Before we moved, I spent a great deal of time fearing the long and dreary Dutch Winter. I spent a certain amount of time learning more than is strictly healty about things like gore tex and thinsulate. I considered the longevity of felted wool. Looked at snow boots and snow suits.
Well, it turns out I have not yet needed any of that. My winter has been navigated witht he assistance of my mother in law. Here is the Imparted Wisdom of the ages:
Wear shoes which come up over your ankle.They need not be padded nor even leather. They do need to be high. This is probably becasue Dutch Puddles are tricky little bastards which look about two drops deep and turn out to be the Return of the Zuider Zee in Technicolor. * Some of them have things living in them. Some of them have things living in them which have raised families and gone to Disney World.
Lined pants. Preferably flannel lined pants. Nel actually eschews these as designed for weaklings and hothouse flowers. But recommended them for me. Hothouse flowers, raise your tendrils.
Undershirts (camisoles for the femme amoung us). It does not matter what these are made of, actually. But they must be long enough to tuck in. You have never actually felt wind until you have felt it cut right through your clothes into your belly.
Gloves.
A down vest is lovely if you can get your husband to buy it for you.**
For heaven's sake put something on your head. Again, Nel does not ever actually wear anything on her head. Instead, when Nel is cold, I have to put something on my head. This logic works for me, I use it with my own children after all.
I have not yet entirely converted to the more core parts of the Imparted Wisdom, such as keeping your bedroom window open at night. This has, I understand, all kinds of salubrious effects. However, since it would lead to my naked feet being placed on a floor which has been in -10 degree weather all night***, and since the only really appropriate follow up to that I can think of is leaping from the roof in despair, I have not yet tried it.
I am given to understand that the Real Winter is on its way. However, they were also forecasting the Real Winter last month, so we shall see. Nel is hoping for a good long freeze, as she says that it keeps illness at bay and kills off bugs. Probably it does. But it can still stay away for all of me.
*The Zuider Zee is a former sea. It does not exist any more; it is now rolling farmland surrounding a rather nice lake. What a Dutch guy can do with a pump.
** This is not the Imparted Wisdom of the ages; this is an in joke I could not resist. Its target should be along any time now. Nel thinks down is for pillows and bed coverings.
*** -10 celcius, which is, um, pretty damn cold in Farenheit. Somebody ask my dad to do the conversion, he can do it in his head. If I could do simple arithmetic, I would have gotten an honest job rahter than resortign to chicanery and smoke and mirrors to eke out a living.
Monday, February 28, 2005
It's the small things
This morning started really smoothly for a Monday. We were all set to go out the door on time, faces shining and snacks in hand. And then we saw that my bicycle tire was flat. So I went to get the bike pump while hollering for Douwe to come back and taking Daan out of the baby seat. (Yes, in fact, I do have three hands.) I got the bike pump. I couldn't figure out how to use it.
Well, the crossbar goes up and down, thanks very much. Both my children helpfully pointed this out when I said that I didn't know how it worked. But there are three little screw end fitting thingies plus a clamp on there. The bike tire also has a screw fitting type thingie on it. None of the combinations of screw type thingies appear to me to match up. And I am not at all sure what the clamp is for.
Well, it's to clamp something. But what?
So I called the schools and told them we would be late because I cannot figure out how to work a bicycle pump, which everyone found uproariously funny. It's apparently like saying you can't work the light switch. And I took Oma's car, because Dearly Beloved was already gone and Oma was still asleep, and drove the kids to school.
Douwe insisted that we must walk. Or rather, that I muust walk and he would ride his bike, which is not after all broken. Driving is verboten, because this week is Traffic Pollution Week or something at the schools, and we were all committed (please note use of the passive voice, nobody asked me) to not driving to school for the good of the planet. I vetoed this idea, mostly on the ground that Daan cannot possibly walk that distance in under about two hours, by which time it would be academic. (Daan has to stop and smell the roses a lot, it's a drving force with him. And chase the ants and wave at the cars and look at the clouds and count the leaves and bark at the doggie and look in all the windows and and and. It is charming, except when you actually want to get anywhere.).
So I got to hear about how I was hurting the planet at great length. I did not respond that hurting the planet was better than hurting your child, but I might have thought it. Once. Fleetingly.
I am now off to try once more to plumb the mysteries of a bicycle pump. Hopefully this will all be squared away by lunchtime, when they both come home and then we go back to school.
edited to add: Well, maybe I should have more self confidence. Turns out I did do it correctly and the pump was broken.
Well, the crossbar goes up and down, thanks very much. Both my children helpfully pointed this out when I said that I didn't know how it worked. But there are three little screw end fitting thingies plus a clamp on there. The bike tire also has a screw fitting type thingie on it. None of the combinations of screw type thingies appear to me to match up. And I am not at all sure what the clamp is for.
Well, it's to clamp something. But what?
So I called the schools and told them we would be late because I cannot figure out how to work a bicycle pump, which everyone found uproariously funny. It's apparently like saying you can't work the light switch. And I took Oma's car, because Dearly Beloved was already gone and Oma was still asleep, and drove the kids to school.
Douwe insisted that we must walk. Or rather, that I muust walk and he would ride his bike, which is not after all broken. Driving is verboten, because this week is Traffic Pollution Week or something at the schools, and we were all committed (please note use of the passive voice, nobody asked me) to not driving to school for the good of the planet. I vetoed this idea, mostly on the ground that Daan cannot possibly walk that distance in under about two hours, by which time it would be academic. (Daan has to stop and smell the roses a lot, it's a drving force with him. And chase the ants and wave at the cars and look at the clouds and count the leaves and bark at the doggie and look in all the windows and and and. It is charming, except when you actually want to get anywhere.).
So I got to hear about how I was hurting the planet at great length. I did not respond that hurting the planet was better than hurting your child, but I might have thought it. Once. Fleetingly.
I am now off to try once more to plumb the mysteries of a bicycle pump. Hopefully this will all be squared away by lunchtime, when they both come home and then we go back to school.
edited to add: Well, maybe I should have more self confidence. Turns out I did do it correctly and the pump was broken.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Schools, schools and more schools
Who knew there were so many different ways to spend most of your day if you are a child?
We have now looked at two different schools, and there will no doubt be more. The Montessori school we toured without the children; the Free School I toured with Douwe and Daan.
The Free School, it turns out, is a Waldorf school. (In the States, a Free School is usually an open school or progressive school, which is different). For those of you not up on your early 20th century pedagogy, this means it is based on the ideas of Rudolf Steiner. My entire awareness of Steiner comes actually from reading Steiner, so I have not got the tiniest clue what they actually are doing in such a school. I confess it does make me nervous, though, as Steiner was undoubtedly very very smart and also undoubtedly a very very strange guy with some very weird ideas.
Hey, I know some other people like that, too. My father. My kid. Me.
However, it must be said that ultimately, the Montessori methood is about the child learning in his/her own way to become a member of society; while the Waldorf method appears to me to be really about trying to change society altogether.
One of the things about Waldorf, though, is that there really is no academic learning, content learning that is, until the children are 6 or 7. There are no alphabet letters in the classrooms, no little posters with the numbers or anything like them. There are books, but the childree are read to; they do not have a reading corner for example.
So Douwe made quite the ripple when he stood next to me and read the form as I filled it out.
I was surprised also; I didn't know he could do that. And some of you may recall that my handwriting is not exactly D'Nealian nor even clear. So the teacher asked me when I taught him to read and I said that I had not, yet. Whereupon we all looked at each other and Douwe said "we're going home, the toys were fun". And shook the teacher's hand and walked out the door.
This is not in itself that odd. I don't think Douwe can read yet, not really. He has a vocabulary of about 80 sight words at a guess (though who knew that "St. Vincentiusstraat" was amoung them?). But it would hardly be unheard of for a 5 year old to read, except in an environment where reading is not emphasized.
However, when we were reading "Little Bear" again tonight (we're having a rash of "Little Bear" here lately) he behaved rather oddly. Usually when we read a book both children go hunting through the page to find words they can recognize. Suddenly Douwe could not recognize a single one. Okay, he doesn't have to, it's just a game. But then he put on this little baby voice, a voice he did not have even when he was a baby, and said, "um, I don't know, is this the word for bear?" and pointed at the word for "doll".
Y'all, Douwe has been able to recognize the word for "bear" and for "doll" for over a year now. Bloody, he spotted "Bear" first time out in that book -- because "Little Bear" is written with capital letters, as is "Mother Bear". Y'all, he stuck his fingers in his mouth when he said it -- Douwe didn't suck his fingers or thumb as an infant and never has since.
I think he was embarassed. Or something. This little moment keeps bothering me; anybody who has any thoughts about why, let me know.
nb to my mother: Stop sending me vibes, damnit, I'll put up some more pictures tomorrow or Monday. Go vibe at one of your other children for a couple days. *grin*
We have now looked at two different schools, and there will no doubt be more. The Montessori school we toured without the children; the Free School I toured with Douwe and Daan.
The Free School, it turns out, is a Waldorf school. (In the States, a Free School is usually an open school or progressive school, which is different). For those of you not up on your early 20th century pedagogy, this means it is based on the ideas of Rudolf Steiner. My entire awareness of Steiner comes actually from reading Steiner, so I have not got the tiniest clue what they actually are doing in such a school. I confess it does make me nervous, though, as Steiner was undoubtedly very very smart and also undoubtedly a very very strange guy with some very weird ideas.
Hey, I know some other people like that, too. My father. My kid. Me.
However, it must be said that ultimately, the Montessori methood is about the child learning in his/her own way to become a member of society; while the Waldorf method appears to me to be really about trying to change society altogether.
One of the things about Waldorf, though, is that there really is no academic learning, content learning that is, until the children are 6 or 7. There are no alphabet letters in the classrooms, no little posters with the numbers or anything like them. There are books, but the childree are read to; they do not have a reading corner for example.
So Douwe made quite the ripple when he stood next to me and read the form as I filled it out.
I was surprised also; I didn't know he could do that. And some of you may recall that my handwriting is not exactly D'Nealian nor even clear. So the teacher asked me when I taught him to read and I said that I had not, yet. Whereupon we all looked at each other and Douwe said "we're going home, the toys were fun". And shook the teacher's hand and walked out the door.
This is not in itself that odd. I don't think Douwe can read yet, not really. He has a vocabulary of about 80 sight words at a guess (though who knew that "St. Vincentiusstraat" was amoung them?). But it would hardly be unheard of for a 5 year old to read, except in an environment where reading is not emphasized.
However, when we were reading "Little Bear" again tonight (we're having a rash of "Little Bear" here lately) he behaved rather oddly. Usually when we read a book both children go hunting through the page to find words they can recognize. Suddenly Douwe could not recognize a single one. Okay, he doesn't have to, it's just a game. But then he put on this little baby voice, a voice he did not have even when he was a baby, and said, "um, I don't know, is this the word for bear?" and pointed at the word for "doll".
Y'all, Douwe has been able to recognize the word for "bear" and for "doll" for over a year now. Bloody, he spotted "Bear" first time out in that book -- because "Little Bear" is written with capital letters, as is "Mother Bear". Y'all, he stuck his fingers in his mouth when he said it -- Douwe didn't suck his fingers or thumb as an infant and never has since.
I think he was embarassed. Or something. This little moment keeps bothering me; anybody who has any thoughts about why, let me know.
nb to my mother: Stop sending me vibes, damnit, I'll put up some more pictures tomorrow or Monday. Go vibe at one of your other children for a couple days. *grin*
Thursday, February 24, 2005
An apology
I am sorry I haven't been around, my Teeming Millions. Okay, Teeming Dozen. (You guys teem a lot, this makes you worth millions) I am unaccountably tired this week and I have no idea why.
So we shall have to make do with my disjointed ramblings today.
We toured a Montessori school yesterday, and expect to tour a "free school" (which is sort of like the Children's School in Atlanta) on Saturday. We are looking at all kinds of options and I cannot get over the idea that this is what I should have done when we got here, I might have saved us all a great deal of heartache. Or maybe not, who knows. Ultimately, there are a couple things I cannot get over.
One is, that Douwe has had seven, count 'em, seven diffferent teachers in a span of time which amounts to about five months in school. I think this is irredeemably bad; and the response I get when I being this up is that the other children aren't bothered by it. Well, maybe they are not. Douwe says that he is not. But he asks me every day who his teacher is going to be, and the reality is that most of the time I am not sure myself. This cannot be good.
One is, that despite much conversation about the emphasis at this school on not teasing or harassing each other, the amount of just plain "kids bugging each other" has risen to the point that parents are complaining about it in the schoolyard and we are all saying the same thing -- that the response does not appear to be effective or timely.
I expect a certain amount of teasing. I expect also that it will be handled. I do not have the feeling that it is being handled.
And of course, there is the factor that his teacher says she just has no idea how to proceed with him -- and this is a combined classroom, which means he will have the same teacher (er, teaching staff, I suppose) next year.
I went to the local agency which is supposed to find people jobs and ensure that they are productive citizens and so on with my pile of diplomas. They are sending them off to see if it is possible to make me over into a Dutch lawyer or not. The nice lady there thinks that with maybe a year or two of schooling I can get licensed here.
Daan announced to day that Rowan (a little boy at school evidently) is his best friend and that the dirt on his sweater was from when he and Rowan pushed each other to the ground in the sand box today at play school. This is how 3 year old boys show their love for one another evidently.
Where did a three year old learn the term "best friend"?
So we shall have to make do with my disjointed ramblings today.
We toured a Montessori school yesterday, and expect to tour a "free school" (which is sort of like the Children's School in Atlanta) on Saturday. We are looking at all kinds of options and I cannot get over the idea that this is what I should have done when we got here, I might have saved us all a great deal of heartache. Or maybe not, who knows. Ultimately, there are a couple things I cannot get over.
One is, that Douwe has had seven, count 'em, seven diffferent teachers in a span of time which amounts to about five months in school. I think this is irredeemably bad; and the response I get when I being this up is that the other children aren't bothered by it. Well, maybe they are not. Douwe says that he is not. But he asks me every day who his teacher is going to be, and the reality is that most of the time I am not sure myself. This cannot be good.
One is, that despite much conversation about the emphasis at this school on not teasing or harassing each other, the amount of just plain "kids bugging each other" has risen to the point that parents are complaining about it in the schoolyard and we are all saying the same thing -- that the response does not appear to be effective or timely.
I expect a certain amount of teasing. I expect also that it will be handled. I do not have the feeling that it is being handled.
And of course, there is the factor that his teacher says she just has no idea how to proceed with him -- and this is a combined classroom, which means he will have the same teacher (er, teaching staff, I suppose) next year.
I went to the local agency which is supposed to find people jobs and ensure that they are productive citizens and so on with my pile of diplomas. They are sending them off to see if it is possible to make me over into a Dutch lawyer or not. The nice lady there thinks that with maybe a year or two of schooling I can get licensed here.
Daan announced to day that Rowan (a little boy at school evidently) is his best friend and that the dirt on his sweater was from when he and Rowan pushed each other to the ground in the sand box today at play school. This is how 3 year old boys show their love for one another evidently.
Where did a three year old learn the term "best friend"?
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Any further questions?
http://www.engsc.ac.uk/tcr/tcrimages/sexdiff.jpg
Taken from "Ingenioren", a Danish weekly magazine, May 19, 1995.
Taken from "Ingenioren", a Danish weekly magazine, May 19, 1995.
An engineer dies and goes to the Pearly Gates. Saint Peter checks his list and says, "Whoops, sorry, you are in the wrong palce,". So the engineer goes to hell and is let in. Pretty soon, though, he gets bored and starts redesigning and so on. After they get air conditioning and escalators and flush toilets, he gets to be a pretty popular guy.
So Satan and God are talking one day. Satan says, "Hey, it's going great down here. We have air conditioning and escalators and flush toilets, no telling what this new guy is going to come up with next,". So God says, "What, what are you doing with an engineer. It must be a mistake, send him up here,".
"Nothin' doin,'" says Satan, "I like having an engineer on staff, I am keeping him,:.
God says, "Send him up here or I'll sue,".
Satan starts laughing and says, "Yeah, right. Where are YOU going to get a lawyer?".
So Satan and God are talking one day. Satan says, "Hey, it's going great down here. We have air conditioning and escalators and flush toilets, no telling what this new guy is going to come up with next,". So God says, "What, what are you doing with an engineer. It must be a mistake, send him up here,".
"Nothin' doin,'" says Satan, "I like having an engineer on staff, I am keeping him,:.
God says, "Send him up here or I'll sue,".
Satan starts laughing and says, "Yeah, right. Where are YOU going to get a lawyer?".
More test results
Just got back from the speech therapist.
When Douwe was 4, a year ago, he was tested in the US and came in at a 9 - 12 month old level for Language Comprehension and a 12 - 15 month old level for Language Expression.
Today I learned that he now comes in at 5 years 4 months for Langauage Comprehension and 3 years 6 months for Language Expression.
The ST was trying to break it to me gently and came up with all kinds of mitigating factors and god knows what all. She was very nice. I was trying to restrain myself from whooping in celebration. (Does she think I haven't noticed that he talks like a 3 year old?)
She has returned to her original suggestion, which is that we might want to consider sending him to a speech school they have in Breda. I will have to have a look, but really since I was considering the Atlanta Speech School already for him, it may be that we are starting to get back on track from the Big Derailment. That would be nice. Though I'm not holding my breath.
When Douwe was 4, a year ago, he was tested in the US and came in at a 9 - 12 month old level for Language Comprehension and a 12 - 15 month old level for Language Expression.
Today I learned that he now comes in at 5 years 4 months for Langauage Comprehension and 3 years 6 months for Language Expression.
The ST was trying to break it to me gently and came up with all kinds of mitigating factors and god knows what all. She was very nice. I was trying to restrain myself from whooping in celebration. (Does she think I haven't noticed that he talks like a 3 year old?)
She has returned to her original suggestion, which is that we might want to consider sending him to a speech school they have in Breda. I will have to have a look, but really since I was considering the Atlanta Speech School already for him, it may be that we are starting to get back on track from the Big Derailment. That would be nice. Though I'm not holding my breath.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Oh, and just in case anyone was wondering
As everyone knows, the sound of one hand clapping is a slap in the face.
I learned it from Jeremy Rockford.
I learned it from Jeremy Rockford.
Did you ever wonder
How the little balls got into hula hoops? Okay, it's actually a couple of steel balls, like BBs.
It turns out that the original hula hoop had no sound effects. The first rackety hula hoops were called Shoop Shoop Hula Hoops, and the sound effects were added by bits of walnut shell, apparently. Which later led to the steel balls.
The famous eskimo words for snow are: kaniktshaq, (snow); qanik, (falling snow); anijo, (snow on the ground); hiko, (ice); tsikut, (large broken up masses of ice); hikuliaq, (thin ice); quahak, (new ice without snow); kanut, (new ice with snow); pugtaq, (drift ice); peqalujaq, (old ice); manelaq, (pack ice); ivuneq, (high pack ice); maneraq, (smooth ice); akuvijarjuak, (thin ice on the sea); kuhugaq, (icicle); nilak, (fresh water ice); and tugartaq, (firm winter ice).
There is no word for snow which falls for no reason when it is 45 degrees outside and then melts immediately. We had some more this morning, my kids are so disappointed. Snow on the way to school and walking down to the pond to feed the ducks in the afternoon. It jus' ain't natural.
Hey, I was bored this evening and went poking about on the Internet. A great thing, the www. Just think how much poorer we all would be without knowing abotu the walnut shells in the hula hoops.
It turns out that the original hula hoop had no sound effects. The first rackety hula hoops were called Shoop Shoop Hula Hoops, and the sound effects were added by bits of walnut shell, apparently. Which later led to the steel balls.
The famous eskimo words for snow are: kaniktshaq, (snow); qanik, (falling snow); anijo, (snow on the ground); hiko, (ice); tsikut, (large broken up masses of ice); hikuliaq, (thin ice); quahak, (new ice without snow); kanut, (new ice with snow); pugtaq, (drift ice); peqalujaq, (old ice); manelaq, (pack ice); ivuneq, (high pack ice); maneraq, (smooth ice); akuvijarjuak, (thin ice on the sea); kuhugaq, (icicle); nilak, (fresh water ice); and tugartaq, (firm winter ice).
There is no word for snow which falls for no reason when it is 45 degrees outside and then melts immediately. We had some more this morning, my kids are so disappointed. Snow on the way to school and walking down to the pond to feed the ducks in the afternoon. It jus' ain't natural.
Hey, I was bored this evening and went poking about on the Internet. A great thing, the www. Just think how much poorer we all would be without knowing abotu the walnut shells in the hula hoops.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
What a sweetie
Thing One is not much of a candy guy. Every Halloween since he could toddle to the neighbors', I just left the candy lying around in a bowl and he ate it at his leisure. Usually it was gone in time for Christmas. The Easter basket stayed full for days; he got cookies from St. Nicholas because he didn't eat the candy.
We, of course, chalked this up to our superior parenting skills and our virtuous lifestyle; the fact is, neither of us eats sweets much. I like baked goods better; Paul really has a near total absence of sweet tooth. So we figured that, candy never really being in the house, our little offspring never developed a taste for it. I am sure I have had a self congratulatory conversation with at least one of you about this at some time.
Then we met Thing Two. Thing Two is a chocolate fiend. Thing Two figured out before the age of three what to do if Mom says you can't have any candy. Ask Oma, that is, with as winsome a little smile as possible. Thing Two figured out very quickly that a particular flirtatiously winsome expression is most effective with Oma -- what he does not know is that when he does that, he looks so much like his Opa, it is almost as though a mask has fallen over his little face. This is impossible of course, because his Opa died when he was an infant. This is not impossible, of course, because his father does it, too. But Daan looks much more like his Opa than Paul does, even though it's the same expression.
And he doesn't just eat sweets, he wallows in them. He doesn't just want to eat them, he wants to revel in them. It's not consumption, it's celebration of sweets. Thing Two spends as much of his day as possible with ice cream, candy, chocolate, what have you, smeared from his eyebrows to his chin, grinning like a fiend all the way. How doe she get the chocolate part from one of those vanilla ice creams with the chocolate and nuts on top in his ear? How does it get behind his knees?
However, both of them it turns out enjoy gummy candy. Which I think is just gross and a step too far in the recycling of tires. (I just know that's where they get the sludge to make them from). Today they both made open faced sandwiches with faces made of of soft gummy hearts and cola bottles. Bleah. Douwe, demonstrating his grasp of quantity, has concluded that he gets five candies and Daan gets three (does this mean I get 38? No, it seems this means I get 11, so his grasp of quantity isn't perfect yet). Daan, demonstrating his failure to grasp quantity, still thinks this is fine. But is beginning to peer about suspiciously, so I doubt this will last much longer.
From my own childhood, I remember Boston Baked Beans and candy necklaces and Fun Dip and Pixy Stix. Pop Rocks and Now & Laters. Charleston Chew, which could pull your filliings out if you were not careful but turned out to be surprisingly manageable when frozen. Super Bubble gum and Sweet Tarts. Atomic Fireballs and Bazooka gum. (not together). Bottle caps and candy cigarettes (which they still have, here) and gum cigarettes which had powdered sugar in so if you blew on them, "smoke" came out. Necco wafers and Pez. Can you still get Lemonheads? Wax things with some kind of liquid inside, though I don't think I ever ate one, they looked awfully suspicious to me.
And for athletic events, we were encouraged to eat raw Jell-o. No swim meet was complete unless it was lightly dusted with a powder of Day-Glo sticky sugary goo. Our tongues were green and our fingers, too. But we were fortified against the great effort for the Team, so that was okay.
Where did that idea come from anyway?
We, of course, chalked this up to our superior parenting skills and our virtuous lifestyle; the fact is, neither of us eats sweets much. I like baked goods better; Paul really has a near total absence of sweet tooth. So we figured that, candy never really being in the house, our little offspring never developed a taste for it. I am sure I have had a self congratulatory conversation with at least one of you about this at some time.
Then we met Thing Two. Thing Two is a chocolate fiend. Thing Two figured out before the age of three what to do if Mom says you can't have any candy. Ask Oma, that is, with as winsome a little smile as possible. Thing Two figured out very quickly that a particular flirtatiously winsome expression is most effective with Oma -- what he does not know is that when he does that, he looks so much like his Opa, it is almost as though a mask has fallen over his little face. This is impossible of course, because his Opa died when he was an infant. This is not impossible, of course, because his father does it, too. But Daan looks much more like his Opa than Paul does, even though it's the same expression.
And he doesn't just eat sweets, he wallows in them. He doesn't just want to eat them, he wants to revel in them. It's not consumption, it's celebration of sweets. Thing Two spends as much of his day as possible with ice cream, candy, chocolate, what have you, smeared from his eyebrows to his chin, grinning like a fiend all the way. How doe she get the chocolate part from one of those vanilla ice creams with the chocolate and nuts on top in his ear? How does it get behind his knees?
However, both of them it turns out enjoy gummy candy. Which I think is just gross and a step too far in the recycling of tires. (I just know that's where they get the sludge to make them from). Today they both made open faced sandwiches with faces made of of soft gummy hearts and cola bottles. Bleah. Douwe, demonstrating his grasp of quantity, has concluded that he gets five candies and Daan gets three (does this mean I get 38? No, it seems this means I get 11, so his grasp of quantity isn't perfect yet). Daan, demonstrating his failure to grasp quantity, still thinks this is fine. But is beginning to peer about suspiciously, so I doubt this will last much longer.
From my own childhood, I remember Boston Baked Beans and candy necklaces and Fun Dip and Pixy Stix. Pop Rocks and Now & Laters. Charleston Chew, which could pull your filliings out if you were not careful but turned out to be surprisingly manageable when frozen. Super Bubble gum and Sweet Tarts. Atomic Fireballs and Bazooka gum. (not together). Bottle caps and candy cigarettes (which they still have, here) and gum cigarettes which had powdered sugar in so if you blew on them, "smoke" came out. Necco wafers and Pez. Can you still get Lemonheads? Wax things with some kind of liquid inside, though I don't think I ever ate one, they looked awfully suspicious to me.
And for athletic events, we were encouraged to eat raw Jell-o. No swim meet was complete unless it was lightly dusted with a powder of Day-Glo sticky sugary goo. Our tongues were green and our fingers, too. But we were fortified against the great effort for the Team, so that was okay.
Where did that idea come from anyway?
Friday, February 18, 2005
My life in a pile
The local version of the Agency Formerly Known as the INS has sent me a notification that I need to send them a large pile of paper. Okay, it's a fairly small pile of paper. So I spent my day going through my obsessive compulsive files and finding all the stuff they want to show that I should be allowed to stay here. So happy our printer doubles as a copier. Now it's all sitting here waiting to be tabbed and collated or something.
Did you know that the Dutch government also asks whether you have ever conspired to or advocated the overthrow of the Dutch government by force or violence? Or the equivalent, anyway.
Every time I see that kind of question, the lyrics to "Alice's Restaurant" appear in my head. I always have to fight the urge to ask just how stupid they think people are. Do you suppose that any person has ever actually answered "why yes, all the time, why do you ask?" Or maybe, "wanna see my AK?".
Did you know that the Dutch government also asks whether you have ever conspired to or advocated the overthrow of the Dutch government by force or violence? Or the equivalent, anyway.
Every time I see that kind of question, the lyrics to "Alice's Restaurant" appear in my head. I always have to fight the urge to ask just how stupid they think people are. Do you suppose that any person has ever actually answered "why yes, all the time, why do you ask?" Or maybe, "wanna see my AK?".
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Things I do not miss
This sort of thing, I do not miss very much, though:
Battle royal over Paco the dog
Queen Beatrix's niece, Princess Margarita, was involved in a court battle with her estranged husband, Edwin de Roy van Zuydewijn, on Thursday. Rather than fighting over their castle in France or crown jewels, De Roy is seeking regular access to their pet dog Paco. He claims he has not seen the dog in over a year and misses him terribly. The two sides agreed not to reveal anything more about the case, newspaper De Telegraaf reported.
Nice to know that divorcing royals are as weird as divorcing regular people, I suppose.
Battle royal over Paco the dog
Queen Beatrix's niece, Princess Margarita, was involved in a court battle with her estranged husband, Edwin de Roy van Zuydewijn, on Thursday. Rather than fighting over their castle in France or crown jewels, De Roy is seeking regular access to their pet dog Paco. He claims he has not seen the dog in over a year and misses him terribly. The two sides agreed not to reveal anything more about the case, newspaper De Telegraaf reported.
Nice to know that divorcing royals are as weird as divorcing regular people, I suppose.
Expatriatism ramblings
I am a member of an English Club now. That is, it's a group of women all of whom speak English as their native language. And in fact, nearly all of them are Brit, though with at least one Scot I suppose I had better not say they are all English. I am the token American, I think. I came across it quite unexpectedly -- the child of one of the members is in the same class as Douwe, and she told me about it.
It meets every other Friday, which I expect means every fortnight, though even I am not pretentious enough to try to say that out loud. And it meets again tomorrow. We mostly go to a local restaurant and have coffee. The meeting starts right after the kids go to school and breaks up just before they have to be picked up for lunch.
I quite enjoy it. It is nice to talk without eternally internally translating. And I admit, I can't be clever in Dutch. I can't be subtle in Dutch, and I am never sure that I am actually communicating exactly what I want to say. I certainly cannot pun in Dutch. I am generally certain that what I meant to say got across in English (though whether that is a good idea is sometimes a different question). And this is very nice.
At their Christmas Dinner I found myself the astonished recipient of a large number of Christmas cards from people I had met all of twice at that point. I thought I was going to weep, really. It was a very small thing. But it was just so nice to, you know, get some Christmas cards like a regular person.
It is interesting being expatriated. I haven't really decided if I like it -- though I suppose I had better make up my mind to like it, as here I am. But it is a lovely thing to be able to share it a bit. It is also interesting, if the most important thing you share is a language, you find yourself talking about all kinds of things you otherwise would not with a lot of people you would never in a million years have spoken to -- because you would never have encountered them -- in any other context.
It meets every other Friday, which I expect means every fortnight, though even I am not pretentious enough to try to say that out loud. And it meets again tomorrow. We mostly go to a local restaurant and have coffee. The meeting starts right after the kids go to school and breaks up just before they have to be picked up for lunch.
I quite enjoy it. It is nice to talk without eternally internally translating. And I admit, I can't be clever in Dutch. I can't be subtle in Dutch, and I am never sure that I am actually communicating exactly what I want to say. I certainly cannot pun in Dutch. I am generally certain that what I meant to say got across in English (though whether that is a good idea is sometimes a different question). And this is very nice.
At their Christmas Dinner I found myself the astonished recipient of a large number of Christmas cards from people I had met all of twice at that point. I thought I was going to weep, really. It was a very small thing. But it was just so nice to, you know, get some Christmas cards like a regular person.
It is interesting being expatriated. I haven't really decided if I like it -- though I suppose I had better make up my mind to like it, as here I am. But it is a lovely thing to be able to share it a bit. It is also interesting, if the most important thing you share is a language, you find yourself talking about all kinds of things you otherwise would not with a lot of people you would never in a million years have spoken to -- because you would never have encountered them -- in any other context.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Horrible bugs
Well, the dermatologist's diagnosis was confirmed, there has been a Bug Sighting. It appears that one of the beasties jumped up on Paul's book while he was reading yesterday. Waved hello. Something. Perhaps they are hungry, as the Little Bird has gone for a short vacation with relatives to be treated for infestation.
So out came the horrible toxic chemical waste byproduct bottles, wielded against the invasion on the curtains, sofas, pillows, what have you. Tomorrow when the kids are at school I have to treat the beds and bedding.
The only horrible bit is, well, you know how Douwe has had a mysterious rash every single summer we have been here? The one we chalked up to new soap or chicken pox or whatever? You don't suppose the house has been infested for five years?
A call to the vet's office confirmed it; it could very easily have been. Which means they are, of course, everywhere. The vet's office suggested we leave the bird gone for three months, which should be long ewnough for the damn things to all die. Evidently bugs are highly specialized and while Douwe's blood is nice for a little snack (bleah) it won't keep them laying eggs.
You know what? When people have killed each other, the insects will still be here.
So out came the horrible toxic chemical waste byproduct bottles, wielded against the invasion on the curtains, sofas, pillows, what have you. Tomorrow when the kids are at school I have to treat the beds and bedding.
The only horrible bit is, well, you know how Douwe has had a mysterious rash every single summer we have been here? The one we chalked up to new soap or chicken pox or whatever? You don't suppose the house has been infested for five years?
A call to the vet's office confirmed it; it could very easily have been. Which means they are, of course, everywhere. The vet's office suggested we leave the bird gone for three months, which should be long ewnough for the damn things to all die. Evidently bugs are highly specialized and while Douwe's blood is nice for a little snack (bleah) it won't keep them laying eggs.
You know what? When people have killed each other, the insects will still be here.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Responsive Management
Our latest, um, reader has noted that the below picture is a much better picture in his opinion than the one his mother chose to show of him on the boat ride in Amsterdam. And that his grandmother would rather see this one.
We have adjusted our entries accordingly. Never let it be said that we are less than responsive here at dothedozens. We even play requests.
We have adjusted our entries accordingly. Never let it be said that we are less than responsive here at dothedozens. We even play requests.
The euphemism treadmill
Today I read this phrase: "non-negotiable early retirement". I liked it. Is that a euphemism or a circumlocution for "fired"? I am also fond of "normal involuntary attrition". Whichever, I have always liked them.
"Trans-cranial high-velocity frontal lobotomy" is one of my favorites. (For the nonviolent, this is a bullet in the head). Though I don't have occasion to use it much. Most of my circumlocutions at this moment are efforts to prevent my children from knowing what I am talking about. They usually figure it out anyway, but I suppose I am adding to theeir vocabulary.
Medical euphemisms are nice: did you know that a bag of ice shows up on a hospital bill as "thermal therapy"? And of course the State of Georgia called evolution "biological changes over time". And the killing of hundreds of cattle as a measure against Mad Cow Disease got called "depopulation" of the bull calf operation. Sustainable utilization turns out to mean plundering the environment without really worrying about it. And there are takeout restaurants here which adertise a 10% discount for picking up your food (this menas there is a 10% charge for delivery). I saw a new term for paper magazines where the publication also comes out online: they are called "dead tree editions".
The National Federation for the Blind went on a crusade once to get people to keep using the word "blind" in place of hard of seeing, visually challenged, sightless, visually impaired, and the like.
Anybody else got any favorites?
"Trans-cranial high-velocity frontal lobotomy" is one of my favorites. (For the nonviolent, this is a bullet in the head). Though I don't have occasion to use it much. Most of my circumlocutions at this moment are efforts to prevent my children from knowing what I am talking about. They usually figure it out anyway, but I suppose I am adding to theeir vocabulary.
Medical euphemisms are nice: did you know that a bag of ice shows up on a hospital bill as "thermal therapy"? And of course the State of Georgia called evolution "biological changes over time". And the killing of hundreds of cattle as a measure against Mad Cow Disease got called "depopulation" of the bull calf operation. Sustainable utilization turns out to mean plundering the environment without really worrying about it. And there are takeout restaurants here which adertise a 10% discount for picking up your food (this menas there is a 10% charge for delivery). I saw a new term for paper magazines where the publication also comes out online: they are called "dead tree editions".
The National Federation for the Blind went on a crusade once to get people to keep using the word "blind" in place of hard of seeing, visually challenged, sightless, visually impaired, and the like.
Anybody else got any favorites?
Monday, February 14, 2005
I guess I have to
As you might have guessed, I am not wild about Valentine's Day. There are not one, not two, but three Saints Valentine, all martyrs, and it's anybody's guess which one was meant when the original holiday was invented.
There is no doubt that the original holiday was invented to do away with a most unfortunate custom the Romans had; all the young men got to pull names in a lottery and the teenaged girls whose names were on the lots were assigned to be the, er, companions of the men in question. So the Big RC substituted a lottery in which the young men got Saint's names on the lots instead, with the joyous prize of getting to try to emulate the chosen saint for the coming year. Pity the poor person drawing Simeon Stylites, who spent his life on the top of a pillar, never leaving it for any reason. All in all, not a very good substitute, at least not if you were a young Roman buck. Let's see, concubine or saint, concubine or saint, that's a tough one.
I would like to point out that nobody asked the girls what they thought about it. Okay, the reality is that they probably didn't think much about it at all. Or if they did they were probably annoyed that they would have to find their own concubinage contracts that year; such are the ways of people. Can't liberate the little ungrateful little buggers for nothin'.
Anyway, by the Middle Ages, all hopes for a spiritual Valentine's Day celebration were pretty much over -- by the 1400s a valentine was the name of your sweetheart. And it also is alleged to have something to do with the belief that the second week of February is when birds choose their mates. But all in all, if somebody asks you to be their Valentine today, you might want to inquire as to whether it involves having your head whacked off.
Just a thought.
There is no doubt that the original holiday was invented to do away with a most unfortunate custom the Romans had; all the young men got to pull names in a lottery and the teenaged girls whose names were on the lots were assigned to be the, er, companions of the men in question. So the Big RC substituted a lottery in which the young men got Saint's names on the lots instead, with the joyous prize of getting to try to emulate the chosen saint for the coming year. Pity the poor person drawing Simeon Stylites, who spent his life on the top of a pillar, never leaving it for any reason. All in all, not a very good substitute, at least not if you were a young Roman buck. Let's see, concubine or saint, concubine or saint, that's a tough one.
I would like to point out that nobody asked the girls what they thought about it. Okay, the reality is that they probably didn't think much about it at all. Or if they did they were probably annoyed that they would have to find their own concubinage contracts that year; such are the ways of people. Can't liberate the little ungrateful little buggers for nothin'.
Anyway, by the Middle Ages, all hopes for a spiritual Valentine's Day celebration were pretty much over -- by the 1400s a valentine was the name of your sweetheart. And it also is alleged to have something to do with the belief that the second week of February is when birds choose their mates. But all in all, if somebody asks you to be their Valentine today, you might want to inquire as to whether it involves having your head whacked off.
Just a thought.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
If you don't like the weather
In Atlanta they say, "If you don't like the weather, just hang on a minute,". They have no idea what they are talking about.
I woke up to rumbling thunder this morning. After breakfast, the sun was shining again so I put the kids in their jackets to go out and play. We opened the door to hail. We closed the door and went to take the jackets off. Looked out the window and it was raining. "Great," I said, "now all we need is some snow,". This was a joke; it is in the forties today.
Nel said "Could you please ask for some sun next time?". Yep, you got it in one. It was snowing. Big fat flakes of snow. I said, "Okay, but it will have to wait a minute," and went upstairs.
Twenty minutes later the sun was out and we went outside. But an hour later we had to come in again because it was raining. Now the sun is shining again but I have learned my lesson. We are staying in until dinner time, when we are eating out because today is (was?) Hans' birthday and the whole family is eating out.
Fingers crossed that there will not be a freak tornado or tidal wave.
I woke up to rumbling thunder this morning. After breakfast, the sun was shining again so I put the kids in their jackets to go out and play. We opened the door to hail. We closed the door and went to take the jackets off. Looked out the window and it was raining. "Great," I said, "now all we need is some snow,". This was a joke; it is in the forties today.
Nel said "Could you please ask for some sun next time?". Yep, you got it in one. It was snowing. Big fat flakes of snow. I said, "Okay, but it will have to wait a minute," and went upstairs.
Twenty minutes later the sun was out and we went outside. But an hour later we had to come in again because it was raining. Now the sun is shining again but I have learned my lesson. We are staying in until dinner time, when we are eating out because today is (was?) Hans' birthday and the whole family is eating out.
Fingers crossed that there will not be a freak tornado or tidal wave.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
The Gulag
Well, the American Consulate in Amsterdam is most unpleasant. It has a very high and intimidating steel security fence all the way around it; and it is not apparent where the entrance is, so you have to walk all the way around the building, encountering on your way at least three police officers peering alertly about on the other side of the fence. Finally I had to stop one to ask where the entrance was. He directed me to an equally intimidating security gate (I am not easily intimidated, y'all, the Federal Pen in Atlanta is more welcoming than this).
Outside the gate is a gaggle of people, some of whom are queing and some of whom are just sort of standing around. So I asked them how this worked, as I had been told ont he phone that it was a walk in procedure to renew a passport. Only you can't actually walk in, you see. It was explained that someone came out at sort of random intervals to let people through. So I asked how the nice people inside knew we were there. Everyone looked confused. Then a man came along the street, clearly looking for something. He hesitated by the gate, and the Voice of God came from nowhere: "SIR, IF YOU WOULD JUST STAND ON THE LEFT THERE I'LL BE RIGHT OUT,".
Actually, it came from the speaker by the gate, and I deduced therefrom that there was a security camera somewhere, and that's how they knew we were there. Douwe deduced that this was a Very Bad Place which we should leave Right Now. I managed to convince him that we were staying and the guy came out to let us in. The Security guy on duty that day is really an extremely nice person, and was probably the only reason Douwe did not run away screaming.
So then there's the wand metal detector and the bag search. (All of this is still out of doors). Then you get to actually go in. Except you can't go in, because there's another security door to get through, then your bag (which was just searched) is passed to the Security Guy behind about four inch thick bulletproof glass through a little drawer thingie like they had for Hannibal Lechter in Silence of the Lambs. And you go through a walk through metal detector.
Then you finally get to go to the usual sort of governemnt office in which everybody stands behind more glass and you get to shout through it. And all they can see is the top maybe two thirds of my head because I am a small sort of person, and I doubt they ever saw Douwe at all. And in the end, Dearly Beloved has to make the trip to Amsterdam after all, because the consent form he signed was not notarized. It was not notarized because it doesn't say it has to be notarized. At least, not anywhere that I saw. (Which was flatly denied by the Consulate; they say it says that "everywhere". Maybe, but I surely did not intentionally make a several hour trip beginning at 5 am involving a bike, a bus, a train, and a tram with a five year old in hopes of getting away with something. Had I known, it would surely have been notarized.)
But whatever, Monday morning or thereabouts I expect The Spouse will journey to the north of Holland to write his name on a piece of paper and Douwe will get a new passport. And I am sure it is all my fault.
Afterwards, it took about an hour and a half, one Happy Meal at McDonald's and a juggler in the square to convince Douwe that Amsterdam is not a really frightening place in which you are in danger of being put in a cage and not let out again. I got to see one of my my favorite musea, though, so that was nice. It does go both ways, apparently. Though the fact that the museum has an elevator made entirely of glass except for the floor and a maze outside in the garden unquestionably helped.
However, Douwe hates a painter called Frans Hals. Walked into the Hals Room, looked at all four walls, said "No," quite certainly and left the room and would not go back.
We then went on a canal tour of Amsterdam in a boat and otherwise mostly just walked around. It was actually a lot of fun. Then,of course, it was back on the tram and the train and the bus and the bike to get home. To explain to Dearly Beloved that he gets to go to Amsterdam next week between the hours of 8:30 and 11:30.
Outside the gate is a gaggle of people, some of whom are queing and some of whom are just sort of standing around. So I asked them how this worked, as I had been told ont he phone that it was a walk in procedure to renew a passport. Only you can't actually walk in, you see. It was explained that someone came out at sort of random intervals to let people through. So I asked how the nice people inside knew we were there. Everyone looked confused. Then a man came along the street, clearly looking for something. He hesitated by the gate, and the Voice of God came from nowhere: "SIR, IF YOU WOULD JUST STAND ON THE LEFT THERE I'LL BE RIGHT OUT,".
Actually, it came from the speaker by the gate, and I deduced therefrom that there was a security camera somewhere, and that's how they knew we were there. Douwe deduced that this was a Very Bad Place which we should leave Right Now. I managed to convince him that we were staying and the guy came out to let us in. The Security guy on duty that day is really an extremely nice person, and was probably the only reason Douwe did not run away screaming.
So then there's the wand metal detector and the bag search. (All of this is still out of doors). Then you get to actually go in. Except you can't go in, because there's another security door to get through, then your bag (which was just searched) is passed to the Security Guy behind about four inch thick bulletproof glass through a little drawer thingie like they had for Hannibal Lechter in Silence of the Lambs. And you go through a walk through metal detector.
Then you finally get to go to the usual sort of governemnt office in which everybody stands behind more glass and you get to shout through it. And all they can see is the top maybe two thirds of my head because I am a small sort of person, and I doubt they ever saw Douwe at all. And in the end, Dearly Beloved has to make the trip to Amsterdam after all, because the consent form he signed was not notarized. It was not notarized because it doesn't say it has to be notarized. At least, not anywhere that I saw. (Which was flatly denied by the Consulate; they say it says that "everywhere". Maybe, but I surely did not intentionally make a several hour trip beginning at 5 am involving a bike, a bus, a train, and a tram with a five year old in hopes of getting away with something. Had I known, it would surely have been notarized.)
But whatever, Monday morning or thereabouts I expect The Spouse will journey to the north of Holland to write his name on a piece of paper and Douwe will get a new passport. And I am sure it is all my fault.
Afterwards, it took about an hour and a half, one Happy Meal at McDonald's and a juggler in the square to convince Douwe that Amsterdam is not a really frightening place in which you are in danger of being put in a cage and not let out again. I got to see one of my my favorite musea, though, so that was nice. It does go both ways, apparently. Though the fact that the museum has an elevator made entirely of glass except for the floor and a maze outside in the garden unquestionably helped.
However, Douwe hates a painter called Frans Hals. Walked into the Hals Room, looked at all four walls, said "No," quite certainly and left the room and would not go back.
We then went on a canal tour of Amsterdam in a boat and otherwise mostly just walked around. It was actually a lot of fun. Then,of course, it was back on the tram and the train and the bus and the bike to get home. To explain to Dearly Beloved that he gets to go to Amsterdam next week between the hours of 8:30 and 11:30.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
What is heaven?
My, I am on a theological roll, am I not? But this isn't really about heaven. That's why I called it that of course.
Tomorrow I get to travel on a bicycle to the bus station, then on a bus to the train station, then on a train to Amsterdam Central Station, where I will either go on foot or by another bus (or maybe a cab if my patience is thin enough) to the Museumplein. I will walk past the famous musea with the famous paintings and go directly to Number 19, where the nice people at the US Consulate will (I dearly hope) begin the process of renewing Douwe's passport. And I get to do it with Douwe, an event which may well cause the US Government to change its policy about the child having to appear in person.
(You'd think The Hague, wouldn't you, where the actual embassy is. But no, passports are renewed in Amsterdam. They probably mail them to The Hague.)
(And ok, Mom, not really, Douwe is now rather fun to travel with. So is Daan. But not together. No, no, a thousand times no. I would quite literally rather drop an anvil on my foot than have to chauffeur Thing One and Thing Two on such a journey. Okay, well, with Child Restraint Devices, and maybe an Oregon Boot and a morningstar.
This little process is allowed only between the hours of (urgh) 8:30 am and 11:30 am and you have to come in person. So I get to get up at 5:00 am (urgh urgh) and wake up my 5 year old (urgh urgh urgh) and get us both out the door. I hope it will not be raining, but I expect it will be, because that's how it works.
The alternative is to get to sit in the epic traffic jams between here and Amsterdam, and also to try to park a car there, thus getting to get up at 4:30 am. I cannot believe that this is the lazy man's option but there you are.
I will also have to be cheerful about it. Or pretend to be. Because a trip which involves a bike, a bus, and a train all in one day is in fact Douwe's idea of heaven. If he gets to ride on an elevator or an escalator too, his little circle of happiness will be complete.
D'you think he'll be happy enough to trot by one or more of the aforementioned musea? If I tell him it'd make my circle of happiness complete? Is there reciprocation on the personal sacrifice thing?
Only the Shadow knows.
Tomorrow I get to travel on a bicycle to the bus station, then on a bus to the train station, then on a train to Amsterdam Central Station, where I will either go on foot or by another bus (or maybe a cab if my patience is thin enough) to the Museumplein. I will walk past the famous musea with the famous paintings and go directly to Number 19, where the nice people at the US Consulate will (I dearly hope) begin the process of renewing Douwe's passport. And I get to do it with Douwe, an event which may well cause the US Government to change its policy about the child having to appear in person.
(You'd think The Hague, wouldn't you, where the actual embassy is. But no, passports are renewed in Amsterdam. They probably mail them to The Hague.)
(And ok, Mom, not really, Douwe is now rather fun to travel with. So is Daan. But not together. No, no, a thousand times no. I would quite literally rather drop an anvil on my foot than have to chauffeur Thing One and Thing Two on such a journey. Okay, well, with Child Restraint Devices, and maybe an Oregon Boot and a morningstar.
This little process is allowed only between the hours of (urgh) 8:30 am and 11:30 am and you have to come in person. So I get to get up at 5:00 am (urgh urgh) and wake up my 5 year old (urgh urgh urgh) and get us both out the door. I hope it will not be raining, but I expect it will be, because that's how it works.
The alternative is to get to sit in the epic traffic jams between here and Amsterdam, and also to try to park a car there, thus getting to get up at 4:30 am. I cannot believe that this is the lazy man's option but there you are.
I will also have to be cheerful about it. Or pretend to be. Because a trip which involves a bike, a bus, and a train all in one day is in fact Douwe's idea of heaven. If he gets to ride on an elevator or an escalator too, his little circle of happiness will be complete.
D'you think he'll be happy enough to trot by one or more of the aforementioned musea? If I tell him it'd make my circle of happiness complete? Is there reciprocation on the personal sacrifice thing?
Only the Shadow knows.
On the other hand
Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, but today is the feast day of Saint Scholastica.
So, while I do not take back anything I said below and I believe all of it, it is also true to say that trying to impose order on the world via ritual is sort of like trying to make a coat of your pet wolf while keeping the meat kosher.
Saint Scholastica (for the non-Catholic or non-interested in saints) was the twin sister of Saint Benedict (who founded the Benedictine Order of monks and wrote a set of really obsessive rules for monastic living). The story goes that, because they were not allowed to visit each other in private -- that rule thing you see -- they met once a year in a house halfway between their respective monasteries. One year, Benedict prepared to leave before sunset. Scholastica asked him to stay a while and chat for the evening. Benedict refused because he did not wish to break his own rule by spending a night away from the monastery.
Scholastica laid her head upon the table and prayed aloud. A sudden storm arose, with violent rain and hail in such a torrent that Benedict was unable to depart.
May Almighty God forgive you, sister" said Benedict, "for what you have done.""I asked a favor of you," Scholastica replied, "and you refused it. I asked it of God, and He has granted it!"
This is often taken as a fable about prayer. I personally think it is a fable about oh, some other things. But certainly amoung them is what the Big Guy really thinks about slavish compliance with rules.
So, while I do not take back anything I said below and I believe all of it, it is also true to say that trying to impose order on the world via ritual is sort of like trying to make a coat of your pet wolf while keeping the meat kosher.
Saint Scholastica (for the non-Catholic or non-interested in saints) was the twin sister of Saint Benedict (who founded the Benedictine Order of monks and wrote a set of really obsessive rules for monastic living). The story goes that, because they were not allowed to visit each other in private -- that rule thing you see -- they met once a year in a house halfway between their respective monasteries. One year, Benedict prepared to leave before sunset. Scholastica asked him to stay a while and chat for the evening. Benedict refused because he did not wish to break his own rule by spending a night away from the monastery.
Scholastica laid her head upon the table and prayed aloud. A sudden storm arose, with violent rain and hail in such a torrent that Benedict was unable to depart.
May Almighty God forgive you, sister" said Benedict, "for what you have done.""I asked a favor of you," Scholastica replied, "and you refused it. I asked it of God, and He has granted it!"
This is often taken as a fable about prayer. I personally think it is a fable about oh, some other things. But certainly amoung them is what the Big Guy really thinks about slavish compliance with rules.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
The Bird? It was the bird?
A fable about missing what is right under your nose.
Douwe has had a rash, a very odd rash, since September. It begain, coincidentally enough, when whooping cough hit his school, and there were many warnings about how even vaccinated children could get whooping cough, only they then got a much milder version. The rash was the least of our worries, as he had a cough and was acting, well, listless. So the doc gave him an antibiotic (which he has had before) to which he nevertheless had an immediate and horrible allergic reaction. The couple little spots of rash turned into a conflagration. We stopped the antibiotic. The rash got better but it never went away.
Many things have been tried since. Eliminating the usual suspects from his diet. Changing soaps, both bath and clothes. Eliminating soaps, ditto (loss of bubble bath was taken quite personally). Bedding changes. Changing ventilation and humidity of the room he sleeps in. All kinds of stuff. No effect of any kind.
The family doctor, after four visits, threw up his hands and sent him to a dermatologist. Today. The dermatologist took one look and asked if we had a.....(drum roll please)
Parakeet. Or bird of any kind.
It appears there is some kind of bug which lives on parakeets which does not bother the parakeet and does not bother adults, but to which children often have a bad reaction when bitten. Luckily, it's apparently killable (the bug not the bird) so Nel does not have to choose between grandchild and bird. Pukkie the bird is off to the vet tomorrow.
I tried everything possible, y'all. I thought of everything. Except the stupid bird. I never thought about the bird at all, at all.
Douwe has had a rash, a very odd rash, since September. It begain, coincidentally enough, when whooping cough hit his school, and there were many warnings about how even vaccinated children could get whooping cough, only they then got a much milder version. The rash was the least of our worries, as he had a cough and was acting, well, listless. So the doc gave him an antibiotic (which he has had before) to which he nevertheless had an immediate and horrible allergic reaction. The couple little spots of rash turned into a conflagration. We stopped the antibiotic. The rash got better but it never went away.
Many things have been tried since. Eliminating the usual suspects from his diet. Changing soaps, both bath and clothes. Eliminating soaps, ditto (loss of bubble bath was taken quite personally). Bedding changes. Changing ventilation and humidity of the room he sleeps in. All kinds of stuff. No effect of any kind.
The family doctor, after four visits, threw up his hands and sent him to a dermatologist. Today. The dermatologist took one look and asked if we had a.....(drum roll please)
Parakeet. Or bird of any kind.
It appears there is some kind of bug which lives on parakeets which does not bother the parakeet and does not bother adults, but to which children often have a bad reaction when bitten. Luckily, it's apparently killable (the bug not the bird) so Nel does not have to choose between grandchild and bird. Pukkie the bird is off to the vet tomorrow.
I tried everything possible, y'all. I thought of everything. Except the stupid bird. I never thought about the bird at all, at all.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Ash Wednesday
Well, it's almost Ash Wednesday. I expect all those years of Catholic schooling paid off somehow, because, though I have trouble articulating why, I rather like Lent. I expect it is because Lent is sort of the linchpin of the Liturgical year, and I am fond of the idea of having a rhythm to time as I wander aimlessly through it. I am also fond of the phrase "in ordinary time", which is also part of the terminology of the liturgical year.
I always go to church on Ash Wednesday, whether I happen to believe in any particular deity at that moment or not. Which just shows that I am weirder than the whole College of Cardinals put together, as Ash Wednesday is not, as I recall, a Day of Obligation (that is a day on which one has to go to Mass). There is something satisfying to me about a ritual that has been going on essentially unchanged since the 8th century.
It's a much overlooked and disdained period of time, Lent. It is derived from a Latin word which means "slowly" and it is amoung other things about slowing down, taking stock, lying fallow. We do not approve of lying fallow, really, do we? We are supposed to be doing something, preferably somethign useful; and I find that the formality of Lent in some ways serves as a compensation for not doing that. Doing something relatively mindless and structured, fossilized if you like, satisfies the need to "always be doing" and is actually freeing. One may think about anything one likes during the Stations of the Cross; or about nothing. But for that short span of time, the need to decide about what to be doing has been handed over.
Probably it actually is the formality and ritual associated with the thing which makes it so disliked. But this does not trouble me a bit, as I also like ritual. I like the Stations of the Cross and I have been known to change churches because the Mass was beginning to uncomfortably resemble a prayer meeting. I have no problem with prayer meetings; but if I wanted one I would not be showing up for a Mass. I like the structure of a Mass, and I like its theater.
I always go to church on Ash Wednesday, whether I happen to believe in any particular deity at that moment or not. Which just shows that I am weirder than the whole College of Cardinals put together, as Ash Wednesday is not, as I recall, a Day of Obligation (that is a day on which one has to go to Mass). There is something satisfying to me about a ritual that has been going on essentially unchanged since the 8th century.
It's a much overlooked and disdained period of time, Lent. It is derived from a Latin word which means "slowly" and it is amoung other things about slowing down, taking stock, lying fallow. We do not approve of lying fallow, really, do we? We are supposed to be doing something, preferably somethign useful; and I find that the formality of Lent in some ways serves as a compensation for not doing that. Doing something relatively mindless and structured, fossilized if you like, satisfies the need to "always be doing" and is actually freeing. One may think about anything one likes during the Stations of the Cross; or about nothing. But for that short span of time, the need to decide about what to be doing has been handed over.
Probably it actually is the formality and ritual associated with the thing which makes it so disliked. But this does not trouble me a bit, as I also like ritual. I like the Stations of the Cross and I have been known to change churches because the Mass was beginning to uncomfortably resemble a prayer meeting. I have no problem with prayer meetings; but if I wanted one I would not be showing up for a Mass. I like the structure of a Mass, and I like its theater.
The End of Carnival
Carnival ends in, let's see, 68 minutes, with the official >incomprehensible Dutch word which has something in it about burning something< ceremony. I expect to give it a miss, as freezing my ass off in the company of a lot of people who have been drunk for four days doesn't really appeal. Even if it does involve burning something up.
The Children's Carnival Parade was today. At least one of my children won a prize for his/their costume. Here's how this works: the official prize givers are on the float of Young Prince Carnival. They give you a little card which says which prize you won; you hang it around your neck for the rest of the parade. Then you go to the center of town, where Young Prince Carnival's Court is being held (complete with throne and courtiers) and find the jester. You show him your card and get your prize. This is, I hear, because some children would like to have trumpets blown and songs sung and the chance to approach the throne and receive their boon from the Prince; other children might have a nervous breakdown. So the jester makes this call from talking to the child when they come for the prize.
So anyway, the guy on the float motioned for one of my children to come over. Both of them took a step backward. Neither of my sons is likely to walk up to a stranger on a moving float which involves animated thingamajiggies at their eye level and who knows what all simply because he motioned them over. Au contraire. So their grandmother, who actually knew what was going on, went up to the float and asked which child had won. He said "The one with the cap, the one in the (implied, formal) jacket," and the float was gone. Unhappily, I have one in a cap and the other in a formal jacket.
So when we went to the Court and found the jester, we explained the problem. The jester looked at my sons, who were by now holding hands and both looking very nervous. My older son said, "But it's Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket," to which the jester replied, "I think you are right, I think you both won," and pulled out the prize and explained that they were to share it since neither costume worked without the other. It was quite a haul, that prize, there was plenty to go around. There was a silly hat in the shape of a rat (girl prize winners got a monkey) and a huge sack of candy and pens from Carnival and confetti (which I just swept out of the house) and streamers (ditto) and a medal in the shape of a jester's head and all kinds of stuff.
So it all worked out rather well. Otherwise, Nel and I danced to stupid oompah music and did the twist in the middle of the street and marched in the parade and otherwise acted up in public as is required for Carnival. My sons objected to our antics and Daan threatened to put us in time out because Nel and I went marching in perfect tempo between the rows of the marching band, only in the reverse direction, with very serious faces.
Nel's been waiting to have me to play with for years, y'all, just years. Her sons are as boring as mine are, they just want to stand around and look pretty. Though at least my sons will still dance with me.
The Children's Carnival Parade was today. At least one of my children won a prize for his/their costume. Here's how this works: the official prize givers are on the float of Young Prince Carnival. They give you a little card which says which prize you won; you hang it around your neck for the rest of the parade. Then you go to the center of town, where Young Prince Carnival's Court is being held (complete with throne and courtiers) and find the jester. You show him your card and get your prize. This is, I hear, because some children would like to have trumpets blown and songs sung and the chance to approach the throne and receive their boon from the Prince; other children might have a nervous breakdown. So the jester makes this call from talking to the child when they come for the prize.
So anyway, the guy on the float motioned for one of my children to come over. Both of them took a step backward. Neither of my sons is likely to walk up to a stranger on a moving float which involves animated thingamajiggies at their eye level and who knows what all simply because he motioned them over. Au contraire. So their grandmother, who actually knew what was going on, went up to the float and asked which child had won. He said "The one with the cap, the one in the (implied, formal) jacket," and the float was gone. Unhappily, I have one in a cap and the other in a formal jacket.
So when we went to the Court and found the jester, we explained the problem. The jester looked at my sons, who were by now holding hands and both looking very nervous. My older son said, "But it's Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket," to which the jester replied, "I think you are right, I think you both won," and pulled out the prize and explained that they were to share it since neither costume worked without the other. It was quite a haul, that prize, there was plenty to go around. There was a silly hat in the shape of a rat (girl prize winners got a monkey) and a huge sack of candy and pens from Carnival and confetti (which I just swept out of the house) and streamers (ditto) and a medal in the shape of a jester's head and all kinds of stuff.
So it all worked out rather well. Otherwise, Nel and I danced to stupid oompah music and did the twist in the middle of the street and marched in the parade and otherwise acted up in public as is required for Carnival. My sons objected to our antics and Daan threatened to put us in time out because Nel and I went marching in perfect tempo between the rows of the marching band, only in the reverse direction, with very serious faces.
Nel's been waiting to have me to play with for years, y'all, just years. Her sons are as boring as mine are, they just want to stand around and look pretty. Though at least my sons will still dance with me.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Now we're playing Crowd Requests
For god's sake, nobody tell my brother. I know, Johnny, I know. We Don't Play Crowd Requests Ever, they always want fricken Free Bird. But what can I tell you, she asked nice.
(Listen you lot of armchair psychologists, don't get any ideas about future quizzes, hear me?)
*Ahem*. This is called a meme, I am given to understand.
1. Song that sounds like happy feels
Brown Eyed Girl, Van Morrison
What a Wonderful World, Louis Armstrong
Living in America, James Brown
2. Earliest music memory
This Disney album we had, the song is about all the little birdies answering birdie roll call at school: "Penelope Pinfeather/" "Heeeeeeeere". I can't for the life of me remember the name. And my mother's (I think; I cannot imagine my father listening to a musical) Camelot album.
Also my mother singing "Good Morning Merry Sunshine" to her low blood sugar brood dragging our grumpy butts in in the morning. She doesn't actually look like a sadist, she looks like a regular person. Appearances are deceiving.
I remember trying to explain to Trudy, a friend of my mother's, that I was not sitting doing nothing, I was listening to music in my head. I think she thought I was crazy. I don't know why I remember that.
3. Last CD bought
Tom Waits, Real Gone
4. Reminds you of school
The Catholic Girls, "God Made You for Me"
5. Total music files on your PC
None.
6. Song for listening to repeatedly when depressed
Rainy Night in Georgia, Brook Benton
On My Own from Les Mis
Kentucky Avenue, Tom Waits
Adagio, Albinoni
7. Song that sounds british but isn't
I'm not even sure what that means.
8. Song you love, band you hate
Can't say I love it. But the closest I can come is, I rather like Cadillac Ranch despite really disliking Bruce Springsteen.
9. Favorite song from the past that took ages to track down
I never have tried to track one down. Other that the Disney Album aforementioned, which I never have tracked down.
10. Bought the album for one good song
The first Santana album I ever bought, but I can only remember the cover, not which one it was. The lyric went "soft and gentle is my lover" and it was a female vocal. Beyond that I can't remember.
11. Worst song to get stuck in your head
Pretty much any Carnival song, expecially the one about pirates which goes "Ship (okay, it's really Schip) aHOY HOY HOY"
12. Best song to dump beer on someones head to, then storm out of the bar
I never storm out of bars; I generally prefer to kill people in their sleep.
But I expect "Hit the Road Jack" by Ray Charles would do in a pinch
(Listen you lot of armchair psychologists, don't get any ideas about future quizzes, hear me?)
*Ahem*. This is called a meme, I am given to understand.
1. Song that sounds like happy feels
Brown Eyed Girl, Van Morrison
What a Wonderful World, Louis Armstrong
Living in America, James Brown
2. Earliest music memory
This Disney album we had, the song is about all the little birdies answering birdie roll call at school: "Penelope Pinfeather/" "Heeeeeeeere". I can't for the life of me remember the name. And my mother's (I think; I cannot imagine my father listening to a musical) Camelot album.
Also my mother singing "Good Morning Merry Sunshine" to her low blood sugar brood dragging our grumpy butts in in the morning. She doesn't actually look like a sadist, she looks like a regular person. Appearances are deceiving.
I remember trying to explain to Trudy, a friend of my mother's, that I was not sitting doing nothing, I was listening to music in my head. I think she thought I was crazy. I don't know why I remember that.
3. Last CD bought
Tom Waits, Real Gone
4. Reminds you of school
The Catholic Girls, "God Made You for Me"
5. Total music files on your PC
None.
6. Song for listening to repeatedly when depressed
Rainy Night in Georgia, Brook Benton
On My Own from Les Mis
Kentucky Avenue, Tom Waits
Adagio, Albinoni
7. Song that sounds british but isn't
I'm not even sure what that means.
8. Song you love, band you hate
Can't say I love it. But the closest I can come is, I rather like Cadillac Ranch despite really disliking Bruce Springsteen.
9. Favorite song from the past that took ages to track down
I never have tried to track one down. Other that the Disney Album aforementioned, which I never have tracked down.
10. Bought the album for one good song
The first Santana album I ever bought, but I can only remember the cover, not which one it was. The lyric went "soft and gentle is my lover" and it was a female vocal. Beyond that I can't remember.
11. Worst song to get stuck in your head
Pretty much any Carnival song, expecially the one about pirates which goes "Ship (okay, it's really Schip) aHOY HOY HOY"
12. Best song to dump beer on someones head to, then storm out of the bar
I never storm out of bars; I generally prefer to kill people in their sleep.
But I expect "Hit the Road Jack" by Ray Charles would do in a pinch
School Woes
Well, way back in October, for those who have not heard this tale of woe, we had a meeting with the school of my eldest child in which they asked us to have him tested by a neurologist because he was clearly autistic. After much emotional sturm und drang we did so. I did not then nor have I ever thought that he was anywhere near the universe of the autistic spectrum. However, his behavior at school was undeniably odd. He is undeniably an odd child.
So the result of this round of testing was this: He is not in fact anywhere in the universe of the autistic spectrum. He has a speech disorder (we knew this from the last round of testing in the States so it was not a surprise). Otherwise he is a very odd little boy with no apparent neurological problems. Though he had an EEG, and there is a hospital somewhere with an EEG of a very frightened little boy -- further results will have to wait until March, when we have another appointment with the neurologist. But he does not expect to find anything, this is more a ruling out than a search for knowlege.
So we had another appointment with the school folks last week-ish. Now they want to run another series of tests. This time they want to test his intelligence. No one has any doubt that he is a smart kid. They want to know just how smart; they think this is why they cannot do anything with him.
That is, maybe he's a genius and that's why he's odd. Uh-huh. Well, I have my experience with the myth of the gifted, and I suspect that if he doesn't score like a little future Edison, then we'll be back at square one.
I have my doubts about what useful information can be gleaned from intelligence testing, at least one test of which is verbally based, on a child with a speech disorder. Who has also had rather a lot of upheaval in his life in the past few months. I am repeatedly assured that this cannot be the root of his behavior, that children are resilient and so on. Maybe. But my children have each been alive exactly as long as I have -- they have been alive every day since they were born.
And my own experience suggests that the number of days lived does not dictate the complexity of response to events during those days.
And some part of me just wants to know why he can't just be a rather odd person.
So the result of this round of testing was this: He is not in fact anywhere in the universe of the autistic spectrum. He has a speech disorder (we knew this from the last round of testing in the States so it was not a surprise). Otherwise he is a very odd little boy with no apparent neurological problems. Though he had an EEG, and there is a hospital somewhere with an EEG of a very frightened little boy -- further results will have to wait until March, when we have another appointment with the neurologist. But he does not expect to find anything, this is more a ruling out than a search for knowlege.
So we had another appointment with the school folks last week-ish. Now they want to run another series of tests. This time they want to test his intelligence. No one has any doubt that he is a smart kid. They want to know just how smart; they think this is why they cannot do anything with him.
That is, maybe he's a genius and that's why he's odd. Uh-huh. Well, I have my experience with the myth of the gifted, and I suspect that if he doesn't score like a little future Edison, then we'll be back at square one.
I have my doubts about what useful information can be gleaned from intelligence testing, at least one test of which is verbally based, on a child with a speech disorder. Who has also had rather a lot of upheaval in his life in the past few months. I am repeatedly assured that this cannot be the root of his behavior, that children are resilient and so on. Maybe. But my children have each been alive exactly as long as I have -- they have been alive every day since they were born.
And my own experience suggests that the number of days lived does not dictate the complexity of response to events during those days.
And some part of me just wants to know why he can't just be a rather odd person.
Carnival
Carnival started yesterday. In some strange way, everyone seems to hate Carnival; all anyone has to say about it is how noisy, drunken, raucous, and otherwise irritating it is. But everyone goes anyway. Oh, yes, and then they often suggest that however noisy & etc it really is, it is nevertheless really fun with and for children.
Right.
Okay, to be fair, there are sort of two Carnivals here, a children's Carnival and an adult one. There is even a young Prince Carnival to match the grown-up one.
Yesterday we all went to the magnificent ceremony at which the keys to the city were given by the Mayor to Prince Carnival (the elder) -- who made his entrance in a cage suspended from a very large crane. Young Prince Carnival entered in a sort of a salon chair borne by several strapping fellows.
I have some difficulty with the children's Carnival in theory -- if the idea is, after all, to sort of shuck off the usual limitations on one's behavior and really cut loose in preparation for the long fast of Lent, what on earth have children got to shuck off? Mine, anyway, do not seem to be opressed by any external codes of behavior with which I am familiar. Maybe that's just the Wild Boys, though.
In practice, though, my children seem to like being Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket every day and seeing everybody else dressed up in costumes and so on.
The Carnival Parade went by the house today (literally, it goes past the house and turns left) so of course we went. I got to dance with everybody who was dancing (and with my kids who are both lovely dancers by the way) and was hauled inot the parade at least twice. Some of us don't even have to be drunk to sing and dance in public and skip rope with the marchers.
So far, it's actually pretty fun.
Right.
Okay, to be fair, there are sort of two Carnivals here, a children's Carnival and an adult one. There is even a young Prince Carnival to match the grown-up one.
Yesterday we all went to the magnificent ceremony at which the keys to the city were given by the Mayor to Prince Carnival (the elder) -- who made his entrance in a cage suspended from a very large crane. Young Prince Carnival entered in a sort of a salon chair borne by several strapping fellows.
I have some difficulty with the children's Carnival in theory -- if the idea is, after all, to sort of shuck off the usual limitations on one's behavior and really cut loose in preparation for the long fast of Lent, what on earth have children got to shuck off? Mine, anyway, do not seem to be opressed by any external codes of behavior with which I am familiar. Maybe that's just the Wild Boys, though.
In practice, though, my children seem to like being Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket every day and seeing everybody else dressed up in costumes and so on.
The Carnival Parade went by the house today (literally, it goes past the house and turns left) so of course we went. I got to dance with everybody who was dancing (and with my kids who are both lovely dancers by the way) and was hauled inot the parade at least twice. Some of us don't even have to be drunk to sing and dance in public and skip rope with the marchers.
So far, it's actually pretty fun.
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