No, I don't expect you did, as I was staying with most of you, my Teeming Dozen, much of the time I was not blogging. Well.
We had planned to go sailing immediately upon our return, except that the weather was filthy. Really disgusting, rain and hail and god knows what all. So we sat around until Tuesday when I pointed out to Dearly Beloved that we were stuck inside when it rained anyway, so we might as well be stuck in a boat as in a house. So off we went, flags gaily waving -- er, well, actually not gaily waving as Daan decided to check out the consistency of a couple rules of physics and threw our flag over board in the harbor right before we left. The Belgian who was moored right next to us helped us in our attempts to drag the harbor for it, but he found it just awfully funny and offered to loan us his extra (Belgian) one. Dearly Beloved was not especially amused and was even less amused when I offered to put up an American flag.
However, we steamed off in good order, even though the boat was unaccountable difficult to handle and made quite a lot of racket, even for a diesel motor. So we stopped in the lovely Biesbos, a forest preserve, and checked the motor over. It was working fine and we began to think it was some kind of timing problem.
"Timing problem" is Dearly Beloved's code way of saying "I have no idea". In the South where I grew up, the code phrase is "It's yer lankidge'" or at least it was when I had a series of junkers. It was always my linkage, no matter what it actually was.
So I stepped into the boat to get some more coffee. Please note for future reference: do not step into a boat when your husband has removed the ladder in order to get at the motor which is in the middle of the boat. It hurts quite a lot when your foot discovers there is no ladder there and it leads to your small children remembering words they have not heard since you had to move continents in less than three weeks about a year ago. It also leaves a bloody scrape and beautiful technicolor bruises. And causes your husband to say things like, "but I thought you knew I moved it, I was looking at the motor after all,".
After the blue streak in the air cleared from my multilingual swearing session and first aid was administered to the dying, Paul decided to go into the water and see if it could be the aforementioned flag, which might have fouled the motor blades. Please note, the water in Holland is very, very cold just now, so this was a very brave thing to do. He came immediately back up, only a trifle blue, and announced that he was now certain that the motor was fine.
Because one of the blades on the motor was missing. By this time it was already afternoon, so we decided to just stay there until morning. No sense in running home, the repair place would be closed anyway. So we played many rounds of snakes & ladders and walked around in the woods and killd pirates and picked many flowers and so on. Even the wildflowers in Holland are civilized, all the purple ones grow together and the yellow ones and so on. We ate a lot of blackberries and Daan had another practical lesson in why you do not try to pick a nettle. I swear, he will never learn. Hard headed, that child.
Then we went home to find that the boat cannot be repaired until Monday, as the repair guy is on vacation until then. So we may be going to the Breda Balloon Festival this weekend after all.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Monday, June 20, 2005
Busy, busy, busy
On Saturday, we went to an air force base nearby for their, er, open house. Well, that's what they call it. Okay, it translates exactly as "open days" but that makes no sense at all, translated. Thus: the Royal Dutch Air Force Open House.
Douwe and Daan had enough fun looking up at the planes and helicopters while standing in the parking lot nearby to last them a month; however, we drove there, might as well go in.
They had, I must say, several really excellently planned aspects of crowd control; and at least one very badly planned one. There was a lot of water everywhere, whch was good. There were a lot of first aid units available for people who did not drink the aforementioned and then walked several kilometers on an air force base in the beating hot sun where there is 1) absolutely no air conditioning; and 2) no shade anywhere except in the hangars which strongly resemble really big ovens. (The kids were thrilled each time -- "Look mom, an ambulance!" I think they thought it was part of the show.) * They had people in what I believe were marine uniforms stationed at the entrance with -- of all things-- huge bottles of sunscreen which they glopped into the hand of every person associated with a child and instructed them firmly to put it on the child. There is something to be said for having a really large uniformed person around to dispense the suncreen. I got Absolutely No backtalk about the sunscreen from my sons. Which is unusual. Maybe I should hire a retired marine to come round when we are going out.
Hey, Ernest was Air Force, now that I think of it. I wonder if his uniform still fits. Hmmm.
And they had these little (actually, they were pretty big) stickers which were put on the front or back of every child (depending on the tendency of the wearer to pull it off and throw it away) with the child's first name and the mobile number of the associated adult, which I thought was clever.
Yes, actually, both my kids had them on their backs between the shoulder blades, why do you ask?
Douwe looked at all the exhibits (which were in the hangars) but the only one that really captured his attention was -- are you ready for this? -- the display by the people who do forensics on crashes and other aviation mishaps. Well, the video of exploding helicopters and midair airplane collisions and various airborne vehicles suddenly becoming little balls of flame no doubt had something to do with it. However, he asked me what those people in the video were doing, so I told him they were trying to find out why the crash happened, and they could tell by looking at the pieces (the display thoughtfully included a lot of various pieces of formerly airborne machinery in various states of investigation). He asked how that could be. So we went through the displayed bits and pieces and I talked about them. He said, "It's a puzzle,". I agreed it was like a really big puzzle.
So for a short time he decided that he did not want to be a pilot, he wanted to do puzzles when he grew up. Though after Ernest took him in the F-16 flight simulator, he was back to being a pilot.
Daan enjoyed the mock Battle of Britain quite well, and disliked the F-16s because they make too much noise. He wanted to know what the bombs were, because they were not fireworks, and I told him that sometimes you just need to blow something up, and when you do, then you use a bomb. This seemed to satisfy him, though it did earn me rather a lot of bombing in the tub since then.
The Apache Helicopter stunt team (which has a real name and is a fighting unit, but I cannot remember it now) is really amazing and they left the rest in the shade. The formation flying in the jets and the stunt flying was pretty cool; but what can I tell you, it wasn't the Blue Angels. (lol) .
Today I got to do my penace for not paying attention to the sun; I put on sunscreen, but only once all day. My kids, well, I was very busy greasing them up, so they are just fine. I however, am a lovely red on my arms and, since it's Father's Day, we went sailing. So I got to spend a 90 degree day with long sleeves on to cover my already burnt arms.
I'll remember the sunscreen next time.
*Apropos, I would like to point out that my children were wearing sweaters to school this past week. Then it was 30 degrees this weekend, which works out in the 90s if I am doing the math properly. Next week: snow. Kidding.
Douwe and Daan had enough fun looking up at the planes and helicopters while standing in the parking lot nearby to last them a month; however, we drove there, might as well go in.
They had, I must say, several really excellently planned aspects of crowd control; and at least one very badly planned one. There was a lot of water everywhere, whch was good. There were a lot of first aid units available for people who did not drink the aforementioned and then walked several kilometers on an air force base in the beating hot sun where there is 1) absolutely no air conditioning; and 2) no shade anywhere except in the hangars which strongly resemble really big ovens. (The kids were thrilled each time -- "Look mom, an ambulance!" I think they thought it was part of the show.) * They had people in what I believe were marine uniforms stationed at the entrance with -- of all things-- huge bottles of sunscreen which they glopped into the hand of every person associated with a child and instructed them firmly to put it on the child. There is something to be said for having a really large uniformed person around to dispense the suncreen. I got Absolutely No backtalk about the sunscreen from my sons. Which is unusual. Maybe I should hire a retired marine to come round when we are going out.
Hey, Ernest was Air Force, now that I think of it. I wonder if his uniform still fits. Hmmm.
And they had these little (actually, they were pretty big) stickers which were put on the front or back of every child (depending on the tendency of the wearer to pull it off and throw it away) with the child's first name and the mobile number of the associated adult, which I thought was clever.
Yes, actually, both my kids had them on their backs between the shoulder blades, why do you ask?
Douwe looked at all the exhibits (which were in the hangars) but the only one that really captured his attention was -- are you ready for this? -- the display by the people who do forensics on crashes and other aviation mishaps. Well, the video of exploding helicopters and midair airplane collisions and various airborne vehicles suddenly becoming little balls of flame no doubt had something to do with it. However, he asked me what those people in the video were doing, so I told him they were trying to find out why the crash happened, and they could tell by looking at the pieces (the display thoughtfully included a lot of various pieces of formerly airborne machinery in various states of investigation). He asked how that could be. So we went through the displayed bits and pieces and I talked about them. He said, "It's a puzzle,". I agreed it was like a really big puzzle.
So for a short time he decided that he did not want to be a pilot, he wanted to do puzzles when he grew up. Though after Ernest took him in the F-16 flight simulator, he was back to being a pilot.
Daan enjoyed the mock Battle of Britain quite well, and disliked the F-16s because they make too much noise. He wanted to know what the bombs were, because they were not fireworks, and I told him that sometimes you just need to blow something up, and when you do, then you use a bomb. This seemed to satisfy him, though it did earn me rather a lot of bombing in the tub since then.
The Apache Helicopter stunt team (which has a real name and is a fighting unit, but I cannot remember it now) is really amazing and they left the rest in the shade. The formation flying in the jets and the stunt flying was pretty cool; but what can I tell you, it wasn't the Blue Angels. (lol) .
Today I got to do my penace for not paying attention to the sun; I put on sunscreen, but only once all day. My kids, well, I was very busy greasing them up, so they are just fine. I however, am a lovely red on my arms and, since it's Father's Day, we went sailing. So I got to spend a 90 degree day with long sleeves on to cover my already burnt arms.
I'll remember the sunscreen next time.
*Apropos, I would like to point out that my children were wearing sweaters to school this past week. Then it was 30 degrees this weekend, which works out in the 90s if I am doing the math properly. Next week: snow. Kidding.
This picture has not ben rotated
The damned thing really can fly upside down. It is a very strange thing to see a helicopter fly upside down.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
The Prodigal
Last week, I sent some email to some folks stateside and suggested that I had some free time should they have anything they would like for me to do. I should have known better.
Ernest, who goes where the wild goose goes, has at least for the moment had enough of migration and has come home from Brazil. Just before he left for Brazil, he sold his apartment. He did not buy another one, because he was after all going to Brazil. So the wild goose is apparently nesting for some period of time right here in Brabant. In this very house, in fact. In the room which used to be the room where the computer is.
Since the only time I have to work without sixty million interruptions from my offspring is in fact between 10 pm and 2 am, this was on that front a touch awkward. erahem.
We have no network at home despite having a gracious plenty of computers and the only DSL hookup is in that room. A network is of course the obvious solution; however, this would require some effort from Dearly Beloved who is at this moment after all working two jobs and is not especially in the mood for domestic requests. And anyway despite being a real wizard at it, he hates, hates, hates doing all things related to networks.
The obvious place for the computer was in fact on the other side of the wall with the DSL hookup. Unhappily, that space was occupied by Daan's bed. The obvious place to move Daan's bed was next to the cabinet with the kids' clothes; unhapily this space was occupied by a large empty fish tank big enough for Douwe and Daan to lie down in together (please do not ask me how I am certain of this). And though I have not studied physics in any depth, I am nevertheless familiar with the notion about two objects and the same space at the same time. I am also familiar with the Doctrine of the Small Female Person, to wit: when you need something large moved, mention it in a helpless way to the nearest large bearer of the Y chromosome, then go make tea or something.
Did I mention that Dearly Beloved is presently working two jobs, just finished completely redoing the cellar, and is Not In The Mood for.... surely I did.
Well, the problem was solved quite handily when I brought to Ernests' attention that I really needed to work but could not and added the bonus that if the computer were not in that room, I would not need to be tracking in and out of there several times a day.
So Ernest moved the DSL line and the computer and the fish tank (which is now on its side on the roof and has miraculously transformed into my new cold frame, hot damn can't wait for Fall lettuce) and Daan's bed. Which was very nice of him.
Now I have to go to the Ikea and buy chests of drawers for the kids and move all the book shelves and.... why? Because once you start making changes, it's like rabbits in a warm hutch, they just start multiplying. Hope I can get it all done before July. Oh, yeah, and my work, too.
erahem.
Ernest, who goes where the wild goose goes, has at least for the moment had enough of migration and has come home from Brazil. Just before he left for Brazil, he sold his apartment. He did not buy another one, because he was after all going to Brazil. So the wild goose is apparently nesting for some period of time right here in Brabant. In this very house, in fact. In the room which used to be the room where the computer is.
Since the only time I have to work without sixty million interruptions from my offspring is in fact between 10 pm and 2 am, this was on that front a touch awkward. erahem.
We have no network at home despite having a gracious plenty of computers and the only DSL hookup is in that room. A network is of course the obvious solution; however, this would require some effort from Dearly Beloved who is at this moment after all working two jobs and is not especially in the mood for domestic requests. And anyway despite being a real wizard at it, he hates, hates, hates doing all things related to networks.
The obvious place for the computer was in fact on the other side of the wall with the DSL hookup. Unhappily, that space was occupied by Daan's bed. The obvious place to move Daan's bed was next to the cabinet with the kids' clothes; unhapily this space was occupied by a large empty fish tank big enough for Douwe and Daan to lie down in together (please do not ask me how I am certain of this). And though I have not studied physics in any depth, I am nevertheless familiar with the notion about two objects and the same space at the same time. I am also familiar with the Doctrine of the Small Female Person, to wit: when you need something large moved, mention it in a helpless way to the nearest large bearer of the Y chromosome, then go make tea or something.
Did I mention that Dearly Beloved is presently working two jobs, just finished completely redoing the cellar, and is Not In The Mood for.... surely I did.
Well, the problem was solved quite handily when I brought to Ernests' attention that I really needed to work but could not and added the bonus that if the computer were not in that room, I would not need to be tracking in and out of there several times a day.
So Ernest moved the DSL line and the computer and the fish tank (which is now on its side on the roof and has miraculously transformed into my new cold frame, hot damn can't wait for Fall lettuce) and Daan's bed. Which was very nice of him.
Now I have to go to the Ikea and buy chests of drawers for the kids and move all the book shelves and.... why? Because once you start making changes, it's like rabbits in a warm hutch, they just start multiplying. Hope I can get it all done before July. Oh, yeah, and my work, too.
erahem.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Just another meme
A bow to Jozet, who tagged me on this one.
1. Estimate the total number of books you've owned in your life.
Oh. My. God. Do I have to count the collections of Golden Age Science Fiction and of Erotica which I sold after I got out of college and just before law school respectively because I needed the money? The dirty books made me more money than the science fiction, it must be said.
Do I count jointly owned books? All my children's books were jointly owned and all my books now are jointly owned. My children now own a fair number of my children's books, come to think of it.
And all the books I trashed reading them in the tub and writing in the margins? And the ones I bought and then returned to the Book Nook a week later to trade in on new ones? Do I count the ones I never read or started and tossed?
The stripped copies I used to get by the box from my pals who worked at the bookstore?
In my life? Oh dear.
I have been alive and literate, let's see, on the order of 2 thousand weeks as I figure it.
I want to say a million, since the number of books I have owned seems to me to rival the number of stars in the sky or grains of sand on a beach. Why I have not had to build a whole new house to accommodate them I have no idea. I surely could build a house out of them, should the End Times be closer than we had thought.
But realistically, I would call it about 20,000.
2. What's the last book you bought?
For myself? Or for anybody?
For myself, I recently bought "Q" which is pretty good but slow going; and "The Birth of Venus" which is a nice historical fiction bit of fluff. I also stole a biography of Rasputin from my father when we were in the States.
I bought "The Visitor" and "The DaVinci Code" for Dearly Beloved, the latter because he wanted to read it in English.
Okay, I did not buy "the DaVinci Code", I stole it from my mother. Er, I mean, I mistakenly put it in my suitcase and was aghast to discover it when we got back to Holland, yeah.
Well, I am bringing it back in July, geez.
3. What's the last book you read?
I am now rereading the Rasputin biography and last night I reread the Mists of Avalon becasue I was not up to any nonfiction. I do a lot of rereading these days, as my options for English language books are limited.
4. List 5 books that mean a lot to you.
They all do, I am a reading Don Juan, eternally in love with whatever I am reading at the moment. (Well, as long as we are on the subject of erotica, I suppose a reading Juliette, as I am not seducer but seduced....).
I enjoy reading the side of a box of cornflakes as much as the most scintillating prose, though the cornflakes rarely give me anything to talk about afterwards so I rarely mention them. But I found out which ones I really wanted to keep when we moved and I had to get rid of a lot of stuff. That's when you find out what you cannot live without -- when you have to pay to have it shipped halfway around the world.
1) My OED. I am still limping along with the two volume condensed and will someday own the edition which takes up an entire bookshelf -- is it 12 volumes now? But I love my OED and its little magnifying glass. I also love my Yale Shakespeare especially since I got it at the Book Nook for nearly nothing.
2) My copy of "The Moon is a Harsh Mistress". I love Uncle Bob, even if he only has three male characters and two female characters which he recycles endlessly. And the female characters all have huge tits (except one) and are eternally beautiful and have IQs over 200 and are improbably even tempered and submissive. I don't care, I love Uncle Bob anyway.
3) All my Ted Sturgeon. I don't care if he's not fashionable.
4) "The Cornucopia" a collection of recepts and cooking lore from 1390 to 1899.
5) "The Phantom Toolbooth" and "Three Men in a Boat" come in as a tie for fifth.
My spouse could no doubt add to this list should he read it, he probably remembers which books I agonized over and which ones I tossed without a qualm better than I do. I generally block out traumatic experiences.
6. Tag 5 people!
Sorry, Joze, I don't pass on forwards, I am the end station of all chain letters, electronic and otherwise, and I don't tag people for memes.
Though I would pay large sums to find out sue's answers to these, and actually also my spouse's answers -- but he doesn't even have a blog.
1. Estimate the total number of books you've owned in your life.
Oh. My. God. Do I have to count the collections of Golden Age Science Fiction and of Erotica which I sold after I got out of college and just before law school respectively because I needed the money? The dirty books made me more money than the science fiction, it must be said.
Do I count jointly owned books? All my children's books were jointly owned and all my books now are jointly owned. My children now own a fair number of my children's books, come to think of it.
And all the books I trashed reading them in the tub and writing in the margins? And the ones I bought and then returned to the Book Nook a week later to trade in on new ones? Do I count the ones I never read or started and tossed?
The stripped copies I used to get by the box from my pals who worked at the bookstore?
In my life? Oh dear.
I have been alive and literate, let's see, on the order of 2 thousand weeks as I figure it.
I want to say a million, since the number of books I have owned seems to me to rival the number of stars in the sky or grains of sand on a beach. Why I have not had to build a whole new house to accommodate them I have no idea. I surely could build a house out of them, should the End Times be closer than we had thought.
But realistically, I would call it about 20,000.
2. What's the last book you bought?
For myself? Or for anybody?
For myself, I recently bought "Q" which is pretty good but slow going; and "The Birth of Venus" which is a nice historical fiction bit of fluff. I also stole a biography of Rasputin from my father when we were in the States.
I bought "The Visitor" and "The DaVinci Code" for Dearly Beloved, the latter because he wanted to read it in English.
Okay, I did not buy "the DaVinci Code", I stole it from my mother. Er, I mean, I mistakenly put it in my suitcase and was aghast to discover it when we got back to Holland, yeah.
Well, I am bringing it back in July, geez.
3. What's the last book you read?
I am now rereading the Rasputin biography and last night I reread the Mists of Avalon becasue I was not up to any nonfiction. I do a lot of rereading these days, as my options for English language books are limited.
4. List 5 books that mean a lot to you.
They all do, I am a reading Don Juan, eternally in love with whatever I am reading at the moment. (Well, as long as we are on the subject of erotica, I suppose a reading Juliette, as I am not seducer but seduced....).
I enjoy reading the side of a box of cornflakes as much as the most scintillating prose, though the cornflakes rarely give me anything to talk about afterwards so I rarely mention them. But I found out which ones I really wanted to keep when we moved and I had to get rid of a lot of stuff. That's when you find out what you cannot live without -- when you have to pay to have it shipped halfway around the world.
1) My OED. I am still limping along with the two volume condensed and will someday own the edition which takes up an entire bookshelf -- is it 12 volumes now? But I love my OED and its little magnifying glass. I also love my Yale Shakespeare especially since I got it at the Book Nook for nearly nothing.
2) My copy of "The Moon is a Harsh Mistress". I love Uncle Bob, even if he only has three male characters and two female characters which he recycles endlessly. And the female characters all have huge tits (except one) and are eternally beautiful and have IQs over 200 and are improbably even tempered and submissive. I don't care, I love Uncle Bob anyway.
3) All my Ted Sturgeon. I don't care if he's not fashionable.
4) "The Cornucopia" a collection of recepts and cooking lore from 1390 to 1899.
5) "The Phantom Toolbooth" and "Three Men in a Boat" come in as a tie for fifth.
My spouse could no doubt add to this list should he read it, he probably remembers which books I agonized over and which ones I tossed without a qualm better than I do. I generally block out traumatic experiences.
6. Tag 5 people!
Sorry, Joze, I don't pass on forwards, I am the end station of all chain letters, electronic and otherwise, and I don't tag people for memes.
Though I would pay large sums to find out sue's answers to these, and actually also my spouse's answers -- but he doesn't even have a blog.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
School Pictures
Below you will see Daan's school pictures. There is also a class photo but I cannot get it to scan properly -- imagine a regular preschol class photo with all the kids and teachers, don't they all look pretty much the same? Daan is very clearly saying "cheese" in that one.
In any event, let me know which ones you want and in what sizes, those of you related to me, I have to order by Monday.
In any event, let me know which ones you want and in what sizes, those of you related to me, I have to order by Monday.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Bilingual Marginalia
I now know why Douwe often answers the question "How are you?" with the name of the person speaking to him; and often answers "How was school?" with the name of his teacher that day or the names of the children who were there or sometimes the names of the children who were not there.
It has bothered me a bit now and again, it seems so odd for him to answer a completely different question. I have chalked it up to the language disorder. Well, It was a problem with auditory processing, I think. But, um, somebody else's.
In Dutch, the question is, "Hoe is het met jouw?" (How is it with you) or "Hoe was het op school?". (How was it at school). The first word is pronounced "Hoo".
Did you get it yet? I didn't, for a very long time.
Today he was pretending to talk on the phone with his father. I asked him in Dutch "How is it with your father?"
He said in english, "No one, but he wants me to come,".
So I asked him what he meant. He said, "No on eis with papa, so he wants me,".
Ah. He hears the English word which is pronounced the same way when we ask that question: "Who is it with Papa?". "Who is it with you?" "Who was it at school?"
How did I miss that for so long?
It has bothered me a bit now and again, it seems so odd for him to answer a completely different question. I have chalked it up to the language disorder. Well, It was a problem with auditory processing, I think. But, um, somebody else's.
In Dutch, the question is, "Hoe is het met jouw?" (How is it with you) or "Hoe was het op school?". (How was it at school). The first word is pronounced "Hoo".
Did you get it yet? I didn't, for a very long time.
Today he was pretending to talk on the phone with his father. I asked him in Dutch "How is it with your father?"
He said in english, "No one, but he wants me to come,".
So I asked him what he meant. He said, "No on eis with papa, so he wants me,".
Ah. He hears the English word which is pronounced the same way when we ask that question: "Who is it with Papa?". "Who is it with you?" "Who was it at school?"
How did I miss that for so long?
Friday, June 03, 2005
Another one?
No, mom, I have a ten year IUD for which choice (which I made at the age of 37) I was the butt of much teasing amoung my friends, remember? It was an easy choice, actually. Considering both my mother and my grandmother had more than 2 decade age spreads between their oldest and youngest children; and that neither started having children especially early; and that neither had the benefit of fertility drugs, well. I can do simple math. So, no, not another child.
Would you believe another bird?
You know, my spouse does not even look like St. Francis af Assisi and probably could not tell a statue of St. Francis from a Bologna sandwich. Though he can almost certainly find either Assisi or Bologna on a map as he is very good at geography He is also apparently very good at finding lost little birds.
It isn't fair; he wasn't the little boy who brought home various waifs and strays and nursed them back to health. That was Ernest. Dearly Beloved was the little boy with the dead lizard in his pocket because he stuck it in there and forgot all about it until washday. So what's up with the birds?
The latest addition to our little pensione is a very young jackdaw which is, for those of you in the South, very much like a crow or a magpie. It is in short the anti Noah (Noah being the dove he nursed back to health and released last year). A jackdaw is black with a grey head. They eat, it turns out, primarily meat. It certainly has a beak for eating meat -- one of the websites I was looking at warns that they like shiny things and that you should be careful about your eyes for this reason, woo hoo.
The children have named it Grijsje, which means little grey in Dutch. Well, it's the grey equivalent of naming it Blackie -- Grey-ey doesn't flow right off the fingers or the tongue, does it? Paul wants to call it Loki for the Norse god of chaos. He is aware, as it is sort of a hobby of his, that it was actually Odin who had the two ravens. But he points out that they had really impronounceable names, even for a Dutch person. Apparently Mozart had a pet jackdaw and Paul will settle for naming his bird whatever Mozart named his, if I can find out what it was.
The bird has expressed no opinion.
Did I mention upon whom it has devolved to find out what this thing is supposed to eat and feed it and clean its cage and make sure it is regularly handled and cared for and so on?
Grumble, grumble. I after all have nothing else I need to do.
Would you believe another bird?
You know, my spouse does not even look like St. Francis af Assisi and probably could not tell a statue of St. Francis from a Bologna sandwich. Though he can almost certainly find either Assisi or Bologna on a map as he is very good at geography He is also apparently very good at finding lost little birds.
It isn't fair; he wasn't the little boy who brought home various waifs and strays and nursed them back to health. That was Ernest. Dearly Beloved was the little boy with the dead lizard in his pocket because he stuck it in there and forgot all about it until washday. So what's up with the birds?
The latest addition to our little pensione is a very young jackdaw which is, for those of you in the South, very much like a crow or a magpie. It is in short the anti Noah (Noah being the dove he nursed back to health and released last year). A jackdaw is black with a grey head. They eat, it turns out, primarily meat. It certainly has a beak for eating meat -- one of the websites I was looking at warns that they like shiny things and that you should be careful about your eyes for this reason, woo hoo.
The children have named it Grijsje, which means little grey in Dutch. Well, it's the grey equivalent of naming it Blackie -- Grey-ey doesn't flow right off the fingers or the tongue, does it? Paul wants to call it Loki for the Norse god of chaos. He is aware, as it is sort of a hobby of his, that it was actually Odin who had the two ravens. But he points out that they had really impronounceable names, even for a Dutch person. Apparently Mozart had a pet jackdaw and Paul will settle for naming his bird whatever Mozart named his, if I can find out what it was.
The bird has expressed no opinion.
Did I mention upon whom it has devolved to find out what this thing is supposed to eat and feed it and clean its cage and make sure it is regularly handled and cared for and so on?
Grumble, grumble. I after all have nothing else I need to do.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Busseldag
Today is Bussel-day. Didn't you see it in your calendar?
The Bussel, you see, is the name of a community theater here in town. And Douwe's school is putting on its annual school play. Douwe's class, it appears, will be playing the kabouters, which are gnomes. They are to sing a little song, which Douwe has practiced so often that Daan knows it, too. They are apparently to tumble around at the feet of some other people at some point, as he has been practicing that, also.
Beyond what he does at home, I have no real idea what the play is about or what the kids are supposed to do as this has not been vouchsafed to the parents. We are to be surprised it seems. He is supposed to wear blue jeans, which annoys him very much as kabouters do not wear blue jeans. I have been instructed to put him in the blue jeans over lunch; his teacher has apparently been made aware of his annoyance. Unhappily, I have no idea why the kabouters have to wear blue jeans so I canot explain it. This will make costuming more difficult.
Oh, and after that they will apparently go offstage and be attacked by a large dragon which Douwe will try to fend off long enough for them all to get into the hot air balloon which will evidently be waiting and they will all fly away. But he is not at all sure that he will be able to manage it and it is possible the dragon will eat one or two of them. (Yes, I do think he made that part up, actually.)
Given the imagery of his imaginings, I do hope that this play does not feature a certain dragon slayer's terrified bolting from the stage. We shall see.
The Bussel, you see, is the name of a community theater here in town. And Douwe's school is putting on its annual school play. Douwe's class, it appears, will be playing the kabouters, which are gnomes. They are to sing a little song, which Douwe has practiced so often that Daan knows it, too. They are apparently to tumble around at the feet of some other people at some point, as he has been practicing that, also.
Beyond what he does at home, I have no real idea what the play is about or what the kids are supposed to do as this has not been vouchsafed to the parents. We are to be surprised it seems. He is supposed to wear blue jeans, which annoys him very much as kabouters do not wear blue jeans. I have been instructed to put him in the blue jeans over lunch; his teacher has apparently been made aware of his annoyance. Unhappily, I have no idea why the kabouters have to wear blue jeans so I canot explain it. This will make costuming more difficult.
Oh, and after that they will apparently go offstage and be attacked by a large dragon which Douwe will try to fend off long enough for them all to get into the hot air balloon which will evidently be waiting and they will all fly away. But he is not at all sure that he will be able to manage it and it is possible the dragon will eat one or two of them. (Yes, I do think he made that part up, actually.)
Given the imagery of his imaginings, I do hope that this play does not feature a certain dragon slayer's terrified bolting from the stage. We shall see.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Here is my birthday present
This is the view from my window. Immediately to the right and outside the frame is a door which opens onto the roof.
And this is the reason
That I have not put a table and chairs up there, and there is a really very sound deadbolt lock with a key on the door. Which key is hidden in an entirely different room. That is, this is the view of Nel's lovely garden from my lovely garden. Please note the complete absence of any kind of barrier preventing small boys from dropping from one to the other, inadvertently or otherwise.
*shudder* It will remain a garden of my own for as long as I can manage, or at least until they are old enough to shinny down the drain pipe.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Happy Birthday
Did you know that my beautiful sister shares a birthday with John Wayne and Lenny Kravitz and Hank Williams, Junior? But she is far too young to know who Lenny Kravitz is and is now opening a new window and Googling it.
Her horoscope for today is: Opportunities for friendship, pleasant associations, and enjoyable social interactions occur now. Personal relationships are harmonious and rewarding. Also, financial transactions go smoothly for you and material benefits are possible at this time.
This is the horoscope for Cancer. I know she is technically a Gemini, but due to an unfortunately timed golf tournament she is unquestionably a Cancer despite having been yanked into the world most rudely and too soon.
If she wants to know what her horoscope is not (that is the one for Gemini) she can look it up herself; I know the real deal. I am, after all, and will always be her Big Sister. And if your Big Sister doesn't tell you where it's at, who will?
Happy Birthday, Sistah Thang.
Her horoscope for today is: Opportunities for friendship, pleasant associations, and enjoyable social interactions occur now. Personal relationships are harmonious and rewarding. Also, financial transactions go smoothly for you and material benefits are possible at this time.
This is the horoscope for Cancer. I know she is technically a Gemini, but due to an unfortunately timed golf tournament she is unquestionably a Cancer despite having been yanked into the world most rudely and too soon.
If she wants to know what her horoscope is not (that is the one for Gemini) she can look it up herself; I know the real deal. I am, after all, and will always be her Big Sister. And if your Big Sister doesn't tell you where it's at, who will?
Happy Birthday, Sistah Thang.
Obscurity
It occurred to me recently that nearly everything I know something about or find interesting is obsscure as hell. I suppose I ought to have noticed this sooner. But I didn't so here we are.
Since one of the obscure things I know something about is secret codes and so on, I also know that there is a principle called security by obscurity which is the opposite of full disclosure. The idea is that the exploitable weaknesses in your system ought also to be hidden; part of your code can be the fact that nobody knows where the message is irrespective of where the key is. Perhaps I should found a school of psychology on the notion of obscurity.
I know a great deal about fairy tales and myths and legends. But what I know about them is where they came from and how they travelled and how we figure out what purpose they serve. Did you know that "Ring Around a Rosy" has absolutely not one single thing to do with the Black Plague or with death and was almost certainly written in the 1800s as part of a party game for little girls?
I could, as most of you know, go on and on. Well, actually, I can't as I have to go get Douwe from school and find out what Daan is screaming about. It's his "so happy to be alive" scream, so there's no hurry. But it was sort of a strange thing to realize.
Since one of the obscure things I know something about is secret codes and so on, I also know that there is a principle called security by obscurity which is the opposite of full disclosure. The idea is that the exploitable weaknesses in your system ought also to be hidden; part of your code can be the fact that nobody knows where the message is irrespective of where the key is. Perhaps I should found a school of psychology on the notion of obscurity.
I know a great deal about fairy tales and myths and legends. But what I know about them is where they came from and how they travelled and how we figure out what purpose they serve. Did you know that "Ring Around a Rosy" has absolutely not one single thing to do with the Black Plague or with death and was almost certainly written in the 1800s as part of a party game for little girls?
I could, as most of you know, go on and on. Well, actually, I can't as I have to go get Douwe from school and find out what Daan is screaming about. It's his "so happy to be alive" scream, so there's no hurry. But it was sort of a strange thing to realize.
Love
My kids went through my still unpacked suitcases yesterday like the little Vandals they are, and discovered the Playmobil toys which were concealed by all that other stuff. I bought them almost two years ago now, because there was a big sale and Playmobil never ever goes on sale. I had some thought of holding out for An Occasion, but once they saw them that was sort of it.
There was an airplane and a little grocery store and a little bathroom. Yes, the bathroom seems weird, but I was right to buy it because Daan was fascinated with it. The Playmobil guy took about seven showers that day.
Douwe pounced on the airplane, and many trips have been taken to America in the past 24 hours. Also to space, as he cannot decide whether to be an astronaut or a pilot when he grows up. The pilot of the plane we took home, who shoed the kids around the cockpit, pointed out that to become an astronaut one must first be a pilot. So it is not a question of choice -- I wondered if he had difficulty making up his mind, too, when he was younger. He certainly knew a lot about it.
Douwe loves the airplane, he washed it gently at bathtime and dried it carefully and tucked it up under the covers and sang it a song and kissed it goodnight. I found this rather odd, really.
Then I remembered how my father is about his red Corvette. And decided that there are some things that are enduring.
There was an airplane and a little grocery store and a little bathroom. Yes, the bathroom seems weird, but I was right to buy it because Daan was fascinated with it. The Playmobil guy took about seven showers that day.
Douwe pounced on the airplane, and many trips have been taken to America in the past 24 hours. Also to space, as he cannot decide whether to be an astronaut or a pilot when he grows up. The pilot of the plane we took home, who shoed the kids around the cockpit, pointed out that to become an astronaut one must first be a pilot. So it is not a question of choice -- I wondered if he had difficulty making up his mind, too, when he was younger. He certainly knew a lot about it.
Douwe loves the airplane, he washed it gently at bathtime and dried it carefully and tucked it up under the covers and sang it a song and kissed it goodnight. I found this rather odd, really.
Then I remembered how my father is about his red Corvette. And decided that there are some things that are enduring.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Time and more time
We are talking about time at my house. I have started up a weekly calendar with the nifty magnet thingies we got when we were home. At this moment, our calendar shows a week at a time and the weather today.
The weather magnet got changed three times today, from "cloudy" in the morning to "windy" at lunchtime and "sunny" in the afternoon. May have to rethink that weather thing; there have been days when we would have to use all five options and make some more as well. How many ways can you say "overcast and threatening to rain" in English? In Dutch there are quite a few.
The magnet for "happy birthday" caused quite a stir this morning; I had to explain to Daan again (and again) that when it is someone else's birthday it is not necessarily his birthday, too. Though I finally sang "Happy Birthday" to him at his insistence after he sang it to me. Douwe took me out to the petting zoo and then into town for french fries and a coke after school for my birthday. He even paid for it, though I had to give him the money first.
Well, I suppose I take him places I like for his birthday, too, so we are even. But I was quite surprised; he never did that before. I didn't actually get that it was for my birthday until he said so this evening at bedtime. I figured he just wanted french fries today.
I was the recipient of a rooftop garden for my birthday; I can tell that Nel picked out all the flowers because they were all blue and purple. Conversely, I can tell that Douwe picked out some of the flowers for Nel's garden because they are most decidedly not blue and purple; they are blazing red and yellow and orange. The herbs I picked out myself last week. Dearly Beloved made me two boxes to start the Square Foot Gardening project; only this being Europe it will have to be half meter gardening. I will post some more pictures tomorrow when I get everything into dirt -- the flowers are still in the post they came in. I also have to transplant my strawberries already as they are setting fruit and I think they don't have enough dirt to support his massive growth pattern. In any event, they have to be watered something like twice a day if it doesn't rain.
I also am now the proud owner of a stephanotis plant in a pot and Nel even remembered that I had expressed some small desire to try orchids. So she bought me a smallish version of the orchid we had for our wedding lo these many moons ago.
My sister Jennifer the Younger got her card here on exactly the right day, a feat of timing which may never again be surpassed. Well done. My sister Jennifer the elder bypassed the problem and sent me two e-cards, guaranteed to get there on the right day barring server incidents. (The kids seriously dig the airplane one).
Since the calendar is a hit we are proceeding on the time front with a little kit about time which I picked up in the States. It has a book which covers the notions of time -- seasons, months, and so on -- and has little things you can build and do to do with time. It starts with making your own sundial and progresses to making your own clock, then learning how to tell time from the clock. Douwe took one look at the box and decided we are making the clock tomorrow; the sundial has no moving parts you see.
It lacks a miniature working model of stonehenge to track the solstices and equinoxes, though, bummer. But it seems to have everything else.
However, I expect my children will discard all that twaddle about the cycles of the seasons and phases of the moon and so on and go straight for the real point -- the part that moves and does stuff and can be taken apart is fun, no way around it.
The weather magnet got changed three times today, from "cloudy" in the morning to "windy" at lunchtime and "sunny" in the afternoon. May have to rethink that weather thing; there have been days when we would have to use all five options and make some more as well. How many ways can you say "overcast and threatening to rain" in English? In Dutch there are quite a few.
The magnet for "happy birthday" caused quite a stir this morning; I had to explain to Daan again (and again) that when it is someone else's birthday it is not necessarily his birthday, too. Though I finally sang "Happy Birthday" to him at his insistence after he sang it to me. Douwe took me out to the petting zoo and then into town for french fries and a coke after school for my birthday. He even paid for it, though I had to give him the money first.
Well, I suppose I take him places I like for his birthday, too, so we are even. But I was quite surprised; he never did that before. I didn't actually get that it was for my birthday until he said so this evening at bedtime. I figured he just wanted french fries today.
I was the recipient of a rooftop garden for my birthday; I can tell that Nel picked out all the flowers because they were all blue and purple. Conversely, I can tell that Douwe picked out some of the flowers for Nel's garden because they are most decidedly not blue and purple; they are blazing red and yellow and orange. The herbs I picked out myself last week. Dearly Beloved made me two boxes to start the Square Foot Gardening project; only this being Europe it will have to be half meter gardening. I will post some more pictures tomorrow when I get everything into dirt -- the flowers are still in the post they came in. I also have to transplant my strawberries already as they are setting fruit and I think they don't have enough dirt to support his massive growth pattern. In any event, they have to be watered something like twice a day if it doesn't rain.
I also am now the proud owner of a stephanotis plant in a pot and Nel even remembered that I had expressed some small desire to try orchids. So she bought me a smallish version of the orchid we had for our wedding lo these many moons ago.
My sister Jennifer the Younger got her card here on exactly the right day, a feat of timing which may never again be surpassed. Well done. My sister Jennifer the elder bypassed the problem and sent me two e-cards, guaranteed to get there on the right day barring server incidents. (The kids seriously dig the airplane one).
Since the calendar is a hit we are proceeding on the time front with a little kit about time which I picked up in the States. It has a book which covers the notions of time -- seasons, months, and so on -- and has little things you can build and do to do with time. It starts with making your own sundial and progresses to making your own clock, then learning how to tell time from the clock. Douwe took one look at the box and decided we are making the clock tomorrow; the sundial has no moving parts you see.
It lacks a miniature working model of stonehenge to track the solstices and equinoxes, though, bummer. But it seems to have everything else.
However, I expect my children will discard all that twaddle about the cycles of the seasons and phases of the moon and so on and go straight for the real point -- the part that moves and does stuff and can be taken apart is fun, no way around it.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Jiggety Jig
We are home again, intact, but innocent of luggage. I am given to understand that my luggage should be arriving tomorrow from Cleveland, which seems odd as we changed planes in Cincinatti. Unfair, really, I have never been to Cleveland but my luggage has. I am assured that it is not lost, merely, um, on vacation without me. Still, if they actually can find it and deliver it (which remains to be seen) I will say that having it delivered here is an improvement over having to lug it home. That's a big if, though.
Still, it puts off the horrible unpacking for another day. Though if it never comes, hey at least I don't have to unpack it all.
The kids are asleep, though we are not sending them to school tomorrow, I don't have the energy for any incidents with Douwe's teacher arising from jet lag, whoops I mean his obvious social problems. But if the luggage comes through as promised it will be like Chrismas in May if I know my kids. Daan will have forgotten what was in the luggage; Douwe will have spent the day believing he will never see his brand new sky train again despite many parental assurances.
(Yes, I know, I don't believe it either despite many Delta assurances. No, I did not miss that.)
I cannot sleep. It must have been that last pot of coffee.
Added Tuesday morning: Well, it appears that the luggage is in Holland, the man at Delta, somewhat bemused by my doubting nature, assures me he has seen my luggage with his own eyes and it will indeed be delivered tomorrow morning. So we may be playing that whizbang interactive DVD game yet. Assuming I can get the stupid thing to speak its zeroes and ones in Dutch that is.
Still, it puts off the horrible unpacking for another day. Though if it never comes, hey at least I don't have to unpack it all.
The kids are asleep, though we are not sending them to school tomorrow, I don't have the energy for any incidents with Douwe's teacher arising from jet lag, whoops I mean his obvious social problems. But if the luggage comes through as promised it will be like Chrismas in May if I know my kids. Daan will have forgotten what was in the luggage; Douwe will have spent the day believing he will never see his brand new sky train again despite many parental assurances.
(Yes, I know, I don't believe it either despite many Delta assurances. No, I did not miss that.)
I cannot sleep. It must have been that last pot of coffee.
Added Tuesday morning: Well, it appears that the luggage is in Holland, the man at Delta, somewhat bemused by my doubting nature, assures me he has seen my luggage with his own eyes and it will indeed be delivered tomorrow morning. So we may be playing that whizbang interactive DVD game yet. Assuming I can get the stupid thing to speak its zeroes and ones in Dutch that is.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Move over, Speed
A friend of mine gave me a copy for me of a children's film for the boys. It is about a little boy named Pluk. The conceit is that Pluk rides around in a little tow truck looking for a place to live. Ultimately he finds an empty room on the very top of an apartment building. He has many adventures trying to understand the adult inhabitants of the building and to get them to accept him as a part of their little community. The kids all like him fine. He has some adult supporters and some opposers, and a lot who sort of don't care as long as he doesn't attract attention. But Pluk always comes up with plans. Sometimes they work the way he expects and usually not, but that Pluk, he sure can come up with a plan.
He's very, oh, plucky.
I have had it for some weeks and never put it on for them, one thing and another. Then Dowue was sick and Daan had a day that, well, shall we just say that he was very unhappy that his favorite playmate was not up to snuff and responded by bugging the life out of everybody. He raised harassment to a fine art. When I came in and found him sitting on top of Douwe bouncing up and down, I figured I had better do something or he would not see the age of 4.
Daan cannot stand it when Douwe is sick.
Luckily my eye fell on the Pluk film and I put it on in hopes of distracting the little beas- er, darling. It certainly did do that, Daan likes Pluk just fine. He especially likes the verrrry long horse, which is long enough to hold six people at once and has a wheel in the middle to hold up its belly. He thinks it is cousin to Dr. Seuss's seven hump wump.
But Pluk, well, Pluk may have even displaced Speed Racer in Douwe's fantasy pantheon. Douwe now has a cap just like Pluk's, we had to go buy it today. It replaced the Speed Racer fleece hat he has been wearing when he was being Speed. It turns out Nel had a copy of the book about Pluk, on which the film is based, which she had saved becasue it was a little old for the boys. Now it's Pluk every night and he has to have the book in bed with him.
Pluk's quest is for a "place for Pluk". This is made twice clear in the film, as the theme somng goes, "A place, a place, who has a place for Pluk?" (Well, ok, it's in Dutch, but that's what it means). This story has struck Douwe exactly where he lives. To say he likes the film and the book is to beggar the experience -- he is quite literally galvanized.
It has led to any number of conversations about his own feelings of course. Some part of me is sad I think, that Douwe is hunting for his place. Some part of me thinks that, at 5, he should not have to worry about his place. But, well, there is probably a reason it's a popular book, eh? It is sort of an eternal paradigm, innit?
And some part of me is just very pleased that he now has a paradigm, a structure to start to talk about it more explicitly. It's as though Pluk gave him permission to talk about that.
And some part of me is, I suppose, aware that he's not the only one looking for a place of his own.
He's very, oh, plucky.
I have had it for some weeks and never put it on for them, one thing and another. Then Dowue was sick and Daan had a day that, well, shall we just say that he was very unhappy that his favorite playmate was not up to snuff and responded by bugging the life out of everybody. He raised harassment to a fine art. When I came in and found him sitting on top of Douwe bouncing up and down, I figured I had better do something or he would not see the age of 4.
Daan cannot stand it when Douwe is sick.
Luckily my eye fell on the Pluk film and I put it on in hopes of distracting the little beas- er, darling. It certainly did do that, Daan likes Pluk just fine. He especially likes the verrrry long horse, which is long enough to hold six people at once and has a wheel in the middle to hold up its belly. He thinks it is cousin to Dr. Seuss's seven hump wump.
But Pluk, well, Pluk may have even displaced Speed Racer in Douwe's fantasy pantheon. Douwe now has a cap just like Pluk's, we had to go buy it today. It replaced the Speed Racer fleece hat he has been wearing when he was being Speed. It turns out Nel had a copy of the book about Pluk, on which the film is based, which she had saved becasue it was a little old for the boys. Now it's Pluk every night and he has to have the book in bed with him.
Pluk's quest is for a "place for Pluk". This is made twice clear in the film, as the theme somng goes, "A place, a place, who has a place for Pluk?" (Well, ok, it's in Dutch, but that's what it means). This story has struck Douwe exactly where he lives. To say he likes the film and the book is to beggar the experience -- he is quite literally galvanized.
It has led to any number of conversations about his own feelings of course. Some part of me is sad I think, that Douwe is hunting for his place. Some part of me thinks that, at 5, he should not have to worry about his place. But, well, there is probably a reason it's a popular book, eh? It is sort of an eternal paradigm, innit?
And some part of me is just very pleased that he now has a paradigm, a structure to start to talk about it more explicitly. It's as though Pluk gave him permission to talk about that.
And some part of me is, I suppose, aware that he's not the only one looking for a place of his own.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
To my brother
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday, dear Johnny
Happy Birthday to you.
See you in a week, old man.
Oh, yeah, by the way, remember how you used to say you would always be older than me no matter what I did? Guess what?
You will always be older than me, no matter what I do.
Bwa ha ha.
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday, dear Johnny
Happy Birthday to you.
See you in a week, old man.
Oh, yeah, by the way, remember how you used to say you would always be older than me no matter what I did? Guess what?
You will always be older than me, no matter what I do.
Bwa ha ha.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Milestones
I have now made it through another one, to wit, Douwe's trip to the emergency room.
He has had a low grade fever for about a day and threw up last night. Douwe does not run low grade fevers, ever. He runs high, spiking fevers in the "bake your brain" range. I don't even change stride for anything under 102 with that child. He does not throw up except under the direst of circumstances; the child has an anti gag reflex, I swear it. All of this was sort of disconcerting but not unduly so; I suspected an ear infection or something similar. He suddenly peed in his britches while sitting on the couch, which is also an unheard of event nowadays, and he was as surprised as I was. Also odd. But not exactly earth shaking, he is five, an age much given to, shall we say, putting things off until the very last possible moment.
Then he came to me and complained of pain in his lower back, and Paul picked him up and headed for the emergency room. Because what Douwe does not do, ever, is complain of pain when he is ill. He denies pain and discomfort most vociferously and declares that he is really quite well and wants to leave immediately for school. Even when he cannot move. When he has a fever of 104, he declares that he wants to go to school as soon as he gets warm again.
So Paul was momentarily restrained and we called the doctor (which was closed) and were referred to the evening service who heard this tale and said to bring him in right now. They thought the same thing I thought: kidney infection.
(Relax, Grandmary, he hasn't got a kidney infection).
It appears, however, that he has got a bladder infection. So he is on an antibiotic and will certainly be well by next Wednesday, I am assured. Which of course means he had to actually take the antibiotic. This was achieved by telling him that it will make him feel better and also giving him a Coke afterward (the ultimate bribe).
Daan was so jealous of the attention (and the Coke) that he insisted on having medicine, too. So I gave him some plum syrup in a spoon, which he made a great show of disliking intensely and then said the doctor said he should have some more.
Now, if I can just break a tooth or a bone or something, we'll be all set to come to the States.
He has had a low grade fever for about a day and threw up last night. Douwe does not run low grade fevers, ever. He runs high, spiking fevers in the "bake your brain" range. I don't even change stride for anything under 102 with that child. He does not throw up except under the direst of circumstances; the child has an anti gag reflex, I swear it. All of this was sort of disconcerting but not unduly so; I suspected an ear infection or something similar. He suddenly peed in his britches while sitting on the couch, which is also an unheard of event nowadays, and he was as surprised as I was. Also odd. But not exactly earth shaking, he is five, an age much given to, shall we say, putting things off until the very last possible moment.
Then he came to me and complained of pain in his lower back, and Paul picked him up and headed for the emergency room. Because what Douwe does not do, ever, is complain of pain when he is ill. He denies pain and discomfort most vociferously and declares that he is really quite well and wants to leave immediately for school. Even when he cannot move. When he has a fever of 104, he declares that he wants to go to school as soon as he gets warm again.
So Paul was momentarily restrained and we called the doctor (which was closed) and were referred to the evening service who heard this tale and said to bring him in right now. They thought the same thing I thought: kidney infection.
(Relax, Grandmary, he hasn't got a kidney infection).
It appears, however, that he has got a bladder infection. So he is on an antibiotic and will certainly be well by next Wednesday, I am assured. Which of course means he had to actually take the antibiotic. This was achieved by telling him that it will make him feel better and also giving him a Coke afterward (the ultimate bribe).
Daan was so jealous of the attention (and the Coke) that he insisted on having medicine, too. So I gave him some plum syrup in a spoon, which he made a great show of disliking intensely and then said the doctor said he should have some more.
Now, if I can just break a tooth or a bone or something, we'll be all set to come to the States.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Shopping list
I am now making my shopping list of stuff to get in the States to bring back here. This includes a lot of cold and allergy medicines as I have no plans to develop the strength of character which comes from suffering through the flu without decongestants. My character will just have to look after itself.
It also includes a number of Pixters; it appears we are about to start a new rage here in Holland.
Those of you on the left side of the pond, if you want any imports brought to you, now's the time to list them here or email them to me. They must be small enough to haul home on a bicycle; otherwise, have at it.
It also includes a number of Pixters; it appears we are about to start a new rage here in Holland.
Those of you on the left side of the pond, if you want any imports brought to you, now's the time to list them here or email them to me. They must be small enough to haul home on a bicycle; otherwise, have at it.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Whoppers
Being my offspring, my children lie a lot. This one I cannot put off onto Dearly Beloved; I am afraid that Dearly Beloved cannot lie convincingly. He is the worst liar ever born. The way to tell if he is lying is to notice that he is avoiding direct questions. He cannot stand up for one second to the Bullshit Test.* He really thinks you can tell, so you can.
And besides, he is an arrogant bastard and thinks he is above lying.
I dunno where people get he idea that children are truthful; maybe some children are. Both of mine started lying at around two years old. About the same time they started to use and get humor, the events seemed to be related.
Here's the whopper I got today. Douwe had to explain a certain kind of accident of a delicate nature this evening.
So it seems that Bassie and Adriaan** came in through the window and carried away the toilet to put in their car while they were being chased by the bad guys so they would not have to stop. If they had to stop you see, they might have to pee in a hole in the ground in the desert and then the pee would all come out whoosh bang in a geyser all the way to the sky + and then they would have to stop and clean it up so then the bad guys would get them.
But Douwe, I said, the toilet is right here.
They came back in through the roof window and put it back before you came upstairs but then it was too late.
How did they get back out?
Tinkerbell turned them all yellow and they flew away.
Of course.
*The Bullshit Test goes like this: If you think someone is lying, look them straight in the eye and say, "Oh, bullshit,". If you do not like to swear, you can always say, "pull the other one, it's got bells on" but not if you are American. Some people will fall apart immediately; others begin to protest. When they protest, say "oh, bullshit -- I mean, it's pretty good bullshit, but just bullshit,". Accomplished fabulists can get through the bullshit test. Silly people who feel guilty about lying cannot.
** Bassie and Adriaan are Dutch TV characters whom he he has seen on DVD -- Bassie is a clown and Adriaan is an acrobat and they run around the world solving crimes and hunting down bad guys and occasionally being hunted by them. He has seen them on DVD because the actor who plays Bassie died a year or so ago.
+This actually happens to the bad guy in one of the B&A films, he did not thankfully make this up.
And besides, he is an arrogant bastard and thinks he is above lying.
I dunno where people get he idea that children are truthful; maybe some children are. Both of mine started lying at around two years old. About the same time they started to use and get humor, the events seemed to be related.
Here's the whopper I got today. Douwe had to explain a certain kind of accident of a delicate nature this evening.
So it seems that Bassie and Adriaan** came in through the window and carried away the toilet to put in their car while they were being chased by the bad guys so they would not have to stop. If they had to stop you see, they might have to pee in a hole in the ground in the desert and then the pee would all come out whoosh bang in a geyser all the way to the sky + and then they would have to stop and clean it up so then the bad guys would get them.
But Douwe, I said, the toilet is right here.
They came back in through the roof window and put it back before you came upstairs but then it was too late.
How did they get back out?
Tinkerbell turned them all yellow and they flew away.
Of course.
*The Bullshit Test goes like this: If you think someone is lying, look them straight in the eye and say, "Oh, bullshit,". If you do not like to swear, you can always say, "pull the other one, it's got bells on" but not if you are American. Some people will fall apart immediately; others begin to protest. When they protest, say "oh, bullshit -- I mean, it's pretty good bullshit, but just bullshit,". Accomplished fabulists can get through the bullshit test. Silly people who feel guilty about lying cannot.
** Bassie and Adriaan are Dutch TV characters whom he he has seen on DVD -- Bassie is a clown and Adriaan is an acrobat and they run around the world solving crimes and hunting down bad guys and occasionally being hunted by them. He has seen them on DVD because the actor who plays Bassie died a year or so ago.
+This actually happens to the bad guy in one of the B&A films, he did not thankfully make this up.
The view
My bedroom looks out onto a roof. You can get to the roof from a door or a window. Most of the roof is flat, though there is a pointy bit sticking up. This space simply begs for a rooftop garden, with maybe a very small table and two chairs. I took one look at it and my memory dredged up a vision of Square Foot Gardening (who here is old enough to remember Square Foot Gardening?).
I should really introduce Square Foot Gardening to Holland, or somebody should. It was practically created for this land of maniac orderliness and limited space.
Anyway, my roof gets sun all the livelong day. And yet, my vista was until recently limited to those flowerpot looking thingies on a roof and tar paper shingles. Well, it looks like tar paper. This is partly because I have been clinging to the transitory nature of our stay here. However, what with the major adjustment issues we have been dealing with, there has been universal agreement on one thing: we have to work out some way to not disrupt things again at least until the new school year starts. Which means a comittment of at least one growing season to staying here.
So of course I loaded up my kids in the wagon (no, it isn't litle, and it isn't red, either) and went off in search of growing things. This dredged up a long standing argument in my home, which is what to grow. I believe in things I can eat; when I say "garden" you might just as well tack the word "kitchen" on the front of it. I want a 12 month kitchen garden. I want basil and I want thyme and I want mint and the occasional tomato. I want beans and if I had an arbor I would grow watermelons and squash on it. * My own personal specialty used to be edible wild plants -- drop me in the woods anywhere in Georgia and I can come up with a meal.
Hey, what can I tell you, my mother collected a basement full of canned goods against the depradations of life, I collected information on what to do when the can opener gave out.
Dearly Beloved wants flowers. Specifically, he wants cutting flowers. Dearly Beloved has a tremendous affinity for cut flowers. He can walk over to the flowers I put in a vase, touch them twice, and voila, a perfect arrangement worthy of the pages of House Beautiful appears from nowhere. He also knows what container to get for which flowers, and does not limit his options to vases. Cut flowers even live longer when he puts them in water, with or without 7-Up. It is very irritating, I must say.
Now, Dearly Beloved has no plans to mess about with dirt. It is my job is to make flowers appear in a garden, should we have one. He has been known to operate a tiller on my behalf, though this required my looking extremely small (no trick) and helpless at the appropriate time. Beyond that, forget it.
And I know nothing about flowers, except that they come in annual and perennial varieties and seem to require a great deal of sun. Well, okay that its't true either. I know a lot about angelica, carnations, dianthus, chamomile, nasturtiums, pansies, marigold, violets. **
So there I am looking at plants and seeds. I get a bunch of bulbs to toss about -- even I cannot screw up bulbs, and I have in my house two pairs of hands which very much like to get muddy, so bulbs are a natural. No, actually, I did not get tulips (even though they are edible, too) . I did get freesia, because I like the way it smells.
And I got a very few things to eat. Tomatoes and peppers and strawberries and basil and thyme and...erahem.
So I took them all home and we went to plant them. The strawberries went in two homemade strawberry jars which began life as containers for race cars. The seeds I put in plastic boxes to sprout and set them out with the rest.
The it started to rain. And rain. And rain. And I did not put drainange holes on my sprouting boxes. So I am now trying to spout seeds in a box which alternates between two states: dry and in full sun; or a puddle.
Oh, you mean like the rest of Holland?
I think I shall have to try again, with drainage holes. I think I drowned the little buggers.
But the strawberries are very happy, so I may just wind up with a view of strawberry fields on the roof. That would be okay, too. And I can eat them.
*Here's an oddity, by the way: Dutch does not apparently contain a word for "squash", that is, the members of the genus cucurbita known in English as squash. It has individual words for yellow squash and butternut squash and acorn squash and zucchini and so on. But of the three Dutch folks I have had occasion to discuss this matter with (hey, squash does not come up in daily conversation, does it?) not one of them ever related a zucchini to, say, a butternut or a pumpkin. The only reason it came up in the first place is that I was trying to explain why the best pumpkin pies either use canned or use a combination of pumpkin and butternut squash. +
+Because fresh pumpkin is watery and and has very little taste unless you have a massive volume to start with and then cook it down for ever, that's why.
**note to Carol: yes, I know these are all edible flowers, that's why I know something about them. Don't tell anyone else.
I should really introduce Square Foot Gardening to Holland, or somebody should. It was practically created for this land of maniac orderliness and limited space.
Anyway, my roof gets sun all the livelong day. And yet, my vista was until recently limited to those flowerpot looking thingies on a roof and tar paper shingles. Well, it looks like tar paper. This is partly because I have been clinging to the transitory nature of our stay here. However, what with the major adjustment issues we have been dealing with, there has been universal agreement on one thing: we have to work out some way to not disrupt things again at least until the new school year starts. Which means a comittment of at least one growing season to staying here.
So of course I loaded up my kids in the wagon (no, it isn't litle, and it isn't red, either) and went off in search of growing things. This dredged up a long standing argument in my home, which is what to grow. I believe in things I can eat; when I say "garden" you might just as well tack the word "kitchen" on the front of it. I want a 12 month kitchen garden. I want basil and I want thyme and I want mint and the occasional tomato. I want beans and if I had an arbor I would grow watermelons and squash on it. * My own personal specialty used to be edible wild plants -- drop me in the woods anywhere in Georgia and I can come up with a meal.
Hey, what can I tell you, my mother collected a basement full of canned goods against the depradations of life, I collected information on what to do when the can opener gave out.
Dearly Beloved wants flowers. Specifically, he wants cutting flowers. Dearly Beloved has a tremendous affinity for cut flowers. He can walk over to the flowers I put in a vase, touch them twice, and voila, a perfect arrangement worthy of the pages of House Beautiful appears from nowhere. He also knows what container to get for which flowers, and does not limit his options to vases. Cut flowers even live longer when he puts them in water, with or without 7-Up. It is very irritating, I must say.
Now, Dearly Beloved has no plans to mess about with dirt. It is my job is to make flowers appear in a garden, should we have one. He has been known to operate a tiller on my behalf, though this required my looking extremely small (no trick) and helpless at the appropriate time. Beyond that, forget it.
And I know nothing about flowers, except that they come in annual and perennial varieties and seem to require a great deal of sun. Well, okay that its't true either. I know a lot about angelica, carnations, dianthus, chamomile, nasturtiums, pansies, marigold, violets. **
So there I am looking at plants and seeds. I get a bunch of bulbs to toss about -- even I cannot screw up bulbs, and I have in my house two pairs of hands which very much like to get muddy, so bulbs are a natural. No, actually, I did not get tulips (even though they are edible, too) . I did get freesia, because I like the way it smells.
And I got a very few things to eat. Tomatoes and peppers and strawberries and basil and thyme and...erahem.
So I took them all home and we went to plant them. The strawberries went in two homemade strawberry jars which began life as containers for race cars. The seeds I put in plastic boxes to sprout and set them out with the rest.
The it started to rain. And rain. And rain. And I did not put drainange holes on my sprouting boxes. So I am now trying to spout seeds in a box which alternates between two states: dry and in full sun; or a puddle.
Oh, you mean like the rest of Holland?
I think I shall have to try again, with drainage holes. I think I drowned the little buggers.
But the strawberries are very happy, so I may just wind up with a view of strawberry fields on the roof. That would be okay, too. And I can eat them.
*Here's an oddity, by the way: Dutch does not apparently contain a word for "squash", that is, the members of the genus cucurbita known in English as squash. It has individual words for yellow squash and butternut squash and acorn squash and zucchini and so on. But of the three Dutch folks I have had occasion to discuss this matter with (hey, squash does not come up in daily conversation, does it?) not one of them ever related a zucchini to, say, a butternut or a pumpkin. The only reason it came up in the first place is that I was trying to explain why the best pumpkin pies either use canned or use a combination of pumpkin and butternut squash. +
+Because fresh pumpkin is watery and and has very little taste unless you have a massive volume to start with and then cook it down for ever, that's why.
**note to Carol: yes, I know these are all edible flowers, that's why I know something about them. Don't tell anyone else.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Exactly Zero
Dearly Beloved is now engaged in a business venture. He is very nervous about this, because everyone agrees that Dearly Beloved is not the entrepreneurial type. Mostly the problem is that he cannot be trusted with bits of paper. They flutter, willy nilly, from his hands and land in some sort of portable black hole which follows him around just for the purpose of sucking up important bits of paper and whisking them off to the Antipodes.
Bits of paper are, as we all know, the soul of entrepreneurship. Okay, not its soul; but maybe its digestive system. My better half bears the same relationship to organization that a box of figs has to a Monster Truck Rally, okay?
Happily for him, his wife is an obsessive compulsive nutburger as regards bits of paper. Sometimes I scan them and put them on my hard drive and sometimes I file them and sometimes I put them in big old honking D-ring binders with tabs and indexes. SOmetimes I even color code them. Very occasionally I throw away a bit of paper; but not often. I do not, however, lose bits of paper.
Also happily for him, his wife has been doing bookkeeping for small businesses since she could sharpen a pencil and legibly write the same thing in three different books with columns in them. Unhappily for him, the program he bought to keep his books is, erahem, in Dutch.
Well, of course it is; this is Holland. It is his native language. He figured with a little translation, this could all be worked out. So it went like this:
HE: See, I can't get it to come out right, this entry comes up twice so it shows I have paid this amount two times.
SHE: Well, you put it in your Accounts payable and also in your checkbook as a payment. So you did pay it twice. You have to put in a correcting entry in one or the other to move one of them from the debit to the credit column.
HE: I can't; it's already in the Big Book.
SHE: The what?
HE: The Big Book, you now, the Big Book.
SHE: The Big Book is a collection of fairy tales, what are you talking about?
HE: see, when you input the numbers it calculates the btw....
SHE: The what?
HE: The btw, it's a product.
SHE: uh huh. The by the way? The electronics store? The what?
HE: It's an acronym, it stands for >incomprehensible, mind numbingly long string of gibberish which apparently translates to the value added tax<
SHE: Uh huh, does that actually mean something?
HE: Yeah, it means the VAT.
SHE: Right. Why does it calculate the VAT?
I think we should draw the curtain over this little domestic scene at this point. Suffice it to say that Dearl Beloved is not so happy as I am to simply put in entries which say "correction of previous idiotic error" in order to make it all come out the way it should. He wants to knwo why. And there is no why, there is only do, as they say. However, this ultimately futile conversation somehow led to the following inquiry from my spouse: Why do the columns have to add up to zero?
I have never known the answer to this question. It is just an Ultimate Truth; as the sun rises and sets, as little pitchers have big ears, as what goes up must come down, the Columns Must Add Up to Zero. They may not flirt with an amusing little taste of +.75 or display a shocking lack of good taste with a -.47. Absolute Zero is required. If it does not add up to zero, you must perforce invent something else to put in (referring to your complete Chart of Accounts for the proper coding) in one column or another to make it equal zero. I am the only person I know who had once an entry in the chart of accounts for "Adjustment to make everything equal zero and keep Bruce happy". Bruce thought it was funny; I have not had occasion to check Warren's opinion.
Anyone with a good answer which will satisfy the existential wonderings of my spouse, please feel free. I am a practical person; "because otherwise the accountant becomes very unhappy" was always good enough for me.
Bits of paper are, as we all know, the soul of entrepreneurship. Okay, not its soul; but maybe its digestive system. My better half bears the same relationship to organization that a box of figs has to a Monster Truck Rally, okay?
Happily for him, his wife is an obsessive compulsive nutburger as regards bits of paper. Sometimes I scan them and put them on my hard drive and sometimes I file them and sometimes I put them in big old honking D-ring binders with tabs and indexes. SOmetimes I even color code them. Very occasionally I throw away a bit of paper; but not often. I do not, however, lose bits of paper.
Also happily for him, his wife has been doing bookkeeping for small businesses since she could sharpen a pencil and legibly write the same thing in three different books with columns in them. Unhappily for him, the program he bought to keep his books is, erahem, in Dutch.
Well, of course it is; this is Holland. It is his native language. He figured with a little translation, this could all be worked out. So it went like this:
HE: See, I can't get it to come out right, this entry comes up twice so it shows I have paid this amount two times.
SHE: Well, you put it in your Accounts payable and also in your checkbook as a payment. So you did pay it twice. You have to put in a correcting entry in one or the other to move one of them from the debit to the credit column.
HE: I can't; it's already in the Big Book.
SHE: The what?
HE: The Big Book, you now, the Big Book.
SHE: The Big Book is a collection of fairy tales, what are you talking about?
HE: see, when you input the numbers it calculates the btw....
SHE: The what?
HE: The btw, it's a product.
SHE: uh huh. The by the way? The electronics store? The what?
HE: It's an acronym, it stands for >incomprehensible, mind numbingly long string of gibberish which apparently translates to the value added tax<
SHE: Uh huh, does that actually mean something?
HE: Yeah, it means the VAT.
SHE: Right. Why does it calculate the VAT?
I think we should draw the curtain over this little domestic scene at this point. Suffice it to say that Dearl Beloved is not so happy as I am to simply put in entries which say "correction of previous idiotic error" in order to make it all come out the way it should. He wants to knwo why. And there is no why, there is only do, as they say. However, this ultimately futile conversation somehow led to the following inquiry from my spouse: Why do the columns have to add up to zero?
I have never known the answer to this question. It is just an Ultimate Truth; as the sun rises and sets, as little pitchers have big ears, as what goes up must come down, the Columns Must Add Up to Zero. They may not flirt with an amusing little taste of +.75 or display a shocking lack of good taste with a -.47. Absolute Zero is required. If it does not add up to zero, you must perforce invent something else to put in (referring to your complete Chart of Accounts for the proper coding) in one column or another to make it equal zero. I am the only person I know who had once an entry in the chart of accounts for "Adjustment to make everything equal zero and keep Bruce happy". Bruce thought it was funny; I have not had occasion to check Warren's opinion.
Anyone with a good answer which will satisfy the existential wonderings of my spouse, please feel free. I am a practical person; "because otherwise the accountant becomes very unhappy" was always good enough for me.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
I just think you all should know
What with the Looming Deadline and all, that I don't have to file my taxes until June. Pthththt.
I just found this out during an email exchange with my accountant, the Amazing Warren. I was worried about Warren: we found each other by default, which is never a good start to a relationship. It goes like this. The Charming Bruce, his predecessor, was a witness in a case I was working on. Under cross examination, Bruce just kept answering questions. Kindly. In a friendly way. Adding information as it occurred to him, right off the top of his head. Bruce had allegedly never been a witness before. It was an impressive performance, and one which could really only have been given by a person who really knew his stuff cold and was not at all worried about the answers.
So the following tax time, I called him up. He did a fine job. I sent him a couple of clients, even -- at that time I did a lot of domestic relations work and I had occasion to bump into a number of people with financial woes. One of the things I liked about the Charming Bruce was, if he didn't know how to handle somebody's problem, he told them so and sent them to someone who did know how. This trait is less common than you might think.
But then the Charming Bruce went to work full time for one of his clients and handed me off to The Amazing Warren. I was, to tell you the truth, not at all pleased. This is usually a bad sign in an accountant -- being handed off is sometimes just ine step from having your taxes done by office personnel plugging the numbers into a program. Well, if I wanted a half-assed job, I could do it myself.
However, The Amazing Warren (despite his annoying if very professional habit of charging me for phone calls) is great. He answers my emails. He asks questions. He nags me when I don't answer his emails because I am too busy going to school and back four times a day. Such a comfort to know that somebody cares about my IRA contribution getting there on time.
I just found this out during an email exchange with my accountant, the Amazing Warren. I was worried about Warren: we found each other by default, which is never a good start to a relationship. It goes like this. The Charming Bruce, his predecessor, was a witness in a case I was working on. Under cross examination, Bruce just kept answering questions. Kindly. In a friendly way. Adding information as it occurred to him, right off the top of his head. Bruce had allegedly never been a witness before. It was an impressive performance, and one which could really only have been given by a person who really knew his stuff cold and was not at all worried about the answers.
So the following tax time, I called him up. He did a fine job. I sent him a couple of clients, even -- at that time I did a lot of domestic relations work and I had occasion to bump into a number of people with financial woes. One of the things I liked about the Charming Bruce was, if he didn't know how to handle somebody's problem, he told them so and sent them to someone who did know how. This trait is less common than you might think.
But then the Charming Bruce went to work full time for one of his clients and handed me off to The Amazing Warren. I was, to tell you the truth, not at all pleased. This is usually a bad sign in an accountant -- being handed off is sometimes just ine step from having your taxes done by office personnel plugging the numbers into a program. Well, if I wanted a half-assed job, I could do it myself.
However, The Amazing Warren (despite his annoying if very professional habit of charging me for phone calls) is great. He answers my emails. He asks questions. He nags me when I don't answer his emails because I am too busy going to school and back four times a day. Such a comfort to know that somebody cares about my IRA contribution getting there on time.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Persistence
”An invincible determination can accomplish almost anything and in this lies the great distinction between great men and little men.” --Thomas Fuller
My son Daan is a very small person. He is no longer beneath the growth charts in size, as you know, but he still makes the mommies of the two year olds on the playground nervous. Because he is exactly their size, you see, or sometimes smaller, but has the coordination of a three year old. The dads occasionally sidle up to me and ask my how long he has been able to do >that<. I generally say something soothing like, "Since he turned three, maybe a couple months after,". Sometimes I consider saying, "Oh, I guess about a year or so," but I usually do not. I only think about it; I find I grow kinder as I grow older.
However, Daan wants to do everything his brother can do. This is of course impossible, two years is a large gap at this age. But no one has shared this with him. So he just sets out to do it. And if he is not prevented due to his mother's concern for life and limb, it is astonishing how often he manages to pull it off.
Today at the playground, Daan decided he wanted to go on the big kids' climbing structure and slide. This thing is two stories high. It is essentially a metal cage shaped like a house, and you can either climb up the outside on climbing nets or the inside on ladders. The ladders are inside square enclosed tunnels which look like air conditioning shafts and the exits are on the side. So you have to climb the ladder and then transfer sideways out the door. Daan declared his intention to do it. I told him he should go on the other slide instead. So he went to the ladder and Looked At Me.
Okay, I said. (Secretly thanking all the saints that it was not the climbing net on the outside). But I am not going to help you. Not at all. If you can't do it, we go to the other one. He started climbing. I climbed after him.
At the first story he climbed directly out of the hole in the floor, stood up, put his hands over his head like a boxer and danced around. No, he has never seen Rocky, and he has never done that before. I have no idea where he got that. The Collective Unconscious I suppose.
He went to the second ladder. At the top, he sort of turned around and Looked again. Nope, I said. If you can't do it, we are going to the other slide. (Please don't let him be able to do it, saints, I thought).
He did it. He is too small to do it. But he did it. It took forever. I was glad I was there, because I at least held off the other kids who were coming up the ladder and routinely just climb over the smaller, slower kids. Including his brother, by the way, before anybody starts speculating on the childrens' behavior or parentage. But even the big boys know better than to pull that with Somebody's Mom on the ladder.
He stood on the top rung and put his elbow over the floor to his right. Then he put his weight on the elbow and brought his other hand around to grab the floor. (The floor is made of gridwork, you can see right through it. It was probably really scary for those unfortunate souls with a fear of heights of whom I do not know even one) Then he dragged himself off the ladder with his hands. He is too small to keep his feet on the ladder, it's just too far. Then he stood up and said "you can come on now," to me and went to the slide.
So it's a very fast slide, and two stories high. Polished metal in a tunnel. He was scared to death. But he did it agin. Twice. The second time, I had to stay on the gound and he did it really himself. But he went with Douwe on the slide. The third time he got all the way to the top and stopped. "You have to slide down, Daan, you cannot climb down," I said. "It's scary, though," He said. "Do I need to come get you?" I said. He considered the matter with great seriousness and said "Yes, I think so,".
So I did. And he went off to play in the sand.
My son Daan is a very small person. He is no longer beneath the growth charts in size, as you know, but he still makes the mommies of the two year olds on the playground nervous. Because he is exactly their size, you see, or sometimes smaller, but has the coordination of a three year old. The dads occasionally sidle up to me and ask my how long he has been able to do >that<. I generally say something soothing like, "Since he turned three, maybe a couple months after,". Sometimes I consider saying, "Oh, I guess about a year or so," but I usually do not. I only think about it; I find I grow kinder as I grow older.
However, Daan wants to do everything his brother can do. This is of course impossible, two years is a large gap at this age. But no one has shared this with him. So he just sets out to do it. And if he is not prevented due to his mother's concern for life and limb, it is astonishing how often he manages to pull it off.
Today at the playground, Daan decided he wanted to go on the big kids' climbing structure and slide. This thing is two stories high. It is essentially a metal cage shaped like a house, and you can either climb up the outside on climbing nets or the inside on ladders. The ladders are inside square enclosed tunnels which look like air conditioning shafts and the exits are on the side. So you have to climb the ladder and then transfer sideways out the door. Daan declared his intention to do it. I told him he should go on the other slide instead. So he went to the ladder and Looked At Me.
Okay, I said. (Secretly thanking all the saints that it was not the climbing net on the outside). But I am not going to help you. Not at all. If you can't do it, we go to the other one. He started climbing. I climbed after him.
At the first story he climbed directly out of the hole in the floor, stood up, put his hands over his head like a boxer and danced around. No, he has never seen Rocky, and he has never done that before. I have no idea where he got that. The Collective Unconscious I suppose.
He went to the second ladder. At the top, he sort of turned around and Looked again. Nope, I said. If you can't do it, we are going to the other slide. (Please don't let him be able to do it, saints, I thought).
He did it. He is too small to do it. But he did it. It took forever. I was glad I was there, because I at least held off the other kids who were coming up the ladder and routinely just climb over the smaller, slower kids. Including his brother, by the way, before anybody starts speculating on the childrens' behavior or parentage. But even the big boys know better than to pull that with Somebody's Mom on the ladder.
He stood on the top rung and put his elbow over the floor to his right. Then he put his weight on the elbow and brought his other hand around to grab the floor. (The floor is made of gridwork, you can see right through it. It was probably really scary for those unfortunate souls with a fear of heights of whom I do not know even one) Then he dragged himself off the ladder with his hands. He is too small to keep his feet on the ladder, it's just too far. Then he stood up and said "you can come on now," to me and went to the slide.
So it's a very fast slide, and two stories high. Polished metal in a tunnel. He was scared to death. But he did it agin. Twice. The second time, I had to stay on the gound and he did it really himself. But he went with Douwe on the slide. The third time he got all the way to the top and stopped. "You have to slide down, Daan, you cannot climb down," I said. "It's scary, though," He said. "Do I need to come get you?" I said. He considered the matter with great seriousness and said "Yes, I think so,".
So I did. And he went off to play in the sand.
The Bicycle
"I thought of that while riding my bicycle."
-Albert Einstein, on the Theory of Relativity.
Some people say there are more bicycles in Holland than there are people. Allowing for the number circulating on the black market, this may be true -- the rate of bicycle theft is enormous. It is a cheap and relatively convenient method of transportation in a country with a relatively temperate climate and no hills. The official numbers, I hear, are that there are 15 million people in Holland and 12 million bicycles. I have one, I got it second hand for 15 euros. It was, in the Land of the Giants, necessary for me to get a girls' bike. But it is big enough to put Daan's baby seat on the back and also to hang various bags of groceries from the handlebars, an operation which becomes second nature faster than you might think if the alternative is to haul 5 kilos of potatoes home on foot.
Douwe, of course, has one. It came equipped with training wheels, and he got it when he was just at 4 or maybe a little younger. There was a High Council on the training wheels, in which it was decided that maybe it would be okay if they stayed on, since he is after all American, a country where a bicycle is not a mode of transportation but a toy. However, the recommended practice I hear is to drop them on a bike without training wheels because otherwise they become dependent upon the wheels and don't want to take them off. Douwe might become overly dependent on the training wheels, after all. At four years old.
Did I mention at any time the enormous and unrelenting emphasis on independence in children here in Holland?
So anyway, the training wheels. Several High Councils have been held since on the training wheels. I do not actually care about the training wheels, he does not use them except when banking around turns at high speeds. So I welcomed anyone who cared to take it on to take the wheels off and explain the whole independence thing to Douwe while I read a good book. I got no takers and the High Council was in recess.
So yesterday we went to Eindhoven to visit friends. They have two lovely children, aged 4 and 5. We went to the playground, because it is Spring here and the weather is terrific. Douwe rode the pedal cart, Daan rode the push car riding toy, the kids of our friends rode their bikes. On the way home, the 4 year old got tired and wanted to be carried. So I would up bringing her bike, as the only person there short enough to do it without bending over. Douwe decided he wanted to ride her bike. Her bike has no training wheels.
Before I could point this out, he jumped on and rode away. Just like that. I hollered "way to go, look at you,". Or something similar, forgetting momentarily that this is Douwe. He looked around, startled, looked up and saw his father coming back to see what the commotion was about, and fell off. And refused to get back on, because of course by this time everyone was looking at him and trying to get him to get back on and telling him how great he was.
Finally we just went on back with him pushing the bike. (And me pushing the pedal car as my penance, oh my back). And we all resolutely ignored the bike for the next twenty mnmnutes, whereupon he got on it again and rode away. To no fanfare of any kind.
Today we went to the park in Breda with the bike, because he was riding the bike just fine but stopping the bike with difficulty. He kept falling off instead of getting off. HIs solution was to fall off the bike on purpose for about twenty minutes. I think a lot of Dutch people think I am insane, because I spent twenty minutes or so with my 5 year old like this: he gets on the bike, he rides it into the grass, he brakes abruptly and lays it down (just like riders of motorcycles do, actually, he just laid it down and stood up through the process) and comes running over to me shouting exuberantly that he fell off his bike. "I fell, mom, I really fell!!". To which I replied with great enthusiasm, "You really are getting good at falling aren't you? I think you should practice some more, though,". We did get a few Looks.
So anyway, within a short period, his grandmother took over and I took Daan to the sand box to play. And Douwe can now ride a bike. Without any lingering dependency on training wheels.
He has joined the ranks of Albert Hoffman, who accidentally ingested LSD-25 and set off for home on his bicycle, hallucinating all the way. Lillian Russell, who recevied from Diamond Jim Brady a gold-plated bicycle with mother-of pearl handlebars and spokes with chips of diamonds, pearls, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. William Hastie, who became Dean of Howard Law School, and rode a bicycle to school rather than sit in a segregated streetcar.
Well, and Einstein of course, but we already knew that.
-Albert Einstein, on the Theory of Relativity.
Some people say there are more bicycles in Holland than there are people. Allowing for the number circulating on the black market, this may be true -- the rate of bicycle theft is enormous. It is a cheap and relatively convenient method of transportation in a country with a relatively temperate climate and no hills. The official numbers, I hear, are that there are 15 million people in Holland and 12 million bicycles. I have one, I got it second hand for 15 euros. It was, in the Land of the Giants, necessary for me to get a girls' bike. But it is big enough to put Daan's baby seat on the back and also to hang various bags of groceries from the handlebars, an operation which becomes second nature faster than you might think if the alternative is to haul 5 kilos of potatoes home on foot.
Douwe, of course, has one. It came equipped with training wheels, and he got it when he was just at 4 or maybe a little younger. There was a High Council on the training wheels, in which it was decided that maybe it would be okay if they stayed on, since he is after all American, a country where a bicycle is not a mode of transportation but a toy. However, the recommended practice I hear is to drop them on a bike without training wheels because otherwise they become dependent upon the wheels and don't want to take them off. Douwe might become overly dependent on the training wheels, after all. At four years old.
Did I mention at any time the enormous and unrelenting emphasis on independence in children here in Holland?
So anyway, the training wheels. Several High Councils have been held since on the training wheels. I do not actually care about the training wheels, he does not use them except when banking around turns at high speeds. So I welcomed anyone who cared to take it on to take the wheels off and explain the whole independence thing to Douwe while I read a good book. I got no takers and the High Council was in recess.
So yesterday we went to Eindhoven to visit friends. They have two lovely children, aged 4 and 5. We went to the playground, because it is Spring here and the weather is terrific. Douwe rode the pedal cart, Daan rode the push car riding toy, the kids of our friends rode their bikes. On the way home, the 4 year old got tired and wanted to be carried. So I would up bringing her bike, as the only person there short enough to do it without bending over. Douwe decided he wanted to ride her bike. Her bike has no training wheels.
Before I could point this out, he jumped on and rode away. Just like that. I hollered "way to go, look at you,". Or something similar, forgetting momentarily that this is Douwe. He looked around, startled, looked up and saw his father coming back to see what the commotion was about, and fell off. And refused to get back on, because of course by this time everyone was looking at him and trying to get him to get back on and telling him how great he was.
Finally we just went on back with him pushing the bike. (And me pushing the pedal car as my penance, oh my back). And we all resolutely ignored the bike for the next twenty mnmnutes, whereupon he got on it again and rode away. To no fanfare of any kind.
Today we went to the park in Breda with the bike, because he was riding the bike just fine but stopping the bike with difficulty. He kept falling off instead of getting off. HIs solution was to fall off the bike on purpose for about twenty minutes. I think a lot of Dutch people think I am insane, because I spent twenty minutes or so with my 5 year old like this: he gets on the bike, he rides it into the grass, he brakes abruptly and lays it down (just like riders of motorcycles do, actually, he just laid it down and stood up through the process) and comes running over to me shouting exuberantly that he fell off his bike. "I fell, mom, I really fell!!". To which I replied with great enthusiasm, "You really are getting good at falling aren't you? I think you should practice some more, though,". We did get a few Looks.
So anyway, within a short period, his grandmother took over and I took Daan to the sand box to play. And Douwe can now ride a bike. Without any lingering dependency on training wheels.
He has joined the ranks of Albert Hoffman, who accidentally ingested LSD-25 and set off for home on his bicycle, hallucinating all the way. Lillian Russell, who recevied from Diamond Jim Brady a gold-plated bicycle with mother-of pearl handlebars and spokes with chips of diamonds, pearls, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. William Hastie, who became Dean of Howard Law School, and rode a bicycle to school rather than sit in a segregated streetcar.
Well, and Einstein of course, but we already knew that.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Sunday, March 27, 2005
The next thing we did
Was to go to the local petting zoo. They had a pony ride and they had painting and they had an easter egg hunt. It was the only easter egg hunt I could find, so off we went.
When you went through to the easter egg hunt area, they gave you a little card with an egg on it. Douwe's was green. Daan's was blue and yellow. We thought they were nice. My children then swept through the area finding eggs like little vultures, jumping up and down with glee at each find and so on. They had a great time. There were a lot of children and their parents wandering around apparently aimlessly, which seemed odd as the eggs were hidden for little kids, that is, not really very well. They were just sort of tossed out there, lying on the grass.
Um.
Turns out that you are only supposed to find the one egg which corresponds in color to your little card. Whoops. We had all the eggs those wandering kids were looking for in our baskets. Ahem.
While we were busy apologizing and everybody was laughing, the boys ran off suddenly back into the hunt area. I went after them, to find them re-hiding the eggs. One or the other figured it out.
So it had a happy ending, because everyone agrees that my kids are very good at hiding eggs. They should be, they practiced all morning.
Then we figured out that the eggs had things in them, also a surprise. Douwe won a pony ride, and Daan won an ice cream. It is good that it was not the other way around, becasue Daan is afraid of ponies and Douwe hates ice cream. What a coincidence, and how nice that it came out that way.
By the way, mom, and completely tangentially, thanks for the book on magic tricks and sleight of hand. I know it was for Douwe, but he can't read yet so I have to read it for him.
So anyway then we went to see the week-old chicks they have at the petting zoo. That was the end of the line for the boys; they stayed there probably an hour and a half. We did some other stuff, but the chicks were the big event for them.
Douwe took one look at the line for the pony ride and said he didn't want to ride a pony. "I already have" he said. Okay, so I guess he won't grow up a horseman.
When you went through to the easter egg hunt area, they gave you a little card with an egg on it. Douwe's was green. Daan's was blue and yellow. We thought they were nice. My children then swept through the area finding eggs like little vultures, jumping up and down with glee at each find and so on. They had a great time. There were a lot of children and their parents wandering around apparently aimlessly, which seemed odd as the eggs were hidden for little kids, that is, not really very well. They were just sort of tossed out there, lying on the grass.
Um.
Turns out that you are only supposed to find the one egg which corresponds in color to your little card. Whoops. We had all the eggs those wandering kids were looking for in our baskets. Ahem.
While we were busy apologizing and everybody was laughing, the boys ran off suddenly back into the hunt area. I went after them, to find them re-hiding the eggs. One or the other figured it out.
So it had a happy ending, because everyone agrees that my kids are very good at hiding eggs. They should be, they practiced all morning.
Then we figured out that the eggs had things in them, also a surprise. Douwe won a pony ride, and Daan won an ice cream. It is good that it was not the other way around, becasue Daan is afraid of ponies and Douwe hates ice cream. What a coincidence, and how nice that it came out that way.
By the way, mom, and completely tangentially, thanks for the book on magic tricks and sleight of hand. I know it was for Douwe, but he can't read yet so I have to read it for him.
So anyway then we went to see the week-old chicks they have at the petting zoo. That was the end of the line for the boys; they stayed there probably an hour and a half. We did some other stuff, but the chicks were the big event for them.
Douwe took one look at the line for the pony ride and said he didn't want to ride a pony. "I already have" he said. Okay, so I guess he won't grow up a horseman.
The last thing we did
Before everyone collapsed on their respective sofa corners to watch "Peter Pan" fro the rest of the afternoon was to take a nice walk back from the petting zoo to the house. A nice long walk, because Nel is in training for a several kilometer walk-o-rama or something in April, so we always take the long way around nowadays. Which, all things considered, was not a terrible idea. Nothing like a nice long walk to work off all that sugar and excitement.
what is that thing?
Hi, dad,
Look at this thing, what the heck is it? It looked for all the world like a common house parakeet, except that it was pink. Really pink, not a little pink. Easter Egg pink, except for some blue feathers by its tail and grey and white stripey wings.
Am I being haunted by the Spirit of Parakeets for sending Pukkie on extended vacation? Surely not, after all, Pukkie is back in his corner again, none the worse for wear.
Look at this thing, what the heck is it? It looked for all the world like a common house parakeet, except that it was pink. Really pink, not a little pink. Easter Egg pink, except for some blue feathers by its tail and grey and white stripey wings.
Am I being haunted by the Spirit of Parakeets for sending Pukkie on extended vacation? Surely not, after all, Pukkie is back in his corner again, none the worse for wear.
Ignore this entry, too
Hi, mom,
This is the bread, it came out pretty nicely. Damn, that stuff browns up really brown, does it not? I thought I had scorched it but it was fine.
I also made 2 loaves of the round kind with the egg in it, but here's a tip: do not bake your bread on the bottom part of a cake pan, it doesn't get hot enough and the bottom ends up not done when the top is done. Then you have to turn the loaf over and bake the bottom, which does nothing for the appearance of your loaf.*
It eats just fine, though. And if no one has ever seen the proud heights which a round loaf of pao doce is supposed to reach they don't know any better and eat it anyway.
*I will pinch the head off the first person who posts a joke involving the phrase half-baked.
This is the bread, it came out pretty nicely. Damn, that stuff browns up really brown, does it not? I thought I had scorched it but it was fine.
I also made 2 loaves of the round kind with the egg in it, but here's a tip: do not bake your bread on the bottom part of a cake pan, it doesn't get hot enough and the bottom ends up not done when the top is done. Then you have to turn the loaf over and bake the bottom, which does nothing for the appearance of your loaf.*
It eats just fine, though. And if no one has ever seen the proud heights which a round loaf of pao doce is supposed to reach they don't know any better and eat it anyway.
*I will pinch the head off the first person who posts a joke involving the phrase half-baked.
Too much
I am beginning to hate holidays. And, despite much moaning about them in my wayward youth, I have to say that in general I actually quite like them. My kids are a good age for them; they still believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny and they don't peer around very suspiciously about it. Which may also be fun in its own way. But I haven't had it yet.
However, I am beginning to see a new trend. It goes like this. I say "So, what do you guys do for >fill in holiday here<"?". The answer is generally, "Nothing, just the usual,". I point out that I have not the tiniest clue what the usual might be. Everyone looks surprised, like it is news to my nearest and dearest that I am not Dutch, did not grow up in Holland, and well, have not the tiniest clue. Then everyone says, "Oh, well, you know, we eat,". Good. You eat. Mostly, I eat several times a day. So, I ask, what do you eat for >insert holiday here<? And what do I hear? Yep, got it in one: "Oh, nothing, the usual,".
Uh huh. Being a persistent kind of person, I continue this conversation for some time, and the end result boils down to "Don't go to any trouble, do what you always do, why do you always make things so hard?". Some day, y'all, I am actually going to take their word for it and do nothing and won't everybody be surprised when we actually do nothing?
Whereupon I of course go shopping. I dislike shopping in general, but shopping for holidays is pretty good fun. So I come home with my purchases whereupon everyone says it is too much. Far too much. Too many sweets are not good and too many toys are a threat to all that is good. Must be an American thing, this buying of too much.
So I put away my too much where the children cannot find it. On the eve of the holiday, I bring the too much out (or what is left of it since both of the adult parties involved have surreptitiously been giving bits of it to my children in the mean time, which I firmly Do Not Notice) and say, "You know, since this is obviously too much and I lack a really good sense of what is appropriate why don't you guys sort through this stuff and show me what would be about right?"
Whereupon everyone brings out all the other stuff they have bought in the mean time and my kids end up with three times more than too much. Everyone then heartily agrees that it was much better back in the day when all the children got was an extra measure of butter in their gruel for holidays and so on. My Spouse pretends not to remember anything about holidays when he was a child (whether this is because they also had too much and he doesn't want to admit it or whether this is because the absence of too much is the reason it was not memorable, I have no idea and have no plans to speculate. Out loud.)
The the holiday comes and everybody has a really great time with the too much stuff. everybody talks about how great it was. The children go to bed sated and exhausted. We all sit happily round the family room while Dearly Beloved brings out a bottle of red wine or sherry, whichever you like.
The one voice (never you mind who, nosy) speaks into the companiable quiet: "It just all seems like too much. But I guess *sigh* everyone has to do it their own way,".
As answering there might be impolitic, I shall answer here, then:
Well, my sister always said I was too much.
However, I am beginning to see a new trend. It goes like this. I say "So, what do you guys do for >fill in holiday here<"?". The answer is generally, "Nothing, just the usual,". I point out that I have not the tiniest clue what the usual might be. Everyone looks surprised, like it is news to my nearest and dearest that I am not Dutch, did not grow up in Holland, and well, have not the tiniest clue. Then everyone says, "Oh, well, you know, we eat,". Good. You eat. Mostly, I eat several times a day. So, I ask, what do you eat for >insert holiday here<? And what do I hear? Yep, got it in one: "Oh, nothing, the usual,".
Uh huh. Being a persistent kind of person, I continue this conversation for some time, and the end result boils down to "Don't go to any trouble, do what you always do, why do you always make things so hard?". Some day, y'all, I am actually going to take their word for it and do nothing and won't everybody be surprised when we actually do nothing?
Whereupon I of course go shopping. I dislike shopping in general, but shopping for holidays is pretty good fun. So I come home with my purchases whereupon everyone says it is too much. Far too much. Too many sweets are not good and too many toys are a threat to all that is good. Must be an American thing, this buying of too much.
So I put away my too much where the children cannot find it. On the eve of the holiday, I bring the too much out (or what is left of it since both of the adult parties involved have surreptitiously been giving bits of it to my children in the mean time, which I firmly Do Not Notice) and say, "You know, since this is obviously too much and I lack a really good sense of what is appropriate why don't you guys sort through this stuff and show me what would be about right?"
Whereupon everyone brings out all the other stuff they have bought in the mean time and my kids end up with three times more than too much. Everyone then heartily agrees that it was much better back in the day when all the children got was an extra measure of butter in their gruel for holidays and so on. My Spouse pretends not to remember anything about holidays when he was a child (whether this is because they also had too much and he doesn't want to admit it or whether this is because the absence of too much is the reason it was not memorable, I have no idea and have no plans to speculate. Out loud.)
The the holiday comes and everybody has a really great time with the too much stuff. everybody talks about how great it was. The children go to bed sated and exhausted. We all sit happily round the family room while Dearly Beloved brings out a bottle of red wine or sherry, whichever you like.
The one voice (never you mind who, nosy) speaks into the companiable quiet: "It just all seems like too much. But I guess *sigh* everyone has to do it their own way,".
As answering there might be impolitic, I shall answer here, then:
Well, my sister always said I was too much.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Doctor's reports
Thing One and Thing Two went to the doctors today. Thing Two has grown 7 centimeters since his birthday if you believe the ridiculous measurement they made last time and about 4 centimeters if you do not. This puts him in the bottom 3% in height for his age, but he is on the growth chart so they have laid off talking about hormone tests and bone scans and god knows what all. In other words, he is a regular sized child from my family's perspective.
Thing Two has also lost some weight in that time, though not much. Since he has been barfing on and off with the flu, I am not really surprised. Today however he is eating every two hours, enough for any six children put together, so I expect he weighed more at the end of the day than at its begining.
He happily built the tower of blocks he refused to build last time and then refused once more to do the eye test. They brought in about three nurses to try to talk him into it, and with every one little mister ham was having more and more fun. He was having a great time refusing to do the eye test. I tried to talk to him firmly and was immediately waved off with explanations about how he is far too young to be trying to distract them on purpose by showing how cleverly he can play with the educational toys and so on. Uh huh. Where have I heard this before? Could it have been when Thing One refused to take the eye test when he was three?
Is this a cultural faith or were my children just born with a very strong bloody mindedness gene? One of them is nice about it and the other one is not at all, but somehow they both end up getting out of whatever it is they don't want to do because they are too young to *not do it* on purpose.
Given my own history though (on both counts come to think of it), I am not willing to skip the eye test so we have to go back again in May.
Thing One was back to the dermatologist who said the rash is clearing up even though it still exists and then decided there is no problem. Thanks, doc, you're not the one whose kid now goes around telling everyone he sees that he has chicken pox. That makes sense to Thing One, so he has decided that is what it must be, in that five year old decisive way.
The bird came back from vacation today, dutifully de-bugged in the mean time. Hopefully this will not cause the rash to come back.
Thing Two has also lost some weight in that time, though not much. Since he has been barfing on and off with the flu, I am not really surprised. Today however he is eating every two hours, enough for any six children put together, so I expect he weighed more at the end of the day than at its begining.
He happily built the tower of blocks he refused to build last time and then refused once more to do the eye test. They brought in about three nurses to try to talk him into it, and with every one little mister ham was having more and more fun. He was having a great time refusing to do the eye test. I tried to talk to him firmly and was immediately waved off with explanations about how he is far too young to be trying to distract them on purpose by showing how cleverly he can play with the educational toys and so on. Uh huh. Where have I heard this before? Could it have been when Thing One refused to take the eye test when he was three?
Is this a cultural faith or were my children just born with a very strong bloody mindedness gene? One of them is nice about it and the other one is not at all, but somehow they both end up getting out of whatever it is they don't want to do because they are too young to *not do it* on purpose.
Given my own history though (on both counts come to think of it), I am not willing to skip the eye test so we have to go back again in May.
Thing One was back to the dermatologist who said the rash is clearing up even though it still exists and then decided there is no problem. Thanks, doc, you're not the one whose kid now goes around telling everyone he sees that he has chicken pox. That makes sense to Thing One, so he has decided that is what it must be, in that five year old decisive way.
The bird came back from vacation today, dutifully de-bugged in the mean time. Hopefully this will not cause the rash to come back.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Pao Doce
Okay, who's got the two loaf version of Nanny's sweet bread recept? (I have no plans to start with 10 pounds of flour and a granite washtub). Last I heard it was in the custody of Perfect Joey.
I have suddenly been struck by the need to make Easter bread; go figure, the whole family is sick and I am thinking about making bread.
I have this one:
7 cups flour
1 cup milk
1 cup sugar
4 eggs
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup water
2 pkgs yeast
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup warm water
Combine 2 cup flour, sugar, and salt in a large bowl. Dissolve yeast in the 1/4 cup warm water. Add to flour mixture. Place milk, butter, and 1/4 cup water in small pan. Heat on low heat until warm. Add to flour mixture. Beat 2 minutes. Add eggs and 3/4 cup flour. Beat 2 minutes. Add enough flour to make soft dough. Knead 8-10 minutes. Grease bowl and place dough inside. Cover and let rise until double. Punch down dough. Form into loaves. Cover and let rise until double. Bake 30 minutes at 350F.
Sound familiar to anyone? If this is it, I think I will be missing my Kitchenaid mixer pretty soon. I have no idea where it came from.
I found one on the Internet, but it involves evaporated milk so I know that's not it. And I found another one which involves nutmeg and melted chocolate; sounds like one of those *sniff* decadent hawaiian portuguese got ahold of it.
I have suddenly been struck by the need to make Easter bread; go figure, the whole family is sick and I am thinking about making bread.
I have this one:
7 cups flour
1 cup milk
1 cup sugar
4 eggs
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup water
2 pkgs yeast
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup warm water
Combine 2 cup flour, sugar, and salt in a large bowl. Dissolve yeast in the 1/4 cup warm water. Add to flour mixture. Place milk, butter, and 1/4 cup water in small pan. Heat on low heat until warm. Add to flour mixture. Beat 2 minutes. Add eggs and 3/4 cup flour. Beat 2 minutes. Add enough flour to make soft dough. Knead 8-10 minutes. Grease bowl and place dough inside. Cover and let rise until double. Punch down dough. Form into loaves. Cover and let rise until double. Bake 30 minutes at 350F.
Sound familiar to anyone? If this is it, I think I will be missing my Kitchenaid mixer pretty soon. I have no idea where it came from.
I found one on the Internet, but it involves evaporated milk so I know that's not it. And I found another one which involves nutmeg and melted chocolate; sounds like one of those *sniff* decadent hawaiian portuguese got ahold of it.
Friday, March 18, 2005
A Personal Note
I just wish to acknowlege here that, so long as I shall live, and however hard I try, I will never ever in a million billion years understand my children.
Just thought I would mention that.
Just thought I would mention that.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Monday, March 14, 2005
Update
We are dropping like flies over here. Looks like the flu. Nel went down yesterday, Paul has muscle aches, I don't feel so well myself. I thought Douwe could make it to school tomorrw -- no more fever for 24 hours -- but he plays for five minutes and then gets this horrible hacking cough and has to go lie down to rest. So I think not.
I have not left the house since before the weekend I think. So the days are all running together. I think the weather was nice today but I am not sure. I have to go to the store and buy food tomorrow, even if it means taking Thing One and Thing Two. So I sure hope the fact that I am freezing to death right now is because I have the window open and not because I am next.
Knock wood.
I have not left the house since before the weekend I think. So the days are all running together. I think the weather was nice today but I am not sure. I have to go to the store and buy food tomorrow, even if it means taking Thing One and Thing Two. So I sure hope the fact that I am freezing to death right now is because I have the window open and not because I am next.
Knock wood.
Friday, March 11, 2005
With good reason
I have no scintillating prose today, nor even poetry. But I have a good reason, which is almost as good. It is:
Douwe is sick. Daan is not yet but about to be getting sick. And I am tired.
Don't worry, I expect it is just a cold -- snotty noses, coughs, and general malaise -- the Wild Boys spent their day alternating between watching DVDs in a trancelike state with little glassy eyes and being whiny and clingy and otherwise impossibly miserable with little glassy eyes.
Douwe decided to fight taking his medicine before bed (apparently preferring a spiking fever to grape flavor motrin) so I got to pour it in his mouth and hold his mouth closed. I haven't had to do that in two years, I think. Of course, I have been using chewables for two years, too. But I am out of them and they don't have kids chewables here or so I hear.
I hate doing that. I dislike myself after doing that. What kind of jerk holds a feverish 5 year old down, pours slimy stuff in his mouth, and then holds his mouth shut? And what kind of really big jerk says, when he spits it all back out, "Then we are going to do it again and again until you swallow your medicine"? Then does it again?
After two rounds of his best Mt. St. Helens imitation he decided I really meant it this time and sat up straight and drank it himself, sort of hiccuping and weeping all the way. Then said "See, Mama, that was clever of Douwe,". Which somehow made me feel worse.
Somebody remind me to put Motrin Chewables (grape) on my shopping list in May, would you? If I have to hold Daan down tomorrow I think my hands will shake right off. In the kitchen, afterwards, that is.
Douwe is sick. Daan is not yet but about to be getting sick. And I am tired.
Don't worry, I expect it is just a cold -- snotty noses, coughs, and general malaise -- the Wild Boys spent their day alternating between watching DVDs in a trancelike state with little glassy eyes and being whiny and clingy and otherwise impossibly miserable with little glassy eyes.
Douwe decided to fight taking his medicine before bed (apparently preferring a spiking fever to grape flavor motrin) so I got to pour it in his mouth and hold his mouth closed. I haven't had to do that in two years, I think. Of course, I have been using chewables for two years, too. But I am out of them and they don't have kids chewables here or so I hear.
I hate doing that. I dislike myself after doing that. What kind of jerk holds a feverish 5 year old down, pours slimy stuff in his mouth, and then holds his mouth shut? And what kind of really big jerk says, when he spits it all back out, "Then we are going to do it again and again until you swallow your medicine"? Then does it again?
After two rounds of his best Mt. St. Helens imitation he decided I really meant it this time and sat up straight and drank it himself, sort of hiccuping and weeping all the way. Then said "See, Mama, that was clever of Douwe,". Which somehow made me feel worse.
Somebody remind me to put Motrin Chewables (grape) on my shopping list in May, would you? If I have to hold Daan down tomorrow I think my hands will shake right off. In the kitchen, afterwards, that is.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Private and public
So I was reading today about the multi media center which is, apparently, now a child's bedroom. I would link the article but you have to register for it; it was in the New York Times. It took a sort of predictable slant, really; What Are Kids Coming To These Days or, I guess more accurately, What The Hell Are Parents Up To These Days. Their poitn was that some terrifyingly high number of children have TV/DVD/MP3/steros/computers/cell phones and other media objects in their bedrooms. As usual, in their numbers they didn't really distinguish between 6 year olds with a DVD/TV/MP3/laptop/what have you and 17 year olds with the same.
Seesm to me there might be a difference. In terms of what the hell their parents are thinking, anyway.
However, it seems to me that people's relationship with media, generally, changes. I have not decided whether I think this has more to do with age or with the generation of which the person is a part or maybe both.
Here is what I mean: When I was young, music was considered to be a vital part of private time by my peers. Indeed, it was as important as breathing. It was a link amoung us. As when a Catholic attends a Mass, the ritual is supposed to link us all, all Catholics all over the world, in the echoes of its measured rhythms, so was the music supposed to connect us (and also separate us from our impossible parents who never understood anything anyway). At least that was the general idea.
So everybody had a stereo set in their room. Everybody. Even if it was just a boom box. Heck, even when we had turntables, we had those little dinky turntables with the tinny speakers in our bedrooms. Well, I didn't. But that little girl who lived up on Abingdon Drive did, and played her Donny Osmond records on them, too.
My parents, I think, thought music was a public experience. In any event, their stereos were in the living room/dining room.
I guess for the kids now, music really is a private experience, because everybody has an MP3 in their pocket, do they not? (Somebody page Mary J for her insights on this).
Television on the other hand was considered by all and sundry to be a family event as I recall. At least, what I remember about television is watching Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom and Jacques Cousteau and Sunday Disney with the family and Speed Racer, George of the Jungle, Super Chicken, and Dudley DooRight on Saturday mornings with the sibs.
Now I think TV is much more a private kind of thing. Everybody seems to have "my" show.
Telephone. Well, heck, there was a public to private revolution. Party lines to cell phones in three generations. When I was young it was a very hip (or very privileged) child who got a phone in their room. Now I think regular middle class kids have phones in their pockets. Though may I point out, cell phones are really very easily monitored, and therefore may be more public than people like to think about.
Home video was certainly, for folks my age, a public event; in fact it often turned out to be date night back when you would go rent a video player along with your videos. Waaay Back When, I mean, like a couple ten years ago. Now it's how we watch television, isn't it? And the movie theaters (igloo shaped or not) are suffering.
Computers however were then entirely private and really pretty boring. I understand they now are much more public, that is, people are more likely to have them in their living rooms. And when we have guests over, maybe half the time some number of people wind up sitting in front of the comuter looking at something -- sometimes it is pictures someone brought along on a CD, sometimes it's even somebody's web site. I wonder when the first time will be that my mother calls up this blog at someone else's house to show off pictures of her grandchildren.
I think it is possible that by the time the kids are old enough for me to have to think about this much in practical terms, the technology will have reframed the question. Maybe we will have one big intranet in the house and just have docking stations in the rooms which wil cover all the media, visual and auditory. Maybe even telephones, too.
Seesm to me there might be a difference. In terms of what the hell their parents are thinking, anyway.
However, it seems to me that people's relationship with media, generally, changes. I have not decided whether I think this has more to do with age or with the generation of which the person is a part or maybe both.
Here is what I mean: When I was young, music was considered to be a vital part of private time by my peers. Indeed, it was as important as breathing. It was a link amoung us. As when a Catholic attends a Mass, the ritual is supposed to link us all, all Catholics all over the world, in the echoes of its measured rhythms, so was the music supposed to connect us (and also separate us from our impossible parents who never understood anything anyway). At least that was the general idea.
So everybody had a stereo set in their room. Everybody. Even if it was just a boom box. Heck, even when we had turntables, we had those little dinky turntables with the tinny speakers in our bedrooms. Well, I didn't. But that little girl who lived up on Abingdon Drive did, and played her Donny Osmond records on them, too.
My parents, I think, thought music was a public experience. In any event, their stereos were in the living room/dining room.
I guess for the kids now, music really is a private experience, because everybody has an MP3 in their pocket, do they not? (Somebody page Mary J for her insights on this).
Television on the other hand was considered by all and sundry to be a family event as I recall. At least, what I remember about television is watching Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom and Jacques Cousteau and Sunday Disney with the family and Speed Racer, George of the Jungle, Super Chicken, and Dudley DooRight on Saturday mornings with the sibs.
Now I think TV is much more a private kind of thing. Everybody seems to have "my" show.
Telephone. Well, heck, there was a public to private revolution. Party lines to cell phones in three generations. When I was young it was a very hip (or very privileged) child who got a phone in their room. Now I think regular middle class kids have phones in their pockets. Though may I point out, cell phones are really very easily monitored, and therefore may be more public than people like to think about.
Home video was certainly, for folks my age, a public event; in fact it often turned out to be date night back when you would go rent a video player along with your videos. Waaay Back When, I mean, like a couple ten years ago. Now it's how we watch television, isn't it? And the movie theaters (igloo shaped or not) are suffering.
Computers however were then entirely private and really pretty boring. I understand they now are much more public, that is, people are more likely to have them in their living rooms. And when we have guests over, maybe half the time some number of people wind up sitting in front of the comuter looking at something -- sometimes it is pictures someone brought along on a CD, sometimes it's even somebody's web site. I wonder when the first time will be that my mother calls up this blog at someone else's house to show off pictures of her grandchildren.
I think it is possible that by the time the kids are old enough for me to have to think about this much in practical terms, the technology will have reframed the question. Maybe we will have one big intranet in the house and just have docking stations in the rooms which wil cover all the media, visual and auditory. Maybe even telephones, too.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Did you ever have a day
When everyone you encounter thinks you are angry when in fact you are not; or you are, at best, mildly irritated?
Okay, not everyone. But enough people that I dare not write any further lest one of you decide that I am really very angry with you.
I am not. I am not dancing in the street scattering rose petals or anything, mind you. Perhaps it's just that I am so frequently the very embodiment of sweetness and light -- a veritable sunbeam blessing the ground everywhere I go -- that a normal state of mind makes people think I am really upset.
Sure, that must be it.
Okay, not everyone. But enough people that I dare not write any further lest one of you decide that I am really very angry with you.
I am not. I am not dancing in the street scattering rose petals or anything, mind you. Perhaps it's just that I am so frequently the very embodiment of sweetness and light -- a veritable sunbeam blessing the ground everywhere I go -- that a normal state of mind makes people think I am really upset.
Sure, that must be it.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Figures
I have announced to all and sundry at Douwe's school that Douwe is unlikley to return to his present school next year after the advice of the doc.
So of course everyone is coming up with all kinds of new ideas to work with him in the classroom.
Is it simple defensiveness, has it just been called to the forefront of everyone's attention, or is it simply that they want to get an aide of their own in the classroom?
That too, only the shadow knows. I am busy nodding and smiling.
So of course everyone is coming up with all kinds of new ideas to work with him in the classroom.
Is it simple defensiveness, has it just been called to the forefront of everyone's attention, or is it simply that they want to get an aide of their own in the classroom?
That too, only the shadow knows. I am busy nodding and smiling.
Time marches
There are at least two things which almost everyone thinks they have got, which in fact almost no one has. One is the ability to tell if someone is lying. The other is an accurate awareness of time passing.
After spending a lot of time with lying people and also with people who are suppsoed to figure out who is lying, I think I have a handle on this one. What people often do have is a sense of integrity, of seamlessness. I think most people can add up the nonverbal cues and add them to what is actually being said and make a fairly good determination of whether those things add up. I think most of us do this without even thinking about it.
Which of course gets one exactly no where with say, a sociopath. Or a person who really believes what they are saying even when it *coff* lacks that one-to-one mapping onto reality which we call the truth.
People who can also rapidly consider whose ox is being gored while watching someone talk are even more accurate. However, such people are few and far between; most of us are too occupied thinking about what we are going to say next or what we might have just said (damn, what was I thinking) or even the adult equivalent of What Am I Going to Do For My Science Fair Project to really give our attention to what is actually being said.
One of the things that always interests me is that most of us focus on visual cues when people are talking. Being an auditory person, I have found it most useful to instead pay attention to the sound of people's voices, their pace and pitch and breathing. Because no one ever actually bothers to disguise those things, so they? Ours is a very visual approach.
However, the time thing I am still chewing on.
I personally have almost no sense of time's passage. I have only one time related quirk: if I decide to wake up at a particular time, I always do. It doesn't matter what time it is; I just have to decide, and then go to sleep. Though I found out once that I also have to know what time it is when I go to sleep or it doesn't work. All events are shelved in my mid as: today, yesterday, the other day. Though if pressed I can usually remember what season it was.
Dearly Beloved has an eerily accurate sense of time. You can stop him at random and ask him how much time has passed since >event x< and he will tell you almost immediately. He is always right, even though he is not aware of keeping track. It's as though he has an internal atomic clock in there, just ticking away.
It seems to me that a lot of special effort is devoted to taming time, domesticating it. Most people have no real idea of how they spend their time, and if asked to say, they are almost always wrong. We hold one another accountable under a publicly evolved system. We are all connected all right, connected in an intricate, invisible webbing of clockwork relations that employ units of time.
After spending a lot of time with lying people and also with people who are suppsoed to figure out who is lying, I think I have a handle on this one. What people often do have is a sense of integrity, of seamlessness. I think most people can add up the nonverbal cues and add them to what is actually being said and make a fairly good determination of whether those things add up. I think most of us do this without even thinking about it.
Which of course gets one exactly no where with say, a sociopath. Or a person who really believes what they are saying even when it *coff* lacks that one-to-one mapping onto reality which we call the truth.
People who can also rapidly consider whose ox is being gored while watching someone talk are even more accurate. However, such people are few and far between; most of us are too occupied thinking about what we are going to say next or what we might have just said (damn, what was I thinking) or even the adult equivalent of What Am I Going to Do For My Science Fair Project to really give our attention to what is actually being said.
One of the things that always interests me is that most of us focus on visual cues when people are talking. Being an auditory person, I have found it most useful to instead pay attention to the sound of people's voices, their pace and pitch and breathing. Because no one ever actually bothers to disguise those things, so they? Ours is a very visual approach.
However, the time thing I am still chewing on.
I personally have almost no sense of time's passage. I have only one time related quirk: if I decide to wake up at a particular time, I always do. It doesn't matter what time it is; I just have to decide, and then go to sleep. Though I found out once that I also have to know what time it is when I go to sleep or it doesn't work. All events are shelved in my mid as: today, yesterday, the other day. Though if pressed I can usually remember what season it was.
Dearly Beloved has an eerily accurate sense of time. You can stop him at random and ask him how much time has passed since >event x< and he will tell you almost immediately. He is always right, even though he is not aware of keeping track. It's as though he has an internal atomic clock in there, just ticking away.
It seems to me that a lot of special effort is devoted to taming time, domesticating it. Most people have no real idea of how they spend their time, and if asked to say, they are almost always wrong. We hold one another accountable under a publicly evolved system. We are all connected all right, connected in an intricate, invisible webbing of clockwork relations that employ units of time.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Friday, March 04, 2005
Maternal Marginalia
During a conversation with Daan about his relatives and who they all are in relation to him. I actually have no idea now how we got around to noses.
Daan: Daan has Papa's nose. Uncle Ernest has Oma's nose. Mama has Grandmary's nose.
Mama: Whose nose does grandmary have?
Daan: Grandmary has Dina's nose.
Mama: Do you mean, Dina has Grandmary's nose?
Daan: No. Dina is bigger.
Mama: Dina is bigger?
Daan: Yes. Little one get noses from big ones.
Daan: Daan has Papa's nose. Uncle Ernest has Oma's nose. Mama has Grandmary's nose.
Mama: Whose nose does grandmary have?
Daan: Grandmary has Dina's nose.
Mama: Do you mean, Dina has Grandmary's nose?
Daan: No. Dina is bigger.
Mama: Dina is bigger?
Daan: Yes. Little one get noses from big ones.
Brain Waves
Dearly Beloved went to the neurologist with Douwe for the follow up. Please note who did not go. How did it happen that the most suspicious person on the whole planet, the original "show me" girl who believes nothing she has not personally witnessed and then really only about half of that, did not go along?
Please note who else did not go.
No car seat for Daan. Seriously, the car seats were in Nel's car, and Nel's car was with Nel at work. Yes, I know I made it through my childhood regularly sleeping above the back seat on that little shelf next to the rear windshield (what's that thing called, dad? I forget.) and despite no doubt blocking the view never got maimed even once. I know all that. And to be honest, illegal or not, I probably would have just strapped Daan's tiny self into the regular seat and gone and planned to tell the nice police officer that we were, after all, going to the hospital (isn't there a going to the hospital defense?) except for one small thing. There was snow on the ground everywhere. The temp was hovering just at freezing. And the news was all full of stories about how Holland, despite having had no snow or ice to speak of, was already running out of salt for the roads. (They gave it all to the deserving poor in Germany and Austria or some such thing).
I just couldn't do it. Douwe had to go, the doc wanted to see him again. And he is big enough anyway to be street legal without a seat. But Daan is not only young, he is a tiny child. He is tiny on the scale that his mother is tiny (though strangely, they say that he is expected to make it to somewhere between 5' 11 and 6' 1" based on what I have no idea. Joss sticks and Tarot cards, probably. He is not supposed to do it until he is in his late teens, though.) . I had visions of the car veering into or being veered into by another car. Most of my visions centered around the parking lot, to tell you the truth. The freeway I wasn't worried about.
So we stayed home and played games while the boys went off to the doc.*
The doc says that Douwe is a regular 5 year old with a speech disorder. His weird behavior is related to the speech disorder and is, all things considered, not all that weird. He said one rather odd thing: he says the EEG indicates that he has a very active imagination. Well, I agree, the child has designed an entire diving outfit and is swimming with Jacques Cousteau on a weekly basis. **
However, this sounds very medieval to me (what, his beta waves come out in patterns depicting Mickey Mouse and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang? What?).
The Doc says that ideally he ought to go to the speech school in a nearby city, but that his problem may not be serious enough to qualify him to be enrolled there. In the alternative he suggests a Montessori program with some support to be provided by the same speech school -- which support can range from an aide in the classroom to additional clsses on the side.
So our next step is to fill out more piles of paper from the speech school. At the speech school , they will test him again from top to toes (again, *sigh*) but will evidently use tests designed with speech problems in mind. So, for instance, if his intelligence is to be teted, they will use a nonverbal intelligence test. It is my understanding that there is more chance of actually gettign some result from the testing in this way (as a fair amount of testing of Douwe has resulted in complete failure because at some point he just decides he's done with this little game).
I have to say, I have been most impressed by Paul's organization of this latest undertaking, he was coordinating with the family doctor, the neurologist's office, both schools, and the speech therapist within twenty minutes of getting home from the doc. He has left the current school out of the loop because, well, apparently they are now out of the loop in his vision. But after all this time it is rather nice to watch someone else make all those phone calls and follow up and so on.
We are to tour the speech school in early April; Douwe is to have a tryout day at the Montessori in mid March. So off we go. But anyway, at least we have some direction to go.
* Anybody remember why Daan has the birthday he has despite being scheduled to be born by c section four days earlier? Yep, freak snow in Atlanta that year resulted in cancellation of all non emergency surgery and gave Daan time to be born on his own timetable. Though in the end all our plans were foiled and he was a c after all. So there you go. Daan is only 3, but snow keeps figuring into his life.
**The outfit consists of footie pajamas, a set of swim goggles, a mouthpiece removed from the pipe part from a snorkel, two of those washcloths which are sewn into a pocket on his feet for flippers, his Bob the Builder backpack for the aqualung and a set of suspenders to connect the aqualung and the mouthpiece.
Please note who else did not go.
No car seat for Daan. Seriously, the car seats were in Nel's car, and Nel's car was with Nel at work. Yes, I know I made it through my childhood regularly sleeping above the back seat on that little shelf next to the rear windshield (what's that thing called, dad? I forget.) and despite no doubt blocking the view never got maimed even once. I know all that. And to be honest, illegal or not, I probably would have just strapped Daan's tiny self into the regular seat and gone and planned to tell the nice police officer that we were, after all, going to the hospital (isn't there a going to the hospital defense?) except for one small thing. There was snow on the ground everywhere. The temp was hovering just at freezing. And the news was all full of stories about how Holland, despite having had no snow or ice to speak of, was already running out of salt for the roads. (They gave it all to the deserving poor in Germany and Austria or some such thing).
I just couldn't do it. Douwe had to go, the doc wanted to see him again. And he is big enough anyway to be street legal without a seat. But Daan is not only young, he is a tiny child. He is tiny on the scale that his mother is tiny (though strangely, they say that he is expected to make it to somewhere between 5' 11 and 6' 1" based on what I have no idea. Joss sticks and Tarot cards, probably. He is not supposed to do it until he is in his late teens, though.) . I had visions of the car veering into or being veered into by another car. Most of my visions centered around the parking lot, to tell you the truth. The freeway I wasn't worried about.
So we stayed home and played games while the boys went off to the doc.*
The doc says that Douwe is a regular 5 year old with a speech disorder. His weird behavior is related to the speech disorder and is, all things considered, not all that weird. He said one rather odd thing: he says the EEG indicates that he has a very active imagination. Well, I agree, the child has designed an entire diving outfit and is swimming with Jacques Cousteau on a weekly basis. **
However, this sounds very medieval to me (what, his beta waves come out in patterns depicting Mickey Mouse and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang? What?).
The Doc says that ideally he ought to go to the speech school in a nearby city, but that his problem may not be serious enough to qualify him to be enrolled there. In the alternative he suggests a Montessori program with some support to be provided by the same speech school -- which support can range from an aide in the classroom to additional clsses on the side.
So our next step is to fill out more piles of paper from the speech school. At the speech school , they will test him again from top to toes (again, *sigh*) but will evidently use tests designed with speech problems in mind. So, for instance, if his intelligence is to be teted, they will use a nonverbal intelligence test. It is my understanding that there is more chance of actually gettign some result from the testing in this way (as a fair amount of testing of Douwe has resulted in complete failure because at some point he just decides he's done with this little game).
I have to say, I have been most impressed by Paul's organization of this latest undertaking, he was coordinating with the family doctor, the neurologist's office, both schools, and the speech therapist within twenty minutes of getting home from the doc. He has left the current school out of the loop because, well, apparently they are now out of the loop in his vision. But after all this time it is rather nice to watch someone else make all those phone calls and follow up and so on.
We are to tour the speech school in early April; Douwe is to have a tryout day at the Montessori in mid March. So off we go. But anyway, at least we have some direction to go.
* Anybody remember why Daan has the birthday he has despite being scheduled to be born by c section four days earlier? Yep, freak snow in Atlanta that year resulted in cancellation of all non emergency surgery and gave Daan time to be born on his own timetable. Though in the end all our plans were foiled and he was a c after all. So there you go. Daan is only 3, but snow keeps figuring into his life.
**The outfit consists of footie pajamas, a set of swim goggles, a mouthpiece removed from the pipe part from a snorkel, two of those washcloths which are sewn into a pocket on his feet for flippers, his Bob the Builder backpack for the aqualung and a set of suspenders to connect the aqualung and the mouthpiece.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Oh Dear
Today I was as usual waiting for Douwe outside of school when the class let out. Four of his classmates seperately came running up to me and said "You have to wait for the teacher,". One of them got a scolding on the spot from his mother, who thought she was supposed to wait for the teacher. Apparently "Wait for the teacher" means "Whoo boy did your kid do it now". The thing is, they were each of them giggling.
It seems Douwe pinched his teacher today.
It appears that Douwe took a matchbox car to school today. One of his teachers does not allow this; the other one does but only to be played with at recess. This was the one who does allow it, and it was at recess. However, evidently it kept falling out of his pocket and was otherwise a problem regarding the other children wanting to play with it. As I understand it, she told him to give it to her. He said no and said he would put it away in his coat pocket (which closes with velcro and is in fact where I put toys in toy timeout when we are out somewhere). She was then annoyed and told him to give it to her. He put it in his pocket and walked away.
This was a bad move, because she then got angry and went after him to bring him back to talk about it. She grabbed his arm to stop him and he turned around and pinched her.
The walking away thing is probably my fault; I allow Douwe to walk away when he is too angry to discuss things as long as he comes back when he is more in possession of himself. Because when he is angry his language skills really just leave him and frustration about this fact is likely to escalate both the problem and his anger and leave him either furious or weeping. However, the walking away thing bothers a lot of people for reasons I am not really clear on.
In any event. If he does it again she will call me to come take him home. (Which, if he figures it out, may well lead to more of the behavior and not less. So I am glad he was not in earshot when she said that). So I spoke to Douwe of course and he lost out on going swimming today. I may be sympathetic to his motives but his means are not ok. No fighting, no biting is the rule around here, however angry you may be.
For the balance of the afternoon he was very, very deep in his fantasy world of play and it was very difficult to get his attention at all. So at some point I asked him "Douwe, where are you today?". It was sort of a rhetorical question, it isn't as though he was being naughty or anything.
He said, ">The teacher< was angry. She grabbed me. She took my car. But I was bad. She was not bad?". Hoo Boy.
Thus ensued a five year old level conversation about the nature and operations of power and justice and how these things relate to one another. After which at least he was much more like himslef again. (May I quietly celebrate with you this small thing: that Douwe can now talk about his feelings?) About an hour later he came up to me though and said "I didn't hit her. We don't hit,".
Nice try kid, I said. But we don't pinch either. He said, "I know. But I didn't hit,".
What, he wants credit?
It seems Douwe pinched his teacher today.
It appears that Douwe took a matchbox car to school today. One of his teachers does not allow this; the other one does but only to be played with at recess. This was the one who does allow it, and it was at recess. However, evidently it kept falling out of his pocket and was otherwise a problem regarding the other children wanting to play with it. As I understand it, she told him to give it to her. He said no and said he would put it away in his coat pocket (which closes with velcro and is in fact where I put toys in toy timeout when we are out somewhere). She was then annoyed and told him to give it to her. He put it in his pocket and walked away.
This was a bad move, because she then got angry and went after him to bring him back to talk about it. She grabbed his arm to stop him and he turned around and pinched her.
The walking away thing is probably my fault; I allow Douwe to walk away when he is too angry to discuss things as long as he comes back when he is more in possession of himself. Because when he is angry his language skills really just leave him and frustration about this fact is likely to escalate both the problem and his anger and leave him either furious or weeping. However, the walking away thing bothers a lot of people for reasons I am not really clear on.
In any event. If he does it again she will call me to come take him home. (Which, if he figures it out, may well lead to more of the behavior and not less. So I am glad he was not in earshot when she said that). So I spoke to Douwe of course and he lost out on going swimming today. I may be sympathetic to his motives but his means are not ok. No fighting, no biting is the rule around here, however angry you may be.
For the balance of the afternoon he was very, very deep in his fantasy world of play and it was very difficult to get his attention at all. So at some point I asked him "Douwe, where are you today?". It was sort of a rhetorical question, it isn't as though he was being naughty or anything.
He said, ">The teacher< was angry. She grabbed me. She took my car. But I was bad. She was not bad?". Hoo Boy.
Thus ensued a five year old level conversation about the nature and operations of power and justice and how these things relate to one another. After which at least he was much more like himslef again. (May I quietly celebrate with you this small thing: that Douwe can now talk about his feelings?) About an hour later he came up to me though and said "I didn't hit her. We don't hit,".
Nice try kid, I said. But we don't pinch either. He said, "I know. But I didn't hit,".
What, he wants credit?
Snow
This time the forecasters got it right, it is snowing and the snow is staying. It has been snowing for 4 days actually, but it has melted every time as the weather was in the upper thirties to low forties. The temps dropped at around 6 pm and it is still snowing.
The boys were an hour late for dinner because Nel took them out for a sleigh ride to celebrate.
Sledding here is a little different than I am used to because of course it is entirely flat. So when they say sledding they do not mean riding down a hill at the risk to your neck, they mean somebody pulling you around on a sled.
They threw snow balls (Daan was thrilled to be able to make a snow ball -- he has finally worked out that if you actually put your thumb in that little thumb thingie in your mittens, you can hold a snow ball and also throw it) and they made snow angels and generally rolled around in the dark in the snow. It was even more exciting because it was after dark.
So they came inside with many plans for tomorrow. They hung their jackets, hats, gloves, scarves and etc on the radiator and ate dinner. They had to hear "The Snowy Day" three times before going to sleep.
And when I came up tonight I discovered that they have put their ice skates under the bed. Guess I know what they want to do tomorrow.
The boys were an hour late for dinner because Nel took them out for a sleigh ride to celebrate.
Sledding here is a little different than I am used to because of course it is entirely flat. So when they say sledding they do not mean riding down a hill at the risk to your neck, they mean somebody pulling you around on a sled.
They threw snow balls (Daan was thrilled to be able to make a snow ball -- he has finally worked out that if you actually put your thumb in that little thumb thingie in your mittens, you can hold a snow ball and also throw it) and they made snow angels and generally rolled around in the dark in the snow. It was even more exciting because it was after dark.
So they came inside with many plans for tomorrow. They hung their jackets, hats, gloves, scarves and etc on the radiator and ate dinner. They had to hear "The Snowy Day" three times before going to sleep.
And when I came up tonight I discovered that they have put their ice skates under the bed. Guess I know what they want to do tomorrow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)