Laughter, Love and Lily

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2009-10-12T22:35:00.002-04:00

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MONKEYS AND CRICKETS AND BABYDOLLS, OH MY!

2009-10-12T22:34:00.001-04:00

So, I have previously mentioned #1 daughter’s fear and disgust when she even catches a glimpse of a baby doll. I’ve tried to trace this back to see what may have triggered this trepidation when it comes to this most popular of toys. When I was a child, I adored dolls and had quite a collection; a collection that I displayed on top of the wardrobe standing across from Lily’s crib. Oh… Did I inadvertently traumatize my eldest for life by placing these replicas of human children high above her infant form long before she possessed the ability to express her terror and request that I remove them? Oh, bad, bad Mama!

Once she could speak and articulate her fear, the dolls were quickly moved from her presence and have remained boxed ever since, but I fear the damage is done. She has never like them, never wanted to play with them and shuns the site of them. In fact, as mentioned in a previous post, she claims the site of them causes her to lose her appetite and make her feel sick. Weird. Now, Barbies, Brats, even Meika’s new Ling doll, she enjoys to a limited extent and when I ask her why this is so she tells me because they represent teenagers, not babies. The Ling doll, which really is quite beautiful, now resides on top of the wardrobe, the former home to all those other baby dolls, but because Ling is not a ‘baby’ Ling is admired rather than met with apprehension.

Stuff animals she has galore and plays with them endlessly, Lily loves critters, she loves them all… except monkeys. When asked, she will tell you she doesn’t like the way they move, or that she just doesn’t know why she despises them so. But I, the Mama think that again, it was me who, though not purposely, none-the-less instilled an abiding fear in my dear child. At the time of her adoption a friend sent a life-sized, crouching, very realistic looking monkey as a gift for her. It was the same size as she was, she being less than a year old. One day I set her and the stuffed monkey on the coach to take a picture of them together for my friend. She took one look, one very recognizable look of shear panic, and started screaming her head off. I quickly removed the beast, but I think it marked her for life. Again, bad, bad, Mama! We still have the monkey, but he is locked away in the attic, and frankly, when I go in there and see him hunkered down in the corner I shutter myself.

This summer, we discovered a fear that Lily has that is so distressing to her that it can paralyze her in a fit of fear. What scares her so? What causes her to stiffen in panic and screech in utter terror sending lightning bolts of dread and dismay through her mother? It is this, the discarded casings of cicadas. For some unknown reason, below the surface of our backyard reside a city of cicadas, and each spring they emerge to latch themselves to the bark of our trees and transform into their winged and green, twittering selves. I rather enjoy the seasonal sounds of cicadas; a calm inducing night time chorus starting from hushed and slow beginnings and gradually building to the satisfying rapid chirping that denotes a hot and peaceful summer night. And indeed, Lily has absolutely no problem with the winged creatures, it is their casings, left behind clinging to trees, the fence, blades of grass and even to our house that send her into hysterics. I initially had no idea she had this aversion until one day this summer she was outside getting ready to feed the dog and she started to scream. The kind of screaming that denotes either extreme terror, severe pain or that one of the Jonas Brothers has just come into our yard. The kind of heart stopping don’t-even-stop-to-think-get-yourself-to-your-kid-NOW kind of scream. I was only a few feet away on the patio, and turned to see her standing in the middle of the yard, clutching a dog food can with both hands until her knuckles were white, her eyes closed and her mouth wide in that horrible cry of sheer terror. All sorts of things flew through my mind in that split second; is she hurt? Don’t see any blood; is there a snake in the grass? Don’t see a snake. Did she cut off a finger on the can of dog food? See all ten fingers. And in a few seconds I am standing in front of her shaking and still screaming form trying to break through to her, but she isn’t stopping and she isn’t telling me what is wrong, she just goes on shrieking and shrieking. Neighbors come out of their houses and start yelling too, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?! I have to actually take Lily by the shoulders and shake her a little to get her to TELL ME WHAT IS WRONG!!! She pries one of her hands off the can of dog food to point at the spot in front of my feet. Sitting in the grass is one single cicada casing, all fragile and lonely. “What? I don’t see anything, what?”

“That BUG! AAAAHHHH!!!!”

“What? This?” and I pick it up. Her eyes widen to colossal saucers and she screams some more. “You have GOT to be kidding me! THIS is what you are screaming about?! This is just an empty shell, honey, watch.” And I drop it and step on it and crush it into non-existence. She stops screaming, but she goes on shaking and crying. It takes a while to calm her after I shout to the neighbors that it is alright, it was just a cicada casing and rolling my eyes in embarrassment. But Lily’s fear is real even if it seems exaggerated to me, she is genuinely petrified. I can’t help but chastise her for making me think that she was in real danger. I tell her that I think that she is overreacting a bit.

“But Mama, aren’t YOU ever scared of something?”

“Fair enough, you’re right, I’m sorry. But you scared the livin’ daylights out of me you know.” So we spend the entire summer with her pleading dreaded cicadas in order not to have to go into the yard to do any chores. I tell her she needs to work it through and confront her fears and so watch her pick her way slowly across the yard to reach the critters every day; see her examine the swing in minute detail before sitting on it; stare for long minutes at a time at the gate before touching it. But she muddles through while I run around the yard when she isn’t looking stomping into oblivion any casings I see. I just don’t understand what is so scary about an empty shell. This is a child who regularly carries around worms, and daddy long legs and toads. I child who would gladly run into a cage of crocodiles if it meant she could touch them, and she is afraid of this wisp of insect carcass?

And then, one day not long after this incident I am in the laundry room, minding my own laundry business when something hits my knee. I look down to find myself staring at and being stared back at by a CAMEL CRICKET! Now, many people who are reading this are probably not familiar with camel crickets, in fact, I was unaware of their existence until I moved south of the Mason-Dixon, so let me tell you, I am a fan of the cricket, the normal, black, chirping cricket. The kind in Mulan. The Jiminy Cricket kind. If I find one in my house I leave it, sighting the old Irish lore that they are lucky to have in your home. But CAMEL CRICKETS! Ha! These horrid creatures should not even BARE the name cricket. Okay, they have big old legs, in fact, their legs are freakishly large, and they sort of have a cricket like head, but these mutants are EVIL! SHEER EVIL I tell you! They are one of those bugs that seem to have intelligence far beyond what a bug should have. They are downright aggressive! They like damp and dark, so they like those soggy towels in the laundry basket. They like the shadowy, creepy corners of a tiled room. They like the big old bowl of cat food sitting there inviting them in. And when you unsuspectedly open the door to the laundry room, flip on the light and see them gleefully hopping across your floor? and this is the WORST! THIS is what makes them so evil; they don’t run and hide, they stop. They stare back at you. And then…oh I can hardly bring myself to utter the words…they don’t use those big back legs to chirp, in fact, they don’t make any sound at all, they use those big, horrible, hairy legs to JUMP ON YOU! Yes folks, these creepy-crawly fiends JUMP RIGHT AT YOUR BODY. Frankly, the mere sight of them totally makes my skin crawl. I mean it, it crawls, and just the thought of them makes my whole body do that trembly thing all over. I am absolutely terrified of these bugs. The picture I have attached to this post? Each time I glimpse it I convulse.

So, this summer, for the first time in this house, there is an infestation of camel crickets. I read up on how to get rid of them, why they are in my house, where they could be coming from. Apparently, they creep in through cracks and windows, but I don’t have cracks or open windows, so the only place left is through the drier vent. Oh horrors! To think that they might be creeping into my dryer and are being tossed about with my clean clothes is just too much. Each time I open the door to that room, I flip on the light and scan the area before setting one toe in. If I spot one, well, that is bad enough, but if I want it to die it means I will have to try and stomp it, and that isn’t easy because they SEE you coming, they anticipate your every move, they gang up on you, and while you are busy trying to flatten their creepy butts, they are leaping at you! It is battle full on! Screaming ensues on both sides and I am sure I look like a total fool hopping around in Wellington boots, a plunger in one hand, a golf club in the other trying to smash these huge and horrible creatures. And yes, if I succeed, because they grow to such great dimensions, there is then the almost equally disgusting disposal of the body to deal with, causing me trauma and non-stop quivering for the rest of the day.

But the absolute worst of the worst was one day, while going about my business; I went into the laundry room to get something. I forgot to case the joint first and walked in, retrieved what I was looking for and went back into the kitchen. I was standing at the counter reading a recipe when I spot something move out of the corner of my eye. Something move ON MY SHOULDER! I reacted swiftly and like a ninja, I didn’t bother to look at whatever it was first, because it was BIG, I just swept it from my person onto the floor and THEN I looked. Yup, you guessed it, the biggest, fattest, hairiest camel cricket in existence was eyeing me right back. THA-WAP! I got him before he got me, but the resulting hysterically trembling, creepy crawly skin and whimpering that resulted lasted for hours.

So what do I do now when I see one of these mutants of nature? Why, I call Lily of course, because camel crickets don’t bother her in the least. Nope. She will deal with them for me. Oh the shame, I must call my nine year old to come and smash the big bad bug because I cannot stand the site of them. And she will want to pick it up and take it outside. “NO, NO, NO! KILL IT! KILL IT!”And she says to me, “Mama, don’t you think that you are overreacting a bit?” And I say, “NO! No I am NOT overreacting. And I will never say another word to you about your fear of cicada casings. Never! Deal?”

“Deal Mama.”

©KKW 2009

TODDLER JESUS AND THE SPLENDID YARD SALE

2009-10-09T23:24:00.003-04:00

To say that the town in which I grew up, a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, has a large Catholic population would be an understatement; when I was growing up in Parma it was just assumed that you went to one of the gianormus Catholic parishes in town. While in high school I had only one friend who went to a protestant church. One. She was Lutheran. After spending one Saturday with her, my friend’s mother offered to drive me home, but first she needed to drop something off at their church. She asked if I wanted to see their sanctuary and I replied that I would. I thought it was lovely and simple and very blue, far different than the pomp, marble, gold and spender of Saint Chuck’s (Charles) Romanesque architecture where my family attended. When I mentioned my amazement at the simplicity of their church building at dinner later that day my father totally freaked that I had been take to, and been physically present in, a church building that was not Catholic. A building that had not been ‘blessed’ and sanctified; its pews and dais liberally drenched in holy water. I had no idea that it was against Catholic law to set foot in a protestant church. He threatened to call “this woman” and straighten her out about exposing my poor innocent soul to the corrupting influence of a Protestant church building. Fortunately, my mother calmed him down, but thus was the atmosphere of being raised in a Catholic family in a town full of them.

Once I had moved to the south after college, Catholic churches became a rarity, they are speckled here and there, but the Baptist and Christian churches seem to be favored here. A few years ago while visiting Ohio during the Christmas season, Lily having never been in a resplendent Catholic church building, I thought that she would enjoy it and so we attended a midnight mass with my aunt. My daughter was used to a lot of socializing before the services back home in the realm of the plain and simple churches that we had attended. The silence as we sat waiting for the mass to begin that Christmas Eve and the sheer splendor of the building in which we waited was unnerving to her. My kid is just NOT used to having to be quiet…for anything, but the stillness in this gothic marble space was so overpowering, and the sites so brilliant and foreign that for once she was relatively quiet. At least that is until the mass started and the questions began. Most were asked while the chanting and singing were going on, so her urgent questions and my whispered answers were not much of a disturbance. But then came the communion with all those around us going up to the front of the church to receive the host and wine while Lily and I stayed seated. She watched and she waited and then while a reverent hush lay over the congregation she indignantly asked “Hey Mom, why do THEY get a snack and juice and we don’t? Not fair! I want a snack too!” Now in a southern church anyone hearing that would laugh freely, but in a Catholic church people either tried to pretend they hadn’t heard her or we were given the evil eye. And I KNOW that everyone heard her because the acoustics are really good that way in such a vast gothic hall.

Anyway… I had not visited the town in which my father lived during the summer time for nearly twenty years, if I was able to make it to Ohio it was usually during the frigid winter holidays. So it was with much delight that I discovered yard sale signs popping up all over the neighborhood at the end of the week that I was there. I am a total sucker for a yard sale, and as we were attempting to leave early on a Saturday to head back to Virginia, the van just didn’t get very far as we encountered sale after sale after sale. The signs and set ups of these suburban sales were truly amazing. The yard sales I am used to where we live are sort of slapped up affairs with all the stuff thrown on a blanket in the yard and you have to ask how much everything is, which is fine, no worries, it’s a yard sale, but let me tell you, Parma, Ohio knows how to put together a yard sale sister! Everything was so organized and clean and all the stuff had price tags. Items were neatly laid out for viewing on tables and grouped by category, it really was dreadfully impressive, and it was like this at every single one. PLUS, there were SIGNS that had the date on them and actually led you to the sale, unlike the signs in the country where we live that might have been up for months because apparently it never occurs to anyone to date them or to go back and take DOWN their signs after the yard sale is over. The drooping florescent posters in Lousia could lead on a many miles long and winding trip to nowhere. Wasteful and incredibly frustrating! Once you’ve gone down one of our country roads, you might drive for days before encountering a crossroads or a highway sign. It’s like a short story by Stephen King; the-never-ending-country-road-to-nowhere-that-you-can’t-get-off-of. I’ve actually ended up several counties over on occasion by following one of these errant signs, and rather than turning around because I have already come so far, I continue to remain optimistic that I will come upon another road in which to put my hope and in so doing end up in West Virginia. Ah, but I digress yet again…

So there I was in suburbia, perusing the racks of children’s clothing and shelves of chotskies when I spotted ‘Toddler Jesus’ in the free box. TODDLER JESUS, in the FREE box y’all! He is adorable AND FREE?! He is by far the cutest Jesus I have ever seen and I quickly snatched him up and held him tight. One of the women having the yard sale sees my delight and comments on it; I tell her that I haven’t seen one of these since moving to the south. “Well then, you might want to keep it hidden.” She says facetiously, “You could find a burning cross in your front yard some night.” Oh dear, she doesn’t exactly have a very positive picture of the south now does she? I assure her that no one will place a burning cross in my yard if I take home Toddler Jesus. She then asks why I am in town if I live in the south. I tell her I am there for my father’s memorial service. She asks what parish the funeral was done at and which priest performed it. SEE? SEE? She just ASSUMES. All I know to tell her is that the priest is called Father Russ, and was a friend of my father’s. “Oh!” she replies, “He is at Saint Leo’s. He’s wonderful!” All righty then, glad she approves.

Having appeased the church ladies, I departed with my treasure back to the minivan and looked him over. It had been so long since seeing one of these, and never had I seen one so cute! He is dressed as a little king in a red, lace trimmed robe, cape and crown and is holding a sphere with a cross on top in one hand while giving a two fingered benediction with his other. (Sure, MY toddler stands around like that all the time). I was so used to having seen this version of wee Jesus that when daughter #1 asked why he was dressed the way he was, I had to admit that I really didn’t know, I’d never really thought about it. She was quite puzzled though and asked, “Mama, why is he wearing a red cape? Do they think he is Super Man?” and before I could answer that I didn’t know, she continues with, “Well, I guess he sort of is, isn’t he?” She then wanted to know what you were supposed to do with him. I told her that when I was a child many people attached them to the dashboards of their cars and I demonstrated. “But why?” She wanted to know. “Well, I guess they thought that it would protect them from accidents, kind of like a good luck charm, but I have always thought that if you are going to attach him to the dash he should really be facing this way so that he can see where he is going“, and I turned the little statue to face the windshield. A sigh and an “Oh Mom.” Is what I got in return. But to be perfectly honest, I didn’t know why he was dressed in such an elegant way, or why he was being depicted as a child in the first place rather than an adult Jesus. It is just one of those things that you grow up seeing around you so often that to actually think about the ‘whys’ never occurs to you. After all, I grew up in the land of ‘Bathtub Marys’ and plastic pink flamingos in every other yard, so baby dolls dressed up in lacy finery meant to represent a young Jesus was just something you saw all over the place. Toddler Jesus watches over restaurants and bars from perches high on a shelf next to the TV broadcasting the sports channel. He peers from shop windows, peeks from behind cash registers and gazes down from fireplace mantels in private homes. But it did spark a need to know, so once back home I set to finding out what I could about this dapper little guy even though I had no idea what this kind of depiction of the Christ child might be called. Still, it didn’t take long to find the information I was searching for on the internet by entering in a brief description, (bless the web’s little mechanical heart).

Apparently, these statues are meant to be copies of The Infant Jesus of Prague which is housed in the Church Of Our Lady Of Victory in Bohemia ( it certainly makes since that he would be so popular in northern Ohio since most families in the area have roots in eastern Europe and Italy). The Infant of Prague is considered a “miraculous image”, and here are the basics of the story: in 1620, Ferdinand, Emperor of Austria won in a battle against the united Protestant armies near the city of Prague. He attributed his success to the infant Jesus because just before the battle, as he and his Catholic advisors were preparing to attack, the priest that ministered to them, a learned Carmelite priest called Father Dominic, held high a painting of the nativity of Jesus and exhorted the emperor to go forth in unwavering confidence in the all-powerful help of the infant Jesus. Apparently, they did so and interpreted their victory as reward for their faith. In gratitude, the Emperor founded a Carmelite monastery at Prague. So things went along for a few years, the infant Jesus not really playing much of a part in the life of the monastery until one day, a noble lady came to the city to visit her daughter, the Princess Polixena. She was presented with the gift of a highly prized family heirloom; a wooden statue with a wax coating representing the infant Jesus in all his majestic splendor. He was clothed in a well decorated dress and mantle, and held a globe of the world topped with a cross to represent his kingly sovereignty (called an Imperial Orb), and his other hand held in a sign of peace. Later, the Princess decided to give the little king to the Carmelites with the direction to honor the infant so that they would never be wanting. Through these early years, the image came to be associated with the fulfillment of answered prayers, thus it being venerated as “miraculous”.

Unfortunately, in 1631 the Swedish Protestant army invaded Prague and Catholic churches and monasteries were pillaged, the wee statue was tossed upon a pile of garbage where it lay for seven years, its tiny hands broken off. When once again the priests were restored to their monastery, there came a novice named Cyirlus who remembered the statue and searched for it until it was found once more. He claimed the statue spoke to him and commanded that its hands be restored to it. Once he had recovered from the shock of being addressed by a wooden doll covered in refuse, he set to finding a benefactor to pay for the restoration. He found one that gave him so much money that he decided to replace the entire statue. When the imposter was set in the original’s place however, it was quickly struck down by a falling candlestick and broken to pieces. The prior became very ill and had to resign and everyone took this as a sign that the original statue was very displeased that it still did not have its hands after SPECIFICALLY asking for them to be given back. The new prior set to restoring the hands to the original statue. Once happily re-establish and given a new gold plated shrine, the little statue once again set to dispensing its favor and in recognition of this, was given a crown to complete his regal ensemble in 1655. And there he has remained to this day, being reproduced by the millions and distributed throughout the world. Wow.

Have I mentioned Lily’s revulsion towards baby dolls? Dolls depicting teenagers or women are apparently fine for some reason, so Barbie and Brats are no problem, but baby dolls totally give her creeps. Lily claims to be so repulsed by the site of a baby doll that she can’t eat if one is in the same room. She claims that they make her sick. My Toddler Jesus has remained in the minivan since I acquired him and Lily claims that the site of him is causing her great distress. Even if I turn him around so that he is facing away from her, she still protests. So I guess that Toddler Jesus is going to have to find somewhere to reside out of Lily’s site. Perhaps I could use him as a guard to keep my kid from ‘borrowing’ my stuff. Can you imagine? Every time Lily goes to peek into one of my drawers out pops Toddler Jesus. No, I am not so cruel as to use him for such a purpose. Although, to rig something up where a disembodied voice moans “My hands! Give me back my hands!” when an off-limits drawer is opened IS quite tempting. But no, it won’t be gold plated, but I will find a shelf somewhere in the house for ‘TJ’ to rest upon. I will keep the little guy close at hand so that when I am confused about a decision that must be made, he will remind me to ask ‘What Would Toddler Jesus Do?’ WWTJD y’all.

©KKW 2009

HAPPY MEIKA DAY!

2009-09-16T20:58:00.008-04:00

A year ago today I was handed a screaming, terrified two year old half-way around the world and sent on my way. After five minutes, I don’t think either of us has looked back even once. It still amazes me to think about how I became a parent, I still sometimes just shake my head in wonder….and bewilderment…..or maybe that is just caused by sleep deprivation.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LILY!

2009-09-14T20:56:00.002-04:00

On September 8th, Lily became nine years old! Wow, where has my baby gone? We celebrated quietly at home the day before with a chocolate-chocolate cake and she opened gifts from her Grammy, Miss Nan and Mama and Meika. Grammy sent several gifts, but the most special is a brooch that Papa Dewayne had given to Grammy that belonged to his mother of a most beautiful dragon with pearls and turquoise, both Mama and Lily had a time of it keeping the tears from their eyes since Papa Dewayne has been gone from us now for three years. Lily having been born in the year of the dragon also makes the gift quite cool!

Miss Nan sent her always beautifully wrapped gifts, she has added to the sea shell collection she started for Lily a few birthdays back and sent some exceptionally beautiful specimens along with a book to identify the shells. She also sent another of the huge box of crayons, which is fortunate, since Lily had decided that her little sister didn’t need so many crayons when she got a box like it for HER birthday and had absconded with half of them. She sheepishly retrieved her sister’s box and replaced it. Does Miss Nan know this girl or what?

From Meika she received a whole pile of books and declared that her sister really knew how to pick out some good books (and the Mama just happened to hit a dollar sale at Borders too). From Mama she received a new WII game to play together (if the Mom ever finishes this years drawings for Corning and can do some fun stuff), and several new outfits which included a real silver necklace that Lily had admired one day while out shopping.

She would have like to have her friend Rya over for a sleep over since she has been bugging the Mama for years to have a sleep over, but having just gotten back from the memorial service in Ohio for Kim’s dad, we didn’t have time to plan it despite the cries of ‘NO FAIR’ from the birthday girl (and the Mom just didn’t have the energy to stay up all night refereeing). So that will have to be sometime in the near future.

Happy Birthday sweet daughter, I’m glad you are mine!!

©KKW 2009

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MEIKA!

2009-08-24T20:14:00.002-04:00

Meika celebrates her third birthday today, her first with her family! On Sunday our friends Jennica, Rya and Teak came over for cake and gift opening. Meika received a very lovely Ling doll from her friends, one the Mama had read about and admired before they ever came out. Even Lily, who is not fond of dolls, decided that she could make an exception for that one, so the Mama had to place Ling up high for her own protection.

From her Grammy, Meika received some wee dinosaurs that grow when they are added to water, an alphabet puzzle, which she and Teak immediately set to putting together, a very cute glass alligator which had to be quickly put ‘back to bed’ in its box so as not to loose any limbs, a sweet little heart box filled with M & Ms which Meika generously shared with her party-mates and the flamingo plates and napkins which we were using to serve the cake.

Miss Nan, a friend of Mama’s from the old days at Colonial Williamsburg, sent the biggest box of crayons any of us had ever seen, plus two brand new coloring books, yummy animal crackers and the most beautiful dress up shoes, tutu, crown and wand, all of which Meika wanted to sleep in that night.

From Mama and sister Lily, she received ‘Ni Hao Kia Lan’ toys, a real find since they are normally somewhat hard to get hold of, but we hit the local Target just at the right time one Saturday and scored two play sets, a bubble maker and a DVD.

So, all in all, quite a haul for one so young. Last Christmas, Meika having only been home with us for three months, the concept of presents was a new one and though she was happy to play with the resulting toys, the idea that they were just for her was one she didn’t quite grasp. Not so this time around, she got that the brightly wrapped presents were for her and her alone. She realized that she was suppose to rip off the pretty paper to reveal a hidden treasure; and no help from anyone, thank you very much. Though very willing to share her treasures once unwrapped, the actual unwrapping part she wanted all to herself.

And then of course, there was cake, no explanation needed there, she sat smiling and pleased as we all sang the birthday song and quickly understood what she was to do with the candles. And later at dinner time, once the Mama told her there would not be another piece of cake for dessert unless all the vegetables were also eaten on her plate, those veggies were quickly gobbled up and birthday cake devoured lickety split. Today she will be taking cupcakes to preschool and I am sure, more attention will eagerly be lavished upon her. What fun! Happy Birthday Meika, we are glad you are ours!

©KKW 2009

A CIRCLE COMPLETED

2009-08-19T20:16:00.027-04:00

My father, Edwin John Wagner, died today, two days short of his 83rd birthday. He had been battling cancer for several years and waged a valiant fight. Since he had been ill for so long, my brothers and I had time to prepare for his going, never the less, the death of a parent takes a piece of a child’s soul with it.

My dad wasn’t the perfect figure of a father. He expressed to me several times that he had never intended to be a family man; never intended to or had any interest in having children. Still, here we are, myself and two brothers with children of our own. I do not know why my father felt the need to tell me, his child, that we were essentially unwanted by him. I can speculate, but I’d rather not since he did not tell me this in anger or regret so much as it being an excuse for his shortcomings. We are what we are and we work with what we have. Hopefully, we give the best that we are able.

My dad was a high school teacher when I was young, but when I started kindergarten, he began law school and became a lawyer when I was in 4th grade. He was a liberal through and through and as such had a soft spot for the down trodden. He seemed to take the cases no one else wanted because of their inability to pay and as a result, he was not an attorney of means; he made a middle class living in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio. Many times he would barter for his services and some guy would show up at the house to fix the furnace, or the roof or mow the lawn or work on the car.

He loved to golf above all else, and my brothers and I will be scattering his ashes at his favorite course soon. He made many of his friends on the golf course and I am sure, spent his best hours there in the sunshine on the green of a closely cropped lawn, whacking the heck out of that little white ball.

My children did not know him well since he lived in Ohio and we in Virginia; Meika, my youngest, has never met him, but Lily has spent time with him and can remember for her sister. In his battle with cancer his right ear was removed several years ago, there after Lily would get on the phone with him and each time ask if his ear had grown back yet. This made him laugh, and I’m grateful that she did so; to be able to laugh at one’s self is an estimable quality.

I have always heard my father introduce himself as ‘Ed’ Wagner, yet curiously it seems many of those outside his family called him ‘Eddie’, even those who had just met him. I was amazed to call the hospital recently and when a nurse answered the phone and I asked to speak to him I heard her say, “Hey Eddie, it’s your daughter on the phone.” It made me wonder, what made him ‘Eddie’ to so many? It remains a mystery to me, but there must be a reason and perhaps someday I will know what it is. His siblings and parents called him ‘Bud’, which was short for ‘Buddy’. When my dad arrived on the family scene in 1926, his older brother Harold began calling this new playmate his “little buddy” and the nickname stuck. I think I was about ten years old before it occurred to me to ask my Grandmother why my dad was being referred to by the name ‘Bud’. (That's him on the right with several of his siblings)

My father was quite talented artistically, but didn’t often use his gifts. There remain a few paintings and drawings and I believe that from him I inherited my artistic abilities. It is those abilities that have led me to a career illustrating books and several years ago I contracted to illustrate an archaeology book written by a well known archaeologist here in Virginia. He had grown up in Ohio and it turns out he attended the high school my father taught at in the 1950s. My father coached him in football and he told me that my dad had been an enormous influence on him in those early years of his youth. That ‘Coach Wagner’ had advised him and supported him when he desperately needed someone to do so. He also knew my mother and her family; his elder sister was my mother’s best friend in high school. And here I was thirty years later illustrating one of his books; a book he said that he was able to be successful at writing in part due to my father’s encouragement and lessons in determination. Wow, talk about full circle!

He coached a lot of athletic teams in his school teaching days and as a young child I would jump at any chance to be with him. He went to every basketball game at the high school at which he taught, even if he wasn’t coaching and I always asked to go just so I could spend time with him alone. To this day, the sounds of a basketball game; the pound and squeak of sneakers on a highly polished wood floor, the ping of a well inflated ball, the overly loud buzzer sounding the end of the game, and the smell of popcorn takes me straight back to standing in the door way of a high school gymnasium, my dad towering above me, arms folded, shouting encouragement or insult in the direction of the game.

There was also a time when my father decided to attend Mass each morning before work in addition to Sundays, and I would drag myself out of bed in the wee hours of the bitterly cold Ohio winter mornings so that I could go with him just to have him to myself. We never spoke, I just tagged along in silence, but it was enough just to be with my dad, hoping to win his approval in any way I could, kneeling beside him in the nearly empty, echoing church.

I know that I have spent much of my life seeking that approval and attention from my father; his praise did not come easily, and I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter, but it did, it trailed after my life silent, but ever present. It mattered. And then after adopting my second daughter Meika almost a year ago, he told me more than once how very proud he was of me, that I was a good and loving mother to two children who needed one. I had waited fifty years, but in the end my dad was proud of me and told me so. And look at what he was proud of me for, not for any accomplishments of career or fame or fortune, but for being a parent; a good parent, the very thing that he professed to have not wanted and claimed not be good at. Circles of living experiences. Circles of deep emotion. Circles of life. Within me and my brothers and our children the good in my father will live on.

©KKW August 19, 2009

MY INNER DIALOGUE WON’T SHUT UP

2009-06-11T21:17:00.008-04:00

I’ve been exceedingly tired lately and have developed a twitchy eye. I’ve come to the conclusion that these are due to the ceaseless, non-stop badgering of my own psyche. Does everyone have such a noisy mind? If I wake up in the middle of the night and need to use the bathroom, my brain just can’t pass up the opportunity to cause me grief.

“Oh, you up? Great, I was thinking…..”

“Shut up! Just shut up will you? Let me go to the bathroom in peace, it’s the middle of the night for crying out loud, I can’t do anything about anything right now. Dang, leave me alone!”

“No, seriously, I was thinking about your schedule for tomorrow, or is it now today? Anyway, at lunch you need to….”

“Shut UP! Leave me alone, can’t you see that I am trying to go back to sleep? Stop talking already!”

“Oh, sorry, my bad. Go back to sleep. See you in your dreams.”

“Wait. No! What?” Because yes, even my subconscious is not safe from the badgering of my ever present infuriatingly noisy intellect.

Sometimes I am successful in maintaining only a semi-state of unconsciousness, just long enough to stumble to the bathroom and back to bed and fall back asleep quickly, at other times I am doomed to lay there staring into the dark while my brain bombards me with useless information and imaginings. Once awakened in the morning, I haven’t even opened my eyes before the list of what needs to be done that day is being shouted at me by…well, me.

Meditation helps, but the practice of trying to think about nothing has been a difficult one for me to master. My attempts at clearing my mind usually result in a blank slate for my subconscious to throw things at, yet I persist and it is helping.

Lists help as well, if I can order my tasks on paper it frees up some of the free-flowing perpetual nagging. Sheesh, I am being nagged by myself, how pathetic. But there is a lot to have to tackle in a day and even more to keep track of. I am a single Mama with two young daughters, a full-time day job which I commute to an hour each way dropping the kids off at two different schools. There are their activities and friends; shopping, food preparation, laundry, house cleaning, yard work. There is my free-lance work that needs to be worked on in the evenings after the kids are in bed. The pets need attention, the kids need attention, my poor aching brain needs attention. And then there are all the things that I would LIKE to do that don’t get any attention because there is no time left over, like creative projects, painting, drawing, sewing, writing, practicing on my musical instruments. And building projects; the small deck that has remained incomplete for four years, the swing set my children want built, the repairs needed to the critter’s pens, the expansion of the vegetable garden. There just is so much I want to accomplish and the days are so short! As a result I create and build things in my head while driving, or while working on a drawing at the office. These blog entries? Totally written in my head and then quickly typed up when ever I get a few minutes to myself; a rarity. The benefit to this ultra reviewing of all creative projects though is that once I am able to devote any time to them, they have been well worked out and planned for so that I can jump in like a frog on a live wire and get it done; power tools buzzing and dust flying. While I am typing this up I am also working out the details of the raised beds I want to build for the veggie garden.

And it isn’t just about what I have to do, or need to do or even what I am doing at that particular moment, it is a constant, running dialog about EVERYTHING, news, the world, people, my kids, television shows, books, this blog, music, poetry, art, world hunger, how to build a tree house, what the word “atherosclerosis” means, the design of the latest web site I am working on, the best recipe for brownies, what I am going to have for lunch, do I even have time for lunch, no? then what errands need doing at lunch, why does the name ‘Pia Isadora’ sound so familiar but I don’t remember who or what she is, what ever happened to that red raincoat I had when I was seven, what was the name of my first grade teacher, wonder how old she is now, maybe she’s dead, what was that dream I had last night, what did it mean, why did I dream about praying mantises taking over the world and making us all tap dance, do I need to get gas? Milk? A sedative maybe?

I’ve heard the statement often: “I don’t know HOW you do it!” Usually, I just smile, but what I am thinking is, “Yeah, neither do I.” Or more truthfully, “I don’t! It’s not all getting done! Life wasn’t meant to be this hectic! I want time, more time for fun stuff! I want to take the kids camping, I want a pedicure, and I want a clean house, clean laundry, my lawn mowed. I want to paint, write, and draw. I want to try and remember how to play the hammered dulcimer, I want to read more to the kids, build them their swing set, cuddle more and bake cookies with them more often. I want the stupid deck finished and I want time to sit on it with a cold iced tea and a magazine. Somebody heeeeeeeeeelp meeeeeeeeeee!!” Oh, sorry, I feel better now, really. Just needed to mentally throw a bucket of cold water in my face.

I’ve actually argued with myself about whether sleep is really a necessity. “Surely you don’t need to sleep tonight; just think about all you can get done!”

“No, I need eight hours to function properly.”

“No, no you don’t, three would be just fine, you can do three.”

”No, I need at least seven.”

“Seven? No, three, four at the most.” But what usually happens is that I just go until I can’t go anymore and fantasize about what it would be like if there was someone who could carry me to bed because once I reach that point I am hard pressed to drag myself up the stairs, brush my teeth and collapse into unconsciousness.

So, what my brain has been working on most lately is how to remedy this situation. I feel myself building to some sort of breaking point. No, don’t worry, I am not in any danger of freaking out, ‘breaking point’ is probably not the correct phrase, ‘break through’ would be more like it. I need to figure out a way to change the status quo, a way to live the life I wish for myself and my children. I – need – a - plan. How to accomplish this, I am not sure of yet, but my brain is working on it. It’s working so hard that my twitchy eye is madly twitching at this very moment. And when I have figured it out you’ll be the first to know. Cheers!

©KKW 2009

THE HIGH COST OF HIDDEN THINGS

2009-06-04T21:32:00.017-04:00

I have a huge drawer full to the brim with underwear that I have never worn and will never wear. I have been going through it recently and attempting to part with what I do not need because it is ridiculous to continue to rifle through an entire draw of clothing each morning just to find the few pairs of undies I will actually wear. Kind of weird though giving away underwear, even to the thrift store, I mean I don’t feel comfortable selling it, even if it’s new on Ebay for heaven’s sake. (Although, who knows, maybe there is a market for middle-aged women’s granny pants. Eeeww, too creepy to think about, forget I ever mentioned it!). Finding underwear that both fits and is comfortable, as all women know, remains a life’s quest. If you find a brand you like, stock up, because they won’t be available next month due to changing styles and materials. Even if the store allows it, trying them on there just isn’t something I want to do and when they end up being ill-fitting or uncomfortable, I end up with a drawer full of stuff I will never wear.

I used to be young and thin and was utterly unaware of my blessed state. I rarely thought at all about my body image and ate what I wanted. But with the onset of age and the removal of my thyroid for medical reasons, on came the weight. My body is a pretty equal opportunity kind of girl, the fat distributing itself fairly evenly on all body parts, so suddenly I have breasts for the first time in my life, something I thought that I wanted when I was a wee thing, oh foolish, foolish girl.

When I was young I didn’t really need to wear a bra, my breasts were fairly small and stayed where they were suppose to stay. I wore a bra or camisole solely for modesty’s sake. In fact, while I was in college the camisole wasn’t yet available (although a “teddy” was, remember those? Totally impractical!), so I went to the children’s department of J.C. Penny’s and bought girl’s undershirts and wore those. Wow, I used to be so tiny! And anemic. Now however, between the effects of gravity and weight gain, my going bra-less would NOT be a pretty site! Walking down the street this way might cause folks to run screaming in the opposite direction with their hands over their eyes. What cruel twist has Mother Nature wrought that when slender and young I am barely an A cup, but in order to enjoy being busty I must also endure being fat. Not fair!

In my opinion, bras are hateful things, who the heck decided that breasts ought to be imprisoned in such an uncomfortable way? Under wires, over wires, side support wires, goodness, my breast aren’t wild animals that need to be confined for pete’s sake! Does steel actually need to be involved in a piece of underclothing? At least for the moment, my breasts still point forward and not down at the floor, so it isn’t like I need a cage built around each one in order for them to stay in the general area to which they originally grew. Something in a nice natural fabric like cotton would be nice, but most under things are made of synthetic fabrics for some reason. Why, oh why would I want to place hot, unbreathable, restrictive synthetics up against the most delicate parts of my anatomy? And I live in the south, where come August all fabric, including cotton ends up feeling like latex against one’s skin because of the combined heat and humidity. I might as well wrap myself in plastic wrap and be done with it, because that is about how comfortable the average bra is. So it got me to thinking about who, in all his vast wisdom, invented the bra and why.

Throughout the last two thousand years of history most women in the western parts of the world wore a chemise under their many layers of petticoats and dresses, this doubled as an under-garment as well as a sleeping gown. Linen and wool were the most commonly available materials for fabrics; both are rather uncomfortable in there own ways, even linen. And if you are thinking of the lovely silky smooth linen of today, think again, I’ve made linen from scratch (I really have, it was part of a job I once had at a museum I worked at many years ago) it is made from the flax plant which has a tough outer husk and when prepared by hand the process is not only tedious but imperfect; bits of husk invariably end up in the finished product causing skin irritation. A popular fabric of the day was called ‘linsey-woolsey’; it was a blend of both linen and wool. So for the price of one skin torturing textile, you could get two competing elements for who will be the prickliest and drive you to go commando first. There was of course cotton, but it was expensive owing to the high cost of picking the pods and then plucking out all those cotton seeds, and much of cotton early on was imported from the East.

Up until the early 16th century, most breasts were free to be breasts in all their resplendent, dangling, perky or downwards pointing glory. Then began the reign of the corset and suddenly breasts were made to contort themselves into shapes and places that didn’t come naturally. Some corsets pushed the bust up, some down, some pushed them in and some just squished them flat, and thus it went for several hundred painful, breath stealing years. And to add to the restrictions of the upper torso, women’s underwear also included hoop-skirts and fanny rolls and even bust padding. One of the more bizarre styles to have developed, in my opinion, was the idealized figure of ‘The Gibson Girl’ around the turn of the 20th century; a miniscule waist, a stuffed bust that ran from waist to neck and a padded back end, all of course fabricated with corsets, bone, metal and many ties. I’m having trouble breathing just thinking about it. (See the photo at right, is her posture the style of the day or is her nose seeking out much needed oxygen? It appears even her hands are beginning to curl up from lack of the life sustaining stuff!)

The invention of the cotton gin and the spinning jenny in the second half of the 18th century made cotton more available and affordable and this allowed for the making of mass-produced underwear in factories. Suddenly undergarments were available in stores instead of having to make them at home.

In the late 19th century the union suit was invented in Utica, New York, it was a one-piece front buttoned garment usually made of knitted material. It had long sleeves that extended to the wrist, legs that extended to the ankles and buttoned up to the neck. Oh those inventive repressed Victorians! Great in the winter I suppose, but a bit warm for some parts of the country. And though it had a buttoned flap in the back to make it easier to access body parts that needed regular attention, I can’t think that it was very convenient, especially for women who also had layers upon layers of skirts to deal with, and in a limited confining space such as in an out-house. Thus long johns, a two-piece version of the union suit, soon followed.

Finally, in 1913, a New York socialite named Mary Phelps Jacob created the first brassiere using some ribbon and two handkerchiefs. Apparently, her original intention was to simply cover the whale bone sticking out of her corset, it being visible through her sheer dress. She then began making them for friends; the word spread and within a year Jacob had a patent for her design and began marketing it in the States. A woman invented the bra?! And here I just assumed that I had a man to thank for this torture device because I didn’t think that who ever invented the thing must have ever actually had to wear them. But then again when I think about the time in which the modern bra was invented and the original materials used, Mary’s idea could actually be considered liberating. (In actuality, bra-like clothing had been worn for thousands of years by women, just not regularly and no one until Jacob had thought to launch a marketing campaign). Couple the popularity of the new brassiere with women beginning to take an interest in athletic pursuits such as cycling and tennis, plus a metal shortage due to the First World War and soon the demise of the corset was assured. (Praise be.) Leave it to war to be the mother of invention!

In the 50’s and 60’s manufacturers began experimenting with synthetic fabrics (blast them!), as well as with color and style. What used to be simple white pieces of under clothing suddenly became colorful and stylish. The bust once again began to be emphasized and the ‘bullet bra’ inspired by Christian Dior’s designs hit the market. I remember my fifth grade teacher Miss Augustine favored these. Miss Augustine was a very, um, ‘healthy’ woman of perhaps forty. She had a flaming red bouffant, a big, very round behind and a breast shelf that you could balance a family of acrobats on. I remember watching her each morning as we pledged our allegiance to the flag as her hand came up to rest upon the vast expanse of her conical projections. I stood spellbound as only a nine year old girl could be, imagining the wonders still in store for me as I matured. Alas, the likes of which Miss Augustine displayed were never to appear upon my person, for which I am now quite grateful. Whew! dodged that bullet...bra.

Of course the 60’s also had that brief few years of young women declaring their desire to burn their bras, although I have always suspected that it may have been more the influence of the young men in the crowd encouraging that craze. Or perhaps women just felt a little left out with many combat aged men burning their draft cards during the Vietnam War, and searching quickly for a symbol of their oppression grabbed what was closest at hand; their brassieres.

And so, after this long history lesson on unmentionables, we arrive back at my personal dilemma; finding comfortable, natural fabric, inexpensive bras and undies. I had seen on Oprah that the “experts” suggest that women have a bra fitting at least every few years and that she needed to have at least seven bras, one for each day of the week. I held this information in my head for quite awhile before one day while finding myself in a large department store with my eldest; age seven at the time, I decided it was time for a fitting. (For me, not my seven year old).

I explained to the “fitter”, who was a dead ringer for Miss Augustine, that I found bras to be quite hateful. She seemed to take offense but quickly shook it off and hustled me into a fitting room while pulling her tape measure from around her amble neck. When I striped to the waist in the presence of this stranger my young daughter gasped. “Mama! We are not supposed to show our privates to strangers!” she cried in horror. Before I could respond the fitter declared that she had seen “thousands, maybe millions of pairs of breasts, no big deal, dear.” I added my reassurance to my little one that it was okay; that this was the woman’s job. “It’s her job to look at breasts?!” she almost screamed, and I am sure that her high little outraged voice carried all the way to the store’s main floor. Oye. I told her that I would explain it later and to just sit there quietly please. Did you know that a blush extends all the way to one’s breasts? Well, it does, now you know.

After measuring me here, there and all around, a size judgment was made and dozens of bras were brought before me to try on. It was horrible, I hate trying on clothes as it is, but bras, ugh! We had to rule out all synthetics, lace and spaghetti straps, that left about three bras; at least the vast numbers were quickly diminished. I decided that there were two that were okay and then looked at the price tags. Now, if I had just looked at the prices to begin with I would never have put myself through this torturous process in the first place. $100.00 for a bra?! $55.00 for a single pair of underpants?! No way…. Seriously? I tried not to show my shock and picked the least expensive, which was $75.00 figuring after all this trouble I should at least give the thing a chance to change my figure…and it dog-gone better change my life in some positive way as well at that price! I took it home and figured its horrid under wires might be more comfortable after I washed it. I was wrong. I have never actually worn this particular bra for more than a few minutes; there is sits, sad and lonely with all the rest of the underwear rejects in the afore mentioned dresser drawer. I can get rid of the rest, but this one is brand new and too recently purchased; it will have to sit in that drawer a while longer before it finally meets the fate of all the rest of the castoffs. Silly, I know, but it’s my way. Fortunately for me I made a wonderful discover at Target last week, a soft, cotton, wire-free, lace-free reasonably priced ($16.00!) bra that fits and is comfortable. Thank you Gillian O’Malley (brand) for hearing my silent scream, er, plea. Once I had actually worn this version all day and had not been tempted to shred it from my body while at work since it is really quite comfortable, I went back and bought the requisite seven bras, one for each day of the week, just like the holy experts instructed. I have considered going back and loading up because I just know they won’t be there the next time I am ready to buy, but I will try to restrain myself. And that expensive one from the department store? I think I’ll burn it and symbolically liberate my breasts. I’m sure if they could they would dance for joy, or if not dance, they can at least dangle with delight.

©KKW 2009

ANNIVERSARY OF HOPE

2009-05-11T22:43:00.011-04:00

A year ago on April 15th I received & accepted the referral for my second daughter who was living in an orphanage in Chengdu, China. A few weeks later, on May 12th, the devastating earthquake hit Sichuan Province and horror at the loss of life and anxiety for my two year old daughter whom I had not yet met consumed me. It was three days later that I received news via a kind stranger in Beijing who personally called the orphanage for me at her own expense, that my new daughter and all others at the orphanage were safe but living in tents outside the buildings worried about frightening aftershocks.

In September of 2008, four short months after the earthquake, I and my eldest daughter along with my best friend traveled to Chengdu to finally meet & I adopt my second daughter from China. Though we saw no obvious evidence of the earthquake in the city, it was not far from my mind as I know it will live always in the minds and hearts of all of China. There were bill boards with words of thanks for the relief efforts and signs of remembrance, not just in Chengdu, but in the other areas of China to which we traveled as well. I am so grateful that my daughter, the other children and kind caregivers remained safe and strong through all the months that they spent in tents. But my heart still breaks for those families that lost their children, parents, siblings and friends. Due to the one child policy in force since the 1980s, probably in most cases families had lost their only child. I look at the faces of my children, who are mine in part due to this very same policy, and bless their birth parents and grieve with those who lost the most precious of gifts.

While in Chengdu I wished desperately to know how the people were recovering, but didn’t want to cause more grief by asking. Our guides seemed surprised that we were so well informed about the disaster and that we cared so much. I explained how well it had been covered in our media and about NPR having had reporters already in Chengdu during the quake and their amazing reporting efforts. Still they seemed surprised at our knowledge.

I remain so very impressed with the people of China; their strength at pulling together to help each other and their resilience. Their persistence in trying to find out why so many school buildings collapsed causing the death of 10,000 children. Their willingness to both help each other recover and accept help from the outside.

Those who have survived this tragedy will hopefully someday recover, if not fully, at least enough to again find joy in life. My own little one, having endured the initial quake as well as weeks of strong after shocks remains frightened of loud rumbling noises, but fortunately, that seems to be the only lasting anxiety for her. But back in her place of birth there remain thousands of children left injured, physically and emotional, I encourage you to visit www.HalfTheSky.org for more information on how they are helping the children work through the grief & fear brought on by this tragedy.

With the anniversary of the earthquake comes media coverage, I was watching a documentary on Sunday night about the children killed while they were in their classrooms at school and the efforts their parents made to bring to justice those responsible for the inadequate construction of the school buildings. As the tears ran down my face my eldest who is eight came into the room and seeing me crying asked why. I tried to explain to her that I felt so sorry for the parents of the hurt children because I could imagine the pain that they felt, I could imagine it because I had children too and would feel such pain if anything were to happen to them. “But Mama, we’re fine, we’re okay, don’t cry.” “I know baby, this is also why I am crying, because I am grateful that you are okay.” I reached to take the tissue that she had just pulled from the box but she insisted on carefully wiping away my tears herself. How very scary loving someone this much is. The Dali Lama has said that ‘great love involves great risk.’ And I think that this statement is especially true when it is applied to one’s children; to love a child is to risk one’s own life, heart and soul, but also to be so enriched that the risk seems as nothing to the gain. With the recent addition of my second child I have doubled that risk, but I’ll take it willingly and gratefully every moment of our lives.

©KKW 2009

FOR MOTHER’S DAY

2009-05-11T22:41:00.000-04:00

What am I to my children?
Well, sometimes I feel like nothing more than a blanket, bed, chair or pillow;
a cup-holder, spoon and source from which all food comes;
a communication devise which translates, delivers messages and interprets;
an encyclopedia and fount of all knowledge;
a tissue, napkin and towel;
a maid, servant, cook and laundress;
a toy, playmate, jungle-gym, entertainer and audience;
a doctor, nurse, psychologist, and pharmacy;
a hairdresser, stylist and social secretary.
I am a clock and time-keeper, scheduler and taxi driver.
But I am also a teacher and a coach.
Protector, bodyguard and private investigator.
The listener, the adviser, the shoulder to cry on.
I am comfort, discipline, rule maker and sage.
I need to be strength and provider, wisdom and understanding.
I must use good judgment, good humor and good intelligence and insight.
I mustn’t be too tired to laugh at silly jokes or to harsh in correction or to busy to hug.
I am a home, the port in a storm, the lap to crawl into when life hurts.
The title of mother has never felt so exhausting or challenging;
but neither has anything compared to its rewards and sense of satisfaction.
No other earthly role takes so much and gives so much back to the soul.
No other responsibility has caused me more heartache, sleepless nights or worry,
and no other has brought more joy or contentment.
What an amazing challenge and tremendous honor it is to be a parent.
Now could someone please add a few more hours to my days,
send me energy enough to compete with my kids,
clean my house, order me take-out, and send a masseuse to my house occasionally
and I’ll be just fine.

©KKW 2009

THE ANTS GO MARCHING TWO BY TWO

2009-05-05T20:30:00.010-04:00

Three weeks ago, I got myself my first brand new riding mower. Now, it probably says something about me as a woman that I am excited about this, more so even that I care that it is my favorite color, red. Should I care what color the dad burn lawn tractor is? It isn’t that I like lawn work very much, it’s simply something that must be done, I would much rather tend the flowers and patio plants. But after years of paying someone to do it, then a couple more years feeling horribly guilty about my wonderful next door neighbor doing it and not letting me pay him for it, I finally had to buckle down and spend the money. It had to be a riding one since I have several acres to mow and I once tried to do it with a push mower last year when the weather was still cool and I barely finished just the front yard before conceding defeat and collapsing in a heap of sweat and lost breath, covered in a think layer of pollen. I just couldn’t do that every week during a sweltering Virginia summer without it seriously affecting my physical and mental health.

My new mower was delivered on a Saturday morning and once daughter #2 was safely napping in her bed and daughter #1 was equipped with a walkie-talkie in order for me to check on her while still keeping her inside the house and away from the mower, I hopped on to do my duty as a home owner. It was almost a pleasure zipping back and forth across my property, the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, the grass clippings in my teeth. My only complaint is that in taking my foot off the brake to round corners or stop, once started again the thing would take off in earnest, causing my head to whip back and my hands to grip the steering wheel in a panic so as not to topple off backwards which might wound more than just my pride; precious body parts would be at stake!

Once I finish with the lawn, I still must start up the push mower to get at the smaller spaces where the riding mower won’t fit. Finishing that, I should then use the weed wacker to trim the edges of everything, but at that point I am done-for and usually quit, I don’t really care if there are a few raggedy edges. My next door neighbor however, usually comes over with his weed eater and does mine after finishing up his own yard, he is so amazingly helpful, or perhaps it just makes him crazy to see the frayed edges of my lawn.

After coming in from my first successful lawn cutting experience, I headed to the shower. My dirty clothes were left in a heap on the floor until I finished and as I gathered them up to take downstairs to the laundry room I discovered that more than just grass clippings were carried in on my pant legs; a large host of tiny ants had also hitched a ride! I stomped the tiny beings and threw the clothes into the washer to be done immediately, but by that night word had apparently gotten out through the ant grapevine and the little critters were arriving in droves. Now I know that I did not bring this many ants into the house with me, so I am amazed at the speed with which the diminutive creepy-crawlies passed along that there was a new place to hang out. I am also mystified as to why they would want to, it’s a bathroom for pig’s sake, there is no food in there, nothing to interest an ant; I just don’t get it. Not to mention the fact that it is the upstairs bathroom, do you have any idea how far those wee bugs had to travel to go and tell their friends about the novel resort they had found and then trek all the way back? And for what?

Ants are actually very complex creatures, there are 20,000 species of ant. They are social, and live in colonies, the adults caring for the young and their queen. They are divided into specialized groups and castes; there are reproductive castes (the queen and her boy toys) and the nonproductive caste (the workers, all female). The queen ant has wings until her first mating, which when once completely she tears off (ouch!) The males keep their wings, but their only purpose in life is to mate with the queen, once a guy succeeds in doing so, he dies within two weeks .(Dies of what I wonder? Did that little tryst with Queenie take so much out of him that he must now lay down and die? Harsh.) The female ants do all the work; they raise the kids, gather the food, and build, tend and defend the nest. Huh, so the boys live in a little ant harem at the beck-and-call of the queen, but if they win the grand prize and mate with her they die, while all the women raise the kids, gather the food and do all the work. Not really sure who has the better lot in ant society.

For a couple of days I let them be, I figured that they would discover nothing of interest and move along. If I don’t have to participate in a mass extermination, even of insects, then I would just as soon not. Besides, I don’t like bug sprays in the house, especially with curious young children and to this point we hadn’t needed any. But after two days the crowds of tiny black dots had grown and it was obvious that not only were they not deterred, but that they quite liked the place. Was the trip to my bathroom some sort of adventure for them? A holiday away from the colony? Or just something new to investigate and report back on? I just couldn’t figure on why these petite creatures would desire to visit my toilet so badly.

So I tried placing a paper plate full of sticky honey in one corner of the bathroom thinking that they would come, gorge and then get hopelessly stuck like a fly in amber. It sort of worked, but as the air dried the honey out a bit not all of the ants got stuck, they just came….and gorged….and invited their friends and family. In no time at all there was a major highway of ants marching down the wall, across the floor and having the party of their lives right there in my tiny loo. It was at this point that I lost it and started searching the house for a simple can of insect spray, but because of my afore mentioned hesitance to use such a product, none was to be had. ‘Think! Think!’ I frantically thought to myself as I raced through the house grabbing the spray bottle used for ironing and a bottle of Dr. Bonner’s liquid peppermint soap. I mixed, I aimed, I shot. And shot, and shot and shot. At last, success! Those little buggers finally went belly up, and since most likely a large part of the colony was merrymaking in the paper plate, they were conveniently congregated and effectively wiped out in one soapy battle. And as an added bonus, my bathroom got a much needed cleaning.

For the next 24 hours, the occasional stray ant would wander into the previously fun-filled area, but I had my trusty spray bottle filled with minty deadliness at hand and soon my bathroom was my own again and smelling decidedly refreshing. I imagined one lucky little gal, for remember, all the foot soldiers in an ant colony are female, sent to find out what happened to the queen’s explorers and actually making it back to report due to my being elsewhere in the house at the time and therefore unable to shoot her with my spray bottle of annihilation. “Your highness, I have traveled far, but no trace can be found of my many sisters. Oh woe dear queen, our colony is a ruin! What horrible evil has offered up such sweet riches only to snatch it away along with the lives of our brave soldiers?”

As annoying as it is to have vast amounts of tiny insects crawling around one’s bathroom, it was, non-the-less, interesting to watch them. In fact, I kept having to prompt my eight year old to leave off the ant gazing and come and eat dinner. When I went to take a shower I would find myself staring in fascination at how each wee being greeted all others that she passed. What information was being transmitted I wondered. Ants communicate using pheromones. These chemical signals are more developed in ants than in any other of their insect group. They perceive smells with their thin, mobile antennae which provides information about the direction and intensity of scents. They leave a pheromone trail that their sister ants can follow. When an ant foraging for sustenance finds food she marks the trail on her way back to the colony; then the other ants follow her trail back to the food and in turn reinforce the trail when heading back with the goods. (well, this explains how and why the ants were able to invade my bathroom so quickly, but doesn’t explain what they found so interesting. Did the sweet smell of soap perhaps confuse them into thinking there was something good to eat?)

Pheromones are not just used as trail markers though; a crushed ant emits an alarm pheromone that sends the message to nearby ants to attack and attracts re-enforcements from further away. (ah ha! This explains why my stomping on them did not make them go away, but sent even more ants!). Some species even send out “propaganda pheromones” to confuse enemy ants and cause them to fight amongst themselves. (How very interesting! Political ants making little pheromone propaganda posters!) Ants even exhibit interactive teaching, which makes them the only group to do this outside of mammals. An experienced ant will take on a naïve nest-mate and she will follow along and learning from her tutor, step by tiny step.

Not all ants are pests though, weaver ants are used as a biological control for citrus cultivation in parts of China. Ants also perform other ecological roles that benefit humans, such as keeping down other kinds of pesky insect populations and aerating the soil. In parts of Africa and South America large ants are used as sutures to close wounds. Any one else see this demonstrated in the movie “Apocalypto”? The wound is pressed together and ants are applied along the cut, the ant “bites” the edges of the wound with its mandibles and they lock in place. The rest of the body is then cut off at the head leaving the closure. And anyone ever drink rooibos tea from Africa? The seeds that comprise this tea are too small for human collection; ants do it and then store the seeds in their nests. Humans then raid the nests of up to half a pound of seeds.

Ants are also eaten in many parts of the world, not only by animals and other insects, but by humans. In Mexico there is a dish known as escamoles that consists of two kinds of ant larvae. They are considered a kind of insect caviar and are priced accordingly. In Colombia they are toasted; In India, Burma and Thailand, a paste is made of green weaver ants and served as a condiment and ants and larvae are also used in salads. In Australia they are mashed up in water to make a lemony tasting drink.

Okay, so it didn’t occur to me to make a meal of my little visitors, but perhaps another time, honey covered ants anyone? ©KKW 2009

VACATIONING WITH MERMAIDS

2009-04-28T21:25:00.010-04:00

With spring break’s arrival I decided we would go and visit my mother in Florida. It actually makes more sense for me to take time off of work to do this than to pay the high cost of day care for Lily in addition to Meika’s, for some reason it is ridiculously expensive to do “out of season” daycare, I guess they know they’ve got you where they want you; desperate and in dire need, so they can charge whatever they wish. But the availability and affordability of quality daycare in this country is a whole other subject and I was rambling on about vacation. So…

After the many hours spent packing (for some reason we needed more “stuff” to go to Florida for a week than we did to go to China for a month), we set off at 3am on Saturday morning, and being that I now have a vehicle that I am not terrified to travel more than ten miles in, it made for a much more pleasant driving experience. I choose to leave in the middle of the night because it seems to work well with small children, they still have several hours of sleep ahead of them and it is still dark with nothing to interfere with them falling quickly back to sleep, giving me several blessed hours of quiet in which to drive. Plus, the traffic is quite light in those wee hours before dawn. And I need that silence, it is thirteen hours of actual drive time to arrive at where my mother lives in central Florida, plus all the stopping that must be done in order to use the restroom, eat, stretch and just maintain sanity. Once I pass South of the Border I know that I am nearly halfway there and that past this point there will not be another Starbucks for 400 miles, so get it now sweetheart because Mama needs that liquid fuel just like the van needs petrol.

We had no particular plans other than to just hang out, my mom has a pool, which Lily would spend all waking hours in if allowed, and anything that I got to do that didn’t involve going to work or our usual routine is a vacation to me. I hadn’t been able to sit down and read even one magazine since adopting Meika last September, so I had brought along a huge pile of unread material to try and get through…I succeeded in whittling down the pile by one, oh well, it was far more relaxing just to sit at pool side while Lily swam and watch the sun go down.

The Easter Bunny arrived a little bit late, guess he slept in (or due to driving so long forgot what day it was), fortunately, he was actually prepared, just delayed in his delivery. Then, another set of Easter Bunnies hid eggs and more baskets in the front yard and several other children and grandchildren of friends showed up and we had an egg hunt! What fun! It didn’t take Meika long to grasp the concept and hunt down her quarry. Lily of course was a blur as she raced around the yard searching for her eggs. That Easter Bunny was so cleaver that he marked all the eggs so that the kids only gathered their own.

Then a couple of days later the Grandmas and Mamas and girls of these families all went to have a tea party at the local tea house, which was quite lovely. For the most part, manners were well observed.

On another day we went to Weeki Wachee Springs State Park where there are mermaids! The Seminole Indians named the spring, which means “little spring” or “winding river”. The bottom has never been found because it is so deep and each day 117 million gallons of fresh, 72-degree water bubbles up from the subterranean caverns. It is in the basin of the spring, lined naturally with limestone, that the mermaids swim 20 feet below the surface. A theater that sits sixteen feet below the surface of the spring allows visitors to watch the show in a dry environment. Opened in 1947 by Newton Perry as a roadside attraction, he found the spring filled with old rusted refrigerators and cars. He had it cleaned out and being a former Navy SEAL, Perry experimented with underwater breathing hoses which supplied oxygen from an air compressor rather than an air tank strapped to the back of the diver, making the feat more dramatic and theatrical. He then scouted pretty girls and taught them to use the air hoses and smile at the same time as well as to eat and drink while underwater and perform aquatic ballets.

We saw two shows, one was “The Little Mermaid” and the other was a demonstration from the Mermaids of their abilities. Lily spent most of the shows mumbling to herself and trying to decide if they were real mermaids or not. She could see the breathing hoses, but still….I suggested that perhaps they were half human and half mermaid because no ordinary person could hold their breath for that long. And indeed, one mermaid held her breath for almost 3 full minutes in order to swim down to the deepest part of the basin, it was quite a feat and very impressive!

After the show we had a chance to take a picture with one of the mermaids, but Meika decided that she was still not comfortable being handed off to a total stranger, even if she was a mermaid! It wasn’t just children having their likeness taken either, the park offers a photo service; they will take your picture with a mermaid and having her autograph it. There were several older adult women having this done. Huh. What exactly do these women do with this photo once home? Is it placed front and center on the mantal? And what can one say about it once framed, ‘Take a gander at this picture Mabel, me and a busty mermaid! Honey, it was the highlight of my trip!’ Okay, to each her own.

Following are some more photos of the day; that’s my mom in the shell with the girls. Lily has got the mermaid pose down just right. And that’s Maggie, my mom’s fiancé Dennis’ dog, she and Lily are real pals.

2009-04-28T21:06:00.016-04:00

ADVENTURES IN PARENTHOOD

2009-04-22T20:30:00.001-04:00

I’m driving and from the backseat I hear “Mom, mom! I’m pulling my forehead off!” I don’t answer.

“Mom, did you hear me?!”

“Yes dear, I heard you, I’m driving and I can’t look right now.” (I actually have no idea what she is doing, but know she is playing around in some way, not in real danger).

“Mom, don’t you care if I pull off my face?”

“Yes dear, I care, are you really pulling off your face?”

“No, I guess not.” End of conversation. Once we stop and I get a look at her face for the first time I am horrified. “What on earth happened to your head?!” For right there, smack dab in the middle of her forehead is a huge purple circle! Turns out she stuck the suction cup from the brand new sun shades on her forehead and proceeded to play tug of war with it. I’m just glad she didn’t stick it all over her face! So, as we were on vacation at the time, many photos were taken, see if you can spot the ‘head hicky’ in each shot.

RAMDOM PHOTOS

2009-04-05T22:34:00.022-04:00

I was downloading some photos from my camera and decided to post a few.

Lily dressed for combat at karate class.

Meika a week after arriving home from China.

Meika Christmas Eve wearing one present from Grammy and eating another from Ms. Nan.

Photos taken at a Pow Wow in Virginia last summer.

NIGHT LIGHTS FOR THE DEAD

2009-03-24T21:35:00.010-04:00

I don’t know if this is a national trend or just something popular in the small rural town I live in, but this past winter, as the darkness came on earlier each day and I was passing one of the local cemeteries, I noticed a blueish-white light shining amongst the stone markers. As the weeks went by, more and more small lights began to appear, some of them having shape! As the points of light grew in number, my curiosity finally got the better of me and I pulled the car over to get a closer look. Squinting into the darkness I saw what appeared to be solar LED lights sprinkled among the graves. Apparently, lighting the eternal resting places of family members had become the latest thing. Wow, night lights for the dead, amazing. Some of the lights were shaped like angels or crosses making the scene even eerier. So, one mystery solved only to be replaced with another…why?

I don’t mean to offend anyone who may have chosen to illuminate their relative’s small plot of earth in this way, but seriously, do the dead really need night lights? What could possibly be the logic in lighting graves? Have the dearly departed taken to reading in the evenings? Do you think that they are afraid of the dark? Or maybe the light is for the living; you find yourself visiting the eternal resting place of loved ones in the middle of the night and so need a light to mark your way. I have to admit, I find it a strange practice. But maybe that’s just me.

I do however, think it somewhat a shame that the necropolis (what a fantastic word!) is not visited more often. One doesn’t usually think of them as a very cheery place to take one’s family, but this has not always been the case. During the Victorian period cemeteries were not mere places to lie to rest one’s family and friends, but were also buzzing with life, at least on Sunday afternoons. At the time it was an accepted custom, after attending church, for many families to spend their afternoon going to the local cemetery, tending the graves of loved ones and having picnics on the family plot. Cemeteries acted as the local park, and in fact, until recently, most cemeteries were called “parks”.

Within driving distance of our town is a wonderful cemetery of local fame. Hollywood Cemetery in downtown Richmond Virginia. It is a lovely place full of interesting history, beautiful statuary, flowering trees and rolling hills that looks out over the James River. Hollywood Cemetery, opened in 1849, was given its name because of the many holly trees that dotted its landscape. It’s quite large and sprawling (as witnessed by the aerial view below) as well as peaceful and interesting. There are several somewhat eccentric monuments here in true Victorian fashion. One of these is a large black iron dog that guards the grave of a child. (See photo). Angels abound, and there are some really lovely examples. Two United States Presidents are buried here, James Monroe who’s ironwork monument you can see below right, and John Tyler, as well as the one and only Confederate States President, Jefferson Davis. It is also the final resting place of 25 Confederate generals including George Pickett and J.E.B. Stuart. In 1869 an interesting, 90 foot high granite pyramid was erected to commemorate the more than 18,000 men of the Confederate Army who are also buried in the cemetery, most of whom remain unidentified.

In addition to its beauty, Hollywood Cemetery also has its local legends, including the many ghosts that haunt its mausoleums and the legend of the Richmond Vampire. The story of the Vampire began soon after the collapse of a railroad tunnel at Church Hill, a district of Richmond, which buried several workers alive on October 2, 1925. The tale is told of a creature with jagged teeth and bloody skin hanging from its body that emerged from the cave-in and ran toward the James River. A group of men pursued it into Hollywood Cemetery where it disappeared into a mausoleum set into the hillside.

It turns out that this legend is based in truth, railroad fireman, Benjamin F. Mosby (1896-1925), was loading coal into the steam tank of Locomotive 231 when the collapse occurred and was horribly scalded when the engine boiler exploded and several of his teeth were broken, yet he made his way out of the tunnel and emerged in a state of shock with layers of his skin hanging from his body. He later died at the hospital, but the story took on a life of its own and is still being told many decades later. In 1926 the tunnel was filled with sand and sealed at both ends. A private effort to possibly excavate and retrieve the train engine is currently being explored.

Having worked in the field of archaeology, burial sites are included in excavations regularly. Sometimes that is the aim, as in a burial site or cemetery that is in the path of upcoming modern construction and must be moved, or when bodies are discovered as part of an archaeological exploration. The photo at the end of this post shows me at the site of an excavated grave within Bruton Parrish’s cemetery in Williamsburg. It was my job to record the measurements, damage and decorative nail head of the coffin, which was amazingly intact after hundreds of years, though its lid had collapsed.

At another site in Maryland, earth was being moved to lay the ground for a housing development when the machinery turned up what appeared to be human remains. After the police investigated and found that the remains were in fact quite old the archaeologists were called in and a family cemetery from the early 19^th century was discovered, excavated and the bodies then re-interned elsewhere. But not before the archeological team had gleaned as much information as possible from the bones, clothing and coffin remains to record for future study.

It is for this very reason that I would choose to be buried rather than cremated. I envision my earthly remains being dug up hundreds of years into the future by a team of archaeologists and them trying to puzzle out my life based on what they had found. If I had my wish, my coffin would be stuffed full of my favorite things; photos of my children, their artwork and small gifts to me; my favorite toys and jewelry, my I Pod and books, many, many books. Some of my own artwork; my writing; video clips from everyday life. I can picture the excitement on the face of the archaeologist as she peers into my sarcophagus, takes out her dusting brush and sweeps away centuries of dirt to reveal an Ugly Doll Action Figure or my boney hand clutching the poem my daughter wrote to me when she was six years old. I imagine her dialogue -- “Ah, see?” she exclaims, “we can tell this person was a female by her pelvic bone and skull, but see here, a contradiction, there is no scarring on the dorsal surface of the pubic symphysis which would indicate that she had not born children, yet the material culture she has been buried with would indicate otherwise. Interesting. I suppose she could have adopted. And see here on the middle finger of her right hand the build up of the bone on the end of that finger, which tells us that she held a pen - a lot. And down here on her right ankle, see the missing pieces of bone just there? Tearing the ligaments will do that; pull parts of the bone right off and cause a calcium build up in the area. So it appears that sometime in mid-life she has injured that ankle…more than once. Sheesh, what a klutz! Oh wow, look at this, an ancient musical storage device clutched to her chest. Man, quite the eclectic taste in music. Fascinating. We should know more after we get Toby to take a look at that massive computer storage device. Did you see the size of that thing? It’s as big as my thumb, how on earth were they ever able to get anything done having to keep all of their electronic information on those troublesome pieces of posionous plastic? We sure are lucky to have all of our data stored at the ends of our fingertips.”

This is sort of how I imagine the scene playing out. Morbid? I think not, just an imaginary tableau of a vessel used at one time by a spirit passing through. Oh, and since I plan on having books with me, could someone please leave a light on?

©KKW 2009

LET IT SNOW!

2009-03-07T20:55:00.008-05:00

Last week we got hit with that big east coast snow storm. It was nice to see it really snow and I would have loved to just sit and enjoy it and sip hot chocolate with the kids since of course the schools were closed, but alas, the office I work in closes for NO reason apparently; hurricanes, states of emergency, what ever, that place keeps its doors open. You never know while in crisis whether there just might be a graphics emergency, apparently I must make my way there. So, when there are snow days I must decide if I should use a precious vacation day or spend it imposing on friends for a place to deposit my children. Oh, please forgive my whining and enjoy the resulting snow day photos!
Lily of course was rolling in the snow the second her boots stepped out the door, but I think that this was the first time Meika had seen the stuff and she wasn't at all impressed. She didn't want to touch it or have it touch her. She spent the whole time while we were out just standing there staring at it as if to say "So why are we out here and who made the whole of the outside white?"

A PICTURE GAME

2009-03-02T22:03:00.006-05:00

My friend Debby tagged me for this cute little picture game.....

Rules

1. Go to your Picture Folder on your computer or wherever you store your pictures.

2. Go to the 6th Folder and then pick the 6th Picture.

3. Post it on your blog and tell the story that goes w

ith the picture.

4. Tag 5 other glorious peoples to do the same thing and leave a comment on their blog telling them about it.

Well, here is my photo from my 6th folder... my little warrior! Just look at that fierce face! Lily has been taking karate lessons since she was in kindergarten and is now an orange belt. The first time she tried boxing on the WII she kept trying to kick as well as punch, and can lay that WII guy OUT in no time. You go girl!

I tag..... Kate, Kara and Kim H.,

WHERE’S THE MAD HATTER?

2009-02-18T20:41:00.009-05:00

On Saturday we were invited to a lovely tea party to celebrate Valentine’s Day at our friends the Turners. Jennica and her daughter Rya played hostesses to several little girls all glammed up and ready to partake in girly activity. Here they are looking like they are waiting for the Mad Hatter, who must have been off with the White Rabbit somewhere, probably attending the Queen. They all waited patiently and with the best of manners for tea to be served.

Decorated cakes and cookies were ravenously eaten, sweet teas sipped and fresh strawberries delicately nibbled. Once all the little princesses appetites were sated, they waved their magic wands and the remnants of the party were miraculously swept away to make way for a heart-shaped frame craft. (the “magic” coming in the form of Mamas madly cleaning up after their princesses…oh, so that’s where the madness comes in). We then retired to the backyard and play area to blow some bubbles where I discovered my two year old can quite expertly climb a ladder all by herself…yikes, good to know.
A wonderful time was had by all and we are grateful to Jennica and Rya for their hospitality and thoughtfulness.
After arriving home I opened the back door to the mini van and this was the picture I was presented with; a little girl looking the perfect picture of ‘princess-ness’…wrapped in a pick furry coat, dress ruffles peaking out and her head topped with a silver tiara. A bag of goodies in her lap, a wand in one hand, a sucker in the other and a big smile on her face. She just seemed to be saying. ‘Ain’t America grand Mama?’
And there were still presents from the Mama as well! You just can’t beat a holiday celebrating love, even though poor St. Valentine didn’t quite have the best of times on his day, him being a martyr and all. Actually, did you know that there isn’t just one Saint Valentine and that there are more than one Valentine’s Days? There were several early Christian martyrs named thus. Finally, in 1969, the Catholic Church formally recognized eleven Valentine’s Days! The Valentine, or rather, Valentines, honored on February 14th are Valentine of Rome and Valentine of Terni. The one from Rome was a priest who suffered his martyrdom in about AD 269. His pieces reside in a church in Rome, AND one in Dublin, Ireland….oh dear.
Valentine of Terni was a bishop in about AD 197 and was said to have been killed during the persecution of Emperor Aurelian. Parts of him are in Rome and Terni.
It is unclear as to when romance began being associated with these guys and their feast day. There is mention of Valentine’s Day in Hamlet by William Shakespeare, but no clear history of the holiday’s evolvement into the giving of love letters could be found. In the mid-nineteenth century the holiday was reinvented through the exchange of letters and cards expressing friendship and love. No one really knows why the holiday suddenly took off in this way, but various stories abound, again, non of which could be verified. Possibly, it was some wily marketing executive wanting to unload an overstock of stationary. Or perhaps a group of young ladies with too much time on their hands, set to making fancy cards expressing their shy feelings towards a secret crush. Though no one seems to know for sure, what does seem to be true is that much speculation and down right falsehoods have sprung up around Valentine’s Day. Typical of love, isn’t it?
What I remember from my own childhood was the fun I had making the container that would hold my Valentine’s from an old shoe box. Personally, I found this to be the best part of the day. At right is what I remember the cards I used to receive looking like. Now of course most of the boxed cards children have to choose from have the images of pop and tv stars on them. This year we made ours, I just couldn’t bring myself to buy yet another High School Musical anything.
Here I leave you with the ruefully mentioned Valentine's Day spoken by Ophelia in Hamlet (1600-1601):
To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,
And dupp'd the chamber-door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more.
(William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 5)

©KKW 2009

SLOWING DOWN AND TAKING NOTICE

2009-02-06T20:05:00.002-05:00

I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions; I just am not interested in resolving to do something I should already probably be doing anyway. But my falling down on January 2^nd (See Nice Start To The New Year) has made me think that perhaps this year should be different. You see I am an assiduous multi-tasker and hopelessly and perpetually in a hurry. I am one of those annoying people who believes that everything happens for a reason and that there is a lesson in every error and I think that in falling down and injuring my ankle and knee that the universe is trying to tell me something, something like: ‘slow it down stupid!’

I rush, it’s what I do, there just doesn’t seem to be enough time for everything that needs doing. Being a single mom with two young children is a full-time job just by itself, add to that a full-time day job and off-hours freelancing, doctors appointments, laundry, dinners, packed lunches, homework, house cleaning, the care of a large number of pets, yard work, car upkeep, shopping, karate lessons, speech therapy, drop-offs and pick-ups to and from school and daycare…whew, I am making myself feel exhausted and overwhelmed just listing what I have to do weekly. My point is, I don’t see an alternative to rushing madly about. I already rise at 4:45 AM in order to just get myself and the kids ready to leave for the day, and I really do try to get the required amount of sleep, which means I would have to be in bed asleep before 9 PM….the only time that happens is when all of the rushing has finally caught up with me and I am so weary that I can barely make it up the stairs to collapse on my bed, but most nights I am able to at least make it to bed by 11 PM and slip in some much desired reading time. This is my favorite time of day, when the house is quiet except for the gentle, steady breathing of my children and assorted pets. When I snuggle down into my flannel covered feather bed, cover myself in my silk cocoon comforter and pull out whatever book I am currently reading, I comfort myself with the thought that I have several hours to loose myself in blessed, hopefully uninterrupted, sleep.

In causing myself an injury that requires me to walk slowly and carefully I have begun to see some things in a new light. At first glance it would seem to be somewhat depressing to find that your two year old walks faster than you do. But it has forced me to slow down and smell the roses so to speak, even at work….”Oh, that’s a nice potted plant, never noticed that before,” as I am shambling my way to the restroom. And, if one walks slowly, one catches interesting bits of conversation floating from cubicles and offices, most of which is dull, but on occasion there is some sparkling jewel of useful information that could possibly come in handy in future, one never knows.

While out in society, walking slowly can result in found money that has fallen to the ground, or small creatures in need of help out of a dangerous parking lot. Since progress is being made sluggishly, one has time to notice the mother duck at the edge of the pond gathering her brood around her with clucks and soft quacks, or the beautiful, puffy cloud filled sky, although caution should also be exerted when noticing nature since not paying attention to where I was going caused my forced leisurely gait in the first place. I am sure that there are less painful ways to make oneself take time to notice life’s small joys.

Not all multi-tasking need be a rush job, while commuting to work I have nearly an hour all to myself in the car and practice deep breathing and deep thinking. This results in a wondrous calming of my mind and spirit and helps to start the day right. However, by the time the lunch hour arrives I feel the need to pounce from my chair and bound out the door in order to run needed errands and usually come back without having eaten and all a fluster. I have one hour at lunch from the time I leave my desk until the time I am expected back at it to get my daily errands done. I am able to go into three stores, shop and arrive back on time. Lists are absolutely essential and must be ordered by store layout. Today I went to the party store for a friend for tiaras and wands for her tea party next week, then to the book store for myself, leaving shortly after laden with several volumes and still arrived back at the office with 12 minutes left to pop my Lean Cuisine into the microwave and land back at my post. For better or worse I work in front of a computer all day, so in some ways this allows me to slow down, albeit, at times a little too much, there are days when I find my head lolling and my eyelids uncomfortably heavy to say nothing of my sedentary body that cries out for some exercise. There is nothing worse than being sleepy and unable to just take a nap. I find myself wondering if anyone would miss me if I just slid under my desk for a little siesta. Corporate America really needs to rethink the work day, there is no doubt in my mind that if we all started with a little Tai Chi in the morning; exercise for both body and mind, and then had a little nap in the afternoon that we would all be more productive and happy.

In my younger adult days I was puzzled when I would hear someone say that ‘there weren’t enough hours in the day’. I thought to myself that there were plenty of hours in the day, at that time in my life I got done tons and had lots of time to play and do the things I wanted to do. I went to work and enjoyed it, I swam and worked out at the gym, I painted and created, I went out with friends or on dates, I saw movies and plays and concerts, and I read several books a week. But now I find myself wishing for a few more hours at the end of each day just to put my life in order. How on earth did this happen? When did my days get so short?

You may think that perhaps I am just not organized, but though it may appear so to the external eye due to the chaotic state in which my home usually exists, I assure you that I’ve got a system that works pretty well. On Sunday afternoon I do all the cooking for the week so that dinner is easily heated up and ready quickly when we arrive home. I pack all the kid’s lunches for the week as well and have them lined up in the frig. I lay out five outfits for each child after the laundry is done on Saturday. In the mornings I get myself dressed and ready before waking the kids. Once they are awakened and dressed #1 helps #2 eat her breakfast and go to the potty while I take out the critters and get them feed and watered. On my way out to do this I drop off my work day bag and the kid’s lunches and start the car to get it warmed up if it is very cold. When I come back in I fix my coffee, get the kid’s coats on and we are out the door. And as long as I don’t hit the snooze button on my alarm clock too many times we are on time. In fact this morning we were running 20 minutes ahead of schedule and had to sit and wait for the daycare to open. But it was nice; we all got to chat and laugh and sing to the music on the radio. Being early this morning was an especially nice way to start the day, I even had time to give both my babies extra kisses and hugs, reminding myself to savor each embrace from little arms and to commit to memory the feel of my lips on their dearly loved foreheads and chubby little cheeks. Because it is not the frustrations of my days that I will want to remember when reminiscing, but the smell of my children’s hair and their infectious laughter, causing me blissful pause and peace. Besides, the raising of little humans should never be a rush job.

©KKW 2009

IN MY NEXT LIFE I WANT TO BE OPRAH

2009-02-05T21:51:00.005-05:00

I love hot showers. I mean I LOVE hot showers. I believe they are one of the top ten inventions of humankind, (as are warm, fuzzy socks). There is nothing that can wash away -- literally and figuratively -- the grime from a days work than an invigorating, revitalizing, clean, refreshing, hot shower. It’s the first thing we do when we arrive home, mostly because I’m a total germaphoib and the thought of all the billions of wee germies clinging to my two children totally creeps me out, but also because it instantly calms and revives me. The kids are the first to take baths and are then dressed in clean clothes and sat down with a snack to allow me to rejuvenate in my very modest, yet beloved shower. I’ve recently begun locking the door to the bathroom, otherwise both kids feel the need to ‘keep Mama company’ and no matter how many times I insist that I don’t need company while I shower it doesn’t seem to be getting through, so I lock the door and give instructions to #1 that unless someone is bleeding…profusely, or something is on fire, or there is some other immediate and dire emergency that I am to be left alone for just 5 minutes. And maybe 8 out of 10 times I remain undisturbed because #1 can see the difference between the frazzled woman that enters the bathroom and the more relaxed one exiting it a few minutes later ready to meet their needs once more. It is amazing how a few gallons of water poured over oneself can change ones whole outlook towards the world.

So, as I am standing there last evening, head leaning against the shower wall just letting the wonders of clean hot water flow over me, I think to myself that if I were a very wealthy woman I would have one of those showers that you see on luxury home shows, you know, the ones with water spraying at you from all angles. I imagine that Oprah has a shower like that. Yes, when Oprah gets home after a long, hard day of helping others, or partying with her famous friends, or just hanging out, I bet she steps into a room-sized shower and presses a button….no, wait, she wouldn’t even need to press a button, she would simply murmur ‘Shower on. Hot.’ and sparkling, wondrous, scalding, clear water would massage her every sore muscle. A delicious smelling soap product would rain down upon her weary shoulders and cleanse and moisturize her fatigued skin and then rinse her squeaky clean once more. And the hot water would never run out like it does at my house, where I don’t quite make it to the end of washing up before the water temperature suddenly drops, it would just keep pouring its rejuvenating, liquid self from all available, invigorating spouts. Yes, and the water would be from some green source and be renewable and the unit that heated it be energy efficient from sun and wind. It would be a blessedly mother earth friendly, guilt-free power shower. Oh my yes, Oprah would have a shower like that and I want one too! Can I be Oprah in my next life please?

What I admire so about Oprah (besides her possibly having an awesome shower), is her balance. No, not the fact that, unlike me, she can probably do a summersault and not then fall over, but her life’s balance. She has worked hard and amassed great wealth, and with that wealth she helps thousands in all parts of the world better their lives. Yet she is still able to both appreciate and be grateful for the luxuries she allows herself. Those ‘Favorite Things’? those are expensive sister! At least for most of us, but does she apologize for her love of luxury? No, and nor should she. She has chosen to be good to the world AND herself. Wow, what a life! To be able to help so many and still live well one’s self, what fun! Her social conscience, her willingness to help, to make aware, to take action, she appears to be made of this, and it is this that makes her a rich woman, she seems to have accumulated wealth of wisdom and generosity as well as property, can I pleeeeease be her in my next life? I want to live in luxury, I want to dispense wisdom, I want to help thousands achieve their dreams, and I want to weigh in on the side of a better society and world.

But hold the phone! Should I really have to be Oprah to do these things? To have a positive impact on the world around me? Sure, she has millions of dollars to offer to the needy (or is it billions?), but I work, I have funds, okay, so my pile is nowhere as big, but my dollars count too. Don’t my children and I save and contribute to various charities on a regular basis? There are so many great places to help, some of our favorites are Ox Fam and Heifer International, Swallow’s Nest, International Assistance and Adoption Project, and Half The Sky, Habitat for Humanity, Women for Women International, Smile Train, Operation Smile, The American Heart Association and let’s not forget the critters, The American Humane Society to name a few. Everyone I know does this: helps where and when they can, it’s inspiring both when we witness others kindnesses and are kind ourselves. Did you know that by being kind to another, or receiving a kindness from another or even just by witnessing a kindness, our serotonin levels increase (serotonin is that body chemical that gives us a feeling of happiness and well-being). Want a little jolt of the warm fuzzies during a long work day? Just close your eyes and think of a kindness done for you or by you and you will be injected instantly with giddy inducing serotonin. Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh. Better yet, actually DO a kindness, go and tell a co-worker what a great job he did. Or help that poor co-worker clear the paper jam in the copy machine. Bring in cookies, baked goods are always a hit and instantly make the atmosphere a happy one. A home-made cookie is like a warm hug wrapped in sugar.

Compassion shown to strangers is great and helps us to live in a society of peace and fulfillment, but kindnesses done for those we love are, of course, just as important. Though I hope that I am teaching my children to think of others as well as themselves, it is not our contributions to charity that my eldest finds impressive. She tells me I am a hero when I jump out of the car during a rain storm to help the turtle attempting to cross the street make it to the other side. Or knock on a woman’s car window when we see her apparently unconscious in the drivers seat and pulled haphazardly off the road (she was fine, just sleepy), or when I read to her in the evening, or help with homework, or fix her favorite food for dinner. These are the things that she thinks are extraordinary.

And sure, if I had money aplenty and I still qualified, I would adopted more children. I would adopt more critters too for that matter. I would build a great big barn just like daughter #1 wants and fill ‘er up with creatures great and small. I know that I can not single handedly save the world, but I sure can make my little corner of it a happier place and keep those around me safe and warm and fulfilled. The two children I have and the many pets and all of my good friends are more than enough to spread joy on my peanut butter and jelly life.

And I have my luxuries too, I have fuzzy socks! Many pair of them! I have a fluffy, warm feather bed for which I am nightly grateful to crawl into. I have a home, food, family, friends, work, health; sufficient abundance for anyone I would think. I am so grateful, really, really I am. So I guess my ‘Oprah Life’ will just have to wait, because I am too glad of the one I have at the moment. Although a great big, automated, room-size luxury shower would be mighty nice.

©KKW 2009

BABY IT'S COLD OUTSIDE!

2009-02-02T20:58:00.003-05:00

HAPPY YEAR OF THE OX!

2009-02-02T20:49:00.006-05:00

Gong Hei Fat Choi! (Congratulations and Be Prosperous!) The Lunar New Year began on January 26^ththis year, with the new moon and will conclude on February 9^th with the full moon and we have been celebrating at our house for the past week. We’ve got a great big ol’ cardboard Kitchen God on our front door and twinkling red lights in the form of fire crackers. We’ve stomped on bubble wrap to scare away evil spirits (instead of setting off real firecrackers), and the kids have been generally making a lot of noise, although there is nothing new about that. On New Year’s Eve we devoured our celebratory feast of fish, stir fried bok choy, noodles and congee (rice stew), then ended the meal on a sweet note with lotus seed filled sesame balls (rice balls) and fortune cookies. The Mama got a fortune that says “Happier days are definitely ahead for you. Struggle has ended.” Wow, now THAT is a good fortune! Although last year was a pretty happy year for me already, more happiness in the new year? Bring it on!

The girls were given gifts of new shoes and Hong Bao (red envelopes with money inside traditionally give to children and unmarried persons at the new year). And we watched the four hour extravaganza that is The Spring Festival Gala on CCTV (the Chinese television station we get on the satellite). Lots of skits, singing, dancing, acrobatics and colorful entertainment.

Lily’s third grade teacher was the first teacher she has had that knew what the Lunar New Year was and the class celebrated with games and food and treats on the first day of Spring Festival. (Chinese New Year, Lunar New Year, Spring Festival, these are all names for the same thing). Lily declared it the “funnest” day she has ever had at school. Thanks Mrs. Brown!! I’m sure that it helped that she was the only Chinese in her class and therefore felt herself the guest of honor.

This past Saturday our friends had several families with children adopted from China over to their house to allow us to all celebrate together. It was loads of fun for all and Lily declared that now IT was the “funnest” day ever. We ate Chinese take out and May, another guest, prepared sticky rice, a traditional sweet made for children that has raisins and peanuts mixed in with the sweetened rice and is sprinkled with red and green jimmies.

The kids played and colored and received more Hong Bao. And we tried to get all of our beautiful girls to sit together for a photo on the sofa, but it was nearly as hard as getting all the babies to sit on the traditional red couch in China to have their photos take together. Someone is always crying or running out of the photo. Still, just look at all those gorgeous faces! And they all live in our little town! In fact, Maggie and Meika are from the same orphanage and now live only a mile from each other!

The Spring Festival is the biggest holiday in China, rather like our December holidays here in the USA. It is a time when people travel to their home towns to visit with relatives, eat and make merry. A time of putting away the troubles if the year passing and starting fresh. People in China traditionally will pay all their debts, scrub their homes clean, buy new clothes and shoes and try to follow the long list of do’s and don't s that have customarily surrounded the holiday. Though the house is thoroughly cleaned, all brooms must be put away before the first day of the new year so that any good luck arriving will not get swept away. Food, especially sweets, are left on the stove as an offering to the Kitchen God who lives behind the stove. He is the recorder of family deeds and it is traditional to try and bribe him so that he will give a good report of family members to the Jade Emperor.

Red clothing is usually worn because it is thought to scare away evil spirits and bad luck. And new clothes are worn to symbolize a new beginning. The biggest part of the new year celebrations is the dinner every family will eat. A dish consisting of fish is mandatory since the word for fish – yu - in Chineses sounds like the word for “surpluses”. Dumplings, cakes, greens and sweet rice cakes also grace tables. Noodles, the longer the better, represent longevity and long life. Oranges are popular as their name is a homophone of “golden luck”. Seeds, such as lotus, sunflower and pumpkin symbolize birth and renewal.

The first day of the new year is for visiting the most senior members of one’s family; parents and grandparents.

The second day is for married daughters to visit their parents and honoring one’s ancestors. Graves are tended and incense burned. People are also extra kind to dogs on this day as it is believed that the second day is the birthday of all dogs.

The third and fourth days of the New Year are for visiting with other relatives and friends.

The Fifth day is for eating dumplings in honor of the Chinese god of wealth, since dumplings look like little purses filled with money.

The seventh day is everyone’s birthday! Generally, birthdays are not celebrated separately in China, everyone grows a year older at the new year together.

The ninth day is the birthday of the Jade Emperor of Heaven and prayers are sent his way.

The fifteenth day of the New Year is the last and is celebrated as the Lantern Festival. Rice dumplings stewed in a soup is eaten on this day. Candles are lit outside homes to guide lost spirits home. Families walk through the streets carrying lighted lanterns bringing the festivities to a close. So next full moon be looking for our red lanterns as we parade around the back yard and finish up the Moon Cakes!

WHAT DOES A TECHNICAL ILLUSTRATOR DO EXACTLY?

2009-01-30T21:41:00.019-05:00

Being that I was tied up quite a bit around the holidays with a freelance project that I needed to finish before the end of the year, I have had quite a few questions lately from friends and family as to what exactly I do when I say I am a technical illustrator of artifacts, so I thought that I would try and explain it.

I have a Fine Arts degree from Kent State University with a concentration in metal smithing, so you can imagine that such a degree didn’t exactly prepare me to jump out into the wide world with a great understanding of what I was suppose to do in order to make a living. I was warned by multiple family members that I would never be able to survive as an artist, but since my graduation I have always made either all or part of my salary working as an artist. So a great big “HA!” to all the naysayers. (Oh, that felt good! Thirty years of pent up ‘I’ll show you!’ released at last). It hasn’t always been very lucrative or easy, none the less I can honestly say that I wouldn’t have wanted to do anything else. And it helped that the internet came along in the 1990s allowing floundering artists a chance to tout their talents as web designers, which I also do, but I want to talk here about my hand drawn illustration work.

Much to everyone’s surprise, as well as mine, my first position out of college was as an actual silversmith with The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation which then led a year later to a career with the museum as a technical illustrator in the archaeology department. (And to those wondering, yes, I did wear a costume to do my silver smithing in – see photo as evidence. The lace on the sleeves of my dresses caught fire quite a lot).

It was famed archaeologist and author Ivor Noel Hume who gave me “my big break” as an illustrator. He is an extremely interesting and prolific writer, and for those unfamiliar with his books, I would highly recommend you give him a read if you have any interest in history or archaeology, you won’t be disappointed. He, together with his now departed wife Audrey, headed up the Department of Archaeological Interpretation at CWF and I was hired to illustrate the seventeenth century artifacts discovered at Martin’s Hundred on the James River. A subsidiary colony of the Virginia Company and neighbor to Jamestown, Martin's Hundred was effectively destroyed by an attack by the Powhatan tribe in March of 1622, leaving it a virtual time capsule as the result of having been abandoned not long after that. Its dead and much of their material culture lay forgotten beneath the fields of Carter’s Grove Plantation until 1976 when archaeologists discovered it once more. By the time I joined the department the digging at the site had been completed and the artifacts were waiting to be drawn; an entire room of them. I spent nearly three years at the task and learned so much from the Noel Humes of value that I count it among one of the greatest highlights of my career.

After finishing up the Martin’s Hundred artifacts, I spent a year working at NASA learning how to use the revolutionary new machine called the Personal Computer. There they sat in a room all by themselves with the only two guys willing to give them a try and me. It turns out that learning to use a computer was far easier than I would have imagined, even though it was during a time when Windows yet hadn’t been invented and each command was typed out in dos. (I am so ancient!) For a year I created schematic CADD drawings of the space shuttle. Cool, huh? Plus, I now had a skill set that few at the time possessed, computer literacy. Okay, all you young things probably cannot remember a world without computers, but I assure you, it existed and there was resistance in some quarters to the change brought about in the office environment, so anyone willing to learn was of great value at the time.

An opening for an illustrator in a different part of the archaeology department at Colonial Williamsburg opened up and back I gladly went from space shuttle to the 17^th and 18^th centuries again where I worked happily for nearly ten years illustrating artifacts and mapping dig sites. In the mid 90s budgets at the museum were cut and so was I, but I have worked for contract archaeologists and museums on a full-time or freelance basis ever since, the longest running being with The Corning Museum of Glass in New York. I have worked with the curatorial department there for about ten years and have completed the illustration of literally thousands of complete artifacts and fragments of artifacts, most dating from the first, second and third centuries. These illustrations have been published in books by David Whitehouse, curator of the Corning Museum of Glass. To those interested, links to these publications can be found here

So what does it take to illustrate an artifact? Well, first is the ability to be able to properly handle an irreplaceable and delicate object. As has been mentioned in several previous blog entries, I am a total klutz, BUT am still able to be trusted with a two thousand year old fragile, paper-thin, piece of glass. This is because, number one, I was taught by the best; Ivor Noel Hume and the curatorial staff at The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, and two, because when I am handling an object that is ALL I am concentrating on, I am fortunately not distracted by small children, beasties or what ever else usually causes me to miss a step. I remember when interviewing with David for the first time he asked me if I was comfortable handling the glass. I told him that “Yes, I am confident doing so and that though I am extremely careful in my handling of artifacts of any kind, it does not make me nervous to do so.” He later told me that if I had said that it did make me nervous that he would not have hired me.

By remembering a few simple rules one can, in most cases, keep precious objects safe. Tables where artifacts are handled are padded and sometimes have little walls along the edges to prevent things rolling off. When moving an object, it is kept as close to the table as possible so that should it fall, the distance would be short. Elongated bean bags are used to help prop up and cushion objects. In the case of metal artifacts, cottons gloves are worn so as not to deposit oils from the hands which can be corrosive to metal. Most importantly, objects should be handled as little as possible, the less you touch it, the less opportunity for accidents.

I live in Virginia, The Corning Museum of Glass is in central New York state, artifacts of course do not come to me, I must go to them. So, for the last ten years I have traveled to Corning to visit my friends at the museum and draw until my fingers are numb...literally.

Jill Thomas-Clark has been working with me for these many years and has become a good friend. Working with Jill is a true pleasure and I very much enjoy my trips to the north country. She gathers the objects to be drawn and pulls them from the collections. She assists me with interpretations of what I think I am seeing in a sometimes very worn or weathered object; she keeps track of the thousands upon thousands of objects, their numbers and where and when they were drawn. And generally coordinates all aspects of my trip, from the objects I will be drawing to my plane reservations. She is a wonder.

Once I arrive, I am shown to my little storage room where the glass awaits me in a very cold, climate controlled environment and I don my sweater and pair of magnifying glasses. Each object is divided into two halves in a drawing, on the left, in most cases will be a profile. This will show what the object’s thickness is as well as give clues as to how it was formed. The glass from this period is blown and to make a rim or foot it might have been folded back on itself several times, a profile will show this. It will show where the object is solid or whether there is space between its walls.

On the right side of the drawing will usually be the object as it appears on the outside. It will show its decoration should there be any. Some early Roman glass was decorated by molded, cut, scratched or applied means. The early Islamic glass that I am working on now is highly decorated, so in order to show a full view of an objects pattern a “rollout” is done. This is a three dimensional object’s decoration made flat (see drawing at right which shows the decoration on a large shallow bowl. Click on any drawing to see detail).

Each drawing is done to scale, which means, actual size. I have drawn large vessels that stand two foot high; they are drawn two foot high, as well as very small objects; at left is a wee bottle that stands only about an inch tall. (Is it not amazing how something so tiny and fragile has existed unbroken for two thousand years?). The finished drawing may be reduced for publication, but is shown with a scale so that those doing research can see what the objects actual size is. All measurements are as exact is as possible. If I can measure it, it is on the drawing. If, for instance, I have an intact bottle with a narrow neck and I can only really measure the top part where the bottle has its opening, then that is all that I can with confidence put on my drawing. I can make an educated guess, but I dash the line in to indicate that I am guessing.

I first make a detailed and measured pencil drawing with all the views that I plan on showing. This I do at the museum with the object in front of me. I also take several digital photos of each piece in case I need to reference it later, but I try to make my pencil “sketch” with as much information as I will need in order to complete a finished inked drawing. I will also have David Whitehouse’s excellent written description of each piece to reference as well.

I draw as many objects as I can in the time that I am at the museum, as well as talking with David and Jill if there are any questions about how something is formed and what needs to be conveyed visually. I then take my pencil drawings back home with me and do the final ink drawing on mylar film to be used in publication. The drawing technique I use for the final inked drawing is called “stippling”, which means that I use thousands upon thousands of tiny ink dots to simulate the varying degrees of shading in the object. Above you can see an example of a bottle with my pencil sketch on the left and the finished ink drawing of the same bottle on the right.

Many times there is only a small fragment of an object left in existence, this makes it no less valuable from a research point of view however, and these shards are also worth illustrating. At right is one example of a piece of decorated glass.

Oftentimes I am asked what the purpose of drawing these objects is when they can simply be photographed. Well, they are photographed, and beautifully so by Corning’s photographer. But a drawing can show parts of an object that cannot be seen in a photograph, such as its profile, insides, complete decoration, wear pattern or in some cases how it originally appeared. A good example of this is the bowl pictured at left. At some time in its history this glass bowl was in a fire hot enough to melt and change its form. The top drawing shows what the object currently looks like, the drawing below it shows an illustrated reconstruction of what the bowl looked like previous to the fire that altered it. And in the case of the rock artifacts below, the carving done by Native Americans can only be seen clearly in a drawing.

So that, in a nutshell, is what I do. I am so very grateful for the work I have had to date, it is always exciting and fascinating employment. I am thankful too for the many interesting and wonderful people I have gotten to work with and for the excellent experiences my chosen profession has allowed me. I have been privileged to learn from many of the finest minds in archaeology today and hope to continue for many years to come to do so. I have been honored to handle and draw such objects as first century depictions of saints Peter and Paul, possibly made during their lifetimes. Masterworks made by both famous and anonomous artisans. Personal objects used by both the wealthy politian and the humble slave. Bullets and weapons that have passed through living bodies and ended lives. I’ve drawn giant pieces of ancient machinery and tiny brass straight pins; animal bones and the bones of humans; pieces of history several millennium old as well as soda bottles from the twentieth century. I have even drawn Thomas Jefferson’s toothbrush! And though I have drawn many thousands of objects, I can still tell you, in most cases, where and when it was done and the objects purpose and place in history. It causes me pause quite often, to think when I am using an everyday item such as a cup to wonder: ‘Wow, in a thousand years will there be some archaeologist digging this thing up and trying to piece together the ways in which it was used?’ Or in the case of a particularly complex piece of equipment: ‘Man, I would hate to be the illustrator trying to figure out how to show this on paper.” I hope that this read hasn’t bored you and that you might look upon your humble belongings in a new light; every bit of material we live with and use is a piece of history and art in its own way, no matter how humble. Think of that the next time you brush your teeth!

©KKW 2009

INAUGURATION DAY 2009

2009-01-21T20:46:00.004-05:00

On this very special Inauguration Day, I find myself reflective like perhaps so many others. As I made my way around town doing errands at lunch, everywhere I went where there was a television there were large groups of people gather around them listening in attentive silence. I too listened to now President Barack Obama’s inauguration speech several times and read it through as well and wished that I could have watched the entire thing, unfortunately I had to work -- fortunately I still have a job to be working at.

My eldest daughter, eight years old, came home very excited to tell me about watching the inauguration on TV at school and did I know how very important this day was to our history? Her enthusiasm and zeal put me in a wistful mood and made me think about how this tiny individual, left on a busy city sidewalk in China with a hope that she’d be found and rescued, is now part of a family half a world away and a living testament to the optimism of both China and the USA. She is now a citizen of The United States; a tiny flame of joy, hope and determination. My daughter sees no hindrance to her dreams due to her sex, her heritage or place of birth. She is bright and creative, stubborn and kind, resolute and joyful. My family has been made through adoption and my daughters are the fulfillment of one of my greatest dreams: to become a mother. That I would choose to become a parent in this way I did not even imagine when I was a child, yet here we are. I and my children envision so much promise for ourselves and our future because we live in a country that encourages the formation of families through international adoption as well as by conventional means. A country not perfect, but with the freedom to say so. A nation made up of individuals of great worth, talent, generosity and grit, to which my two young daughters now belong and to which they add their own indomitable spirits.

Since her adoption, I have taken my eldest with me to vote and within a few short months of coming to this country, my youngest was brought to her first presidential election as well. Our wait on November 4, 2008 was relatively short compared with other parts of the country, which was a relief since attempting to wait in any line with two small children can be a challenge at the best of times.

The line that chilly morning snaked out the door and across the parking lot of the local fire department hall. So I put my youngest in her stroller and handed her a granola bar which kept her contented, but left a trail of crumbs throughout the line. My eldest was not contained, physically or mentally, she remained in constant movement and non-stop conversation the entire wait. That’s my girl alright. ‘I’m cold. I’m hungry. Hey, what’s that on that guy’s shirt? Sister, watch me do this. Sister, make a face like this. Sister, you are getting crumbs everywhere! Mom, sister is getting crumbs everywhere!” All at full volume of course.

I had reminded her about the voting “rules” before we ever left the house since we have done this many times before and have discussed that she must remain silent and just watch and not get in the way and NOT touch the screen. She assured me that she remembered the rules. So when we finally got our turn at the designated “booth” what’s the first thing she does? touch the screen of course. Fortunately, her fingers didn’t hit any critical spots.

‘Baby! Don’t touch! I’m the one voting.

‘Oh, sorry Mama.’

The choices for president come up…

‘Mom! Vote for Barack Obama! Vote for Barack Obama! (she pronounces this ‘A Rock Obama’). 100 sets of queued up eyes turn our way.

‘Lily, remember what I told you.’

‘Oh right, sorry Mom.’

I check the box of my choice.

‘Yeah! You voted for Barack Obama! Good job Mama! That’s who I wanted you to vote for!’ So much for the anonymity of the polling booth. But she came away with an appreciation for the civic responsibilities and rights that she had so recently been studying in school. In fact, her class took a field trip mere weeks before the election to Washington D. C. and she came home greatly impressed by what she had seen; the statues and memorials, the monuments and museums, but what seemed to impress her the most was the Vietnam Memorial and what it represented with all of its inscribed names; the polished black granite reflecting back her young, contemplative face. As she described to me what she had seen she paused in her dialogue suddenly, and then said, “I’m really lucky to live in the United States, huh Mama?” “Yes, dear one, I’m lucky too and blessed to have you here with me.”

So what does this inauguration mean to me? It means that my children, who have started life so precariously half a world away, can witness the fulfillment of a dream and know, with certainty, that theirs are within reach as well.

©KKW 2009

DEAR LILY, ADVICE FROM AN EXPERT

2009-01-05T13:33:00.000-05:00

Dear Lily,

My Mom says I have to be nice to my little brother, but it is so hard! He is always bugging me! He takes my stuff, he copies everything I do and he follows me everywhere! What can I do?

Signed,

Frustrated in Fredericksburg

Dear Freddy,

No, no, no, you are playing this all wrong! There are quite a lot of advantages to having little brothers and sisters, I know because I just got myself one a few months ago. Initially, when I got the news from my Mama that I was finally getting a little sister, and that she was two years old, I was a wee bit apprehensive. After all, it had just been my Mama and me for as long as I can remember, how would this change our relationship? How could I protect my property from being destroyed at the hands of this new, possibly ferocious little family member? Would my mom now give all of her attention to my baby sister and not have any more love left for me? These are all very important and legitimate questions to be asking, and believe me, I asked them. That is perhaps the most important thing you can do: communicate your fears with your parents. Don’t be afraid to do this, at the very least you usually get a good hugging out of expressing your concerns, always a fine thing in my opinion.

My own Mama reassured me every time I conveyed my fears (and I conveyed them a lot), that though there would assuredly be changes to our lives, that there would still be as much love from her as there had always been. She said that parents have an unlimited supply of love and not to worry. She challenged me to look at the situation differently than I had been, that instead of thinking that something was going to be taken away from me, that instead I would be gaining a whole other person to love and be loved by. And this indeed has been the case, I really DO love my new sister, much to my surprise, and she really does give me all the hugs and kisses I could possibly want in return.

Now you speak of your brother taking your toys, this is probably the most common problem that we as siblings encounter. I was warned that if I left anything within reach of my baby sister that she would take it, turns out this is true. So the simple solution to this difficulty is to hide your stuff. Bothersome, I know, but necessary because if you leave, say, a box of markers laying around for little ones to get a hold of, you will have more than just a messed up box of markers on your hands; your mom will likely have something very unpleasant to say about it too, and poof! no more markers for anyone! Best to just try and think one step ahead for everyone’s benefit.

Now to the mimicking dilemma; here is where you need to rethink your position the most. The fact that your brother wants to copy everything you do should make you feel good! He wants to be just like you, you should find this flattering. More importantly, you should be using this to your advantage, you could teach him all sorts of things that will drive your parents totally nuts and for which, if it is done right, you will receive no blame. Say for instance you continually make a noise that drives your mother crazy; why not teach it to your brother? Double the annoyance, double the fun watching your parent’s face change color in exasperation. Or when your mom’s back is turned, add a few more toys from your brother’s toy box to the mess on the floor. In comparison, your untidiness looks quite controlled and you appear to be an organizational genius.

Here are a few other advantages to having a younger sibling that you may not have thought of: *They can fetch things for you and are happy to do it, so no more getting up to ask for a snack, they can do the begging for you. *You get a lot more treats because your mom is trying to keep said sibling quiet, which usually means some delicacy is handed out and she can’t very well give it to them and not to you as well. *Same goes for presents; lots of kind people have brought a present for my new sister when they visited, and since I am a new big sister, they usually brought me a present too! This was an unforeseen bonus that I was happy to accommodate! In addition, you can teach your brother all of the annoying habits you possess and watch the delightful expressions on your parent’s face when they realize that they now have more than one set of infuriating habits to try and break. Remember, you have a partner in crime now; you must use it to your gain.

I realize that it isn’t always easy to be nice to your younger sibling, they really can be soooo annoying at times, but I think that the gains far outweigh any possible loses. I certainly don’t miss watching a television show alone while my mom does the dishes and laundry, I get to have company and introduce my sister to the likes of Dora the Explorer and we can sing along to High School Musical. And guess who my sister runs to when my mom gets out the vacuum cleaner? Me of course, she clings to me like a little monkey, but that’s okay, I like the feeling of being needed. I like that she thinks I can protect her from the noisy beast. I like that we get to share a room and I am no longer alone when I go to sleep. I like that someone is finally playing with the baby dolls that my mom had gotten me (I never cared much for dolls, but Meika loves them). I like having company in the back seat when we go somewhere. I like reading stories to her, helping to feed her, playing games with her (although she just cannot seem to get the rules of chess right, it’s maddening). I like that she gets so excited to see me again when the school day is over. I like that someone looks up to me and gives me the respect that I so richly deserve. Mama was right; having a sister really is quite wonderful if you change your perspective. So that would be my advice to you Freddy, just look at your problem from a different angle, I think you will find that you can work this system to your advantage if you try.

Good luck! Lily

NICE START TO THE NEW YEAR

2009-01-02T21:40:00.006-05:00

othing like starting the new year with a *pop*, unfortunately, that popping sound was my ankle. Anyone who has read my blog entries before will know by now what a klutz I am, that's 'klutz' with a capital “K”. I had spent the day keeping a doctor's appointment and my friend Jennica again made my life so much easier by watching my two girls so that I didn't have to drag them along and attempt to keep them in check while I waited for an opening in my doctor's schedule. Not to mention keeping me from having to answer the billion and one questions that #1 would ask about every little thing. 'What's in those jars? What are you doing to my mom? Is she sick? Why is she that color? Can I see your heart listening thing? Why does she have to wear that sheet? Why does she have to pee in that cup? HOW does she pee in that cup?'...you get the picture. So after having a relatively peaceful day, all things considered, I picked up the kids, and planned to make spaghetti for dinner. I hadn't eaten all day and was craving carbs. But the new sleigh was running on empty so I had to stop for gas and while I sat there waiting for the tank to fill (we have a full service station in our little town!!), I spied our favorite Chinese restaurant. Okay, having someone serve me hot, delicious, sauce covered food did sound more appealing than cooking. Besides, isn't eating out a good new years tradition? Obviously, I'm grasping at excuses to be served.

So as we are walking into the restaurant, a man in the group in front of us kindly held the door as I was carrying daughter #2. Daughter #1 is prancing on ahead and as she slips through the door, in true Queen of the Klutzes style, my right heel goes off the curb and buckles under me, the last thing I remember before crashing gracelessly to the ground was 'Mmmmmm, something smells especially good tonight!'...and then I am kissing the pavement and daughter #2 is screaming. I hang on to her, but at the expense of my left knee, my head, my shoulder. Ugh! Excruciating pain immediately assails me, mostly from my ankle. I've done this before you see and I know exactly what I have done as the adrenaline floods my system and nausea floods my stomach; I have torn the ligaments in my ankle...again. The kind folks that were holding the door see what has happened and rush over, gathering my now screaming two year old. Daughter #1 runs back out yelling “Mom!! Mom!!” And as so often happens when we venture out into public, chaos ensues. The nice people who own the restaurant run out to help; they bring hot tea, a whole pot of it. Another man appears from no where and asks if he should call the rescue squad...I think, or rather I try to, I am in so much pain and it is not abating that I shake my head yes, mostly because I haven't been able to assess daughter #2 yet and I fear that she has been hurt. Once the nausea passes, I am able to sit up and ask for my screaming child who it turns out is just scared. Who can blame her, poor baby, here she is being carried securely (or so she thinks) by her own Mama and suddenly she is on the ground and Mama is gasping and moaning and not comforting her. Oh the drama! Oh life's uncertainty! Oh those stupid curbs that I just can't seem to master! Regrettably, I have done it all before.

The first month I was home with daughter #1 I was carrying her into the Kroger's in Charlottesville, I was talking to her and telling her how much I loved her, and bam, a curb, geez, how hard can it be to step up onto a curb?! Down we go, that time my knee saved us, but daughter hit the back of her head and because it was her that was hurt and not me I sat there bawling like a lunatic. By the time the rescue squad got there a few minutes later she was laughing and flirting with everyone and was totally fine. Now what the heck kind of unfair karma is that?! There I was telling my new daughter how much I loved her and wham bam, we're on the ground, I felt like the worst mother alive, ouch! love hurts! Although I didn't drop her, I guess that's something. It's good to know in these situations, that as parents we will apparently and unconsciously sacrifice all available body parts in order to not drop the baby.

And then there was the time five years ago in February when I went out to get the mail and was looking around instead of where I was going and rolled my right ankle off the driveway and went down head first ten feet from the road. This is how I knew today what I had done to that same ankle, because that time 5 years ago I tore all the ligaments in it. I laid there for at least fifteen minutes as cars sped by, I was unable to move or even get to my knees. Finally, two guys in a pick up stopped and shouted out the window “Hey, are you alright?” My inner self begins to mumble 'Duh! Do I look alright?! Do you think I am just taking a little rest here in the middle of the road dressed in my PJs?” But I manage to just scream “NO!” They kindly hopped out and got me to my feet. These two must never have been boy scouts, because they don't seem to know that cross-handed-seat that you make with your arms for injured persons and pretty much drag me up my long driveway. Once in the house they ask if they can do anything else, I thank them and tell them no, that I will call my next door neighbors, they always know what to do and Marion is on the rescue squad. Unfortunately, as my ankle swelled to three times its size and I attempt to call them, it is alas in vain, the line continues to bleat a busy signal at me for 30 minutes. I find out later that unbeknownst to the adults in the house, one of the kids had taken the phone off the hook. Daughter #1 was up in her crib, she was 2 at the time and I could hear from the baby monitor that she was awake and wondering why Mama was not coming to get her. I had no choice but to call 911. Forty-five minutes go by, so I call again and ask if they are coming and I am told that the squad is taking someone else to Charlottesville (40 minutes away) and that they will be there as soon as possible. All I can think is that it is a good thing my injury isn't serious, mercy, I'd be dead. Once they arrive I insist that the first thing they do is go and get my baby for the love o' pigs! One of them does and brings her down to me, she takes one look at me and declares “Mama hurt!” Oh my yes, my entire foot has swollen to an unbelievable size and is turning the color of a fine red wine. Having seen the flashing lights and ambulance in my driveway, my wonderful neighbors rush over and take Lily back to their house. I am taken to the hospital in Charlottesville, x-rayed, packed in ice, handed crutches and told to stay off my feet for 3 weeks....uh, right. So having done this before I know the routine this time. I am advised to go to the hospital, but I decline, it's already been a long day, I own my own crutches and brace and the ambulance guy has given me really cool instant ice packs, I think I'm set, and I can see that my ankle isn't the color of red wine this time; it is swelling and turning purple in spots, but doesn't look as bad as that first time.

While I have been laying with my foot up in the ambulance, my girls are being fussed over by the other ambulance attendant, the kind people that rushed to help and all the employees of The Panda Garden; bless them. They are brought back to me in the ambulance and daughter #2 who has stopped her crying, starts to cry again once she spots me, poor baby, this has really upset her. Of course daughter #1 starts looking all around and asking questions 'What's in those jars? What are you doing to my mom? Is she sick? Why is she that color? Can I see your heart listening thing? Does she have to pee in a cup?' We have not foregone the billion and one questions, only postpone them.

Eventually, after a bit of paperwork, for which one of the questions is my age, I give my birth date. The attendant looks up sharply and says, “But the guy on the phone said you were 35.” Really? I suppose he was guessing, nice to know that when I am in agony I look younger than my many years, there was the sunshine I'd been waiting for. I am helped from the vehicle and since we are already there, I see no sense in going back home with all of us hungry. I can put my foot up just as well here as anywhere, so we go on in and eat. I'm fussed over with concern by all present, but honestly, I feel like a dope, how clumsy can one women be? Should I just expect to take a tumble every few weeks and get used to it? Should I start wearing protective gear? On the bright side, the pain that I went to the doctor's for this morning is nothing in comparison to my ankle, and has been virtually forgotten. And the chef at The Panda Garden treated us to hot sugared donuts at the end of our meal especially for us. That's me, always looking for the silver lining. Gratefully, we live only a mile from the restaurant and so I drove the short distance slowly and carefully. It was a bit of a struggle getting daughter #1 to get the critters feed and the dogs in and settled. She then had to bring me my crutches, but I knew exactly where they were and I am now so glad that I had decided to keep them around and not give them to the thrift store, I know myself too well. At least I have a good excuse for sitting here eating my Chinese donuts and watching a movie, now THAT is a good start to the new year!

UPDATE:

Having woken up several times in the night from the pain in my ankle and then trying to get up to use the bathroom and discovering that I couldn't bare weight on it at all without nearly passing out, I decided that I should take the advice of the ambulance attendant and get it x-rayed just in case, plus I couldn't find the brace from the last time and having it unprotected means any little thing that touches my ankle is agony. Again, my wonderful neighbors to the rescue, Theresa drove us all in the new sleigh to the “Quick Hospital” in Charlottesville. $100 co-pay?! Sheesh! X-rays were taken, I was given a brace, some pain meds and sent home to await the reading of the x-ray. They called a few hours later to say it was fractured, but they couldn't tell if it was from the last time or this time...huh? Regardless, the treatment was the same, so it didn't really matter; stay off of it for at least 3 weeks. Again I say, uh, right.

#1 says to me after observing me hobble around this morning, “But Mom, little sister falls all the time and she doesn't get hurt.” “Yes dear, but little sister is two, two year olds are made to bounce when they fall. Once you reach adulthood you are expected to have mastered walking, when an adult falls it is more like snap-crackle-pop. And indeed, my left knee, which took more of a bashing than I had originally thought, is the size of a softball, the color of grape jelly and makes a sound like crumpling plastic when ever I bend it – eeeeewwwwww. The scariest part is that being such a klutz, the use of crutches is especially dangerous, I have nearly fallen again several times...ironic. Trying to get to work should prove interesting.

I COULDN"T RESIST...

2009-01-01T22:39:00.001-05:00

(for back story go to: This is My Mailbox? Seriously? )

GET OUT THE TOOL BOX, THE PRESENTS ARE HERE

2009-01-01T22:36:00.000-05:00

Ah the holidays, when presents are given and received and mom has to get out her tool box on Christmas morn’ in order to free bound toys from impregnable packaging while impatient little ones bounce up and down, not understanding why mama is hacking away at their new toy with saws and hammers. I just love these holiday traditions; memories in the making indeed. Why oh why do manufactures find it necessary to bind up all of a doll’s limbs plus sew its hair to the box and then cover the entire thing in hard lethal plastic? Is this kind of toy torture really needed in order for it to arrive safely into my home only to then have its limbs pulled and stretched and possibly broken in order to free it from its anger provoking packaging? Somewhere there is an engineer who for some reason decided that each one-inch high-plastic Pet Shop critter must be bound and held down with no less than four plastic coated wire twist ties that are then fed through a heavy plastic washer which is then taped down, covered in hard plastic and boxed over. Seriously?

Each toy that my two daughters received last week required me to use all of the following from my toolbox: pliers, wire cutters, heavy duty scissors, both Phillips and regular screw drivers (because some items were actually screwed down with metal screws), saw, and work gloves to protect my hands from the inevitable razor sharp edges of the clam shell packaging. When one finally succeeds in freeing a toy, you are then surrounded by an amazingly large and lethal pile of debris. It is amazing the amount of packaging that is deemed required for each poor toy victim that you lay before your child. Santa apparently has not gone green in his workshop yet. And heaven forbid that a little one get a hold of a piece of that clam shell plastic, it could take a finger off, forget putting little Ralphie’s eye out with a Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot range model air rifle, he could loose one just trying to get at the thing. In fact, a guy I used to work with last year, in his attempts to open something packaged this way ended up accidentally putting the knife he was using through the palm of his hand and not only did he receive a very impressive through and through knife wound, but also nicked an artery which required surgery and physical therapy. Every year in the USA there are an estimated 6,000 Americans sent to the emergency room with injuries caused by their attempts to free their purchases from clamshells according to the Consumer Product Safety Commission. There is even an industry term for the frustration felt among consumers at this; it’s called “wrap rage”. Plus, there is an award given by Consumer Reports each year for the product packaging most frustrating to open. Okay, when something becomes so prevalent that an entire industry has coined a term for it and is handing out awards, it is time to make some changes! In addition, there are also sustainability and recycling issues to address, many clamshell packages are made from polyvinyl chloride (PVC) that is difficult to recycle and is certainly not bio-degradable.

But there is hope on the horizon, Microsoft, Sony and Amazon.com all have projects in the works to try and eliminate the clamshell from their products, but they predict that it will be many a year before we are successfully rid of the clamshell. At least someone in the industry has recognized the problem and is seeking a solution, that’s encouraging.

DVDs and CDs are another product that is way over packaged, what could be the sense in taping down all sides of the case the CD comes in, then shrink wrapping it. First you must cut through the wrapping, scratching the case in the process, and then each of those stupid little sticky tapes has to be peeled from three sides of the hinged case. Same goes for the cases that DVDs come in; scissors, knives and aggravation are all employed to open them. Do I really need this much frustration to get to my entertainment? I own an IPod and so most of the time I purchase my music via the internet, but it was kind of hard for Santa to wrap up a download, hence the store purchases, won’t be doing that again anytime soon if I can help it.

If it is a matter of trying to thwart thievery and protect the product in shipping, why not create a sturdy re-usable clear plastic container that can be removed easily at the store once purchased. Like those plastic security tags they put on clothing. Much more consumer friendly and also solves the recycling dilemma; they could be made collapsible so that they can be shipped back to the manufacture for re-use.

And in the case of toys, why can’t just one stretchy rubber band type thingy hold the toy in place, it really does not need to be pinned so viciously to its box…or like in the movie Toy Story do the toys come alive when we aren’t looking and these are just measures taken so that they don’t escape before being purchased? Hmmm, better not mention that one to my 8 year old; she has always been disturbed by toys that can move and talk on their own as it is. We were in Home Depot yesterday checking out the after holiday sales and I was pondering some of those little lit houses that were marked down practically to nothing. I was thinking about getting the gazebo and making just a tiny little winter display. I was checking out the little people that you can buy to surround your festive scene when Lily cries, “No, don’t get those, they give me creeps!” “Why, dear, would these ‘give you creeps?’” “I don’t know, they just do. They make noise, they turn in circles, and they make me not want to eat.” Okay, that’s weird. I got the gazebo anyway; it does not move or make noise, so I think it’s safe, although she still claims she won’t be able to eat if she has to look at those little people. Odd.

In addition to CDs and toys, just about everything is over wrapped, including food. Okay, I understand wanting to keep food tamper-proof; I don’t want anything in there that wasn’t suppose to be there any more than the next girl, but excessive packaging also makes my food edible-proof as well as tamper-proof. Take a simple bottle of ketchup for instance, first you must cut through the shrink wrap, then that band that goes around the neck of the bottle, THEN you have to break the seal on the cap, take it off and pull off that other seal that covers the bottle opening. Sometimes it has a little tab on the top that usually works pretty well to aid in pulling it off, but not if your hands are wet or greasy, and not if that seal lacks the tab to help you, you will then need pliers to get a good grip or resort to knives again. Even a bag of chips or a box of cereal requires a pair of scissors because whatever material is used to contain the goods cannot be ripped with bare hands. The only product that I have found that doesn’t seem to be overly packaged and is easy to get into is a box of band-aides…nice of them, they must have known we’d be in need.

And so, during this merry season, I arm myself against that plastic monster called the clamshell and his impenetrable friends and I attempt to remain calm while answering repeated questions from little ones about when they can actually play with their new toys. I live in hope for all our sakes that a better alternative is found soon. And to the makers of band-aids – thank you! Please, please, please, continue to keep your packaging simple, we're gonna need those bandages, it's a tradition!

HAPPY FESTIVA!!

2008-12-23T22:12:00.000-05:00

TIDINGS OF COMFORT AND JOY!!

SANTA COMES THROUGH WITH A NEW SLEIGH

2008-12-23T21:59:00.000-05:00

You know that you have arrived at a certain point in your life when the only lust that you feel is for a mini-van. In my younger days, I drove many makes and models of vehicles, mostly bought very used and cheap from a relative or friend. The first car I owned was a 65’ Chevy Impala three door that I bought for $100.00 from one of my brothers, I don’t remember which one since they both had owned it back and forth a few times. It had once been a four door until one of my brothers; again I can’t remember which one, got mad at it one day and kicked in one of the back doors so hard it would no longer open. I was twenty-one and in college and to that point I had either ridden my bike to get somewhere on campus or taken the bus, all well and good if you are going to class, but quite difficult if you were trying to do the grocery shopping, not to mention I went to college in northern Ohio where the winters and snow last half the year so no bike riding most of the school year anyway. Though this first car was somewhat a sad thing, it ran and was welcome, although it burned almost as much oil as it did gasoline leaving a huge cloud of heavy white smoke in my wake. And if it hit a bump at a rate of speed higher than 10 miles an hour, the whole thing began to shake and quake violently for a few minutes until it settled itself down again. I sold it a couple of years later for $50.00 to some high school kid, that car sure did get around; bless its little metal heart.

At some point not long after the Chevy I got an old Delta 88 that I was convinced was trying to kill me. Its wheels came off twice! The first time it was a broken tie rod. The second time something somehow sheared the center part of the wheel rim away, it looked like someone had come along and used a giant can opener on it. Both times I was able to feel something was wrong and pull over before the wheel completely fell off. Finally, I went out one morning and when I started it the battery exploded and the hood flew up and I decided that I had had enough! I got the title out of the house, laid it on the seat along with the keys and called the junk yard to come get it.

The one exception to my ownership of used cars was a 1994 Ford Ranger, the only new automobile that I have ever bought from a dealer. I drove that little truck to 275K without once changing the timing belt and it was still going strong when I sold it. That was the vehicle I owned when I adopted my first daughter 7 years ago, but having a baby in the front of a truck just plain wasn’t safe or comfortable, so I also got a used 1994 Isuzu Trooper, which was like driving a tank; it could plow through just about anything. That one I sold several years ago, again, still going strong at 300K and with its original engine! You can’t say I don’t get my money’s worth when it comes to vehicles I’ve owned.

The car/truck I have been driving for the past 3 years is an old Ford Explorer, again, bought used from a family friend and believe it or not, it is a 1994 model… I just can’t seem to get beyond that year. It now has 185K on it, has only two doors and I have two rather large child seats in the back. I have become amazingly adept at lifting my youngest, who weighs 23 pounds, one handed into her car seat on the opposite side of the back seat, then stretching the length of the car to strap her in, then somehow managing to wiggle my way out again, I must then wait for daughter #1 to get in and settled then readjust my driver’s seat for the billionth time and get myself in. When it is raining we all get soaked and cranky going through this procedure, the mom most of all. Once recently, there was a piece of paper on the backseat floor and as I was kneeling on it to strap in daughter #2 the paper caused my knee to slid sideways and I ended up stuck on my belly with my legs poking out and waving helplessly. I had to reach around and push the front seat adjustment forward in order to give myself enough room to get some leverage, (thank goodness for yoga!), my 8 year old laughing her head off at me the entire time. Oh, my lost dignity.

Although this old Ford has been amazingly faithful, and I bless it and give it a little encouraging pat each time it starts in the morning, I have for some time (some time being at least seven years now) lusted after a mini-van. I have always bought what works for my lifestyle rather than what looks good, trucks and small SUVs have worked for me because I have two kids, two pigs, two dogs and a cat to haul, and all the stuff that goes with that kind of brood; groceries, bags of feed, bales of straw, bicycles, the occasional stray creature, not to mention garage sale purchases that might require a bit of room. Plus, I commute about 90 miles a day for work and have relatives that live from Ohio to Florida, requiring space to have handy whatever we might need for whatever situation might arise. I have a very strong Boy Scout mentality (“always be prepared”), so should a situation ever arise where we might be required to live in our vehicle for say a week, I’m ready! Food, water, stroller, books, toys, diapers, candles, matches, glow sticks, blankets, bungee cords, rope, flash lights, hand warmers, gloves, hats, extra clothes, weather radio, tissues, baby wipes, karate gear, plastic bags, maps, port-a-potty, yup, I’ve got it all. Can you say “preparedness”? Needless to say, we need some travelin’ room when we roll, so a mini-van, which in reality are not really all that mini, is what I have had my eye on for years but have been unable to budget for. Though as the Explorer began its inevitable wind down, and I adopted a second child this past September, I just had to try and swing it. I have been saving and had planned to go to the local CarMax in January in hopes that I could find a deal. I was hoping they would be desperate and had been keeping a watch on the internet to see if prices were coming down at all…nope, but I was gonna try and get what I wanted for the price I could afford. Then, out of the blue this week, a co-worker in my department sent around an email offering her 2005 Honda Odyssey for sale for 2K less than I wanted to spend and half of what I thought I would have to spend! Wah hoo! I stared at the email a moment in wonder, what a fabulous coincidence! “M.”, my co-worker, is well organized and meticulous, her family had bought the van new and I knew it would have been well taken care of, and sure enough, she had all of the service records in order in a binder; every oil change! The van was spotless and she was even going to throw in the dual DVD player. I told her that if she threw in the holiday air freshener dangling from the gear shift we had a deal and within 30 minutes it was mine, the object of my long held desire!

As we went over where everything was and how everything worked, M. practically apologized saying that it was a basic model and didn’t have all the fancy features that it could have had. Are you kidding me? This amazing vehicle appears downright futuristic to me, the newest vehicle I have owned was made in 1994! I’ve never even owned a car with airbags before and this van not only has them in front but on the sides. The dash board panel glows like a space ship and tells me if the van needs something, this is more than my kids currently do. It balances itself, it self regulates, and it lets you know when something is wrong, even if your tires need air, goodness! Its passenger side airbag activates automatically only if someone larger than a child is sitting in it. This van’s keyless entry (that cool little push button door unlocker thingy), makes the use of a key to unlock anything almost crude, no more fumbling in the dark to find the keyhole while hold one child in my arms and having the other jump up and down beside me in her impatience to get in, with a push of a button on come the lights and open go the doors, fantastic! It has little cubbies everywhere to store stuff, even in the floor! And cup holders! Lots of them! A family can never have too many cup holders. It has a CD player; my last car had only a broken tape player. And FOUR doors?! Two of them sliding? Oh wow! I feel like I am finally taking the great leap forward! But of course, you who live in the 21st century are already familiar with these kinds of features.

Of course, there has been some getting used to this new-fangled family conveyer, like the first time I stopped to get gas and couldn’t figure out how the little gas door opened since it apparently locked automatically when closed. There I was, running late to work, 17° outside, hunting for some sort of button or latch amongst all of the controls. Just when I was about to resort to the manual, I found it down by my left foot, fortunately, it had a little image of a gas pump on it, otherwise I would not have guessed that that was what I was looking for.

And the second day I owned the van I put the key in my pocket while helping the kids out of it and apparently leaned against the panic button! Yikes, the lights flashed, the horn kept up a loud distressed honking, I looked around in horror... Lucky for me I had asked M. that very day what would happen if I pressed that button, so I knew that was what had probably happened. I didn’t ask how to make it stop however, I tried pressing the button a second time and that caused it to cease. Whew!

So we now ride in the lap of relative luxury among modern conveniences. I feel so much safer now and driving is, well, if not a pleasure, at least more enjoyable than it used to be. The kids of course love it almost as much as I do. Although daughter #1, in her loyalty, wanted to know what would now happen to our poor old Ford, anyone in the market for a mature but sturdy Explorer cheap? We’ll throw in a holiday airfreshener.

Just as a side note: In China, their mini-vans truly are mini (see photo). They were incredibly cute and actually looked like there was a decent amount of space on the interior. Unfortunately, they were not mini enough to fit into my suit case.

TEA PARTY!

2008-12-02T21:29:00.000-05:00

All the tea trees in the world have their organs either directly or indirectly from China, and Asia still produces 90% of the world’s output. China’s tea culture dates back to as early as six thousand years and along with silk and porcelain, was introduced to most of the rest of the world about one thousand years ago. Not until the seventeenth century though did it become the latest craze in Europe and America.

While in Beijing, we were taken to the Lao She Teahouse, which is an amazing combination tea museum, tea café and entertainment house where a succession of short shows are performed before a live audience. Guest are treated not only to examples of time-honored Chinese entertainment forms, but are also served a menu of traditional tea cakes and most importantly several different kinds of tea, one for each season.

Our guide Judy arrived with us to the tea house but didn’t stay to watch the performance. She said she had seen it several times and told us that most young people are not really interested in this kind of “old fashioned” theater. She said she might go off and probably text her friends and meet us after the show was over. And I couldn’t blame her, it had been a very long day of steering us around Beijing, we had already been to the local “Dirt Market” (kind of like a giant flea market), and to the Han MeiLin Museum, both of which I will write about later. And now it was into the evening and she had brought us to the teahouse, she deserved a break from us, no doubt.

Upon entering the Lao She Teahouse we were greeted with musicians playing water harps and an Er-Hu, a two-stringed fiddle whose base is positioned on the knee and bowed. The two together produced a sweet and delicate sound in which to browse the first floor with its indoor fish pond. Making our way up the grand staircase we viewed many displays of traditional Beijing Opera costumes, beautiful artwork; paintings and calligraphy, and a really cool set of panoramas depicting the evolvement of the Chinese tea house. (see photos)

The room in which the performances were to take place was crowded with elaborately carved square tables and chairs. Chairs being arranged all around the table right up against each other so that it was difficult to get in and out, but cozy. We shared our table with several other guests. Throughout the approximately two hours that we were entertained I was amused also with watching the audience. What did others find exceptionally worthy of applause? What made them oooww and ahhhh or left them flat? I was also puzzled as to the actions of several of the audience members around us. One woman at our table who told us she was visiting from, um, can’t remember, but some other country besides the USA or China, was there because she had traveled with her boyfriend who had business in China but was now busy with a meeting. She had brought her laptop computer and stayed on it the entire show, barely glancing up at the wonderful acts. Then she and a server spent a lot of time negotiating the sale of a large quantity of moon cakes, the conversation just went on and on… and on, until she finally obtained a huge stack of boxed cakes. Another young Chinese woman behind us was texting on her cell phone the whole time while one of her companions actually lay down across the chairs and fell asleep! There were quite a few tables that engaged in conversation throughout the performances, though generally in undertones. Which all made me wonder why many of the audience had come to the tea house at all if not for the entertainment?

The first act up was a Tea Ceremony; a woman dressed in traditional clothing gracefully prepared a cup of tea while a musician played the Er-Hu. This was the spring tea, a light and refreshing green tea which was being served up to us in traditional covered tea cups as we watched the performance. Further delicacies were placed before us such as green tea cakes, small tasty spring rolls, sweet and delicate candied crab apples and of course, Moon Cakes, it was after all the first day of the Moon Festival. Between the acts at intervals the next “season” was represented with another tea preparation demonstrated and a new tea served to us. The tea leaves were loose inside the cup and before she left us, Judy had demonstrated the proper way in which to hold and use the cup; the hand holding the cup part sort of reaches around away from the body and the cup is tilted forward while the other hand is used to position the lid for blocking the flow of the tea leaves. It was a bit awkward, but indeed, looked quite elegant when done right. We all pretty much resorted to our old clod-hopping American ways after a few sips done properly. The tea representing summer was cold, I wasn’t expecting that, I always think of Chinese tea as being served hot.

We were thrillingly entertained for over two hours with a magic show, and short selections from Beijing Opera; a man and a woman appeared on stage dressed in resplendent costume with full face paint and high pitched voices. Quite unlike anything in Western culture’s entertainment venue and though interesting, we decided we were glad that we hadn’t elected to attend a full performance of Opera which could mean many hours of gong banging and singing in a language we couldn’t understand.(Go here for a performance clip)

There was also a master opera “face changer”. This is really fun to watch, a masked person, in this case a man, comes out in full opera regalia. The mask he wears is highly detailed and elaborate. He prances here and there, sometimes spinning on the spot and when he is facing you again, the mask has magically and completely changed! Or he will put his hand before his face moving it from top to bottom and a new face on the mask will have appeared by the time his hand has reached his chin. He even got right down into the audience so that people could witness the change up close, and still it was remarkable. (Go here for an example of this kind of performance).

Another performer was part musician, part comedian; he did amazing bird calls as well as used his voice to imitate a high pitched musical instrument, everyone laughed and clapped at this, and it did sound quite funny. Lily especially liked his recital as well as the shadow puppet play which was fun!

There were women with rings and sticks that twirled and tossed and spun. There was a magic show and acrobats and a very entertaining “long spouted teapot” pouring performance where men with tea pots that have spouts that are about 3 feet long prance and twirl and seemed to defy gravity while dispensing into tiny cups in unison their important amber liquid.

The evening ended with a Kung Fu demonstration, with bare chested men flying through the air over one another and tumbling and kicking and chopping. Lily has been a marshal arts student for three years now, so she was quite impressed seeing what could be done if one just practiced enough.

The evening was enjoyable and tasty, the perfect ending to a lovely day visiting several exciting Beijing sites.

LOST IN TRANSLATION

2008-11-27T20:43:00.000-05:00

So what is the hottest fashion item in China these days? Well, from what I observed it is t-shirts and bags with sayings on them in English. Have you noticed that in the past several years Chinese characters have become very popular as decoration in the USA? They adorn fabric, wallpaper, jewelry, and yes, t-shirts. Do we as English speakers know what these particular combinations of characters mean? Uh… no. Indeed, it has occurred to me that though I am sporting a shirt with what appears to me to be a beautiful example of Chinese calligraphy; I could very well be wearing a shirt that has something quite funny or even offensive written on it.

This also appears to be the case in China where random words and phrases are used as fashion statements. Sometimes they kind of make sense, like our guide Tracy wore one that said ”Dearly Wish To Be Perfect”. But mostly the words appear to be quite arbitrary and either makes no sense at all or could just be poor translations of what is trying to be communicated. Here are a few examples: “Baby Bumpy” and “Passion Active” and “Golden Snow” and “The Cute End Hopes To Be”. Here are a couple that another mom that traveled with us remember: “Hot Wind Life” with a picture of shoes and “Army Life” which was wrapped around a smiley face. (Thanks Love S.!)

Teddy bears are also quite popular on t-shirts, and not just for women. At the Chengdu airport was spotted one middle aged man sporting a black t-shirt with a large rhinestone teddy bear on it with the following statement: “BEAR 400% BRICK”…..alrighty then. Again thanks to the other mom Love S. who not only remembered the exact wording but looked it up and discovered that Be@rBrick is actually a toy popular in China and that the percent sign means the size of the bear (to find out more click here. Funny thing is that I saw these all over the place while we were there and even brought home a small one with an opera face painted on it. So I guess that t-shirt made sense after all.

I truly wish that I had been faster with my camera and had captured more examples, but since the shirts we saw were usually on people walking in the opposite direction on the street, it was difficult. Far be it from me to have chased down some innocent Chinese person in pursuit of reading their shirt. Can you imagine the headline? “Crazy Foreigner Yells To Be Watching The Shirt!” The article probably would have gone on to say that I had fallen flat on my face in my pursuit, certainly that would most likely have happened owing to my ever present graceful abilities, I do seem to have a flair for falling.

Menus were also a good source for literal translations gone awry. One restaurant we ate at, which turned out to have really delicious food, had a very interesting menu. Here are a few examples of dishes and their translations into English: “The Black Pepper Sheet Iron of the Fillet Steak Burns” and “The Fatty Cow Sheet Iron of the Type Pickles Burns” and my personal favorite: “The American Carbon Roasts a Cowboy Row to Burn” Hmmmm, I am guessing that charred meat is involved somehow in each of these dishes. Then on another page of the menu there was “Sleeping The Pepper Fries Cow” and “The Bacon Fries a Cabbage”. I am thinking about turning a couple of these into t-shirts of my own on my Café Press site! Quite attention grabbing, don’t you think?

Translating Chinese into English I am sure must be very difficult, for one thing one must take characters that convey whole words or even concepts in Chinese and translate them into letters that form words in English. It’s gotta be tough. If you want your English name translated into Chinese, say you want a chop made ( a “chop” is a stamp or seal carved into stone), the sales person whips out a translation dictionary and looks up the sounds of your name. The combined sounds could end up as a jumble of words that make no sense or a combination that means something quite bizarre and amusing. On my first trip to China I had a chop made for a friend who’s first name is Bernard. The young woman at the shop pulled out her battered dictionary and looked up the sounds of “ber” and “nard” and proptly started to giggle. “What is it?” I asked. At first she just shook her head, but I persisted. She told me that those sounds translated into something like ‘stinky old uncle’. “Perfect!” I cried, for indeed, this name for Bernie was spot on and he being a person with a great sense of humor, would appreciate the merriment at his expense.

Signs translated into English were much appreciated by us while traveling; it is very kind of the Chinese to even think of us and our need to know where we are as English speakers. We saw this sign at the temple where they did not want you taking photos inside, it read: ‘Don’t Burn Incense and Film In The Hall’. And when we arrived at the Han Mei Lin Museum, the sign directing us where to park read ‘paking’ and was elegantly engraved into stone markers. Perhaps this one had been translated by someone who had visited Boston?

I will be forever grateful that Coca Cola was more readily available for this most recent trip to China, I so very much craved the stuff back in 2001 but couldn’t find it anywhere. This time there was Coke and Pepsi and even diet Coke, yippee! In fact, Coca Cola was first sold in China in 1927, it was then that shop keepers who sold the new drink attempted to transliterate the name into Mandarin and created home-made signs with characters that were the nearest phonetic equivalent to “Coca-Cola" without regard to the meaning and ended up with a product called “bite the wax tadpole” or in another case “female horse fastened with wax.” Doesn’t sound too refreshing does it? So The Coca Cola Company got busy mighty quick in trying to find suitable characters that approximated the sound of their product without it meaning something totally absurd. The closest Mandarin equivalent that fit the bill was “K'o K'ou K'o Lê” and means “to permit mouth to be able to rejoice.” Much better than tadpoles and wax, no? So obviously, the translation problems run both ways.

We searched in vain to find some of these English translation t-shirts while we were in China, but apparently we didn’t know where to shop, and we did go into just about every back alley we saw. However, we did purchase many t-shirts with Chinese writing on them as souvenirs. And no, I don’t have any idea what they say, although BFF Pegeen did try and get someone to translate them while we were there and was just told “it’s okay, it’s okay, nothing bad.” Sure hope we don’t discover otherwise someday while wearing one!

PORTRAIT OF SISTERS

2008-11-25T20:59:00.000-05:00

Giving thanks and graditude for all that we have. Just look at those faces! The picture says it all. Blessings!

DEAR LILY

2008-11-25T20:44:00.000-05:00

Dear Lily,

There seem to be a lot of kids that don’t believe in Santa Claus, what do you think?
Inquiring in Ithaca

Dear Ithy,
This is what my Mom says: “If you don’t believe, you don’t receive.” And she still believes, and indeed receives presents from Santa every Christmas, but not nearly as many as I do. My Mom is big into fantasy; she says that is why there always seem to be so many magical creatures around our house. There is evidence for this all the time. For instance, things are always going missing and then reappearing days later in the very spot where we had already looked for it. Those we blame on Mischief Elves. And with all the holidays that there are this time of year, there are the inevitable disagreements between the various groups of holiday fairies. Last month for example, I came home to find what looked like red, orange and silver glitter all over the dining room table and chairs and floor. I asked Mom if she had been doing crafts and she told me no, that it was the result of a fight between the Halloween Fairies and the Christmas Fairies, who thought that the Halloween Fairies should have returned to their own tree in the woods and let them start working their magic in the house. The Halloween Fairies said that they still had at least another week before the Thanksgiving Fairies showed up and that the Christmas Fairies had no right to even be in the house yet. A terrible battle ensued and fairy dust got all over the dining room. Mama said she took cover under the dining room table and watched the whole thing. She described in detail every moment of the battle and said she barely missed being speared by a horned Halloween Fairy knock off his balance. I asked her who won and she said that it was hard to tell since both sides had many injured and were last seen carrying out the wounded bandaged up with spider's web and laying on wee stretchers made of oak leaves, trudging out the kitchen door and to opposite sides of the garden. Mama had fairy dust in her hair for days and there is still sparkling evidence of the great battle in various parts of the house. Fairies can be so inconsiderate sometimes! At present the Thanksgiving Fairies are defiantly in residence as there is orange and red dust all over the house. Though the other day I spied a pinch of blue dust glittering in the hallway, I expect it is the New Years Fairies trying to jump in early. I plan to keep my eyes peeled for trouble, because there is sure to be some once the Christmas Fairies find out! So Ithy, if I were you I would heed my Mama’s words. Sure you would still get gifts from your parents and friends if you didn’t believe, but nothing can compare to the haul that Santa brings. And Mama says that a magical mind is far more fun and interesting than one that only believes what it sees with the eyes in its head. After all, what we see with our eyes is only one way of perceiving the world. So keep your options open and look with your heart. Simply put: believe it baby, believe it all. Lily

HAIR CULTURE

2008-11-22T23:03:00.000-05:00

For nearly all my life I have had long hair, meaning that its length has been anywhere from past my shoulders to as long as to my hips. I had it cut very short once when I was seven years old, the cut was called a “Pixie”, anybody remember those? But other than that it has been long hair for me. I suspose it has been a kind of security blanket of sorts. But now that I am of a certain age it just seems like maybe it is time for a change. I had hesitated up to this point for two reasons, one was just not knowing how I might look with short hair, I assume I looked quite cute the last time, but I was seven, of course it was cute then, but it is now many decades later, I believe my cuteness expired back in the 80's somewhere. The other reason was that my mother has short hair and we are constantly being mistaken for sisters when we are together. (I'm not kidding, it's great for my mom's ego, but highly annoying to me and not so wonderful for my ego), so anything that was going to make us look more alike I was naturally going to feel timid about. Yet when I asked a few of my friends what they thought about my cutting my hair short they were, to a person, very enthusiastic. Okay, so perhaps this change was somewhat overdue. But what finally got me thinking seriously about it was looking at all of the pictures taken while in China. Of course I did most of my own picture taking, but my BFF traveling with us took quite a few hundred as well and there I was from behind... YIKES! Is that really what my hair looks like from the back?! (We won't even mention here my reaction to what the rest of me looks like from the back...one self image dilemma at a time). That horrid realization coupled with the fact that trying to color long hair ever two weeks was really getting quite tedious. And so, I made the appointment to have it cut off. I bought several hair style magazines for inspiration and direction and my friend Jennica generously volunteered to watch both girls so that I could go to the salon for what I hoped would be a remarkable transformation in peace. Thanks Jennica!! Really!

I arrived early, magazines in one hand with examples circled and a large Starbucks in the other (hey, if the Mama is going to have a wee bit of time for herself, let's do it right!) So I had some time to sit in the middle of the salon's waiting area and listen to the conversation going on around me as well as observe a slice of modern culture in action. My stylist was running late, which was okay since I didn't currently have two small, active children to attempt to keep in check like I would normally, and so I just sat back to listen and watch.

Across the room was a mother, teenage daughter and her tween brother, all quite involved in the haircut being given to the teenage girl. Mom was taking pictures, daughter was batting her eyes and giggling and brother was hamming it up and trying to jump in front of the camera, or give his sister rabbit ears with his two fingers. Daughter even wanted the stylist to get in the photo too. Goodness, has this child never been to a salon before? Still, they all seemed to be enjoying each other and their morning task. It made me smile.

Behind me I could hear a matronly voice spouting tidbits of historical trivia. On and on she rattled; about the Victorian hobby of creating hair jewelry from loved one's cast off hair. (Want to know more? Go here ). Then it was on to the origin of the saying “getting the bugs out”, like when you say “I need to work the bugs out of the system.” Which apparently involved Henry Ford, a shortage of horse hair stuffing and the substitution of oak moss for padding in car seats. (I was unable to verify this, but I'll keep searching). On and on went the trivia without any response that I could hear from the listener. After a while I had to take a look at this seemingly endless source of minutiae and turned around to discovered that instead of an elderly client chattering to her stylist, what we had here was a male stylist, a wee bit advanced in age, blathering on to a very dignified looking woman who appeared to be no younger than eighty or so, yet spry, who currently had her arms folded across her chest and was starring at the floor with a look of utter irritation on her face. Oblivious to her lack of interest, Mr. Joey moved on to the oh so fascinating subject of the origins of Jello.

To my right was a baby getting his first hair cut and a proud mom and dad beaming and cooing. Baby looked stunned and bewildered. The place was bustling and humming. Hair was dropping to the floor and being swept up and mingled together with the other contributions falling all around, creating fluffy little piles about the room. What an interesting social snapshot this was when one stopped to look. There were young and old; members of every race; men and women, children and elders, long hair, short hair, black, white, gray, yellow, red and brown hair. Curly, straight, braided and almost non-existent. And all this hubbub was about one thing – hair.

The client my stylist was working on before me was a woman probably about my age with long hair reaching down her back. She was having it trimmed and it looked exactly the same when she was done as when she walked in. Normally, that would be me, but I smiled and to myself said, 'Not this time! This time I will walk out, for better or worse, looking different than when I walked in.'

Finally, it was my turn. I showed my magazines, I discussed, I listened to suggestions and we got on with it. No messing around from my wonderful hair cutter, she put the bulk of my hair in a rubber band and off it came, just like ripping off a band aid, do it quickly and you don't have time to register the sting. And there it was forthwith before me looking like the tail of a dog laying on the counter. Then suddenly it was like Edward Scissorhands had stepped up behind me; hair flew, combs seemed to come from nowhere. Snip! Snap! Poof! Spray! Brushing and combing and twirling of the chair ensued. When it was over I peered at my image in the gigantic mirror and found I was almost unrecognizable to myself. After all, I had never seen this adult face without a curtain of long hair surrounding it. So do I like it? Ah, yeah, I think I do. It will probably take some time to get used to what ever I am suppose to do with it besides washing it. I was warned that it might be a little more work than I was used to with my wash-and-go long straight hair. For sure the sensation of suddenly short hair is fantastic! My head indeed feels ten pounds lighter. And when I wash it for the first time I suspect it will seem like I am practically bald headed.

And do I now look even more like my mom? Well, probably. I'm willing to bet the whole sister comparison thing will most likely get worse. Bother. But that's just the way it is. I'll get back to you in a few days after I've lived with it awhile. I do sort of dread work on Monday, I don't like a fuss, and I am sure there will be comments, but I suppose it would be worse if no one said a word about it, right? Then I would worry that it either looked totally horrid or I was just plain invisible all together. Isn't it interesting that this bit of fluff on the top of our heads is so very important to how we see ourselves and each other. How it becomes a part our security and identity. How we worry, fuss, groom and baby this bit of keratinous filament growing out of the top of us. And how very entertaining this hair culture has been to witness on a cold and blustery Saturday morning; a little snapshot of humanity centered around hair.

I feel it only appropriate to leave you to ponder the brilliantly written words of Galt MacDermot from the rock musical HAIR:

She asks me why...I'm just a hairy guy
I'm hairy noon and night; Hair that's a fright.
I'm hairy high and low,
Don't ask me why; don't know!
It's not for lack of bread
Like the Grateful Dead; darling

Gimme a head with hair, long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen
Give me down to there, hair!
Shoulder length, longer (hair!)
Here baby, there mama, Everywhere daddy daddy

Hair! (hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair)
Flow it, Show it;
Long as God can grow it, My Hair!

Let it fly in the breeze and get caught in the trees
Give a home to the fleas in my hair
A home for fleas, a hive for bees
A nest for birds, there ain't no words
For the beauty, the splendor, the wonder of my

I want it long, straight, curly, fuzzy
Snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty
Oily, greasy, fleecy, shining
Gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen

Knotted, polka-dotted; Twisted, beaded, braided

Powdered, flowered, and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled and spaghettied!

O-oh, Say can you see; my eyes if you can,
Then my hair's too short!
Down to here, down to there,
Down to where, down to there;
It stops by itself!
doo doo doo doo doot-doot doo doo doot

They'll be ga-ga at the go-go
when they see me in my toga
My toga made of blond, brilliantined, Biblical hair
My hair like Jesus wore it
Hallelujah I adore it
Hallelujah Mary loved her son
Why don't my Mother love me?

INDUSTRIOUS WOMEN OF OLD AND LITTLE WORMS

2008-11-14T21:05:00.000-05:00

According to Confucius, in about 3000 B.C. a young girl named Hsi Ling Shi, who also happened to be the empress, was relaxing in her garden while sipping tea. PLOP! Something falls into her tea cup. ‘Oh drat!’ She delicately mutters. She reaches in to fish out the offending missile and pulls out the cocoon of a silk caterpillar. ‘Ewwwwww, well that’s just nasty!’ she exclaims. She daintily tosses the cocoon to the ground and orders a new cup of tea from a palace servant. While patiently awaiting the beverage’s arrival, she glances back down at the cocoon at her feet. It is now soaked and rubbery looking and she notices the end of a thread has unraveled. Carefully she bends and grasps the thread and the cocoon begins to unwind. Being a young woman of ingenuity, and having nothing better to do, she decides to try and weave the thread. ‘Well’, she thinks while admiring her handiwork, ‘this has turned out far better than I thought it would. This cloth I have woven is so soft and, um, silky, yes; 'silky' is such a cute little word.’ She is only fourteen after all, an age when “y”s are added to the ends of most words in a girl’s vocabulary. Recovering from this moment of girly-ness, she begins to study the life cycle of the silk caterpillar and then instructs her gaggle of lady friends in the art of raising them, an art form now referred to as sericulture. And from that point in history she becomes the goddess of silk in Chinese mythology. You go girl!

The resulting industry is wildly popular and an imperial ban was placed on silk worm exportation and sericulture remained a carefully guarded secret in China for nearly 3000 years. Until that is another young princess, who was about to be married to a prince from far away Khotan, refused to go without her luxurious silk fabric and hid a handful of the caterpillars in her hair as she bit fair-thee-well to mom and dad, thus opening the way for trade and the Silk Road as the other teenage girls of the world demand the wondrous fabric.

Again, the Chinese pretty much had a corner on the silk market until in 550 A.D. When the Roman emperor Justinian I (ruling from 527-65 A.D.) sent two Christian monks to China to risk their lives in stealing mulberry seeds and silkworm eggs. They succeeded and secreting their treasure in their bamboo walking sticks, high tailed it to Byzantium. From there sericulture spread through the centuries to the West and into Europe.

Recently, an archaeological find; a small ivory cup carved with a silkworm design, thought to be between 6,000 and 7,000 years old, coupled with other discoveries along the lower Yangzi River reveal the origins of sericulture to be much earlier than originally thought.

While I, daughter #1 and best-friend Pegeen were visiting Beijing, we were taken to the Yuanlong Silk Factory where we were educated on the process of silk making and were able to witness and even participate in parts of this fascinating procedure. Of course, we were also presented with the opportunity to purchase finished wares.

Entering the factory we were first directed to view a display showing the life cycle of the silk worm, or more correctly, the silk caterpillar, which first involves the incubation of the tiny eggs of the blind, flightless moth (Bombyx mori) until they hatch as caterpillars. They are then placed on their favorite food source; mulberry leaves and covered in a layer of gauze (I assume to prevent escape). The little caterpillar packages are kept on woven trays that are stacked on shelves in a climate controlled environment, which not only means controlling the temperature, but also protecting the worms from loud noises, drafts and strong smells. The racket made by a roomful of munching worms sounds much like heavy rain falling on a roof. For six weeks they chomp away almost continuously, by the end of which they are ready to spin their cocoons and they are given the branches of trees on which to attach themselves. They produce a jelly-like substance in their silk glands, which hardens when it comes in contact with air. For eight days they make their cocoons in one continuous thread which measures from 2,000 – 3,000 feet long. It takes 5,500 cocoons to produce about 2 pounds of raw silk. These thousands of cocoons are gathered and the poor little buggers inside are killed by heating them either in ovens or by steaming or boiling. Boiling also dissolves the gummy substance that holds the thread in place. From there the ends of four to eight cocoons are joined and attached to a reel where they are twisted together first with each other, then with other similarly combined fibers resulting in a thread referred to as raw silk that contains 48 individual silk fibers. These fibers are then twisted again with others to make a thread strong enough for weaving. This is called “throwing” and produces four different types of silk thread depending on how many twists are made and in what combination of directions. I began to think about how very complex this process was, but then I realized that the Chinese had several millenniums in order to perfect it.

We were allowed to pick up and even take home a cocoon of our own. They are oval in shape and about an inch and a half in length. The papery cocoons are very light and if you shake one you can feel the dried up caterpillar inside rattling around.

From there we were shown a reel machine. This is where the fiber ends are attached to reels after being soaked in water to loosen the strands and are then unwound. When one cocoon is finished unraveling, another is attached and a continuous thread is produced. You can see the basket in my photo where the dead caterpillars are collected once the fibers are completely unwound. The cocoons that are processed in this way are ones with a single caterpillar in them. Apparently, there are caterpillars that want to share their little abodes and two will get together and spin one cocoon, their fibers becoming hopelessly entangled. Since these are not able to be unwound like the single caterpillar cocoons, they are soaked in water and then a slice is made down one side. The woven cocoon is stretched over a “U” shaped loop (see photo) to make it big enough for four people to grab a corner and the cocoon is stretched to amazing proportions in order to make a delicate, fluffy layer that is added to the pile of other such layers to compose the filling for a quilt. The three of us tried our hand at this stretching and I don’t think that we will be working a silk factory any time soon, the layer we produced was somewhat lopsided. It really was quite interesting though and in true American consumer fashion I really wanted one of these remarkable quilts. And indeed, the factory wanted me to have one as well. I expressed regret that an entire quilt would not be able to fit in my already over-burdened suitcase and was helpfully told: “We make small for you!” And they did, the quilt was folded and all the air was sucked out, it then took up no more space than a travel pillow. Way cool! Though the duvet covers being displayed were truly gorgeous, they were also beyond my budget, and I would have had a very hard time deciding in any case. But oh! the feel of them! The extravagant opulence of contact with this lush textile makes you just want to slip in and wrap yourself up like, well… a silk worm. Perhaps this is why at various times throughout history silk was only allowed to be used by royalty because should the common man sleep upon it he might never want to rise and go to work. Yes, right about now I believe that I will be crawling under my prized silk quilt for a good night's rest. Thank you little caterpillars for working so very hard to keep me comfortable and warm. And thank you too to all of those clever teenage girls thousands of years ago who sought to make themselves useful and not just sit around under trees sipping tea all day long. Your mamas would be proud!

WHAT’S SO FUNNY?

2008-11-11T21:18:00.000-05:00

About ten years ago, while eating lunch at work with my friend Judith, we were discussing the changes that come along with aging and comparing what others had told us about it. After some dialogue, she matter-of-factly stated that the only real difference she had noticed was that she fell down more. This declaration nearly caused me to choke on the over-boiled bite of cafeteria food that I had in my mouth at the time, because having a visual mind, I immediately picture whatever anyone says to me and I find slap-stick the height of hilarity. I love guys like Steve Martin, Steve Carell and Rowan Atkinson. Even if the Pink Panther movies aren’t the greatest in terms of script, I will still view it again and again just to watch Mr. Martin crash through walls and fall through floors. I can laugh myself silly watching the old Mr. Bean show where visual humor makes up the bulk of the amusement and Mr. Bean only mutters an indistinct word every so often. And that scene in Evan Almighty where Steve Carell is attempting to build his ark and keeps hammering his finger or falling off a beam? Well, let’s just say that when I took Lily to see it in the theater she was sitting on my lap at the time of that particular scene and she started complaining because I was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down my face and soaking the back of her shirt. There is also a scene in the movie Nine Months where Hugh Grant is racing through town to get his pregnant girlfriend to the hospital in time to deliver their baby and they keep hitting people and having to take them along to the hospital. Well, you get the picture, I like the shtick!

Interestingly, my love of Mr. Bean is apparently shared by several million Chinese where visual humor makes up a lot of what the Chinese find funny. While in China my friend Pegeen and I had asked one of our guides, Judy, about Chinese humor and how she thought it differed from Western humor. She was the one who told us about Mr. Bean, and indeed, his most recent movie was playing on the TV while we were there and we even saw a bill board with his picture on it in China. I asked Judy what her favorite funny American movie was and she replied ‘Mr. and Mrs. Smith.’ ‘Huh’ I thought, because though I had not seen this particular movie, I was familiar with it and I don’t remember it being advertised as a comedy. I was really quite puzzled so when it happened to be playing on cable after I arrived home I sat through it. Um, no, I don’t think that it was exactly a comedy and I now wish I had asked Judy what it was that she found so hilarious in it. I mean, I can sort of see the tongue-in-cheek absurdity, but laugh-out-loud funny? So, I remain perplexed.

One time when Lily was 3 and she had just started sleeping in “a big bed”, I heard a dull thunk in the middle of the night. I waited, then heard the whimpering. I rushed to her room to find her on the floor.

'What happened sweetie?'

'Oh, I just fell out of bed.' Okay, so I really tried not to laugh at that one but it was difficult and fortunately she wasn’t hurt, if she had been I am sure that I wouldn’t think it was funny, trust me. We purchased a thingy for the bed to keep her from falling out the next day.

Even if it is me doing the falling I still find it exceedingly funny. The other day I was trying to fix a cable under my desk and went to sit on the tiny plastic chair that belongs to my two year old. The thin little leg twisted and down I went, my fanny landing right on the length of that “V” shaped plastic chair leg, which amazingly didn’t break. I lay on the floor writhing in pain, yet still laughing my head off. Lily rushed to my side,

'Are you okay Mama? What did you do?’

‘My bum landed on the chair leg, oooooooohhhhhhhhhh!! Haaaa Haaaa!!’

'Oh Mom, you have to be more careful….that’s gonna leave a mark!’ More laughter from me ensued at that. And boy oh boy did it ever leave a mark, about six inches by three of dark purple. Good thing it is where no one can see it.

So a visit to China just wouldn’t be complete without me falling down at some point. The first time I went in 2001 to adopt Lily our group asked to stop at a huge lotus field so that we could take pictures of the beautiful plants. I think our tour guide thought this was a little ridiculous, but humored us. As we wandered about the edge of the field, the lotus being planted in a wet marshy-like muck, I thought I spotted a four leaf clover. ‘How lucky!’ I thought to myself. Well, it turns out, not so much. As I bent kind of sideways to pick it, Lily being strapped to my chest in a baby carrier, my heel slipped on the edge of an irrigation ditch and I fell backwards into it. I threw one arm across Lily and the other out behind me…and it sunk up to my elbow into the sludge. The ditch was just wide enough for my hips to fit snuggly which meant I was stuck like a turtle on its back. The bus driver and our guide were truly horrified and had me hauled out in seconds and then arms came from nowhere to get the baby off my chest. She was fine of course since I had fallen backwards not forwards and she hadn’t even seemed to notice her sudden change of direction from vertical to horizontal. Of course I was laughing, I wasn’t even embarrassed, it was just plain funny to me. There was a small crowd of mostly older Chinese men and women standing on the road above the fields to stare at the lao wai (foreigners) and they too were laughing gleefully. I suspect that the tale was told again and again over dinner that night of the clumsy lao wai with a Chinese baby strapped to her chest who fell in the, um…fertilizer.

So I didn’t disappoint on this most recent trip to China…I tripped of course. This time it was in Beijing and we were walking the length of the pedestrian shopping area. My eyes were everywhere drinking in the new and unfamiliar. Everywhere that is except where I was walking. I was saying to Lily and my friend Pegeen, ‘What do you suppose are in those little grey crocks with the straw sticking out?’ (see photo), when I tripped over one of those rubber electric cord protectors. There was even a big yellow sign over it warning of its presence, but I wasn’t looking there. You know that split second when you slip or trip and think you are going to catch yourself? Yeah, I hate that split second, it lies! Down I went onto the cobblestone in front a group of tables filled with locals eating dinner. I had even been holding Lily’s hand at the time, but when the big Mama goes down, a tiny eight year old isn’t gonna save her. Okay, this time I was embarrassed…a little, but it was still very funny. Looking back on it now I probably should have jumped up, thrown out my arms and shouted “ta da!”, because not one of those staring Asian faces was laughing, or even smiling for that matter. Nor did they look concerned or sympathetic at my lack of grace, which made it even worse, they just stared. Maybe they burst into gales of laughter after we had made our way out of site, who knows. Oh, and what was in those little grey crocks? Drinkable yogurt. Silly me, I should have guessed.

So what would make a person in China laugh? I wondered and so I did a wee bit of research. One form of comedy that has been popular in China is something called xiangsheng, which translates literally as “face and voice”, but is usually referred to in English as “crosstalk”. It was developed as street theater in the Qing Dynasty (1644 – 1911) and by the mid twentieth-century had become a complex oral performance form with anti-authoritarian overtones. Xiangsheng takes the age-old formula of humorous repartee being exchanged between an exasperated straight-man to a muddle-headed clown and draws upon all aspects of Chinese culture for its subject matter. American comic performers have something similar, minus the anti-authoritarian overtones, an example would be Abbott and Costello’s Who’s on First routine. Additionally, teams such as Martin and Lewis, The Smothers Brothers, Burns and Allen, Rowan and Martin, performed this kind of back and forth banter. But the Chinese form adds to this dialogue a complex play on words rich in puns and satire.

Here you can watch a classic example of Xiangsheng, although unless you understand Mandarin you will have no idea what these two guys are saying, even so, you can get an idea of how it is performed. And Mark Rowswell, a Canadian known as Da Shan in China is considered to be the most famous foreigner in China because of his mastery in performing Xiangsheng which the Chinese find amazing since Mandarin is not his first language and Xiangsheng is considered an art form like any other which takes many years to master. In our house we know of him because we are able to get CCTV, China's English language channel where he gives lessons in speaking Mandarin. Here is a link to him performing a solo Xiangsheng skit. Watching these has really gotten me interested in knowing more about this type of comedy. Although I suppose there really isn't any way of truly understanding it without understanding the language and culture in which it is spoken. (sigh)

It has also gotten me thinking about why and how and what makes us laugh and how culture plays a part in this. Our guides in China were all amazing; personable, knowledgeable and reliable. It can’t be an easy job leading large groups of addle-brained new parents around a large, busy, very crowded country. It does seem that a person with an ease of temperament and good humor would have an easier time working as a tour guide than others. All of the guides that we had while in China had a good sense humor, but one especially knew what we as Americans might find amusing, making us laugh easily using some traditional self-deprecation with a certain amount of fun being made at both our cultures. Of course, we were a very easy audience; a captive group of giddy new parents who’s only really deep thought in the last 24 hours was how to find a decent diaper among the local retail offerings. Still, she was quite entertaining and kept us smiling, which is exceedingly important to nervous parents or anyone else under constant fluctuating levels of anxiety, humor brings calm to the heart and mind in stressful circumstances.

On the opposite end of the stick, people with no sense of humor puzzle me. It always makes me wonder how on earth their branch of the evolutionary family tree has survived this predicament that we call the human experience to this point in history. There is so much tragedy in the world, how else to endure without hitting it head on with wit? Frankly, I would become hopelessly ill informed otherwise, for I would cease to listen to the news daily if I wasn’t also able to counter it with absurdity. I am drawn helplessly to people with a great sense of humor. These are also usually the folks with a ready smile and an easy ego; who don’t take themselves too seriously. I don’t think that it is an evolutionarily accident that “a good sense of humor” ranks in the top three traits that young men and women look for in a mate. It ranks higher with what women look for in a man than what men look for in a woman (attractiveness would be number one with men….big surprise). But with women, being able to make us laugh makes the man more attractive to us. Interesting isn’t it? I would be willing to bet that looking for a sense of humor in a mate goes up even further as women grow older. So why is this? Do we need to laugh so badly that we want to pass on these genes to our offspring in hopes that they too will keep us in stitches? Or is it that we wish to be entertained by both our mate and our children? Perhaps it’s just that we want someone to come along and grab the neck of that balloon of stress that inflates throughout the day and release some of the hot air in it while simultaneously making that funny squeaking noise, because funny squeaking noises are FUNNY and we all know it. Laughter releases stress, promotes bonding, encourages love and friendship. Laughter to me equals not just survival but happiness.

So writing this has really got me pondering the comical side of humans. Are we born with a sense of humor or is it developed? Are there cultures that are funnier than others? Are there cultures that use humor more effectively than others? Is what makes us laugh vastly different between cultures and individuals, or are we pretty much on the same playing field? These are all questions I am now preoccupied with and want answered. I know that there are folks reading this who are from other countries and cultures. Anyone with knowledge who would like to enlighten me, please, I am begging you, weigh in and leave your comments. Especially if they are funny!

VOTE!

2008-11-05T21:38:00.001-05:00

Our wait to vote on election day 2008 was relatively short, about 40 minutes, which is a blessing since attempting to wait in any line with two small children can be a challenge at the best of times. The line that chilly morning snaked out the door and across the parking lot of the local fire department hall. So I put Meika in the stroller and handed her a granola bar which kept her contented, but left a trail of crumbs throughout the line. Lily was not contained, physically or mentally. She remained in constant movement and non-stop conversation the entire wait. Yep, that’s my girl alright. ‘I’m cold. I’m hungry. Hey, what’s that on that guy’s shirt? Meika, watch me do this. Meika, make a face like this. Meika, you are getting crumbs everywhere! Mom, Meika is getting crumbs everywhere!” All at full volume of course.

I had reminded Lily about the voting “rules” before we ever left the house. She has always come with me to vote and we have discussed that she must remain silent and just watch and not get in the way and NOT touch the screen. She assured me that she remembered the rules. So when we finally get our turn at the designated “booth” what’s the first thing she does? Touch the screen of course. Fortunately, her fingers didn’t hit any critical spots.

‘Lily! Don’t touch! I’m the one voting.’

‘Oh, sorry Mama.’

The choices for president come up…

‘Mom! Vote for ‘***’! Vote for ‘***’!

100 sets of queued up eyes turn our way.

‘Lily, remember what I told you.’

‘Oh right, sorry Mom.’

I check the box of my choice.

‘Yeah! You voted for ‘***’ Good job Mama! That’s who I wanted you to vote for!’

Oye, so much for the anonymity of the polling booth.

Our Build a Bear Visit

2008-10-30T21:26:00.001-04:00

Thanks to a gift certificate from our friend Becky, the two sisters had a delightful first time at Build a Bear. Meika chose a cuddly teddy and picked out a Hello Kitty t-shirt for it. Lily chose a husky dog and a purse for her critter. Both girls enjoyed themselves to the extreme as is evidenced by these photos. Meika's teddy fast became her sleeping buddy. We also went for pizza and had a great day. It was a fun reward after both girls had gotten flu shots at the doctor's earlier.

China Trip Highlights Slideshow

2008-10-20T21:02:00.000-04:00

BOUNCING BACK

2008-10-08T21:18:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I am finally bouncing back from the post adoption trip exhaustion. Oh, did I say bouncing back? Okay, so it's more like crawling and clawing my way back. There is defiantly a certain bit of let down when reality hits one in the face when one arrives home from an exciting, exhilarating and life changing trip, especially when the trip involves bring a new member into the family; a beloved second daughter for me and a little sister for daughter #1.

My new daughter is adjusting wonderfully so far (although we haven't started the daycare transition yet, that will be the true test of her flexibility). She has started to finally eat, which is a relief. And has slept through the night for the past 4 nights! Yipee, that's a big one for me, I am just NOT good on sleep deprivation, although I have to stay in the room with her both at naptime and bedtime until she falls asleep, but that is sooooo much better than her screaming the first week for me to hold her all night. Can a mother sleep standing up? Horses and cows can do it, well, yeah, but they have four legs, not two, and don't have to be somewhere the next day. No, this mom can't sleep standing up. Zoned out and dazed while standing, yes, sleep, no.

I am also enjoying my time with her at home very much. That is when we are in fact at home and not at a doctor's appointment...or the store... or ferrying daughter #1 to and from school and karate classes... or going to and from some other appointment or other. But, this is just what we do; run around like chickens with their heads cut off (did you know that chickens really DO run around when their heads are cut off? But that's a story for another time), and the sooner that daughter #2 gets used to the gentle chaos that is our life, the better.

That is one of the things that is so much fun about going somewhere far, far away, you get to put everyday life on hold...sort of. After all, if I am on the other side of the world, I can't do a whole lot of worrying about the dreary old bills, or economy, or daughter's school, or my work, or whatever usually wakes me up in the middle of the night. Being in a completely different country and culture is not only fun and interesting, but liberating as well. Certainly, not understanding what anyone is saying could be frustrating, but I found it oddly freeing: my mind didn't have all of those background stories to block and filter, it was just white noise except when I understood the random word or two.

And all of the new experiences are wondrous and have no relation what-so-ever to my everyday life; it's fantastic! Seeing and experiencing something different everyday really wakes you up in the morning. And leave for the day and when you come back someone has made your bed for you and cleaned up your mess. Hungry? Go and find a place to eat with new and interesting offerings and someone else will serve you and take away your dirty dishes. Need to get somewhere? Hail a cab and hand them a card with your destination on it, no need to worry about traffic or gas prices. Even the money is so much more fun to spend since it doesn't look like money that I am familiar with, so there is much less guilt associated with spending it, not to mention the fantastic exchange rate making me feel like I was a real high roller: sure, sure, no problem spending two hundred yuan on dinner for four (the equivalent of $28), I've got a wallet stuffed full of 500s! Fun, fun, fun!

But then one comes home. Hey, don't get me wrong, I totally love my life! And having a new little one to love and show the world to is unlike any other happiness there is, but there is that blasted thing called responsibility that keeps nagging at me. You know, just the regular stuff: job, housework, home repairs, bills, kid's school work, dinner, laundry, pets, you know... life. Drat. But then, a trip like I have just had probably wouldn't feel so wondrous if everyday were carefree. Besides, I have to admit that coming back home brings to the forefront all of the little blessings that we enjoy without really thinking about them too often, like having a home that belongs to me in a place that I have chosen; living in a house that has running water that I can drink and a bathroom in it, with a toilet that doesn't require me to squat over it; that has heat and cooling and enough room to allow my family to live comfortably. Coming home to a city with stores that have a wealth of food, and a job that includes health insurance for my family; to doctors that are well taught and know how to keep my family healthy. To a home that was kept safe by good neighbors and friends. Oh, and my bed, my fantastic, comfy, soft and downy feather bed, oh how I missed thee! And my washer and dryer, my, my, what an incredible blessing is a washer and dryer! Home to a place where I feel free to make all of these choices for myself and family, especially the choice to add to it through adoption as a single mother. Wow. What a grand and incredible world it is out there, but as the saying goes, “There's no place like home.” Even with all of its quirks and annoyances, what better place to curl up and recover from life's attempts to throw you a curve-ball. What a fantastical, marvelous, howling good trip we've had... and it's good to be home. (Sure do wish someone would come and pick up after us though, this place is a mess!)

MEIKA UPDATE

2008-09-18T10:59:00.001-04:00

So here it is the third day after meeting Meika. It is truly remarkable how well she seems to be adjusting. She sleeps through the night (score!), wakes up smiling and does not appear to be grieving her departure from the orphanage at all. She knows who the Mama is, totally loves Lily, and copies everything she does (which isn't really a good thing) and is content and loving towards my friend Pegeen as well, but does seem to know which one of us is the Mama.

She laughs a lot, loves to be tickled and loves to cuddle. She knows how to feed herself, but isn't eating much at all, she only seems to want the bottle of rice cereal and formula mix. Any suggestions out there? The first day after I got her she ate pretty well, but today she doesn't want any food at all...except to play with it, she loves to get the spoons and a plate while we eat and practice eating without really getting much in her mouth. And when I try to feed her she laughs and shakes her head and turns away.

While we are in the hotel room she is very comfortable and plays alone well with the stacking cups and coloring book, or with Lily of course. But if we are out and there are other people around she won't let me put her down for even a second. The only time we have seen tears was when she was in the stroller and myself, Pegeen and Lily were all behind the her and none of us was talking, she didn't know where we were and started to cry, but once she saw me and I reasurred her, she was fine. She wants to know where we all are and if one of us gets up from the table at breakfast she will look around until we come back.

She throws herself at my legs and hugs me and if she is sitting on my lap she will through herself at my chest arms outstretched and try to hug me. If Lily throws out her arms Meika will run into them and give her a big old hug. What a sweetie!

She has a lot of energy and her personality seems to be a very happy one like her big sister. What a blessing these children are!

CHINESE POTTY TRAINING

2008-09-17T09:25:00.003-04:00

So have I mentioned my fear of public restrooms? Well, it runs deep – very, very deep. Probably stemming from those early childhood memories where I am standing - no taller than the toilet, my mother at my side plastering the entire piece of cold white porcelain with prodigious amounts of scratchy toilet paper. “Don't touch the seat! Don't let your legs touch the sides! Don't hold on to any part of the toilet!” Leaving one small child precariously balanced with arms and legs outstretched and trembling upon the edge of what I was convinced was a giant germ ridden throne of death. Enough to give anyone a deep and abiding complex, complete with nightmares. Oh my yes, I actually still have recurring dreams about white tiled public restrooms, complete with loathsome crud and an urgent need to relieve myself with no where else to go. Horrible, simply horrible!

In China, “western” toilets are not common. A western toilet is the kind where there is somewhere to sit, and though I don't like for myself or especially my child to sit on a public toilet, and like my mother attempt to plaster it in paper, nothing compares to the experience of an Asian toilet, which is basically a porcelain, flushable hole in the ground.

So too late did it occur to me that Lily, my eight year old, might need instruction in the proper way to use a Chinese toilet. We were at the Lama Temple in Beijing and were told by our guide Thomas that this would be a better place to use the restroom before we went to lunch, it being relatively cleaner than the restaurants. For those who do not know, a Chinese toilet is flush with the floor. It is also white porcelain and flushes like a western toilet, but there is no where to sit, you must squat over the toilet, balancing precariously and concentrate on many things at one time; hitting the right spot, NOT hitting the wrong spot, such as your clothes or shoes. It would help if there was a handle of some sort to hold on to, but there is not. And of course, there isn't much room in which to work all this magic. And most restrooms don't have toilet paper, you must bring your own, and if there IS toilet paper to be had, it is in a role when you come into the restroom and you have to remember to get some before going into a stall or you're stuck empty handed so to speak.

So into the stalls we all went, the silly Mama not giving any instruction nor grabbing any toilet paper. And while I was busy and unable to do anything about it I hear Lily tell me she is sitting on the “floor” to go potty, isn't that cool?. “You're what?! Seriously? You're sitting on the floor?!”

Small unsure voice from the next stall, “Uh...no?”

“Lily, tell me the truth, did you sit on the floor to go potty?”

“Yes....I'm sorry! I didn't know!”

“Okay, don't do anything else, have you pulled up your pants yet?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Hold it! Stop! Do nothing else!” I shout. I finish doing what I need to do as quickly as possible and rush to my child. She has indeed already gotten her clothes back up, which horrifies me further since now it probably won't make a bit of difference whether I attempt a clean up with wipes or not. Then I spot her backpack on the floor, oye! how it didn't get soaked I will never know. I try my best to wash her down while she strattles the toilet since there are now two of us in the small stall and no where else for her to go. Once she is as clean as is possible under the circumstances and put back together, I point to the foot petal that is used to flush the toilet and Lily for some unknown reason thinks I am pointing to the toilet itself and puts her foot right down in the center of the thing. Arrrrgggg! NO NO NO! This isn't happening! She has now stepped in the worse possible spot imaginable for someone as germophobic as me. Fortunately, I had invested in waterproof hiking shoes for both of us before traveling and soon have her hopping to the bathroom sinks. So there we are at a temple, me lifting my child to run her entire foot, shoe and all, under the tap. I certainly hope the laughing Buddhas were laughing at this spectacle. After taking a deep breath, the humor in the situation hit me and as I waited for my friend Pegeen outside I told our guide Thomas what had happened. I do believe he was horrified that I was even telling him about it, and possibly even more horrified that I thought it was funny.

So get busy all you soon to travel Mamas out there, start practicing your deep knee bends and squats, you'll need the extra training, believe me। And instruct those young ones, this could happen to any of you! Be vigilant. Be prepared. Mothers have enough complexes when it comes to their children without adding the fear of tumbling into an Asian toilet.

WE ARE FAMILY!

2008-09-16T10:50:00.001-04:00

Is this not the sweetest photo ever? We met Meika today! We flew from Beijing this morning, arriving at the orphanage very soon after we landed. Meika was crying as they brought her in the room and was screaming when they handed her to me, which got me to crying, although I would have been crying anyway, let's face it. Then she cried some more and kept reaching for the caregiver, poor baby! Finally, the caregiver asked if I had brought any food for her and I gave her some baby snacks. Yeah for dried apples! She still wasn't sure about whether she was liking what was happening to her, but stopped crying and reaching out for the caregiver. By the time we left she was clinging to me. We went back to the hotel and Lily got the first smile! After only about two hours of being handed this waling child she was smiling, laughing at Lily and actually walked up to me and lifted her arms to be held and called me Mama! Which of course got me to crying again, but only me this time.

What an odd mixture of feelings being handed a child which is now your own through adoption is. It is beyond description really. You have love of course, but also anxiety. Then there is fear and trepidation, plus unbelievable happiness. It is amazing how one person can feel so many things at one time. Five Spice Emotions; a mix of very different ingredients that make a harmonious whole, and one that makes your eyes tear up.

After the addition of Cheerios to the snack cup, we got out the stroller which she thought was just wonderful; her own personal rickshaw! We went to McDonald's, which was very close to the hotel and easy, but Meika wasn't impressed with the food, she loved the milk though. After coming back to the hotel she finished up some more Cheerios and milk and fell asleep next to Lily chattering away in baby talk. They are both asleep now and if I can stay awake long enough I will post this entry, I am exhausted on so many levels.

The updated photos I was given yesterday before seeing her made her look so much bigger and older, I barely recognized her, but of course in reality she is quite tiny. She is chubbier than Lily was though.

You can't even see her cleft scars at all. She is beautiful and sweet and thinks Lily is the funniest thing ever. I'm glad that Lily was able to get her to smile first, it made her very happy.

I am hopeful that she will continue to think we are cool tomorrow when she wakes up and finds herself in unfamiliar surroundings, surrounded by unfamiliar faces! But it will be okay, I know it will. Wow, I'm the Mama to two amazing daughters! I am blessed.

2008-09-14T22:12:00.001-04:00

Just a quick note to let all know that we arrived safely in Beijing after a day and a half of travel many days ago. The hotel here charges by the minute for internet connection so I am quickly adding this to say that I will hopefully be posting more soon and will try and grab a few moments to write. We have been busy touring and experiencing China from early morning until late at night and have done and seen so many interesting things already before even meeting my new little one that it could take me months and months to write up all our experiences. I am looking forward to it! But for the moment, between sheer exhaustion and lack of internet connectivity, the posts may be slow in coming. In the meantime, enjoy the attached photo of the night “snack” market where fried scorpions, starfish and silk worm cocoons were to be had. (did she or didn't she eat a fried scorpion? Check back to find out!) Thanks for checking in, more later, I promise!

Leaving On A Jet Plane

2008-09-03T21:33:00.000-04:00

(Sung to the tune of “Leaving On a Jet Plane”)

Oh our bags are packed and we’re ready to go,
We’re standing here outside our door,
Checking to be sure that we have everything.

Passports and paperwork, cameras and snacks,
Suitcases, IPod, books and backpacks,
Don’t forget the bottles and the Cherrios!

Chorus:

We’re leaving on jet plane, to go to China again
Ready to meet our little one waiting for us!

So many times I signed my name,
Paid the fees as they came,
Fingerprinted, scrutinized, stamped and approved.

But it’s worth every minute of what I have to do,
To hold you close and whisper I love you,
I’ve waited so many years to make you mine.

Chorus:

We’re leaving on a jet plane, to go to China again,
Walk the Great Wall on which we’ll roam,
But most of all welcome you home.

Will she love me, hate me or worse?
Will she be frightened to see me at first?
I'm terrified and excited at the same time.

Big sister too is waiting to depart,
Getting very antsy and ready to start,
But still not sure she wants to share her Mom.

But I know that once those little arms,
Reach for her sister to keep her from harm,
The love that is in them both will be set free.

Chorus:

We’re leaving on a jet plane, to go to China again,
Have I remembered everything?
Oh my, so much I have to bring!

And now comes the time to get on board,
Find our seats amongst the seething hordes,
And try to stay calm and enjoy this incredible trip.

Chorus:

Yes, we’re leaving on that jet plane, to go to China again,
Ready to meet our little one waiting for us!

Yes, leaving on that jet plane, and bring home baby again,
Oh how exciting life can be….baby are you ready for me?

You Know You’re a Parent…

2008-09-01T21:14:00.001-04:00

...when you are easily confused.

With a second daughter about to come home, I made the decision to upgrade the car seat that daughter #1 sits in. She is petite, but too tall to fit into the 5 point belt system on the current seat and using only the lap/shoulder belt as a booster leaves her virtually floating behind the car’s seat belt. So I set out to find a seat that has a 5 point belt system for children over forty pounds, of which there are only two, both expensive and difficult to find. Fortunately, I tracked down the model I wanted at a local store and armed with gift cards from co-workers, a sale flier and a 20% off coupon, I was well pleased with myself for having saved so much on an expensive item. But once having purchase it, my mood quickly deflated as I then was faced with having to install the beastly thing.

I read the instructions; a booklet consisting of thirty-eight pages! Thirty-eight pages of instructions for a car seat? Their kidding, surly. I read it cover to cover, glancing furtively every now and then at the seat, sitting there mocking me with its many shiny new buckles, pockets and straps. Then I read it again. I checked to be sure that I was reading the English version of the instructions and not the Spanish. Yes, it did appear to be English, but still it didn't making sense to my befuddled brain. Each time I had reached the end of a step, the step proceeding had gone from my head. Here is an example of just one part of one step so that you can see what I was up against:

“Route the child’s right latch connector through child’s left belt slot from the front to the back of the child seat shell. Route the child’s right latch connector across the back of the child seat shell. The latch strap must route over the harness straps on the rear of the child seat. Route the child’s right latch connector through the child’s right belt slot to the front of the child seat. Route the child’s right connector around to the outside of the child seat shell.”

That was just step 4g in Chapter 6. If that made sense to you, then you are a far better person than I and should be elected to solve all of the world’s problems immediately.

So I then tried to read and complete just one step at a time. I became entangled in the many buckles and belts. I struggled with space even to move since the seat alone took up half the back seat and I kept having to turn it back and forth from front to back in order to complete the steps, and oh, did I mention that I have a two door vehicle? So there I was, squeezed onto the floor of the backseat, kneeling amongst crushed Cheerios and broken crayons, booklet in one hand, hammer in the other (yep, this seat installation required a hammer, probably in case you reached such a state of frustration that you could whack something to release the tension), reading glasses perched on my nose because the print in the instruction booklet was so small that I needed reading glasses in addition to my contacts in order to see the print. My daughter, ever one to be helpful, stands outside giving unsolicited advice in between her repeated inquires as to whether I was finished with the installation so that she could try out her new seat.

I began at six in the morning so that I wouldn’t be steamed alive while attempting this, it being summer in the south after all, but it’s taking so long that the sun begins to rise past the treetops and so does the temperature. It is at this point in my frustration that I fall to my knees (oh yeah, I am already on my knees amongst the Cheerios) and lament, “Why oh why, should it take the I. Q. of Einstein in order to install a piece of child related safety equipment?! Surely one shouldn’t need an advanced degree in engineering in order to keep one’s child safe? ”

Because it isn’t just the car seat that I have been struggling with as I get ready to travel around the world and back to adopt my second child, there has been the child safety gate for the stairs that came with a box of screws, some unrecognizable plastic pieces and two sections of gate, but no instructions! So there it sits useless at the top of the stairs.

Then there is the stroller, which, I must admit have come a long way in the 7 years since I last used one. It also came with a book of instructions that required a sit down, but didn’t actually instruct. It’s a stroller, not to hard to figure out how to open and close it, but it also has a sun canopy and the instructions said to “Attach canopy to stroller”. Okay, easy enough, but it didn’t say which way up and where the canopy was to be installed, it just said, “Attach canopy to stroller”. I know, I know, you're thinking to yourself, “this woman is an idiot! How hard could it be?” And yes, it should be quite simple, it's a stroller, there is only one logic place to attach it but I tried it one way and should a child have actually been sitting in the seat, the canopy would have worked well as a gigantic nose guard, but not to shade her from the sun. So I flipped it over and tried it the other way, but now it just stuck straight up and worked only to block my view of where I was going. So currently, stroller is canopy free.

And then there is the lovely gift that was given to me by a co-worker, a shopping cart cover. I didn’t have one of these with daughter #1 and always wanted one. I mean, do you KNOW what is on a shopping cart? It isn’t like they wash those things you know, they are rolling vehicles for homicidal germ gangs! So I was quite excited to discover that it was very simple to use, basically you drape it over the cart seat and put the baby in. Fantastic! I love it! After playing with all the little toys that were attached to it to occupy the wee one while shopping, I consulted the box to see that it conveniently rolled up for travel and the belt that holds baby to the cart, doubles as a handy sling to carry the cover to and from the store. How cleaver, I thought to myself. Then I tried to roll it to make the carrying sling possible. One way. Then another. And a third. I looked at the box. I sheepishly looked for instructions. Instructions for heaven's sake for what is basically a blanket? Great, my intellect has now sunk lower than a worm's belly button. And what did the instructions say? “Roll up seat cover and use strap to carry.” Brilliant, how?! You aren't telling me HOW to roll it in order to use the strap to carry it! You will be relieved to know that I actually beat this one - I took a deep calming breath and really tried to engage my brain...it worked, I got it rolled and ready. Turns out, it must be rolled into thirds first, silly me. Of course I am now terrified to actually use it for fear I will never be able to get it rolled properly again and I will have failed as a modern mama. Imagine my embarrassment should I be caught in the parking lot of the local Stuff-mart stomping upon my lovely cart seat cover in a fit of frustration.

I usually consult instructions as a last resort, I rather like trying to figure things out and if I get stuck, then I will refer to the directions, but lately this has been more of a hindrance to completing a project than a help. So here is a message to all you technical writers out there...have mercy! Please pity us poor, befuddled parents! Lend a helping hand to those of us who are instructionally challenged! Just keep it simple will ya for the love o' pigs?

(*Note: I just discovered online that there is an Ease Of Use Rating System for car seats and I looked up the one I bought. It got only 2 stars out of a 5 star system over all and the instruction booklet got only 1 star! So see? it isn't my Parent Brain after all. I feel so much better. Wish I had discovered this rating system before I bought the seat!)

Stress And All That Needs Doing

2008-08-27T22:27:00.000-04:00

I feel about as affective as a puddle through a sieve as I rush around trying to get ready to travel halfway around the world to adopt daughter #2, I am trying to pull it together, but there is so much to do that I sometimes stand in the middle of a room totally befuddled, arms trying to reach one way and legs attempting to move in the opposite direction, while my mind is somewhere else altogether. I'm like the Push-Me-Pull-You in Dr. Dolittle!

This week, my last before travel to get it all done has been particularly stressful. I am working a full-time job to which I commute an hour each way, and as I am going to be out of the office for many weeks, I am frantic to get done more than usual and appear productive. I have about fifty illustrations that need doing for a freelance project that I am working through at night. I need the house to be reasonably clean, and needless to say, it is not; many baby safe gadgets have yet to be installed and other things not baby-proof put away. I desperately need to pack – it's all in a pile on the floor of one of the bedrooms and each time I look at it I sigh in despair. Today the travel agent calls me at work to tell me that my new daughter turned two this past Sunday. Yes, I knew that, why is she telling me this? She is telling me this because the airline lap ticket that I purchased for her won't work, it is only good for a child under the age of two. I must quickly send back the ticket to them and buy a full seat ticket. Wonderful.

And just to make my week complete the dogs must go to the vet for their shots so that they can stay at the kennel for a month. I was lucky enough to snag an appointment for today since they are open late on Wednesday. So I rush to pick up daughter #1, rush to the house to pick up the two dogs, one weighing 60 pounds, the other 20 (they are quite the odd pair), chaos ensues trying to get them and daughter settled in the car and calmed down. Rush to McDonald's for a Happy Meal for daughter who is insisting that she is starving unto a near faint; rush to the vet's, run with dogs and kid, who has Happy Meal in tow, through the rain and mud and burst through the doors. Woody, the little one, promptly pees on the floor. Daughter screams this fact so that anyone within a mile radius could hear her. I dig in my purse for baby wipes to no avail, apologizing profusely. Yep, here we are world, look at us! Harried, breathless, rain drenched and mortified! Well done.

The young woman at the counter looks at me expectantly, “I'm here for our appointment at 6:40.”

“Uh, what's your name?”

I tell her. She searches, we aren't in “The Book”. Now I know I made this appointment two weeks ago I insist. She searches some more and finds us...we do indeed have an appointment... for NEXT Wednesday. Uh oh.

“Well, that just can't be.” I lament, “We will be out of town then”, yeah, way out of town! She looks at me blankly, I know she just wants me to go away and come back next Wednesday. “Is there nothing that can be done? The dogs can't go to the kennel without their shots, who will take care of them while we are in China if they can't go to the kennel?” I plead...I whimper and I remain stubbornly standing at the counter.

“Well, I can ask the doctor,” she finally offers. She goes away. I hear whispering. She returns and tells me that they will take me, but I will have to wait for who knows how long because there are other appointments that must be taken care of first. I look around, the waiting room is currently empty. But I thank her and apologize for my mistake, knowing full well that neither one of us apparently had confirmed the actual date; she said Wednesday, I thought it was this Wednesday, she thought it was next Wednesday, and because she has “The Book”, that makes her right. And normally I would concede and go away and come back next Wednesday, but I can't, I am desperate, the situation dire, I must be seen today.

While all of this is transpiring, the two dogs, one huge, one small and my daughter have NOT been sitting primly and properly on a bench and waiting patiently. Oh no, daughter is trying to eat her Happy Meal, play with the toy that came with it (which of course makes some kind of screaming noise), and hold on to two leashes at the same time. She keeps trying to slip the leashes into my unsuspecting hands every few seconds while I am pleading and attempting to look deserving and piteous. Big dog keeps jumping up on the counter next to me. Little dog maintains a constant loud whining. Both start to bark hysterically whenever a person walks in the room, which is happening often because the technicians and the doctor have each come out to glare at me in turn. The doctor has gone so far as to tell me how this is going to make them all have to stay an hour past their quitting time. I apologize for the tenth or so time and try to look contrite, but I probably look more like some crazed stressed out cartoon character at this point. And when the appointment for which we must wait appears through the door, the woman starts back in apparent terror and scoops up her rather large dog in an attempt to scoot around us like we are some sort of traveling freak circus. Which honestly? I am beginning to feel like a genuine participant in. Oh my yes, “Come one, come all to see The Wild Barbarian Woman of Louisa and her Brood of Untamed Savages!”

And then, in the midst of all this chaos, an unexpected lull. The dogs are sitting. The child is sitting. I get a moment to glance out of the rain streaked window and attempt to calm myself. It lasts for maybe thirty seconds when my daughter draws in a sudden sharp breath. “Mom!” And in my mind I think, now what?!

“Look!” she exclaims and holds up her finger on which is perched a bright red ladybug. “Mama, a ladybug! She must be here to deliver a message from baby sister!” She holds the bug up to her ear, “Yes? Yes, I'll tell her... Mama, the ladybug says to tell you that baby sister can't wait to meet us and to hurry up and get to China.”

“Really?” I say with true wonder, for here, in the middle of the waiting room of a veterinarian's office is a ladybug, which has chosen to rest, on of all places, the hand of my daughter, will wonders never cease.

“Well, lets give her a message to give to baby sister that we will soon be on our way.” We do this, whispering our love to the small creature and then taking her outside to start again her journey. And all is right and as it should be with the world again.

Love Is...

2008-08-22T21:11:00.002-04:00

Imagine you are going about your day as usual; work, school, laying about like a slug, whatever, and an alien from outer space walks into the room. The alien towers over your small frame and has pale, almost translucent skin. It has hair on top of its head, but in colors you have never seen before. It smells strange, not unpleasant, but different from anything you have yet smelled in your life. The alien speaks, but you have no idea what it is saying, it is just gibberish and noise to you. The alien smiles, or rather grimaces as if in pain at you and then, horror of horrors, it reaches for you! It picks you up and holds you to itself. You are stunned and bewildered. What on earth is happening!? Here I was innocently going about my business and suddenly, out of the wild blue yonder comes this space invader…invading MY space and MY person!

For the sake of our story, here is a translation of what the alien is saying: “Greetings little human! I have come to take you back to my home planet. I know that this will come as a shock to you, but I will take very good care of you and you will come to love life with us. It will be difficult at first, but you will come to accept it in time and even learn to love us. We realize that you will feel confused and miss what is familiar to you, but it is for the best. We have been planning to come for you for many light years; we have filled out endless reams of intergalactic forms and gone through universal background checks; we have saved stardust for many moons in order to cover the fees involved with being allowed to travel here and bring to our home you, our little human. So say good-bye to all that you have known to this point in your life, we will be leaving now for the outer reaches of the cosmos.”

But of course, you don’t have that translation, you just hear gabble and even if you did understand their attempted words of consolation, would it make you feel any differently than you do? And how DO you feel human? Excited? Frightened? Confused? Relieved? Perhaps all of these emotions would flit and flutter within you. You might scream in terror and fight to get away, or perhaps just surrender; defeated in your shock and bewilderment.

Now imagine you are a two year old child living in an orphanage or foster home. All you have known is the life that you currently have. It may not be perfect and you may feel a need and wanting that doesn’t get met often, but you know nothing else. Suddenly into the room walks a stranger who looks like no one you have ever seen before, nor even smelled or heard speak before. The stranger reaches for you and holds you close and speaks words that you do not understand. You are completely terrified!

In fairness, the “alien” is also completely terrified. And speaking from the alien’s point of view now, I am beside myself with a peculiar mixture of feelings: excitement, fear, wonder, panic, anticipation, trepidation,,, a kind of excited apprehensive stage-fright. And as the time to meet the new little human that is to come into my life approaches, I tremble (seriously, I’m trembling right now).

My first daughter was adopted when she was 10 months old, a mere babe in arms who had spent her life to that point in an orphanage. She didn’t speak (at least not English anyway), couldn’t crawl and had no way of telling me what she needed or wanted other than opening her little mouth every time my hand came near to her, for she quickly discovered that I was the source from which the food came. She expressed grief at the sudden changes to her life the day after I received her, but it was short lived and lasted only the day. There after, though there have of course been moments of confusion, heartache and questions, she has been a very happy and engaging little person and wholly my daughter, an individual that I truly love beyond measure of time, space or place.

Wee daughter #2 will turn 2 years old on August 24^th. She will be older and have more experiences and memories than daughter #1. She lived her first year in an orphanage, but was then moved to a foster home. She will have now been brought back to the orphanage by this time in anticipation of her upcoming adoption; away from the only “family” she has known. She will understandably be distressed and frightened. And as I am bustling around preparing for our trip to China to meet her, she will probably be trying to figure out what has happened to the life that she knew. She will be able to comprehend enough of what is taking place to be terrified, but not enough to know that it will get better and how much she is wanted and loved. And though she might be speaking, it will be of course Chinese, and will not help me to understand her needs and wants. When meeting Lily and I for the first time she could fight back in terror, or try to run. Or, grief spent, surrender to what is to come.

She is also cleft effected, which means that she was born with bi-lateral cleft lip and palate. Her records tell me that both were repaired when she was 11 months old, for which I am grateful, but there will be other needs, some related to her clefts, some not. She will probably need further surgeries at some point, such as a bone graft when her adult teeth start coming in. She may also have attachement issues, or eating issues, speech, hearing, eye sight and development issues.

I have read “Toddler Adoption: The Weaver’s Craft” by Mary Hopkins-Best, a book that could scare the bee-gee-bees out of The Super Nanny. But it is an excellent book and has encouraged me to hope for the best but be prepared for the worse.

Regardless of circumstances, parenting is an adventure, no matter how it comes about, a magnificient, terrifying journey into the unknown. To love any person as much as a parent loves a child is to risk one’s very soul. But in the loving comes a richness of spirit that cannot, I believe, be achieved in any other way. And so it goes. I am scared, yes, but over riding any fear is a belief in both me and my children. A belief in our futures and the differences we will make in this world. For whether we set out to make a difference or not, we surely do one way or another, and can but hope and endeavor to make the difference a positive one.

One of my favorite quotes is written by J. K. Rowling, in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and spoken by Hagrid: “No good sittin' worryin' abou' it. What's comin' will come, an' we'll meet it when it does.” And to that I would like to add: that we will meet it with all of our courage and humor and love, all three of us, myself and my two amazing daughters.

Laughter, Love and Lily

NEW BLOGGING ADDRESS

MONKEYS AND CRICKETS AND BABYDOLLS, OH MY!

TODDLER JESUS AND THE SPLENDID YARD SALE

HAPPY MEIKA DAY!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LILY!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MEIKA!

A CIRCLE COMPLETED

MY INNER DIALOGUE WON’T SHUT UP

THE HIGH COST OF HIDDEN THINGS

ANNIVERSARY OF HOPE

FOR MOTHER’S DAY

THE ANTS GO MARCHING TWO BY TWO

VACATIONING WITH MERMAIDS

ADVENTURES IN PARENTHOOD

RAMDOM PHOTOS

NIGHT LIGHTS FOR THE DEAD

LET IT SNOW!

A PICTURE GAME

My friend Debby tagged me for this cute little picture game.....

***Rules***

1. Go to your Picture Folder on your computer or wherever you store your pictures.

2. Go to the 6th Folder and then pick the 6th Picture.

3. Post it on your blog and tell the story that goes w

ith the picture.

4. Tag 5 other glorious peoples to do the same thing and leave a comment on their blog telling them about it.

WHERE’S THE MAD HATTER?

SLOWING DOWN AND TAKING NOTICE

IN MY NEXT LIFE I WANT TO BE OPRAH

BABY IT'S COLD OUTSIDE!

HAPPY YEAR OF THE OX!

WHAT DOES A TECHNICAL ILLUSTRATOR DO EXACTLY?

INAUGURATION DAY 2009

DEAR LILY, ADVICE FROM AN EXPERT

NICE START TO THE NEW YEAR

I COULDN"T RESIST...

GET OUT THE TOOL BOX, THE PRESENTS ARE HERE

HAPPY FESTIVA!!

SANTA COMES THROUGH WITH A NEW SLEIGH

TEA PARTY!

LOST IN TRANSLATION

PORTRAIT OF SISTERS

DEAR LILY

HAIR CULTURE

INDUSTRIOUS WOMEN OF OLD AND LITTLE WORMS

WHAT’S SO FUNNY?

VOTE!

Our Build a Bear Visit

China Trip Highlights Slideshow

BOUNCING BACK

MEIKA UPDATE

CHINESE POTTY TRAINING

WE ARE FAMILY!

Leaving On A Jet Plane

You Know You’re a Parent…

Stress And All That Needs Doing

Love Is...

Rules