Judy Alter's Blog, page 303
February 5, 2013
Wild days, Wild days
Emily Dickinson may have written about "Wild Nights, Wild Nights," but I had no such luxury. Instead I had a wild day day. First of all, I can't go out my front door and lock it. I can go in and I can lock it from the inside, but can't lock it from outside, so I go out the backdoor--a bit of a nuisance. Then we had driveway congestion this morning, and I had to wait for Jordan to get back from taking Jacob to school before I could leave for a dental appointment. Then I was 30 minutes early for my appointment--me, who has no patience for waiting in a doctor's office. And long story short, I was there two hours for a simple cleaning--their schedule and not my mouth was the problem but I was at the point I wanted to say, "I don't care what you do, just get me out of here!"
Then I realized I'd pulled my car up too close to the electric gate--when I left for lunch I wouldn't be able to get out the gate from the backyard. So I went to move the car, judged the distance, and thought it would probably be all right. It wasn't. The gate hit the car and stopped. I hit the opener again, thinking it would close. It didn't. It kept trying to open. and then it wouldn't do anything. So I had essentially broken the gate. I locked it manually. It will be fixed first thing in the morning but my contractor who keeps my house together essentially said, "Please don't try to do it yourself." I asked if that's because I screwed everything up and he said, "Well, partly." When I called him I said, "This is disaster-a-day-Alter." Not sure he was amused.
Then I ordered ebooks from Amazon and couldn't get my Kindle to work. Finally did work that one out all by myself tonight but the books haven't arrived yet.
Oh, and the accountant tells me I goofed by not sending my estimated return certified with return request, so now I have to call the IRS and ask why the check hasn't cleared the bank. He advises patience in making such calls. He's new, doesn't know me well, so I explained patience is not my long suit. I'll arm myself with a book and make the call.
Every day has its bright spots: enjoyable lunch with two friends, and I'll be eating with the neighbors at the Old Neighborhood Grill tonight. Then I'm going to pull the covers over my head and start over again tomorrow.
Then I realized I'd pulled my car up too close to the electric gate--when I left for lunch I wouldn't be able to get out the gate from the backyard. So I went to move the car, judged the distance, and thought it would probably be all right. It wasn't. The gate hit the car and stopped. I hit the opener again, thinking it would close. It didn't. It kept trying to open. and then it wouldn't do anything. So I had essentially broken the gate. I locked it manually. It will be fixed first thing in the morning but my contractor who keeps my house together essentially said, "Please don't try to do it yourself." I asked if that's because I screwed everything up and he said, "Well, partly." When I called him I said, "This is disaster-a-day-Alter." Not sure he was amused.
Then I ordered ebooks from Amazon and couldn't get my Kindle to work. Finally did work that one out all by myself tonight but the books haven't arrived yet.
Oh, and the accountant tells me I goofed by not sending my estimated return certified with return request, so now I have to call the IRS and ask why the check hasn't cleared the bank. He advises patience in making such calls. He's new, doesn't know me well, so I explained patience is not my long suit. I'll arm myself with a book and make the call.
Every day has its bright spots: enjoyable lunch with two friends, and I'll be eating with the neighbors at the Old Neighborhood Grill tonight. Then I'm going to pull the covers over my head and start over again tomorrow.
February 4, 2013
Anxiety is a funny critter
Anxiety is a funny critter. It creeps up on you for no reason and blindsides you when you’re not expecting it. Then it plants itself in your mind, so if you’re not actually aware of it, you’re asking yourself, “Am I anxious? Is it going to come back?” It’s like living in a state of anticipation, even if you keep telling yourself to live in the moment.
Currently I’m having a bout with anxiety though some of the symptoms seem to be getting better. The good thing is I know this too will pass—just as that critter snuck on me, one day soon it will slink away and I will go back to feeling I can conquer the world. So I hold on to that thought.
I once told a friend that I wished I could stop being so introspective, and she replied, “Oh, that’s what I like about you.” I don’t think she understood: yes, being introspective and taking stock of yourself, analyzing your reactions to people and events, is good. Hopefully it will make you a kinder, more gentle person. But constantly taking your emotional temperature is destructive, a habit to break.
I find that days at home are long and difficult, even though I have plenty of work on my desk. I need the diversion of people, so I am grateful for lunch and dinner appointments, sometimes even doctor appointments—though I’m not looking forward to the dentist in the morning.
A more cheerful report will follow, I promise—a promise I make to those of you who read my blog but more importantly to myself. Thanks for listening. I post this in part to express myself but also because in posting before about anxiety I’ve found several of you share the problem. Maybe my words will help all of us.
February 3, 2013
Meat and Potatoes--on the go
A friend and neighbor recently had a hip replacement, and during his early convalescence, his wife wore herself ragged caring for him and sleeping on the couch so she could hear if he needed something at night. Friends brought food, and I volunteered to supply dinner one night. By that time, Joe was well enough—dressed and walking around—that they insisted I stay and share the meal with them. So, after ascertaining that they were lamb eaters (not everyone in Texas is), I fixed a lamb meatloaf. I grew up on lamb and love it, especially a cold roast lamb sandwich the next day. This meatloaf makes equally good sandwiches. With all courtesy and acknowledgement to the Mystery Lovers’ Kitchen Web site, I present the recipe here. It’s from The Nero Wolfe Cookbook (1975). If you haven’t read Rex Stout’s Nero Wolf novels you should—Wolfe was a gourmand who planned meals with his chef, Fritz, and considered murder a distraction from life’s primary purpose—eating good food.
Here’s the recipe:1-1/2 lbs. ground lamb (fortunately I live near a wonderful gourmet market that always has ground lamb; if not, you can ask the butcher to grind it from cheaper cuts but not the leg; my mom would have ground it at home—having Dad operate the grinder—but I don’t have a grinder.)
1//2 lb. ground pork (not sure why that is there, since lamb has enough fat on its own, but I didn’t quarrel)2/3 c. bread crumbs
¼ c. chopped parsley
¼ c. chopped shallots
½ tsp. dried basil (I didn’t have any so defrosted a pesto cube and threw it in)
1-1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. ground pepper
½ c. grated Parmesan
½ c. dry white wine
½ c. melted butter
I bought the lamb and pork on a Thursday but wasn’t slated to serve the meatloaf until the following Wed., so of course I planned to freeze the meat. Then it dawned on me that since I was cooking that evening for my kids’ arrival, I should go ahead and make the meatloaf and then freeze it. Worked fine. Combine lamb, pork, eggs, bread crumbs (homemade in a processor is fine—you can also do the parsley and shallots in the processor), salt, pepper, cheese, and wine. Wash your hands carefully, dig in, and mix thoroughly. Shape in an oval loaf.
Brush loaf with melted butter (I forgot to do this, didn’t miss it at all). Bake on a rack in a shallow baking pan—you need the rack so the fat can drip off the lamb. Place in oven pre-heated to 350. Bake 1-1/2 hours. Let stand before slicing.
To go with this, I experimented with a potato trick I found on Pinterest:Peel one raw russet or Idaho potato per person and thinly slice almost but not all the way through—hard to do and I cut through a couple of times. Drizzle with olive oil, kosher salt and pepper. You can add garlic powder, or as I did, some herbal seasoning. Bake at 425 for 40 min. The potatoes come out beautifully golden and crusty. When Mary took the last bite, an end piece, she said, “This is going to be noisy but so delicious.”
To do these two dishes simultaneously, you really need two ovens because of the varying temperatures. At 350, potatoes don’t brown; at 425 meatloaf dries out.
I served a salad that night, but here’s the dish I’d round that meal out with:
Sauteed zucchiniShred about one small zucchini per person.
Melt 2 parts butter to one part olive oil in skillet—go light because you don’t want a greasy vegetable when it should be crisp.
Sauté minced shallots or scallions until soft; then add grated zucchini.
Season with salt and pepper. I didn’t do this but I think a hint of lemon would have been the perfect final addition.
Optional: stir in some crème fraiche or heavy cream and simmer until absorbed—but who needs the calories? Besides, I liked the crisp cleanness of the zucchini.
This is a variation of a Julia Child recipe.
Enjoy a hearty meal…and love those leftovers.
February 2, 2013
Writing
Sometimes writing is a great joy; sometimes it's like slogging through mud. Today has been a muddy day, and that about sums it up. Nice dinner with a good friend, but now I'm back at the computer, slogging through 400 more words which will probably be as exciting as I feel right now. Maybe I should just go to bed...or read someone else's good book.
February 1, 2013
A chance to hear an icon
I’ve been missing from the blog for a couple of days because life got in the way—lunches with friends, dinner one night at a local high-rise retirement community followed by my presentation on writing mysteries. I tried to make it a workshop but with minimal response. Still the audience of abot thirty was attentive, and I was pleased. Took dinner the next night to friends—he has just had a hip replacement, though doing remarkably well, and she has run herself ragged taking care of him. Still, she insisted on putting everything out on nice serving dishes-I would have served the meatloaf in the pan I cooked it in! And then last night my weekly dinner with Betty—fun but I was in an off-mood and an off-appetite all day. I did get my yoga done two of those days and my thousand words all three. But today was the capper.
My friends, State Representative Lon Burnam and his wife, Carol Roark, had invited me to sit at their table to hear Gloria Steinem at the Planned Parenthood Annual Luncheon. Who would turn down an opportunity like that? Even though the luncheon was, as Carol predicted, a mob scene. We parked almost three blocks away to avoid valet parking, which was going to take forever.
Hearing Steinem and seeing her at the distant podium and, much better, on a large screen, was awe-inspiring, just because she’s such an icon for the women’s movement and because we remember all the risk she took, all the barriers she broke down. I was fascinated by her hands—extremely long, thin fingers which she used in a most expressive manner. She tailored her speech a bit to Texas, giving a nod to Sarah Weddington and Barbara Jordan and saying at one point she looked forward to coming back when we have a worthy successor to Ann Richards—who doesn’t wish for that day? She was witty and clever, but she didn’t say much new we hadn’t already heard.
Statistics about violence against women: since 9/11, more women in this country have been killed by their husbands than by the 9/11 attacks and the Afghan and Iraq wars combined—pretty appalling. She issued the usual warning that if women don’t have control over their own reproductive rights, we cease to be a democracy. Kind of comforting to think almost 500 people in this city, the only major Texas city to vote red in the last election, turned out to hear that message.
But Steinem lost me when she listed how having children limits a woman—in education and job opportunities, pay scale, health care, and other areas. I know a lot of women have experienced these limitations, and I feel fortunate that I have been blessedly free of them in the workplace, but at the same time I thought she was diminishing the role of motherhood and overlooking the tremendous benefits that come from raising children. I should know—my four look after me.
Today, while I was at the luncheon two of my chldren got all upset because my home alarm went off and they couldn’t find me—for more than two hours. My daughter and my tenant knew where I was, but nonetheless they alarmed the neighbors and the police came—there goes another $50 call for a false alarm. Still it’s nice to know they are so concerned.
As we walked into the hotel where the luncheon was held, a handful of protestors carryied signs saying, “Adoption, not Abortion,” and “No Taxpayer Dollars to Planned Parenthood.” I did manage to tell one that I was the mother of four adopted children, but I don’t think she got the point. It’s too bad these folks don’t recognize that women’s health care, not the dispensing of abortions, is that primary goal of that organization—mammography is a big part of it, providing health care to the indigent, picking up what the states, particularly Texas, won’t, providing counseling on birth control to avoid abortions. You’re right, Gloria, come back when we have a worthy success to Ann Richards.
My friends, State Representative Lon Burnam and his wife, Carol Roark, had invited me to sit at their table to hear Gloria Steinem at the Planned Parenthood Annual Luncheon. Who would turn down an opportunity like that? Even though the luncheon was, as Carol predicted, a mob scene. We parked almost three blocks away to avoid valet parking, which was going to take forever.
Hearing Steinem and seeing her at the distant podium and, much better, on a large screen, was awe-inspiring, just because she’s such an icon for the women’s movement and because we remember all the risk she took, all the barriers she broke down. I was fascinated by her hands—extremely long, thin fingers which she used in a most expressive manner. She tailored her speech a bit to Texas, giving a nod to Sarah Weddington and Barbara Jordan and saying at one point she looked forward to coming back when we have a worthy successor to Ann Richards—who doesn’t wish for that day? She was witty and clever, but she didn’t say much new we hadn’t already heard.
Statistics about violence against women: since 9/11, more women in this country have been killed by their husbands than by the 9/11 attacks and the Afghan and Iraq wars combined—pretty appalling. She issued the usual warning that if women don’t have control over their own reproductive rights, we cease to be a democracy. Kind of comforting to think almost 500 people in this city, the only major Texas city to vote red in the last election, turned out to hear that message.
But Steinem lost me when she listed how having children limits a woman—in education and job opportunities, pay scale, health care, and other areas. I know a lot of women have experienced these limitations, and I feel fortunate that I have been blessedly free of them in the workplace, but at the same time I thought she was diminishing the role of motherhood and overlooking the tremendous benefits that come from raising children. I should know—my four look after me.
Today, while I was at the luncheon two of my chldren got all upset because my home alarm went off and they couldn’t find me—for more than two hours. My daughter and my tenant knew where I was, but nonetheless they alarmed the neighbors and the police came—there goes another $50 call for a false alarm. Still it’s nice to know they are so concerned.
As we walked into the hotel where the luncheon was held, a handful of protestors carryied signs saying, “Adoption, not Abortion,” and “No Taxpayer Dollars to Planned Parenthood.” I did manage to tell one that I was the mother of four adopted children, but I don’t think she got the point. It’s too bad these folks don’t recognize that women’s health care, not the dispensing of abortions, is that primary goal of that organization—mammography is a big part of it, providing health care to the indigent, picking up what the states, particularly Texas, won’t, providing counseling on birth control to avoid abortions. You’re right, Gloria, come back when we have a worthy success to Ann Richards.
January 29, 2013
A birthday tribute to my dad
Above is the MacBain Clan Crest, with the words "Touch not the cat but a targe (glove--be wary when dealing with MacBains) and the clan crest and a bit of the everyday plaid.My mother hooked the wall hanging; my oldest son and daughter-in-law put together the plaid-and-grey quilt with the crest in the center. Today is my dad's birthday. Richard Norman MacBain was born in 1897 in Ontario, the son of a minister in the church of England. He served in the British Army in WWI and then came to the States to study osteopathic medicine. Eventually he became president of his osteopathic college, administrator of the associated hospital and, during my early years, maintained a part-time private practice. He shaped me, and I took away many things from him.He was a Scot and proud of it, rarely mentioning that his mom was Irish. I too am a proud Scot, a member of Clan MacBain. Dad became interested in genealogy late in life, even visited the MacBain Memorial Garden outside Inverness. I've been there too and nearly wept at the Culloden Battlefield. Someday I'd love to write a novel incorporating Scottish history.
Dad's Anglophile tendencies led him to be proper and dignified, and he used to say you always used your best manners on your family. He was a stickler about table manners, and my brother and I have inherited that and put it into effect with our children and now the grandchildren. No elbows on the table, use the right utensil, don't butter your bread in the air (that one used to get me). But I truly appreciate good manners and a certain grace about dining, though I'm mostly given to casual entertaining. I didn't come away with his Anglophile food tastes--meat and potatoes (we ate a lot of lamb as I grew up and I loved it). Mom loved fish and seafood and when they visited Boston she'd drag him to seafood restaurant and then hide her face when he ordered roast beef.
I also got a strong work ethic from my father. He worked hard, believed in treating all people fairly and doing the best honest job he could. I went to work in his office at fourteen and by the time I moved away at twenty-one, I was his executive secretary (not a pc term today). I'd still make a damn good executive secretary. Before anyone thinks cushy job working for your father, you'd have to know Dad. He was harder on me than any other employee (except maybe my brother who briefly worked in maintenance), and he's the reason that I am today, in retirement, compulsively at work on lots of projects.
I can remember in the evenings that Mom and Dad sat in their chairs by the fireplace and read, each with a book, but they kept interrupting each other to read an irresistible passage aloud. They took turns reading the works of Will and Ariel Durant aloud. No wonder I have a houseful of books.
Like my dad, I am most comfortable if church is a regular part of my life--there have been periods I let it slip away, and I was sorry. Dad and I used to sing hymns, loudly and off key, and I love the hymns, the ritual of the Methodist or Christian church. On Sunday evenings, Dad would play the piano, and we'd sing together--sometimes Scottish songs, though his specialty was "Redwing" and I still hear that melody going through my head.
There are things I didn't take from Dad, one being his love of gardening. It was his avocation, and he spent weekends on his knees, in disreputable clothes, digging in the dirt. We owned the lot next to our house, and it was Dad's garden, beautiful to behold. Then in the summer evenings, he and Mom would sit out there and have a drink. Today I like a lovely garden, but I don't like doing the work...and these days my aging back won't let me.
There are of course facets to me that come from my mom and some that sprang up to surprise them and me. But so much of me is my dad come to life again--I even look like a MacBain. So, thanks, Dad,and Happy Birthday.
January 28, 2013
A clean slate...almost
It was a hectic weekend, even if I eventually didn't go to the rodeo or the stock show grounds. I still had a houseful with four extra adults and five extra children--which meant Jacob slept in my bed three nights out of four. By the last night I kind of got used to it and slept well, until he turned into a small-size octupus about five in the morning. Kids are by nature noisy, especially when you put five together, so there was never a dull moment. And then there were three dogs. Sophie got in their faces, wanting to play; Gracie, the big dog, growled and carried on though, out walking, she played with other dogs. Eddie, at ten lbs., sometimes was okay with Sophie and sometimes attacked--which was kind of funny since she weighs two and a half times what he does. She seemed unfazed by the rebuffs to her playful advances, but I was constantly shuffling dogs and locking doors so neither children nor dogs would go out unsupervised.
We had a good family breakfast Sunday--a sausage and cheese casserole (see Potluck with Judy, http://potluckwithjudy.blogspot.com), plus a potato casserole Christian had left from a breakfast meeting, and fresh biscuits. It was a chance to all sit around and visit, which we couldnt do the night before in a noisy restauraant. Soon after everyone began to pack up and by noon the house was peaceful and quiet.
Not sure what it is about suddenly having time, but it made me industrious. I did laundry and dishes, and then I dug into my tax organizer, wrote my thousand words, posted on Potluck with Judy,and found time to read. Did the same thing today, with time out for a pleasant lunch with a friend. We exchange a flowers of the month program for Christmas and then have a monthly lunch before getting our flowers. So I enjoyed tuna fish in an old church building and tonight I have lovely cut flowers on my dining table. I am on the home stretch of getting my taxes together, have 34,500 words on my novel, sent corrections off on my newsletter, and am about to go over once more my notes for the program I'm to do tomorrow at a local retirement community.
This afternoon, it was back to first-grade homework with a reluctant scholar who claimed he was too tired because of "the allergies." We whizzed through math but muddled through his reading--I made him read it three times, because he still stumbled over words. Then we did the spelling, and he had a hard time recognizing the words, which led me to say if you can't pronounce them, you won't recognize them when the teacher reads them and you won't spell them correctly. Somehow at the end of the week, he aces the spelling test, but I always despair on the first day of a new list. We didn't even touch what he had to write about the book he read. After he left, I did a nice, relaxing yoga routine--don't know if it's tree or dancer or what, but I sure can't do the one where you stand on one foot and put the other foot on your opposite knee. Good thing I keep a chair there to hang on to.
The other day my neighbor said to me, "You don't have anything you have to do." I countered with the fact that I have a desk piled high with work to be done, and he said, "Those are things you choose to do." He's right, but I am so glad I choose to write, to blog, to read, to give the occasional program though it makes me nervous, to lunch and dine with friends. I even choose to do yoga, because I feel some sense of accomplishment at some of the poses I can do and I'm afraid of the consequences of inactivity. (I don't think tax organizers are a choice.) And I also choose to get Jacob every afternoon and do homework with him. I have chosen to build myself an entirely new life and career after retirement, and I couldn't be happier.
Do I miss the zoo and confusion of the weekend? Of course, but I'll see them all again soon.
If you'd like to be on the mailing list for my "only occasional" newsletter, please email me at j.alter@tcu.edu. Be sure to include your email address, please.
We had a good family breakfast Sunday--a sausage and cheese casserole (see Potluck with Judy, http://potluckwithjudy.blogspot.com), plus a potato casserole Christian had left from a breakfast meeting, and fresh biscuits. It was a chance to all sit around and visit, which we couldnt do the night before in a noisy restauraant. Soon after everyone began to pack up and by noon the house was peaceful and quiet.
Not sure what it is about suddenly having time, but it made me industrious. I did laundry and dishes, and then I dug into my tax organizer, wrote my thousand words, posted on Potluck with Judy,and found time to read. Did the same thing today, with time out for a pleasant lunch with a friend. We exchange a flowers of the month program for Christmas and then have a monthly lunch before getting our flowers. So I enjoyed tuna fish in an old church building and tonight I have lovely cut flowers on my dining table. I am on the home stretch of getting my taxes together, have 34,500 words on my novel, sent corrections off on my newsletter, and am about to go over once more my notes for the program I'm to do tomorrow at a local retirement community.
This afternoon, it was back to first-grade homework with a reluctant scholar who claimed he was too tired because of "the allergies." We whizzed through math but muddled through his reading--I made him read it three times, because he still stumbled over words. Then we did the spelling, and he had a hard time recognizing the words, which led me to say if you can't pronounce them, you won't recognize them when the teacher reads them and you won't spell them correctly. Somehow at the end of the week, he aces the spelling test, but I always despair on the first day of a new list. We didn't even touch what he had to write about the book he read. After he left, I did a nice, relaxing yoga routine--don't know if it's tree or dancer or what, but I sure can't do the one where you stand on one foot and put the other foot on your opposite knee. Good thing I keep a chair there to hang on to.
The other day my neighbor said to me, "You don't have anything you have to do." I countered with the fact that I have a desk piled high with work to be done, and he said, "Those are things you choose to do." He's right, but I am so glad I choose to write, to blog, to read, to give the occasional program though it makes me nervous, to lunch and dine with friends. I even choose to do yoga, because I feel some sense of accomplishment at some of the poses I can do and I'm afraid of the consequences of inactivity. (I don't think tax organizers are a choice.) And I also choose to get Jacob every afternoon and do homework with him. I have chosen to build myself an entirely new life and career after retirement, and I couldn't be happier.
Do I miss the zoo and confusion of the weekend? Of course, but I'll see them all again soon.
If you'd like to be on the mailing list for my "only occasional" newsletter, please email me at j.alter@tcu.edu. Be sure to include your email address, please.
January 26, 2013
It's all about the children
Grandkids on my bed and spellbound by Uncle Jamie's magic. The Fort Worth Stock Show is a grand occasion for my grandchildren, now a family tradition. They laughed and repeated stories last night about the bull riding, the monkey that rode a dog, and other wonders of the rodeo. Today was Stock Show day—wander the barns, the exhibits, and the Midway. I think I may have just taken one more step down the path to being elderly, but I had an epiphany in the middle of the night: I didn’t want to go; I wanted to stay home, in the quiet, get some work done, have a nap, and enjoy those two darling little dogs. There were immediate questions: Are you feeling alright? Yes, thank you, I’m feeling fine, but I’ve noticed of late that my idea of what I want to do has changed, and my main memories of the last two years “doing” the stock show are very sore feet and being parked various places to read while the kids went off to games and so on. I can read at home and my feet won’t hurt. And I suspect they’ll all have more fun without worrying if the “old lady” in the bunch is okay and having a good time. They came home, again full of tales, in time for happy hour, for which Jordan joined us briefly, and then we were off to dinner at Joe T.’s (Texans know the huge, sprawling restaurant with its set menu, either, “the dinner” or fajitas, is the classic place to go). Some say you go for the atmosphere, because the food isn’t all that great. It’s certainly not the best Mexican haute cuisine but I’ve always liked it—had my first-ever taste of Mexican food there almost fifty years ago. Tonight, all I could do was look around and enjoy that my family was around me. The crowds waiting in line were incredible, and inside it’s way too noisy. I couldn’t hear what anyone said. I tried reading lips, especially Megan’s because she is really expressive with her mouth and I’m reading a mystery about a deaf detective who reads lips—didn’t work for me but I guess I need practice. Yes, the food was good but I ate much less than usual (yay for me!) until we ordered sopapillas and then I almost ate the whole thing. So sticky, so sweet, all the things I don’t ordinarily want—but I loved them. Generational change. I always used to be the first to go to bed. Now at ten, everyone’s asleep except Jacob and me (he won’t go to bed until I do). Jacob’s cousins were most jealous—“How late does he get to stay up?” I promised to go to bed soon, so off I go. Tomorrow, a big family breakfast with a casserole and biscuits for the adults, waffles for the children if they want them. And then they’ll all be off in various directions, and Sophie and I will be left to our routine. I will be sad and lonely, but omigosh! Do I have a busy week ahead!
January 25, 2013
Chaos
My house is quiet right now, althugh a certain dog tension lingers in the air. I have as guests four extra adults, four extra children (plus Jacob), and two extra dogs. My house is honestly not that big. The dogs are the big problem: Megan's dog, mostly mini poo, is docile, loving and goes with the flow. Sophie is out of her mind with excitement over people and dogs, wants to play with everyone and jump all over them (Megan made the mistake of sitting on the floor and was floored by Sophie jumping on her--I explained that if you're on the floor, you're fair game). Colin's new dog, Gracie (Sofia Grace when she's in trouble) is the big problem. A large German shepherd mix that had a litter when she was put in the shelter, growled, snapped and acted like she wanted to eat Sophie alive; pretty soon she decided Eddie was just as bad. So now, oh peace, she is crated, Sophie is fed and outside, and Eddie is wandering around.
Everyone has gone to the rodeo, and I pray it's a long one, so I can do some of the stuff I had in mind to do tonight, like write my thousand words and make a meatloaf to stick in the freezer. When they are here, much as I love them, they all talk at once, and I have to either yell over them to announce I have something to say or corner the one I need to talk to. But we had a few pleasant, fairly quiet moments in front of the fireplace.
I had all kinds of sandwich makings so they could snack--they ate chips and salsa, and a little bit of cheese ball. Only Colin ate a sandwich, so I foresee a lot of lunch meat in my future. The two grown girls, after dressing their children warmly, left for the rodeo in clothes that were more cowgirl glitzy than warm--and it's cold tonight.
In spite of all that, I am of course delighted to have them home, sorry my youngest son and his family will only be here for the day tomorrow, heartbroken for Jordan who is still in bed with the flu and now feeling well enough to be bored out of her gourd. They are all lovely adults, as glad to see me as I am to see them, and the chldren are a delight. My oldest grandson is the one who greets me with big kisses, but he's also the one who cannot keep his hands off things--the pens on my desk would make great projectiles (I didn't ask what he intended to project), the paper clips fascinate him, an empty decorative jar has to be opened and closed several times. When I explained that my desk is strictly off limits, he said, "But there are so many interesting things with so many possibilities." I'm used to Jacob who sees a pen as something that requires a blank piece of paper (usually a discarded piece with typing on the other side). Tomorrow my two oldest granddaughters will arrive but for now Morgan is the only girl--she does a credible job of holding her own. They all want to be in and out of doors, and no amount of warning them Sophie will bolt does any good so now I look the doors and hide the keys. Sort of like a fortress.
No doubt, Jacob will want to spend the night with his cousins, and no doubt, since we're short on sleeping space, he'll end up in my bed. But I'll do that just to have as much of my family as possible under my roof. It's a delightful feeling to know when I go to sleep my children and grandchildren are nearby.
I confess in a weak moment I called Jordan and offered to trade her sickbed for my place, but I didn't really mean it. And she knew it. She's really tired of watching old movies.
Everyone has gone to the rodeo, and I pray it's a long one, so I can do some of the stuff I had in mind to do tonight, like write my thousand words and make a meatloaf to stick in the freezer. When they are here, much as I love them, they all talk at once, and I have to either yell over them to announce I have something to say or corner the one I need to talk to. But we had a few pleasant, fairly quiet moments in front of the fireplace.
I had all kinds of sandwich makings so they could snack--they ate chips and salsa, and a little bit of cheese ball. Only Colin ate a sandwich, so I foresee a lot of lunch meat in my future. The two grown girls, after dressing their children warmly, left for the rodeo in clothes that were more cowgirl glitzy than warm--and it's cold tonight.
In spite of all that, I am of course delighted to have them home, sorry my youngest son and his family will only be here for the day tomorrow, heartbroken for Jordan who is still in bed with the flu and now feeling well enough to be bored out of her gourd. They are all lovely adults, as glad to see me as I am to see them, and the chldren are a delight. My oldest grandson is the one who greets me with big kisses, but he's also the one who cannot keep his hands off things--the pens on my desk would make great projectiles (I didn't ask what he intended to project), the paper clips fascinate him, an empty decorative jar has to be opened and closed several times. When I explained that my desk is strictly off limits, he said, "But there are so many interesting things with so many possibilities." I'm used to Jacob who sees a pen as something that requires a blank piece of paper (usually a discarded piece with typing on the other side). Tomorrow my two oldest granddaughters will arrive but for now Morgan is the only girl--she does a credible job of holding her own. They all want to be in and out of doors, and no amount of warning them Sophie will bolt does any good so now I look the doors and hide the keys. Sort of like a fortress.
No doubt, Jacob will want to spend the night with his cousins, and no doubt, since we're short on sleeping space, he'll end up in my bed. But I'll do that just to have as much of my family as possible under my roof. It's a delightful feeling to know when I go to sleep my children and grandchildren are nearby.
I confess in a weak moment I called Jordan and offered to trade her sickbed for my place, but I didn't really mean it. And she knew it. She's really tired of watching old movies.
January 24, 2013
Where did this fear come from?
For at lest three years, Jacob, now six and a half, has been sleeping in the family room at my house, two rooms away from my bedrom. Never been a problem. Oh, once he mentioned that he has nightmares back there, and I asked why he didn't come get me. He was vague, and I suspect he fell back asleep before he could get up and walk to my room. I long ago stopped using the monitor, though I admit my hearing is not good and without hearing aids and he'll have to yell to get my attention (he does that successfully when he wants food or drink or the TV is broken).
But last night, night-time fear became a big problem. He said he was afraid and he thought he should sleep with me. I decided to humor him this one time and told him to go get in my bed, but no, he wanted to wait for me to go to bed. My explanation that I would be up over two hours past his school-night bedtime fell on deaf ears. He wanted to sleep on the comfy chair in my office--I said no because he'd be staring right at me and at the light; then he chose the floor, but I had to nix that because all he did was play with the dog; then it was the living room couch--but what he really did was to peek out the glass front door and announce that a man walked by and two cars drove by slowly. I assured him we were safe, but he asked what if they were bad guys with guns. It doesn't occur to him that bad guys with guns are unlikely to be interested in us.
He did have one clever ploy: "I just wanted to be with you, because I love you, but if that's not what you want, that's fine with me!" He stalked off but returned in two minutes.
Long story short, I went to bed early, slept fitfully, although he was better than he sometimes is--I don't really recall getting punched, and I only had to shove him over twice. But as a way of life, it won't do.
It's not unusual for children up to six to develop uncontrollable fears, but he's at the age where they usually outgrow them. I suspect someone, perhaps at school, has been filling him with scary stories. Almost all his cousins will be sleeping at my house this weekend, and I know he'll want to be here. Praise be, his mom offered a blow-up mattress for him. Wonderful idea. He will not, of course, want his cousins, ranging from eight to five, to know that he's afraid. We'll see how it works out.
But the deeper problem remains--how do we gently urge him over these fears without making him feel silly.
But last night, night-time fear became a big problem. He said he was afraid and he thought he should sleep with me. I decided to humor him this one time and told him to go get in my bed, but no, he wanted to wait for me to go to bed. My explanation that I would be up over two hours past his school-night bedtime fell on deaf ears. He wanted to sleep on the comfy chair in my office--I said no because he'd be staring right at me and at the light; then he chose the floor, but I had to nix that because all he did was play with the dog; then it was the living room couch--but what he really did was to peek out the glass front door and announce that a man walked by and two cars drove by slowly. I assured him we were safe, but he asked what if they were bad guys with guns. It doesn't occur to him that bad guys with guns are unlikely to be interested in us.
He did have one clever ploy: "I just wanted to be with you, because I love you, but if that's not what you want, that's fine with me!" He stalked off but returned in two minutes.
Long story short, I went to bed early, slept fitfully, although he was better than he sometimes is--I don't really recall getting punched, and I only had to shove him over twice. But as a way of life, it won't do.
It's not unusual for children up to six to develop uncontrollable fears, but he's at the age where they usually outgrow them. I suspect someone, perhaps at school, has been filling him with scary stories. Almost all his cousins will be sleeping at my house this weekend, and I know he'll want to be here. Praise be, his mom offered a blow-up mattress for him. Wonderful idea. He will not, of course, want his cousins, ranging from eight to five, to know that he's afraid. We'll see how it works out.
But the deeper problem remains--how do we gently urge him over these fears without making him feel silly.
