Sleep Deprived but Cozy

31 Oct 2010 2 Comments

by Ingies in Stories about the boy, Stories about the girl

So this is what the master bedroom bed at my house looked like one night last week.

Aren’t they cute and cozy? (Cozy is the operative word when you share a bed with two children, a dog and a cat.)

But besides that . . . what does this picture tell you?

I mean, other than the obvious . . . which is, “Good grief woman when are you going to get rid of that pink countrified cat comforter your mother bought in 1988 for her spare bedroom and get a real grown up bedspread?”

And maybe give the Winnie the Pooh pillowcase to your kids while you are at it. (You get an extra 10 points if you can identify it in the picture.)

So other than those little tidbits what else does this picture tell you? Take another look . . .

Yup . . . it clearly says, “Daddy’s out.”

Sleep deprived but cozy,
D

Our Reader

13 Oct 2010 4 Comments

by Ingies in Stories about the girl Tags: ,

Dear Roo,

This is one of my favorite pictures of you. Nearly every day you spend time in this chair by the window reading.

I love that you love to read.

I love that you read cereal boxes, newpapers, fliers, road signs and even the tags on your clothes.

I love that you love to read aloud to me at night.

Reading is a part of who you are . . .

Such a part that we even had your portrait taken with a book somewhere along the way . . .

I vividly remember lying next to you on your mattress when you were just months old. (You slept on a twin mattress on the floor as an infant.) You were not yet able to roll over so you lay on your back staring at me as I read Margaret Wise Brown’s Runaway Bunny. I can so clearly recall your sweet little face and alert blue eyes.

I knew your relationship with books was special when you were ten months old. I was cleaning the kitchen and was stricken with the momentary panic that comes over a mother when they suddenly realize they don’t know where their child is.

I found you sitting in the book basket in your room studying your board books. You took to parking yourself there regularly for up to half an hour at a time.

I think your fate was sealed when I got pregnant with your little brother. Between the nausea and exhaustion all I could do with you for five weeks was lie on the couch and read books. I put up baby gates and child-proofed the living room because sometimes I just could not keep my eyes open. We made it through those weeks by reading dozens of books a day. You especially liked Sandra Boynton’s BlueHat, Green Hat and Laura Numeroff’s If You Give a Moose a Muffin. Except we had to skip the “Boo!” page because it scared you.

You really were not, however, particularly picky about what we read.

Shortly before you turned two you started “reading” books out loud to yourself. Using something resembling English and in your insanely high-pitched little voice you would rattle off the entire story as you remembered it.

By the time you were three you were learning your letters and by four you were starting to spell. Remember when I had to ask you how to spell “story” when you were in first grade? I’m forever trying to put an ‘e’ in that word.

You would always read anything within reach . . . or eyesight.

And still do . . . which is why I have to check my email when you are in the other room now.

Words and language and books are your gifts, Roo.

It’s a beautiful thing.

And it doesn’t hurt my feelings that you help me justify my book habit.

I love you to your bones, girl-child, to your bones.

Mamma

Family Expansion

19 Sep 2010 3 Comments

by Ingies in Stories about the boy, Stories about the girl Tags: ,

We have big news people.

I mean really, really big news.

This isn’t the most personal way to tell you all about this – but it allows us to announce it one time . . .

We’re still adjusting ourselves . . .

You know how this is going to end but being who I am I have to tell you the entire story. All details . . . those relevant . . . and not . . . have to be included.

Here is how it happened . . .

It started after Mom and I dropped my sweet little nephew D off at the airport so he could fly back to Fairbanks to be with his wife, daughter and grandchildren.

(Don’t spend too much time trying to figure that one out.)

Mom and I were supposed to go look at fabric for pillows.

We wound up here instead.

Not the police station!  . . . the other place. (Although it probably would have been a pretty good story if we had wound up at the police station.)

I’ve wanted another dog for a while now. . . so we stopped at Animal Control so I could do some research. Who stops at an animal shelter to do research? Only people who really want to bring home an animal that’s who.

We did, however, manage to leave empty-handed . . .

Only because it was time to retrieve kidlets from the government institution at which they are receiving their education . . .

and not before an “I’m in the process of being adopted” sign was posted on a certain kennel.

I picked up the kids and told them I had the biggest surprise of their lives for them after Roo’s piano lesson . . . and after chores were done.

I’ve never seen chores get done so fast.

While Roo was finishing her lesson I did call the man whose salary pays the mortgage on this house to run the whole thing by him. Our conversation went like this:

Me: “Hi, honey . . . how would you feel if there were a new member of the family when you got home from work today?”

Husband (nearly jumping through the phone – and not with joy): “Did you get another dog?!!!!?!?”

Me: “Me? Noooo . . . a seven month old gray and white kitty whose name is Jessie.”

Husband (suddenly totally calm): “Oh. That’s fine.”

There you have it.

If I ever want to rile up my husband I just have to tell him we I have adopted another dog.

This could . . . maybe . . . possibly . . .  have something to do with my last visit to Animal Control. I had to go look at an owner surrendered dog a friend told us about. I brought her home because she was just too good a dog to leave at the pound. Never mind the fact that we already had two canine companions and I was still grieving the loss of our third. I promised my husband I would find the dog a new home. That was in 2001. She still lives with us.

After the piano lesson Grammie, the kids and I piled in the car and went back to Animal Control.

And I lied to my children.

“I just need to go in this place and take some pictures for a project and if you two are REALLY, REALLY good I’ll let you come in and look at the animals before we get your surprise.”

Surprises sometimes require lying. It’s one of those shades of gray areas that make parenting a little tricky.

“We tell the truth, honey, except when it suits Mamma.”

I went in, filled out the paperwork and paid the fees.

And took a few pictures so I wasn’t being entirely dishonest.

And then let the kids come in as promised.

They checked out this . . .

and this . . .

and this . . .

This last picture is of a gerbil. G made me take the picture. He thought it was a hamster. It’s one of his obsessions.

I apologize for the poor photo quality. Nocturnal creatures generally don’t book photo shoots that early in the evening.

We started to cruise the dog area but it was entirely too noisy for Roo.

“Let’s check out the cattery. It’s quieter in there,” says I.

The children looked.

 The children admired.

G talked to a cat who talked back.

Roo asked, for the 3,452nd time  since she was four, “When can we have a cat?”

“Maybe they will let you hold one,” said I.

The kennel tech freed a cat from her cage.

It just happened to be the one for which I had spent the previous half-hour filling out paperwork.

The kids were careful and serious.

They pet the cat gently.

Roo asked, for the 3,453rd time, “When can we have a cat?”

“What if we take this one home?” asked I.

“Really?”

She didn’t believe me.

“Yes. What if we take this one home?”

Happy, happy  boy. 

Roo looked at Grammie to confirm that I was indeed telling the truth. She was so shocked she forgot to jump around and do cartwheels. I’ve never seen her so surprised she actually quit moving.

Even while we waited for the tech to put the cat in the box and bring her out to us Roo just stood in the lobby with a silly smile on her face repeating, over and over and over, “I can’t believe we got a cat.”

G smiled and giggled a lot.

The cat has adjusted well to her new abode. She ran around investigating everything immediately after being sprung from the box in which she came home. There was no hiding under the bed for this little one.

She did have a few stressful moments.

They might have had something to do with this . . .

Those two will need to work on their relationship. Burton thinks we brought her home a new playmate. The new playmate isn’t so interested in playing.

For the record, this was ok’d by Grammie who is allergic and does spend a lot of time at our house.

So now we have a cat.

And Riley no longer has to say to everyone, “When Uncle J and Grammie die then I can have a cat.” (If we had known then what we know now she could have added Uncle D’s name to that list.)

All of our cat-allergic relatives are very much alive.

We now keep allergy meds at the house.

And we have a cat who has no name . . . because we couldn’t stick with Jessie and can’t decide what to call her. So she gets called Cat a lot.

Surely we can do better than that.

I’ll let you all know if Cat ever gets a real name,
D

Hode a’Moon

05 Sep 2010 Leave a comment

by Ingies in Stories about the girl

Several weeks ago I was cleaning out the documents folder on my computer and I found a file called “Hode a’Moon.” It was a conversation I documented between Roo and I when she was two. The conversation took place on the third anniversary – nearly to the hour – of the day we found out Roo was taking up real estate in my uterus. This picture was taken the day after our little chat.

This was her “wrinkle the nose during picture taking” phase.

G was still working on getting his 5 1/2 month old twenty pound body to sit up.

Two things to keep in mind as you read . . . 1) we don’t see the moon much in the summer in Anchorage; 2) at the time this conversation took place Roo still referred to herself in the third person.

August 27, 2005 . . . 9:45 a.m. . . . playground

G was in the stroller. I was pushing Roo on the swing. Roo pointed toward the sky and asked, “Wha’tdat?”

“What’s what?” I asked.

Roo, pointing, “Wha’tdat?”

Mama, looking around confused, “What?”

Roo, still patiently pointing, “Wha’tdat?”

Mama, with surprise, “Oh! That’s the moon!”

“Hode it,” said Roo.

Mama, with regret, “Oh, honey . . . we don’t get to hold the moon.”

Roo, quite positive and patiend, “Hode it. Want Mommy to pick you up and show you.”

“Picking you up isn’t going to get you much closer to the moon, Roo Roo.”

“Get’da stool.”

“That will take a very big stool.”

“Rye-ee get a bigger stool.”

“I’m sorry honey . . . we just get to look at the moon.”

(Long, long pause.)

“When . . . when . . . Daddy . . . when Daddy get back he . . . he gi’tit and pud’it in you hand.”

Oh, Sweetness.

Can I tell you how grateful I am that I wrote this down? They say your memories are part of you forever even if you can’t access them. This is one I want to pull out and savor and look at and turn ’round and ’round for the rest of my life.

And she’s off . . .

18 Aug 2010 3 Comments

by Ingies in Stories about the girl Tags:

to school.

Sigh.

A new school.

A new grade.

A new educational model.

And she loves it.

Whew.

After nearly being late for her first day of school – due to her mother’s inability to pass by any stray dog without attempting to find the owner – and being rushed right in the door last in line . . . her day was spectacular.

The sun was even shining . . . which is worth noting because we have had 33 consecutive days of rain.

Upon arrival home she immediately began planning her outfit for the second day of school.

Afterwards we spent a full half an hour in the backyard – her swinging and me sitting in a lawn chair attempting to restore my vitamin d level – discussing the events of the day.

I heard about the smart board, her very own desk, sharing scissors, the up and down project, the names of all of her new friends, her now favorite teacher’s dress, the word search, being the very first kid to be called on . . . not able to tumble all of her thoughts out fast enough she finally just stopped, looked at me and said, “I have so much to tell you.”

I pray she is always so forthcoming with information.

Again this evening at bedtime she shared more . . .  I heard about the teacher’s microphone, taking attendance, the eraser bucket, the teacher’s personal workspace, the math books they forgot to look at, the water fountain, lunch, recess . . .

and as I write she is lying in bed with her head spinning.

Full of happy thoughts.

Amen.

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