never know. But I know that this is something I'll talk about for a long time, and (more importantly!) something I'll do myself in the future.

I drove home, smiling, singing along with the radio, and ready to deal with whatever my 8am meeting had to throw at me (and throw stuff it did...)

What amazing things will you do with $2.11 today?

Flashback

This memory came racing out of my Repository of the Repressed faster than I could slam it back down.  It took my breath away.  Here's what happened:

My beautiful daughter asked me if I'd ever had stitches.  This question came after I'd mentioned to her that she has a tiny scar on her chin from the stitches she'd had three years ago.  She'd fallen off the playground equipment at her school when she was about four years old, and the incident resulted in a cut deep enough to warrant stitches.

"Momma, did you ever have stitches?"

Well, sure.  Who hasn't?  There were two episodes that I recall clearly:  one set of stitches in my head after slamming head-first into the corner of a wall, and a second set after my parents' evil, shitty dog bit me on the face (I hate dogs--that dog in particular).

But I'd actually had three sets of stitches.  This third set I'd somehow forgotten about--shoved it so deeply back that it was a shock to feel this memory come to the surface.  I have another set of stitches in my head.

This set came courtesy of my mother.  My mother was (is?) a dedicated alcoholic, but she sure didn't appreciate it when people brought her alcoholism to her attention.  I'll fast-forward through the gloom and doom of living with a drunk (well, make that TWO drunks) and get to the point of this post.

I had once again had to bum a ride home from school because dear mom failed to show up to get me.  When I got home, she was (of course) drunk and (of course) passed out on the sofa.  My dad was (of course) drinking whisky from a bottle and told me (of course) to 'fuck off' when I asked why no one bothered to pick me up from school.  Another Wednesday night.  I think of dad as a 'functional alcoholic'--I mean, he did usually go to work.

But here's where my usual Wednesday took a turn.

My mother (as usual) came-to around 8pm and started walking around like nothing had happened.  I was in the basement, doing my laundry and trying to tidy up.  I (of course) found a few new fifths of vodka hidden behind the washing supplies.  This pissed me off for a few reasons:

1) I had handed over ALL of my money to get our phone turned back on.  I worked part-time and pretty much every cent I made went to bailing out my family in one way or another.  And you know what?  That didn't bother me much (at the time).  I mean, it's all I knew.  Plus, my father was constantly reminding me that we could be living in a much less-desirable area, putting me in a much less-desirable high school, so I owed it to them to help out with utilities, etc.  Whatever.  Anyway--the fact that I'd once again handed over my entire paycheck and dear mom STILL used our limited cash for booze...well that just pissed me off.

2) I'd just bummed a ride home from my friend's mom, forcing me to come up with yet another lie about why my mother wasn't there to pick me up herself.  I'm sure I said something clever (not really), like she had a last-minute appointment.  I hated hiding this secret behind lies.

So, I had just about HAD it with this bullshit.  So, I took one of the fifths of Smirnoff upstairs.  Found my mother.

I opened one of the fifths and took a long swig. Mind you, I was 15 or maybe 16 years old...

Then I spat the whole swig in her face.

Mind, you, this was when fifths were still sold in GLASS containers.  Oops....

Dear mom, while wiping the burning vodka from her eyes with one hand, grabbed the bottle from me with the other hand.  And in a moment that feels like it slowed down to a crawl, she hit me over the head with it. With a fucking glass bottle.

The bottle didn't shatter--it just splintered.  Gotta hand it to the boys are Smirnoff, they make a heavy-duty bottle.  My soft head, however, didn't appreciate the blow and started bleeding like crazy.  After staring stupidly at my dear mother for a moment (or an eternity, I don't know), I went to get a paper towel for the blood.  Blood was fucking EVERYWHERE.  Blood had saturated the collar of my shirt and was running down my back.  It was warm and felt thick--head wounds bleed like crazy.  And stupidly all I could think was, "shit, this is one of my best school shirts."  I was so grateful that my brother wasn't home.

I didn't bother even telling my dear father that his loving wife had just hit me with a fucking glass vodka bottle and that I was bleeding like crazy.  I mean, it's not like he was fit to drive me for help, so why bother?

After about 30 minutes of bleeding through a roll of paper towels, I started to feel...woozy.  I realized I probably shouldn't allow this bleeding to continue.  So, I crept into my parents' bedroom, where the other phone was, and called my friend's stepmom.  She had divorced a drunk a few years back and knew what my home situation was.  I trusted her.  I told her that I thought I needed stitches due to an "accident."

Friend's stepmom took me to the Emergency Room.  I told her what happened.  I begged her to not tell the attending physicians--I knew they'd have to call child protective services and, as much as my homelife sucked, I really didn't want the alternative.  So I muttered some bullshit about a glass tray falling on my head from an overhead cabinet, then sat silently while the attending physician cleaned the splinters of glass out of my head and stitched the wound shut. When he was done, he suggested that next time I use a ladder to get heavy glass objects down from cabinets.

Then friend's stepmom drove me home.  I have no idea if my parents even noticed I'd left.

I didn't want this memory to come back.  I really don't appreciate it.  But you know--whatever.  I will go and read my beautiful daughters a bedtime story tonight.  I will tuck them in.  I will tell them I love them.  I will take them to school tomorrow and the take myself to work.  I will believe that my past has built me into the person I am, and the person I am is A-OK.

I'm pretty sure this is why fifths now come in plastic bottles. ;-)

Hi Blog!

Well, it's been a while, hasn't it?  Yeah, I know...everyone's given up.  But you know, life and stuff....

I confess that I'm a bit old school and still carry a journal around with me.  I have a bunch of mini-stories and general observations written in nearly-illegible handwriting.  Sometimes writing feels more real when you are actually writing (not typing) with a really good pen.  I have such a pen.  :)

A few topics that I'm hoping to get caught up on via my blog here:

* My new house.  I love it and feel very fortunate.  David and I have worked hard and done a lot of planning to make this a reality.  My in-laws live minutes away, which has been such a joy for my daughters...they love nothing more than spending time at Nana and Poppa's house.

* My mother's new home.  When we moved into our house, my mother moved into her new senior apartment.  Unlike David's family, my mother lives on the other side of town.  It's perfect.

*  My gorgeous nephew.  I have a lovely nephew who I just love love love to pieces.  I'm sad that he (and his parents) live over 600 miles away, but thanks to FaceTime, I get to see him in action from time to time.

* My job.  I had a really good talk with my VP several weeks ago about what I want to do when I grow up.  My nearly-illegible journal is full of pity reflections on that topic.  I'll tidy it up so no one vomits over the volume of sentimental bullshit.  Heh...

(I like that I can write "bullshit" in my blog.)

*  God, religion, and all that jazz.  I've been doing a lot of reading and reflection on God, religion, and what part I want God and religion to play in my life.  I feel like I need to get my head on straight before I can provide my girls any kind of guidance on spirituality, have life/death conversations, and talk about secular vs religious roles in our culture.  It's a very difficult journey that challenges everything I learned in my religious training as a child.

Anyway, for the loyal few who still check my blog from time to time, now you have a few hints as to what you can expect.

I am happy.  I am fortunate.  But I still have shit to figure out.  Let's see where this goes...

Moving On!

So, we're packing up and moving to a new house. Yep, it's true. It's crazy. Trying to pack up a house with two "helpers" running around is pure insanity. But we're getting there. I have been journaling about some of the more interesting parts of this process, so I'm going to try and get some of my entries posted soon.

More to come! :)

"Is that the REAL Easter Bunny, Momma?"

Erin says, "tell me, momma, what am I supposed to be smiling about here? The seven-foot rodent, the fake flowers, the smell of mothballs? And what is sister so happy about?!" ;-)

Safe

I've been thinking about things that feel safe...jotting some notes. Here's what my subconscious has produced so far:

I think it's winter that gets me thinking about feeling safe, being safe. What feels more safe and secure than snuggling under a blanket with your head resting on a fluffy pillow? What makes a parent feel better than wrapping her chilly child in a toasty warm comforter with woolly socks and watching her drift off to sleep? I hear the furnace kick on and know that my family will be warm in spite of the 7 degree temp outside. I make a pot of decaf at 10pm and watch the snow pile up on my frozen deck outside. It just feels good. In control.

Maybe it's me...I rarely felt a sense of "safe" as a kid/young adult--I was always waiting for the bottom to drop. And drop it did, many times. I think my brother and I walked an emotional tightrope for 20+ years. Perhaps feeling safe as an adult, and making sure my children feel safe, is that much more important because I know so well how disturbing UNSAFE feels.

I don't buy that though. I mean, who doesn't have some sort of shitty childhood story? I think this notion of Safe is something we all look for regardless of our past.

More to come. What makes you feel safe?

Shameless Photo Post

Serious....

Laughing uncontrollably...

Lost in her game...

Committing only to the moment...that's the life of a four-year-old. She's too fantastic for words!

Old School vs. New School Writers

So the hot debate among the grammar snobs these days is...periods. Should the world unite and declare that only ONE space is required after a period? Or should we stick with what Johannes Gutenberg started and do TWO spaces?

I admit, I'm a two-space girl. Two spaces after periods, two after semicolons. One of the whipper-snappers at work called me a "fuddy duddy" today after listening to me evangelize about "the good ol' days" when *everyone* used two spaces after sentences. I always knew I had an old spirit trapped in a young person's body...

Anyway, I decided today that I am going to try and be hip and move with the times. Especially since my favorite FAVORITE grammar blogger has moved to the dark side of one-spacing after sentences (love you Grammar Girl!!). One-spacing isn't wrong...I know. It's just become a style choice and change is hard. But I'm gonna try to train my thumb to stop clicking twice...and see if I can live with it. Who's a fuddy-duddy now?! ;-)

Until next time, a little light reading:

MLA Handbook: http://www.mla.org/style/style_faq/style_faq3

Grammar Girl (my fav source): http://grammar.quickanddirtytips.com/spaces-period-end-of-sentence.aspx

Fun Observations from the Wayne County Jury Pit

I am called for jury duty every 12 months, without fail. And I am required to serve in Downtown Detroit every time, without fail. This past year, I decided to journal some of my observations while I was there...here's what I managed to make out from my terrible handwriting:

------------------------

May 18, 2010:

7:30am: Summons reads "MUST ARRIVE BY 7:45AM." I arrive at 7:30am, always the good girl, fearing that arriving at 7:46 would surely land me in jail..or at least fined. I leave my house at 6:40, after evaluating traffic and weather conditions.

8:30am: Jurors still arriving, apparently not as fearful as I am of jail and fines. One such juror walks in an announces in an outside voice that he's "pissed as hell that those muthafuckers took his lighter and his blade." I reassemble my poker face and silently give thanks for the Wayne County sheriff who took his blade.

8:45am: I've been here for over an hour, reading my book on Great Lakes shipwrecks. My butt is numb from this unforgiving plastic chair, and the smell of the poorly-ventilated jury pit is starting to turn my stomach.

8:47am: Angry court employee emerges from office, stands on a chair, and screams that we can all go take a break. I laugh--I'm the only one laughing. A break? Really? WE HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING YET. Ever the sheep, I get up and "take a break" from sitting in this ass-breaking plastic chair. I feel a tingle that reminds me that I do indeed have nerves in my lower back.

9:00am: Breaktime over, back to reading, back to hating this chair. Ass promptly goes numb, and really, it's better that way. I am, however, delighted with how wonderful the tiny cup of Traverse City cherry coffee is that I'd purchased for $4 at the courthouse candy store. The cherry scent is doing its best to mask the nasty smell of the jury pit.

People watching in the jury pit is a constant source of entertainment--anyone can fancy themselves a sociologist/psychologist/anthropologist when locked in a stanky room full of reluctant servants of democracy. Nervous women huddle together, reading their Jennifer Weiner novels and bonding over stories of their children's high school sports teams. I count over 20 men sleeping soundly in the horrible plastic chairs. One man, looks college-aged, is actually watching the VHS copy of Men in Black that plays on the broken TVs overhead. A man in the aisle across from me sits with an acorn squash and a newspaper on his lap. I begin to wish that I too had some sort of odd vegetable with me.

9:10am. Orientation. Pleasant court employee shouts into a static-ridden microphone about where you can smoke and where to get lighters. When he asks if anyone has questions, a man who highly values his own worth asks when we'll be getting started, because this is wasting his time. I am glad he let us know how important he is. Asshole.

9:30am. Angry court employee comes out and stands on chair. She screams something I can't quite understand. No one else seems to care, so I go back to my book.

10am: Unable to concentrate on Great Lakes shipwrecks, I look up from my book and steal a glance just beyond where Self Important Man sits. There's another man there, and I cannot help but stare.

He. Is. Elvis.

I'm not talking about a crummy Vegas-wedding Elvis wannabe. This dude is THE KING. From the jet black side burns to his tight polyester-blend button-down, this guy is evidence of life after death. If he stood up and started singing, I doubt a single one of us would have been surprised.

Others in the pit also notice The King and are staring as intently as I am. No one sits next to The King, even though the plastic ass-breaking seats are in hot demand. Respect for The King's personal space must be shown. Some of the suburban 40-somethings in the pit steal quick glances then hide smiles behind two-year old issues of Good Housekeeping and Redbook. I am more bold, staring openly until The King notices my stare and winks at me with a knowing smile. He knows we can't help but stare. I now feel badly that I don't know many of his songs--feels disrespectful. But I sense that The King understands.

Knowing that even Elvis must serve in the democratic path to justice makes me feel a tiny bit better about wasting away in the Detroit jury pit.

11am: Trying to not stare at Elvis. The screech of the dot-matrix printer in the jury office has stopped, and I know this means that we will soon be herded to the courtrooms. I'm not wrong--angry court employee has just screamed "Kristin Baher" into her microphone. Time to shuffle off.

So, until next year, this is reluctant juror Kristin Baher signing off.

(The author of this article ended up spending three days on an assault w/ deadly weapon case. She did not have the opportunity to serve with Elvis during these proceedings.)

Winter Olympics for Writers

Greetings! Long time...

So, last year the Winter Olympics in Vancouver followed shortly after Christmas. For those of us who to admit to enjoying luge and curling, the Winter Olympics gave us something to look forward to while combating the post-Christmas blues. With no Winter Olympics this year (and I'm not Canadian enough to take up curling....), I realized I need to find something else to keep my sun-deprived brain occupied.

To that end, I decided I'm going to invest in beefing up my rather flabby writing muscles and get some samples posted at least once a week...even if just a few thoughts or starts of stories...or shameless photo posts of my lovely girls. Let's see how this goes! I'm sure my fan base (both of you) will be supportive of this initiative, yes?

So I went through my journal and picked out a fun story to start off the year--I'll post it this week once I dust it off.

While I can't guarantee that the content will always be memorable, I can assure you that the apostrophe use in my new posts will be kick ass. :-)

Cheers,
Kristine

Sporty Mom-mobile = Oxymoron

So I've spent the last three days serving on a jury in Detroit. Nothing like three days in the ghetto to make me appreciate my regular gig here in the 'burbs. More on that experience later...

Anyway, was sitting at a red light today and noticed something amusing. I was behind a red Chrysler mini van, which proudly boasted a "Sport" insignia that was placed there by the manufacturer. Mini van...sport...does not compute. Nothing against mini vans (if Ford bothered to make one, I'd probably own one too!), but, um, why try to make it "sporty"? Surrender the fantasy, friend--you're driving a mini van. Accept it.

Whatever that "Sport" package offered, be it bigger tires, glossier paint, or fresh rims, I assure you that at no point did I miss the fact that the vehicle is, in fact, a mini van. There's just nothing sporty about a mini van. Perhaps this "sport" concept can only be understood and appreciated by other people who drive mini vans.

I was thinking of alternate labels for "Sport" and came up with the following:

• * "Sucks Less Than a Regular Mini Van"
• * "I Paid More so I Could Have a Nice Car Stereo, Even Though the Only CDs Loaded are Barney Rock Tales and Here Come the ABCs".

I guess neither of those would fit too well on the back of the car though, eh?

So be on the lookout for these sporty mini vans...you may think it's a Maserati GranCabrio cruising up behind you, but don't be fooled. It's just a Town and Country with the Sport package.

Nothing but love for my mini van friends! :)

April...Updates and Stories

And....now it's April. Blogging has sure taken a backseat these days. So much stuff going on: life (Erin's decided that sleeping through the night is stupid), politics (I try to just keep my opinions to myself, even when I'm about to scream), work (mind-blowing job stress continues)...but I try to focus on what's good. :-)

Despite her midnight demands for attention, Erin is such a good baby. I know...I'm supposed to say that, right? But really--she's about as easy-going as babies get. She smiles, laughs, experiments, eats. All with David's laid-back nature. The getting-sick-all-the-time thing is kind of a drag (thanks, daycare!) but really--no complaints. She's crawling up the stairs all by herself now (with momma arms about 2 inches away, of course) and I know she'll be walking any day now... Snif.

Rachael is no longer wearing the brown pants!! Just about the time D and I were ready to put her in poo-therapy, she somehow turned a corner and is taking care of all business appropriately, independently. I am loving not having to wash poo-ed up clothes every evening, and R is SO PROUD of herself. I think this has given her more confidence at school too, since now she's interacting more and more with the other kids and even has a best friend--Nolan.

Now that my quickie update is out of the way, I thought I'd entertain you with my story of the day--hurrah! Here goes:

We took my mother out to dinner for her birthday last night. We told her we'd pick her up at 5:30.

4 years ago, we would get to my mother's house by 5:30 by the following means:

1) go upstairs around 5pm, brush hair, apply makeup, ponder wardrobe change.

2) pick up gift, wrapped weeks earlier, from kitchen counter.

3) get in car, which is clean.

4) leave by 5:20, arrive at mother's house at 5:30.

Today, we get to my mother's house by 5:47 by the following means:

1) time Erin's naps so she will be conscious at 5:30pm.

2) pack as though leaving on an expedition: toys, books, diapers, wipes, binkies. Then pack similarly for Rachael.

3) clean and dress Erin.

4) clean and dress Rachael.

4a) coax Rachael through clothing-related meltdown, which precipitated over me suggesting I help her with...anything. "I DO IT MYSELF MOMMA!!

5) clean and dress Erin again, as she has just barfed all over outfit #1.

6) convince Rachael that putting her left shoe on her right foot really isn't OK.

6a) stop to teach impromptu lesson on 'left' and 'right'.

7) convince husband that if he wanted to take a shower, he needed to do that yesterday.

8) get children buckled into car. Realize I'm still wearing barf-stained shirt. Time check: 5:30.

9) put on yesterday's (nearly) barf-free shirt.

10) realize that gift has not wrapped itself. Time check: 5:35.

11) wrap gift, ignore scent of barf in hair.

12) get in car, which is littered with Cheerios and smells of stale coffee.

13) leave by 5:37, arrive a tad late but who cares--we showed up, we're all smiling, and that all makes me proud.

I was cracking myself up while recapping this in my head on the way to work today. I wonder sometimes how we ever manage to get out of the house--good thing it makes me laugh! :-)

Check out my big girls:

Rach on her new two-wheeler...

...Erin with her four-wheeler :-)

Wearing the Brown Pants

Arg...it has been well over a month since my last blog. I swear, there is never any time for anything...

The last several weeks have consisted primarily of the following:

1) mind-blowing work stress ("when you have a minute, Baker, can you....")

2) doing laundry

3) getting my 3 year old to stop pooping her pants

Since the first two are rather boring (and blogging about #1 would likely get me fired), let's study #3 (which would be funnier if I'd made it #2....heh).

I have blogged about potty training in the past. Getting started with potty training is a unique time between parent and child--parent is trying to get to know the child on a whole different level. I spent time trying to learn Rachael's 'tells', kept eyes on the clock, had her bladder at the front of my mind. During these early stages, there's a 'win some, lose some' mentality that allows the occasional pair of wet undies to do little but raise an eyebrow. I was down with this process.

Proud of my patience, and prouder of Rachael's mastery of her bladder, we warped to Level 2: Poop.

She seems unwilling (NOT unable) to take ownership of this bowel situation. I honestly don't get it. I've tried to explain to her that the same techniques used for bladder management can be applied to her bowels. I ask, "what do you do when you feel you need to poop?" and she says "I go poop on the potty." She then poops in her pants. Really? REALLY?! The fierce denial is what really gets me: "Rachael, did you poop in your pants?" (while she is standing there with a load in her drawers). Answer: "No! NO NO NO!" Arg!

Perhaps realizing that I was nearing the brink of insanity (did I mention the mind-blowing work stress earlier?), husband shows up with an article he found about...Rachael. I kid you not--it's an article about smart kids who simply will not give in on one lingering piece of the whole potty training experience. I read through it three or four times, considered its advice, and decided to give it a try.

The whole premise of the article is to put your kid in control by letting go. Stop pestering, stop asking, stop issuing punishments if pant-pooping occurs, etc. My previous technique was, if Rach pooed up her pants, she wasn't allowed to watch Dora the Explorer on TV that night. She quietly accepted the Dora-free nights, but it wasn't changing her behavior one bit.

So, on Tuesday this week, I had her go pick out her underpants, explained that the underpants are very pretty and don't want poop on them, then....closing ceremonies: "Rachael, you are a big girl, very smart, and I know you can go potty all by yourself. If you feel you need to be on the potty, you have to do it by yourself now, ok?" She nodded, and that was the last time we've really talked about potty.

So how much poo have I cleaned up since then? Zero. No accidents--three poop successes at school, too. I'm not expecting that this chapter is entirely closed, but I have a totally new outlook now, which helps. If she has an accident, I have to go along, business as usual: no Dora blackouts, no tense rides home from school. So I'm gritting my teeth and talking my type-A self into making poop a non-issue.

Once we get the poop under control, we'll move on to graduate-level topics like 'nighttime bladder awareness'. But for now I'll be satisfied with a bachelor's degree in 'daytime bowel management.' :)

Rach on a school day--she's such a great kid!

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And here's my pretty, super-motivated Erin, who is desperate to walk (because after all, Rachael walks, and Erin thinks that everything Rachael does is amazing):

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I'll take 'Pink Tricycles' for $1000, Alex...

Was watching a few minutes of Jeopardy the other night and got to thinking...what would my girls' Jeopardy categories be? Here goes!

If Rachael's life was a series of Jeopardy categories, they would be:

* Cartoons with Ducks and Chickens
* Foods Dipped in Ketchup
* Scenes of Dangerous Tumbling/Acrobatics
* Pink Tricycles
* Trials of Left-Handed Children
* Preschool Sociolinguistics (all answers are to start with "NO NO NO!")


Oh, fun. Now Erin's turn:

* Binkie Taxonomy
* Seborrheic Dermatitis
* Words that Start with "Buh Buh Buh" (all answers are to start with a juicy, toothless grin)
* Big Sisters I Worship
* Handed-Down Clothing
* Funny Grey Cats

Haven't decided on Final Jeopardy 'answers' yet... :)
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Beam me to Michigan!

Cute lil moment Saturday...Rachael and I were driving to gymnastics when, once again, she said, "Momma, wait! We no get Uncle Jim! He come with us!"

My brother, who adores Rachael, went with us to gymnastics the last two times he and my sis in law were in town. Since then, Rachael has decided that Uncle Jim will be coming with us to gymnastics each week. Now that would be a lot of commuting... :)

Perhaps she'll stop asking me why we left Uncle Jim at home once I can get her to understand the distance between Michigan and Connecticut...until then, Jim, I think you're on the hook for getting yourself to gymnastics every Saturday. Hee hee... :)

Merry Chr...Thanksgiving!

The turkey just doesn't stand a chance these days...

It used to be annoying, but I've finally just accepted it: I will shop for Halloween costumes among Christmas tree displays. I understand that stores fund entire fiscal years around holiday sales, but dang...I was at the mall on October 30th and the kids trick-or-treating in mall definitely clashed with the tinsel and holly berries on display at JCPenney. And, at least here in the Detroit area, radio stations start playing Christmas music during the first week of November. Who wants to listen to White Christmas when the jack-o-lanterns haven't even hit the trash can yet?

This rush to the American Christmas season does make me a little sad for poor, lonely Thanksgiving. Is Thanksgiving is nothing but an eighth rest in the middle of the loooong Christmas carol?

Well Thanksgiving--I appreciate you! I think it's fabulous that we have a day in our year bookmarked specifically for us to be thankful. Yes, there's the arguable history behind "the first Thanksgiving," but it's pretty well accepted that Thanksgiving is a day to acknowledge our blessings. So I'm going to turn down my Christmas music and set aside my wish list for a moment to give Thanksgiving its due attention. :-)

Here's a short list of what I'm thankful for:

* my beautiful, smart, healthy daughters
* my beautiful, smart, healthy husband
* the roof over my head and the (soon-to-be-new!) carpet under my feet
* my job and my colleagues (even the snarky ones in Ann Arbor) ;-)
* my health insurance, which helped pay for my Tamiflu prescription last week
* my city's autumn leaf pickup program
* my brother and Jen, who love me, Dave, and my girls from afar
* Sandy and Ron, who love me, Dave, and my girls from afar
* my inlaws, who are so generous with their time

* my mother, for doing the best she can
* my furnace, which warmed my house to 68 degrees right on schedule this morning
* my tub of Infant Vics Vapo Rub
* my kids' pediatrician, who made me laugh while I nervously held my feverish baby
* the heated seats in my car
* Dr Seuss, who reminds me to try new things, even if I'm sure I won't like it
* AIM Instant Messenger--how did I ever function in corporate America without IM?
* my friends, new and old
* gas being less than $4/gallon

I could go on...but an eighth rest only lasts so long! Thank you, Thanksgiving.

Back to Christmas!

We took the girls in for holiday photos already. Yep, weeks before Thanksgiving...I know, I know. Here's a hint of what you'll see in your mailboxes next month:

Neither of our girls had any interest in having pictures taken. Oh well! They're still cute. ;-)

Happy Thanksgiving, gentle readers!

Trying, Once Again, to be Responsible...

David and I try, but we admittedly fall short of being perfect parents. I know...contrary to popular belief... ;-)

We've been talking about getting a Will and Living Trust drafted for about three years now. We even got as far as meeting with an attorney (two, actually), but never got the whole effort off the ground. It's an incredibly daunting task.


Well, I'm proud to say that *today* we finally went back to the attorney and gave her everything she needs to process a first draft of a will, living trust, and the re-deeding of our house (this process also helped us discover that buying our house before we were married opened up a few legal loopholes. Awesome.) It'll take a few weeks for her to get everything together for her first draft, but heck, after the three years it took D and I to formulate the content of that first draft, two weeks isn't bad.


For those of you who are not experienced with estate planning with minor children, this is why it took us forever to get to this point in hella-serious estate planning. You need to:
* decide WHO should manage your estate (liquidate your assets, invest the proceeds, close accounts, collect your life insurance, deal with your house, deal your cars, deal with your children's new guardian, etc etc etc)
* decide HOW that person is to manage your estate (work with an investment counselor, plan for kids' college, etc)
* decide WHO will raise your children, which is almost as hard as this last biggie...
* decide HOW you want that person to raise your children


So let's say you decide you want Ralph Smith to manage your estate (cash) and Loretta Jones to raise your children. Sounds cut-and-dried, right? But now consider this: if Loretta Smith dies, do you automatically want her husband, Jerome, to raise your kids? Do you want Ralph Smith to have a say in that? Oh, and how much are you going to pay Ralph for managing your crap? And do you want Loretta to send your kids to private school instead of the Jonesville Public School? Who decides if Jonesville Public School is acceptable? Who has to agree before the estate (Ralph) will pony up for private school? Oh, and what if Loretta decides to move to Paraguay? Or worse, Cleveland? Can she take your kids, or does the next-in-line guardian get the kids? And how old/how accomplished do your kids have to be before they can get your cash? 25? 30? 26.5 with a college degree? 27 with a Masters degree? AUGH!


Every single decision opened up Pandora's box a little wider. Crap.


So, realizing that our current plan of just ignoring this whole mess might not be the most responsible decision, we wrote a narrative on what we would generally like to see happen....the pretty essay written in a pleasing font had clear sections describing the things that are important to us and the things that confused us (see Paraguay issue above). Proud of our work, we handed it to the attorney, then watched as she stared first at us, wide-eyed, then at our single-spaced narrative, and asked if we'd really written a narrative on our estate plan. Said she'd never seen that before. Heh. Clearly she needs to get to know D and me better. So, she talked us through her recommendations and agreed to have her draft in the mail in two weeks.


Not easy stuff, no easy answers. I am glad that we at least have the process in gear now.


Anyhoo, here are the princesses we're doing all this for! Check out my pretty-pretties in the Halloween gear:

Rachael as Minnie Mouse

Lil Ladybug Erin

Me and my girls...with Rachael in her other costume (was too cold for this on Halloween night!)

Stop the Insanity (Ins'anity?)

Sometimes it is so painful to witness ignorance in action.

I realize I am a snob when it comes to grammar. Worse, I'm sure I make my fair share of typos (typo's? typos'? ty'pos?), given that I spend most of my day pounding out emails and instant messages by the hundreds. But dammit--it's shameful when college-educated people (MANY OF THEM EDUCATORS THEMSELVES) cannot use an apostrophe to save their (they're?) lives. Forget the comma, the semicolon, the colon--they are all just instruments of torture. But I think anyone can be taught how to use a frigging apostrophe. It's (its?) not that hard. Here's a quick overview:

http://www.nationalpunctuationday.com/apostrophe.html

Anyhoo....

I found myself suffering another bout of grammar depression just this morning. I was in the drive-up line at Tim Horton's (yes, that's possessive, folks) when I saw a van with this painted on the side:

Fine Touch Window Washing's

248-477-nnnn

Come ON. You had your WORK VAN PAINTED and no one made sure you were SPELLING THE NAME OF YOUR COMPANY CORRECTLY? I weep.

Is there a school somewhere teaching that, if a word ends in 's', you need an apostrophe? I really don't get it. When I was a youngster learning how to use these darn little hooks, I sure wasn't bold enough to just splash them where ever. I was careful to ask myself, "is this possessive? Is this a contraction? What are the rules for the situation I'm in?" I asked myself these questions until the usage because more natural for me.

I know this makes me a b*tch, but I'm putting this out there for the good of the many: people judge you when you use poor grammar. If you are an educator sending letters home with crap like "...student's need to..." strewn about (real example, by the way), parents will THINK YOU ARE STUPID. Pick up a copy of Strunk and White's The Elements of Style and make it your business to learn from these masters. It does not matter if you are teaching science (s'cience?), English, or wood shop--you had to take English to graduate. So prove that you showed up for class.

Rant over. But would it be wrong for me to paint over the apostrophe on the Fine Touch work van? ;-)

The holiday of my people: http://www.nationalpunctuationday.com/

Cari, I dedicate this post to you...I would be lost without our fierce instant-messaging sessions over poor diction and apostrophe abuse (abus'es'?) :-)

Rachael and the Big Wide World

Rachael discovered the moon last night.

We were walking out of the mall around 7:30pm last night, so it was pretty dark outside. I just happened to notice a nearly-full moon in our line of sight and said "ohh, Rach, look at how pretty to moon is tonight!" She looked around for a bit until we got her to look up into the night sky.

"Moon? Over der? MOON! The moon is over der, Momma!"

It never occurred to me that she hadn't really seen the moon before. I mean, we're outside a lot in the summer, but the sun is out until after 9pm--no moon out when she's playing. And in the colder months, we're inside most of the time. Rach is in bed by 8pm most nights during all seasons, so very few moon moments. Reading Goodnight Moon only gets you so far...

Rachael talked about the moon the whole way home. "Where's the moon now, momma? Over der? Over DER?" She was fascinated. How many times have you noticed the moon in the past month, the past YEAR, and given it much thought? I can't properly express how amazing it was to see, feel, and hear this experience through her eyes. What's more is that she able to TELL US so clearly about what she was thinking and how she was feeling--after more than a year in speech therapy, we definitely don't take that for granted!

How neat. One more piece of the big wide world tucked inside that pretty head of hers. One more thing she can teach her sister ("...and then the MOON comes out, Erin..."). I can't wait.

Here are some pics from my little astronomer's third birthday party! Yep, she's three! We had a princess-themed party for her:

Purple Pearl Cake

Princess Bounce House...Rachael and her lil friends LOVED it!

My lil kangaroo...in a tutu :-)

Keep on exploring Rach!