Light and Momentary

Psssst

Hi!  Hi, it's me!  Sssshhh, not so loud.  My husband took the week off from work and we are hard at work doing all the stuff around the house that always gets put off on weekends, when we are busy just stanching the tide of dirty socks and...whatever else always fills up the weekends.

We are cleaning out the "secret room," the good-sized space over our porch.  Yesterday I sliced all the nasty carpet in manageable rolls and pitched it out the little window, while Elwood P. put its makeshift door on hinges and made a magnet closure for it.  (You have to go through my closet to get there.  It needs to close firmly because the secret room isn't insulated, but a hook and eye closure would make it too easy for a boy to get locked in.)  The plan is to put the Legos in there, and eventually to make a door from the middle boys' room so they need not cut through my closet when they want to build with Legos.

I am also catching up on some neglected paperwork, organizing things for taxes, working on a book proposal.  This is me illustrating the chapter called "The Power of Fruitcake (No, Really)" after a long and ultimately bootless battle with a batch of rolled fondant.  Maybe next year I can figure out fondant.

Unfortunately, all this activity is cutting into my blogging time in a big way.  Elwood keeps saying, "Are you reading email again?"  He thinks we should organize the office instead.  And we probably should, because the office is a mess.  So I'll sign off, wishing you a merry fourth day of Christmas.  Calling birds, anyone?

Many Times, Many Ways

In just a few minutes I will go to bed.  We decorated the tree this afternoon; the paper clutter is gone from the dining room.  The three younger boys are sleeping upstairs while Alex and Elwood P. are at Mass.  I wanted to put  up a quick post, so that anybody stopping by tomorrow would find something cheerier than my last effort.

I cantored at Mass this morning and we ended with "Soon and Very Soon."  I found myself unexpectedly emotional on the last verse:  "No more dying there -- we are going to see the King."  One of the things I love about the Catholic celebration of Christmas is its emphasis on looking forward:  we remember Bethlehem in anticipation of the King's return, when the world will know that "his dominion is an everlasting dominion."

Tonight I am thinking about some blog pals:  I am drinking tea from a Scrabble mug Blest sent me last December.  I've never yet played Scrabble with Blest, but I use this mug every morning.  Moxie sent me a CD of Christmas music, and I have it playing quietly here tonight.  Rachel, whose comments I always enjoy, sent me a package from Israel earlier this month.  It's not here yet, Rachel, but watching for it has brightened my December.

My favorite piece of blog-related Christmas mail came from Arwen, who enclosed a copy of this lovely picture.  Arwen and I first connected in the fall of '04 and it was a delight to receive her daughter's picture.  I thought, "You don't have any idea who I am, but I've been praying for you for a long time, little girl."  It reminded me of God's faithfulness and of his goodness, and of the verse from 2 Corinthians that says something like, "All the promises of God are yes in Christ Jesus." 

Amen to that.  And good night to you, and a merry Christmas too.

Solstice Blues

It is a good thing, a very very good thing, that my great-great-greats emigrated from Scotland lo these many years ago, because I am a sunlight junkie and this time of year gets me down.  I have had a sad and weepy day complicated by one sick 7yo and his recovering brother.  I have been trying to be philosophical but sometimes the best thing you can say about a day is that it's over, and that at least you didn't spend it in Aberdeen where the sun rose at 8:47 this morning and set less than seven hours later, at 3:27 in the afternoon. 

The evening was actually much better the rest of the day, because my friend had a party and it ended up being very nice despite my decidedly Eeyore-esque feelings on the drive over.  And then -- please pardon the shallow -- I went to pick up a prescription refill and found, at long last, a new supply of My Favorite Hair Product Ever on the shelf at Walgreen's.  I thought about buying up the whole supply but I left two tubs for someone else, more out of frugality (see above re: Scottish ancestry) than optimism about its future availability.

I think God has given me this head of hair expressly to keep me humble.  It has the potential to be pretty but for most of its 36 years it has defiantly failed to live up to said potential.  This is what it looks like on a cooperative day.  And this is what it looks like the rest of the time.

It has been raining all day (the jonesing sunshine junkie's least favorite weather) and my hair is taking on a life of its own.  The Hair That Ate Minneapolis, right here on my very own head.  But there is a Garnier Fructis product called Fiber Gum Putty that is like the Incredible Hulk of hair products, and I think the Twin Cities are safe for the time being because I have laid in a new supply.

Hm, did I really just write three paragraphs about hair products?  I'll have to write about, like, Hegel tomorrow to compensate.  Oh, I just made myself laugh.  I was thinking Hegel, I was thinking Kant, and I typed Kegel.  Don't worry:  I won't write about kegels.  But on that topic, did you see this post from Erin?  I laughed and laughed.

Do you ever get in the bad spiral where your house is a mess because you're feeling too blue to pick it up, and then you feel bluer because your house is such a mess, and so on and so forth until you realize with a jolt that you've spent two hours in front of the computer avoiding the dishes, idly surfing the web and eating Nutella with a spoon?  What's that?  Oh, no, neither do I.

Tomorrow I am doing a pre-Christmas Crisis Cleaning Day à la FlyLady.  I'm going to wash those blues right out of my hair.  Or at least glue them down firmly with Fiber Gum Putty. 

Cockles, Warmed (but not without some pre-warming anxiety)

Today was the preschool Christmas program, so we packed up our cookies (macaroons, and sugar cookies with orange oil and a tiny bit of anise extract) and off we went.  Joe slipped up to the front and I had a surge of anxiety.

We're still working on the Santa thing, see, and just this morning at the grocery store he had another run-in with an employee.  She asked him if Santa was going to bring him lots of presents; he said, very politely, "In our family we know that Santa is pretend."  (She replied, "Oh, well, I have another Santa that I know is real," which strikes me in hindsight as odd, but anyway.)

So the kids are belting out, "You better watch out, you better not cry," and I have a sudden sinking feeling.  I am remembering the last time Joe was up at the front of a church without me and in close proximity to a microphone, and my ensuing wish for a large cave in which I might spend the next five years.  (Don't ask; the details are too painful.)  I am filled with horror imagining him declaring over the microphone to a roomful of preschoolers and their parents that Santa Claus is not actually coming to town because Santa is pretend.

I am quivering with trepidation, because Joe is not a kid who keeps his opinions to himself.  He is also not a kid with much volume control:  he seems to have two settings, loud and off.  He walks through life shooting from the hip, yelling, That's the best cookie I ever ate!  That movie was so cool!  These peas are dusgusting! [phonetic rendition, not typo]  And let's not forget: Santa is pretend!

The teacher announces that she's going to have the children share what they would like to give to Jesus and this ratchets my stress level up about six notches.  What's he going to say?  Batman underwear?  A Weird Al CD?  A toilet because it must have been no fun to use an outhouse in the winter?  None of these would surprise me.  I wouldn't really mind any of them as long as they weren't a preface to "...and by the way Santa is a scam," but I'm bracing for the worst.  She calls his name and hands him the microphone.  "Joe, what would you give Jesus?"

He says, "Myself, in wrapping paper."

The teacher asks a few more kids what they would give and then wraps it up, saying, "Remember, the gift that Jesus wants is you, yourselves."

Some days I get so discouraged.  How many times will I have to remind them?  Inside voices.  Kind to your brothers.  Clean underwear every morning.  No, every fortnight is not an acceptable underwear-changing timetable.  Say "excuse me, please" and not "HEY" when the grownups are talking.

But you know, if I could teach them just one thing that's pretty much what it would be:  "For in sacrifice you take no delight, / burnt offering from me you would refuse, / my sacrifice, a contrite spirit."  Myself, in wrapping paper.

Now I'm not actually saying this has fortified me to deal with the next invasion of Micturition Man, the evil supervillain who keeps slipping into our house and peeing on the bathroom floor (I infer his existence from the fact that no one, but no one, ever knows how the bathroom floor came to be puddled with pee), but you never know.  Stranger things have happened.  Like bracing for public mortification and Santa-related damage control, and hearing instead that the most important lessons I'm trying to teach are sinking in, a little bit at a time.

Gaudete! Ientate!

[Rejoice! Eat breakfast!]

My kids love this oven pancake recipe and it is really easy.

Preheat your oven to 450^o and coat a 9x13 pan or comparably sized oval baking dish with non-stick spray.  (Don't skip this step; even with all the butter the pan will be a pain to clean if you don't and this is not Purgate Sunday.  There is a reason "purgate" (plural imperative form of "clean") and "purgatory" sound alike.)  Toss six eggs in the blender and let 'er rip for 60 seconds.  Pop your pan in the preheated oven with 3 T. of butter in it.  Add 1½ cups of milk and 1½ cups of whole wheat pastry flour to the blender jar, along with a half-teaspoon of salt and whatever flavorings suit you:  vanilla, almond extract, cinnamon, you name it.  Process for 30 seconds more.  By this time your butter should be sizzling; pull the pan out and sprinkle berries or thinly sliced fruit over the melted butter.  (You can skip the fruit if you prefer.)  Pour the batter over the fruit and bake for ten minutes.  Turn the temperature down to 350 and bake for another ten minutes, by which time your oven pancake should be golden and beautifully puffy.

While it's baking, summon everybody to the table.  It is prettiest right out of the oven though it will be delicious even after it has sagged.  Serve with maple syrup or sprinkles of sugar and lemon juice, and light your pink candle.

[Edited after I remembered the first time I tried to make this:  it's important to use a pan that lets the batter spread out.  That first time I put it in a round dish that was much deeper, with a smaller diameter, and the result was disgustingly soupy.  You want a thin little layer of batter so it will get done all the way through.]

[Edited again to say I've begun keeping the oven at 450 for the whole baking time. I find this gives me much more puff and nicer color than turning it down to 350. If you try it, keep an eye out toward the end of baking. I'd hate for you to burn your breakfast.]

A Rebus

I'm done. 

One semester down, ten to go.

Kidspeak

Sometimes Joe's 4yo vocabulary surprises me, like when we were talking about the hazards of mountain-climbing and he said, "Is a crevasse like a crevice?"  Sometimes, though, he gets a little mixed up.  A few nights ago we were talking about the Visitation and he wanted to know why St. Elizabeth couldn't get pregnant.  (He has the very basic idea that egg + sperm --> baby.)  I answered some of his questions but he didn't quite understand.  "But Mom," he asked me, "how do the sperm get in the man's spectacles?"

I don't think I want to know an answer to that question as stated.

A friend sent me this hilarious link today, on the subject of kids and babies.  I have been laughing to myself about it all day long.

Pinch Me

My final is tomorrow.  I was feeling a little stressed about it as I was getting the kids to bed, thinking about all the things I can't make SPSS do under time pressure and all the things I just don't know.  I wondered if it was worth it to make a run to the library tonight, to work on a computer with SPSS and figure out the regression options for tomorrow.  (During Thursday's lecture on regression I was hurriedly putting the finishing touches on my course project.)

As an undergrad I rarely got the grades I expected.  I would pour heart and soul into a paper and find my TA was lukewarm; I would race through a final, unprepared, and do unexpectedly well.  Some things don't change, I guess.  I just checked the online gradebook and found that my professor posted scores for the two projects we turned in on Thursday.  On the group project write-up, the one I was confident I would ace, I got the lowest score in the class.  (It was a pretty narrow range, but I'm still shaking my head.)  On the course project, the one I expected to be a sea of red ink after grading, I got the top score.  And to my utter astonishment, he posted a note in the gradebook saying, "If your grade at this point in the semester is above x cutoff, the final exam is optional for you."

I don't have an exam tomorrow after all. 

My first reaction was not to go and make a margarita (not least because we are tequila-less), but to study anyway because surely the final couldn't really be optional.  At least, I thought, I should read the regression chapter because regression is important stuff.  Elwood P. saw me staring off into space and said, "What are you thinking?"  I told him, a little embarrassed, that I was thinking about reading my statistics book for my own personal edification.

He did not laugh at me; he nodded understandingly and said, "Regression is important."

I should change our name to the Most-Geekly family.

Now I am going to get off the computer and do something fun that does not involve reading statistics for giggles.  It will involve popcorn, I think, and cozy pajamas, and if Elwood doesn't want to play a game then perhaps some fun and fluffy reading like The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.  Wheee!

December Haiku

Ouch! I just balanced
the checkbook. 'Tis the season
for wincing. You too?

Tada! (and Erratum)

I just emailed my lit review to my project director, all twenty pages of it.  Hurray!  Final on Tuesday, meeting with her on Wednesday, and I'll be done for the semester as soon as I get her edits taken care of.

Elwood doesn't usually pay much attention to this blog but he called me to say I had made a typo.  A glaring typo, he said with his tongue in his cheek.  At least I hope his tongue was in his cheek because if it wasn't then we'll all have to roll our eyes at him.  Momentum, he said, is the square root of (K*2m), not (K/2m).  I sent Alex to school with a lunchbag that said not "We got momentum, baby," but "We got momentum divided by 2m, baby."  Woeful scansion, huh?  Actually I am not sure that I did the algebra correctly just now but I am not going to lose sleep over it because I am tired enough without losing sleep over algebra.

Instead I am going to do some celebratory laundry-folding followed by some celebratory picking up followed by some celebratory Mass-going.  It would be good if I could fit in some celebratory children-feeding but we shall have to see about that.

Without Peach

I decorate the outside of the boys' lunchbags when I am the one who makes their lunches -- for Marty it's something short and affectionate, for Alex it's usually something a little quirky.  Earlier this week he was listening to the tobyMac song "Momentum" before school and so his lunchbag said (erroneously), "We got the square root of the quantity K/2m, baby!" 

Today for both bags I drew a quickie picture of Mary as she appears on the Miraculous Medal; for Marty I added the beginning of the prayer in English.  For Alex I started writing it in French, "O Marie, conçue sans..." and stopped, realizing that the words I learned ten years ago from a French medal couldn't actually mean what I thought they did.  Pêche? I thought to myself. Conceived without peach? I stopped and googled.  Conçue sans péché, it turns out.  The tiny medal didn't have the accents atop the letters, and the words in my head actually meant "conceived without peach."  [Here I stop and roll my eyes at myself.  I should stick to Latin.]

Of course this ate up precious morning minutes and the boys left a little after their target departure time.  I could just imagine them explaining:  "Sorry we're late, Mrs. B. Our mother had to make sure Alex's lunchbag had acute accents on it and not a circumflex."

A friend of mine graciously volunteered to watch Pete this morning while the big guys are at school.  The next time you hear from me I will have submitted all three of my big hanging-over-my-head projects for the week.  Huzzah in advance!

In Which I Bury My Face In My Hands

We don't do Santa -- we have always taught our kids that Santa is pretend.  At the same time, we have taught them that some families really enjoy pretending about Santa and so they must never tell another child that Santa isn't real.

Maybe we should have focused on dealing with the grownups too, though, because today I was in the grocery store with the younger two boys, getting birthday dinner makings for one Elwood P. Gladly who is 39 years old today if you'd like to wish him many happy returns, when an employee stopped Joe and said, "Did you ask Santa to bring you a new tooth for Christmas?"

Joe said, "Santa doesn't exist -- hello!"

[insert mortified silence]

I'm not sure she understood him because he's missing a few sounds.  But the tone! The impatient, don't-be-absurd tone -- she couldn't have missed that.

All through the grocery store we practiced what to say next time.

We'll see if it sticks.

Luffing

The early part of this semester was smooth sailing, but I am heading upwind with flapping sails just now.  I dream about school every night.  "This used to be interesting," said my project director when she made an appearance in a recent dream about my literature review, "but you've gone on too long now."  (Anxious, much?  She is way too tactful for that, but my unconscious apparently doesn't think so.)  My first waking thought yesterday was inspired by my stats project:  "Planned comparisons!  I can do planned comparisons instead of post-hoc testing for more statistical power!"

I have a revision of a brief stats assignment due tomorrow -- that's finished, at least -- and two larger assignments due on Thursday.  I told my project director I'd have the next draft of my lit review to her on Friday.  I have my stats final next Tuesday and the meeting with my project director on Wednesday.  I'll get her edits incorporated and turned around by Friday, so I can be done for the semester.

Then I will have a margarita. :-)  A large one, with salt.  Mmmm.

Also this week:  feast of St. Nicholas, which we mark with stockings and little gifts, and Elwood P.'s birthday.  I'm most of the way there on gifts but not quiiiite ready for either day.  Also the Nativity set is still in the basement even though I had good intentions of bringing it up today.

This is boring, I know.  I needed a quick break because I'm tired of looking at my projects, so please pardon the boring.  If I'm not around much, you know where I'll be:  wasting away in un-Margaritaville.

Who's Who

Lauren asked for a guide to the pseudonyms and I am happy to oblige.

These are my two oldest sons, the ones I'm calling Alex and Marty, in their Scout uniforms.  Alex is a few weeks away from his tenth birthday, in fourth grade.  Marty is seven and in first grade.

At right are the middle boys, doing their part to vanquish any evildoers foolhardy enough to enter our dining room. Joe is on the left (he's four) and Marty is the one in the Batman-skeleton get-up.

Pete the toddler is nineteen months old now.  In this picture he's just discovered the joys of electric pencil sharpeners.

Aren't they cute?

I have a story to tell you later on this snowy day, but I have a ton of work to crank through during Pete's nap.  (That sentence is an invitation for him to wake up wailing, I know.)  Anybody want to hazard a guess as to why Joe's lip swelled to tapir proportions last night, and how we spent the morning getting him deproboscified?