Just another ordinary miracle today

I heard something Tuesday night I thought I’d never hear again: my grandmother’s voice.

It’s been a long couple of weeks. On July 2nd my dad told me that Nanny had had a heart attack and was near death. All the way to the hospital, I was haunted by the memory of our last conversation.

Nanny and I talk all the time, at least once a week, but that day I laughed and begged off right after we started talking. The Sprog was acting wild and Baby Girl started howling, and I couldn’t hear myself think, much less talk on the phone. So I told Nanny I’d call her back later, and she said she reckoned she’d go run some errands. And then we hung up, so casually, like we’d always have another chance to talk. And then two days later she almost died.

For the next week, we all lived in the hospital waiting room. I watched my grandfather, uncle and dad sitting three abreast like grave judges, waiting for visiting hours again so they could go in and just hold Nanny’s limp hand. I stopped going as much because the Sprog started getting really upset—he wanted to see his Nanny, and he didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed. Frankly, even if the rules hadn’t forbade it, I wouldn’t have allowed him in anyway. Nanny was sedated, had tubes coming out all over her; she hardly looked like herself at all, and I didn’t want to scare him.

I was in Frankfort last week for professional development, but the whole time all I could think about was how I much I’d rather be at the hospital, even if it just meant sitting in the waiting room and knitting.

And by the way, if you want a good gauge of my stress, you could probably measure it in terms of compulsive crafting: I made three iPod cozies in under a week because I just couldn’t just sit there with nothing to do but worry. The first day when Nanny was in the hospital, I couldn’t get back home to fetch my stuff, so I stopped by the Rite Aid next to the hospital and bought a huge pair of aluminum knitting needles and a clothesline. That’s right, I knitted a clothesline. Within two hours, I had finished the better part of a utility basket (I think I’ll put my gardening tools in it). I still have no idea why they sell knitting needles but no yarn, but whatever: at least my hands were busy.

Nothing much worked to keep my mind busy, though. Nanny kept getting worse, and it was all I could think about. Finally, last Sunday she began a sharp (and inexplicable) turn for the better. My mother called me on Tuesday and said Nanny was talking a little. That night I flew from the newsroom as soon as I could and went to see Nanny. She was still weak, still swallowed up in all the tubes and pillows and monitors, but her eyes were open. Her words crackled like tissue paper in the air.

“Nanny, it does my heart good to hear your voice.”

“Does my heart good…to know I have a heart that works.”

I brushed her thin cloud of hair, fed her water on a sponge, and we chatted like old times. This time, I didn’t beg off early. This time, I made sure to kiss her bruised cheek and tell her I loved her very, very much. I didn’t think it would be the last time we talked—after all, she was doing so much better—but a little extra love and appreciation never hurts, does it?

One last word: I just want to thank you all for your sweet comments and emails, phone calls and prayers, offers of chocolate and babysitting. You’ve no idea how much that has meant to me. And thanks for sticking around while I was too freaked-out to blog about other stuff. I’ve been wanting to blog about so many things, but I knew I needed to write about this first, and I just wasn’t ready to do that yet. But now I’ve gotten that out of my system, so on Monday we will return to your regularly scheduled Mother Tongue. Um, I’m still just a bit emotional, though…so I won’t turn up my nose at any chocolate that mysteriously appears on my desk, ifyaknowwhattimean. [Okay, my editor might have a problem with it, but whatever. Ethics, shmethics.]

No witty title, just panic

My grandmother is being airlifted to St. Joseph Hospital right now. Something is really wrong with her, but I don’t know what, exactly. I heard “septic”, “heart attack” and “blood sugar through the roof”, but none of it really means anything to me right now. I try to think about what it means and my brain puts up flashing road blocks. Warning. Detour. I am not ready for this. She’s an amazing lady, but I don’t want to tell you all about her because I’m afraid it’ll sound like I’m eulogizing her. I am not ready for that either. I’m on my way to the hospital. I am calm on the outside, but there’s a ten-car pileup on the inside.

Update: Nanny is in stable condition, but on a ventilator and sedated. They have her in soft restraints so she doesn’t pull her tubes out when she wakes up. They’re still trying to figure out what happened to her, will know more tomorrow. I hate this so much.

Hoping to find the soul of wit

So help me, I am going to do something violent to my keyboard if this stupid Twitter widget doesn’t start working soon.

At any rate, if anyone is interested, I now have a Twitter feed right here. I’m having fun exploring the new medium, would love to find some other Twitter feeds to follow.

I, weenie.

This is absolutely absurd. I am 29 years old. I am reputed to be somewhat intelligent. I know, logically speaking, that I have nothing to be afraid of. But the primordial lizard brain way deep down inside me is telling me that there is of course something to be afraid of.

Which brings me to where I am right now: I’m done with work, but I’m terrified to go home because I know that the tiny little garden spider who lives in our hedge will have built a huge web right across the front steps. I swear, that spider isn’t even the size of a dime, but it spins a mighty web. If I run into that web, lizard brain is telling me that I will DIE, and that it will HURT, and that the bitty baby spider will instantly morph into a giant, slavering Shelob as it skitters toward me on sticky threads of doom.

I wonder if they’ll let me sleep under my desk.

Update: Right after I posted this entry, my husband called me to see when I was coming home. I told him I was on my way, and asked him to please do me a favor and make sure the front-porch was spider-free. He sighed, laughed, and agreed. We hung up and I drove home. As I walked up to the front porch, I stopped by habit and checked to see if there were any spider webs.

Oh boy, were there spider webs. There was, in fact, a huge web strung right between the two hedges that flank the porch. And right in the middle of that web were not one, but two garden spiders merrily going about their business.

I will deal with puke, poop, snakes, rats, bats, bugs, you name it. But there are some things I just cannot bring myself to fool with, and a giant spider web on my front porch is one of them, full stop, end of discussion.

Going in the back door was problematic since it was likely to be even more spider-infested than the front. So I sat right down on the sidewalk, pulled out my cell phone, and called my husband back. It took two tries to get him to pick up.

Him: Hello?!?!

Me: Hi honey. Soooo…you told me that you just napalmed the front porch.

Him: I did!

Me: You missed a spot. There’s a huge spider web right across the bushes and I am not going near that thing. Will you please bring me the broom?

Him: Do I have to? I’m trying to sleep! Just knock it away with your newspaper.

Me: I will not go near it, sorry. I would rather sleep in the car than try to get past that web.

I heard the phone crackle and some stomping just before the phone went dead. Then, a few seconds later, there he was, holding the broom and illuminated in the porch light like the patron saint of street hockey. My hero.

He gave the stairs and shrubs a few good whacks, then trudged back into the house, shaking his head and muttering about irrational fears and silly phobias.

Me: Okay, fine. You go learn to swim and then we’ll talk.

Him: Touché.

IKEA is for kids

I have a confession to make: Instead of going to church this past Sunday, I DVR’ed the Southland Hour and went on a pilgrimage to worship the Norse god of retail at its temple in Cincinnati.

That is to say, I went to IKEA and shopped my little heart out.

In my defense, the trip was my friend Raviya’s suggestion, and I hadn’t seen her since she got back from a six-week stint in Iraq. And I want to kind of sort of brag about how, when I picked her up in the Herald-Leader parking lot, I managed not to throw my arms around her and cry like a homesick camper. Barely.

Anyway, we had a great time. The crowds weren’t nearly so thick as they were opening weekend, so I noticed quite a few things I didn’t see the first time around. The biggest thing I saw was how unbelievably family-friendly the whole place was. It was hands-down the most kid-hospitable big box store I’ve ever been to. Very smart decision on their part, too: women control 85% of household spending, so a store that offers inexpensive, stylish goods and makes shopping with kids tolerable is going to do very, very well. Just how kid-friendly is IKEA? Let me count the ways:

–The best parking in the lot is for families with small children and expectant mothers, and thoughtfully located so that you and the kids don’t have to cross any roadways to get to the store.

–They have a free daycare called Småland so you can drop off your kids and go shop for a while. It’s open to potty-trained children between 37″ - 54″ tall, and there’s a time limit–I think it’s 45 minutes on the weekend and 90 minutes on the weekdays, but I’m not 100% sure. An employee told me that parents can use Småland once per day and that the daycare workers all know CPR and first aid, and must undergo heavy background checks. The child-teacher ratio is 10:1, which is pretty standard for 3-year-olds.

–The women’s bathrooms have changing tables, Diaper Champs, and free Huggies. I’m not sure what size, though. Looked like 3’s, maybe? There’s also a very low sink there for little kids to wash their hands. There isn’t a low potty (like the kind you see in daycares), but some of the bathrooms have stepping stools. One or two of the stalls have those wall-mounted high-chairs so you can strap a baby in and go to the toilet without worrying about your kidlet wallowing around on the bathroom floor.

–There are also family restrooms available for parents with opposite sex kids, and a baby care room with a toilet, low sink, and a big comfy arm chair with pillows for nursing.

–Sprinkled throughout the store are these things called “play towers”: waist-high triangular kiosks with little spinny, touchy, whirligig games and stuff on them. That way, the kids will hopefully leave the merchandise alone and not bug their parents about being bored. I cannot remember, but I think some of them might have had little TVs on them with cartoons.

–Right at the store entrance there is a bank of free wall lockers so you can stash your diaper bag and/or purse while you shop.

–The cafeteria has children’s meals for 99¢ or $1.99. The portions are generous and the meal includes a drink. You can also buy jarred Nature’s Goodness baby food in the cafeteria line for 79¢.

–There’s a children’s area in the cafeteria with tiny, brightly-colored tables and chairs, soft flooring, a huge flat-screen TV showing PBS-type cartoons, and more of the aforementioned whirligig toys set into the walls for when the kids are done.

–Right next to the children’s area, there’s an island where you can pick up chunky neon plastic plates and cutlery, booster seats, and napkins. And for the babies, there are high chairs, disposable bibs, a microwave, and two bottle warmers.

–One more thing about the cafeteria: It was Father’s Day when Raviya and I went, so they had opened up a separate section of the cafeteria with paper and art supplies on all the tables so kids could make a card for their dads. I just thought that was a nice touch–the cherry on the thoughtful, convenient sundae that is IKEA.

Their commitment to children goes farther than the shopper’s comfort, though: IKEA is committed to using materials that are responsibly harvested and free from hazardous materials, and they require that IKEA suppliers in other countries do not use child labor and provide humane working conditions for their employees. Furthermore, IKEA actively works with UNICEF and the WHO in different programs aimed at preventing child labor.

Now, put all that together: the convenience of shopping there, plus the outstanding corporate philosophy, and it’s easy to see why IKEA gets my shopping dollars every time I get half a chance to drive up there.

High heeled shoes for babies. For real.

[FADE IN] Two parents are standing over a crib, gazing fondly at the tiny baby who just fell asleep.

Mom: Aw, isn’t she just the sweetest thing you ever saw?

Dad: Well, of course. What a doll!

Mom: I am so smitten.

Dad: Me too, sweetie. Aren’t you glad we decided to have kids?

Mom: Mmhmm. [frowns]

Dad: What is it?

Mom: Oh, nothing, really.

Dad: No, tell me, honey. Please?

Mom: Well, it’s just that…I was just thinking that she just lacks style. A certain je ne sais quois, don’t you think?

Dad: Now that you mention it…

Mom: She rolls around all day playing happily in those frumpy little onesies and rompers, and poor girl, but they just don’t do a thing for her figure.

Dad: That, and the fuzzy bunny motif is just so five minutes ago.

Mom: Right! And you know how I’ve always wanted a daughter who looked kind of like Minnie Mouse…

Dad: And kind of like a hooker, right.

Mom: Well, I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and bought her these. [Pulls out a pair of hot pink satin Heelarious shoes]

Dad: Wait…are those what I think they are?

Mom: They sure are! Real high heeled shoes for babies. I got them in hot pink satin, black patent leather, and zebra skin!

Dad: Oh honey, they’re stunning! We can buy her a little black pleather mini skirt to go with them.

Mom: What a lovely idea! And I bet the baby barf will wipe right off that skirt. It’s such a relief to know that our tiny, innocent daughter will start out life looking great and with just the right idea about a woman’s priorities in life.

Dad: That’s right, darling. And when she turns eight we can go and buy a t-shirt that says “SKANK” in pink glitter for Daddy’s little princess.

Mom: That’s the spirit! With Heelarious shoes, I just know we’re starting her out on the right foot!

Both share a fond chuckle. [LIGHTS FADE]

(With credit to Fark.com for featuring the link to the very real Heelarious website.)

P.S. And to those of you poised to leave a comment about this is just a silly novelty item and I have no sense of humor, please know: I get that it’s essentially a gag gift. But I still think it’s a gag gift in unbelievably poor taste. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.

A moment of self doubt. More than usual, anyhow

A morose little thought just struck me. I was feeding Baby Girl a bottle this morning, and she was smiling adoringly at me as the early sun lit her hair afire. Even her eyelashes were neon. She cooed and patted my cheek, then snuggled down contentedly in my arms and tucked happily back into her bottle. She sighed and closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep as she suckled, perfectly warm, perfectly safe, perfectly secure.

Then I realized all once how much I mean to her, that I am truly the center of her whole world. She doesn’t care about my weight, or my crazy hair that badly needs a cut and color, or the bags under my eyes. She loves my body because it’s soft for cuddling. She loves my hair because she can bat at it and run her fingers wonderingly through it. She doesn’t see my dark circles because she’s only looking into my eyes and loving the attention and interaction she gets.

This should be a warming, empowering thought, but it isn’t because I can’t help but wonder what she’ll think of me a few years from now. The honeymoon is almost over with the Sprog. He has begun to turn a critical eye toward me, and I cringe at that. Every flaw I have comes back amplified by a thousand when I catch him looking at me thoughtfully.

I don’t lose sleep when I upset him because of a time-out or something, but I shrink in terror at the thought of disappointing him. How can I be someone’s role model when I screw up so much? Just about all I have going for me is my love for them. Reminds me of an old Oscar Wilde quote: “Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.”

Inside the mind of a 4-year-old boy

So what’s it like inside the mind of a 4-year-old boy? I’m not really sure, but after looking at my son’s first couple of journal entries, I think it’s a lot like that one time in college where I went to a party and ended up laying on the hood of someone’s Camaro with my friend Sarah, waving my fingers in front of my face and saying stuff like, “Duuuuude, fingers are weird. What if my hands existed in a parallel universe? Like, if their molecular structure was somehow duplicated and transported into another dimension? I wonder what they’d be doing right now. Wait, where are my shoes?”

Come to think of it, that’s still pretty much what it’s like inside my mind. But anyway: the Sprog. I wanted to get him into the habit of keeping a journal—it’ll make him a better writer later on and it’s a wonderful way to slow down after a busy day and reflect on what’s happened. It’s also incriminating evidence, just in case he ever grows up and tells his own children what a saint he was, and that Daddy would never have punched a wall because his Underoos didn’t match his t-shirt. So on Sunday I bought him a blank book (with a suitably cool cover) and explained to him what a journal was and how and why to use it. I said that, if he was interested in keeping a journal, he could tell me what he wanted to write in it, and I would do it for him until he was old enough to do it himself.

I also shamelessly told him that he could write exciting secrets in his journal and that nobody was allowed to look in there without his permission. Boy, that was just the ticket. The Sprog lit up like a Christmas tree on Red Bull and ran to get me a pen. The following journal entry is the result, exactly as he dictated it to me (I did ask him some open-ended questions to help him keep going when he seemed stuck); the only alterations I made were for name redactions. And he did, of course, give me permission to share it with you all. So read on and witness the dizzying majesty of my son’s mind.

June 8, 2008

We listened to sirens today. They were way way far away. They went out to Alumni and they went in a circle all around the city on New Circle Rd. We were at Arby’s when we heard the sirens. I’m not joking. When we were at Joseph-Beth we played, we got books, and we went through the Arby’s drive-through for drinks because it was a bunch of hot out there. At Joseph-Beth we went down the escalator. I liked it. We sat on the butterfly benches too. And we saw a big piggy bank hanging way up on the ceiling at Joseph-Beth with words on it for people who were riding on the escalator.

We bought a notebook we’re writing on, and Little House in the Big Woods, and Farmer Boy. Mommy read me some of Farmer Boy. It’s about the kid who grew up on the farm. He was tiny like a mouse**. I like the book. I want to buy it. I’m joking. We already bought it.

I broke my arm, Journal, ’cause I jumped off couch in [Baby Girl's] exersaucer. Then we went downstairs with a washcloth and an ice pack, then we turned and went downstairs and watched Noggin. It hurt and I cried. Then Mommy and Daddy came and we went to the hospital. Grandma and Papaw took [Baby Girl] to the hospital. The hospital exploded. I’m not joking. The doctor adopted me. Joking! I snuggled with Mommy and she was singing me a song. She was singing “You Are My Sunshine”. The doctors took a picture of my bones. They gave me a monkey. I’m liking the monkey. His name is Rite-Aid. The doctor put a cast on my arm and I’m eating popcorn.

I’m going to the doctor tomorrow to get a new cast. I want a yellow one. It’s not stickers—it’s really yellow. I want Mommy to draw Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker having a duel with Darth Vader on the cast. The End.

**Note: When I wrote this part, the Sprog touched my arm and said breathlessly, “Mama, make the words tiny like a mouse too! It’ll look cool!” Friends, this is what writers dream about when they want kids.

Oh, and by the way? We’ve been working on learning to write letters over the past few weeks, and the Sprog wrote his name all by himself for the first time this afternoon. I was so full of SQUEE that unicorns and confetti came out every time I opened my mouth today.

Homecoming from Hell

It is said that Roman generals, parading through the streets in their chariots after a military victory, would have a slave next to them whose job was to whisper “Remember, thou art mortal” in the general’s ear. It was supposed to remind the generals that all things are fleeting, including victory, honor, even life itself.

I need to find one of those slaves to follow my son around, because he clearly believes he will live forever.

We came back from vacation yesterday at around 6 p.m. Had a great time, tell you about it later. We got some burritos from Taco Bell and intended to eat dinner quickly at home, reinstall the car seats, then go pick up the kids from my parents’ house.

It was not to be. No more than a minute after we walked in the door, my mother called me and said that the Sprog had jumped off the couch while playing about 10 minutes ago and wouldn’t stop crying. She thought he might have sprained or even broken his arm.

So we put the booster seat in the car (no time for Baby Girl’s seat) and dashed to Mom and Dad’s house. Baby Girl was overjoyed to see us, but the Sprog was a pitiful sight. My husband took one look at his arm, picked him up, and put him in the car to take him to the ER. I asked Mom and Dad to keep Baby Girl with them, and away we went.

The wait was mercifully short, but the whole time we waited, the Sprog was only happy when he was in my lap with me singing “You Are My Sunshine” over and over. I think he was so stressed out and worn out and hurting, the only way he could deal with it was by totally shutting down. So I sang to him, and he dozed, drooling on my chest.

We got in to see the doctor pretty quickly, got him some X-rays, and discovered that he had snapped both of the bones in his forearm. Fantastic. Once he could talk coherently, he said that he had hit his arm on Baby Girl’s Exersaucer. So there’s one good thing—we could at least sue Graco and fetch a comfortable retirement since they were so clearly negligent in issuing a product that might cause my son’s arm to break. You know, that one time when he was doing something stupid and dangerous when my mother’s back was turned for a second? Totally Graco’s fault. *rolls eyes*

But I digress. Right after the X-rays, a beautiful angel appeared next to my son’s bedside and told us all it was going to be okay. Well, okay, it was the nurse with the codeine, but close enough. Oddly enough, the Sprog perked right up after he was loaded to the gills on smack. I thought he might fall asleep for good or something, but no, he was bright-eyed and bushy tailed: “What’s that beeping sound, Mama? Why is that baby crying? Is another mommy having a baby? RIGHT NOW? Can I see it? What’s the thing on my arm? What’s a sling? Can I see my X-ray pictures? THAT WOULD BE SO COOL.” Turns out my son is a chatty drunk.

Anyhow, we got him home by 10:30, after a marathon visit to the pharmacy to get his pain meds. He clung tight to the stuffed purple monkey they gave him in the ER, which he had named “Rite-Aid ‘Giant Monkey’ Walgreens”, after the two pharmacies we had had to visit in order to get his prescriptions filled. We call the monkey Wally for short.

Undressing him for bedtime was an ordeal, and I finally had to cut his t-shirt off of him. I foresee a lot of button-down short sleeve shirts in his future. That, or I could get that Roman slave to dress him. As long as he’s making himself useful and all.

Mrs. Chapman goes to Washington

Hear that? That’s the sound of our copy desk chief weeping over that incredibly hackneyed blog post title. And, hear that other noise? That’s me, trying very, very hard to care (sorry Brian). You know why? Because I’m going on vacation tomorrow. Oh yeah, baby.

Do you all have any idea how long it’s been since we went on vacation? I mean, we’ve gone on trips for weddings or to visit family, but the last time we went somewhere purely for its own sake and just to have fun was…um…well, our honeymoon. Seven years ago. It was a year after our wedding, and we drove down to New Orleans for a week of great beer, great food, great music, and great attractions. We love that city so much we very nearly named Baby Girl Nola (well, it would have been a better tribute than naming her Liza Jane, ’cause that girl is kind of sketchy).

So anyway, miracle of miracles, we managed to scrounge up the time and cash for a five-day foray to Washington, D.C. Not that there’s much cash involved: pretty much everything is free in D.C., we’re driving up there in the Prius (one tank of gas up, one tank back, $80. Bonus: no crappy biscotti and layover in Denver), and we’re staying with my brother’s mother-in-law. We’re hoping to do the whole trip for less than $300. Maybe $350 if you count all the guilt-ridden souvenirs I’ll probably buy for the Sprog.

He was morose about the vacation last night and clung to me at bedtime. “I don’t want you to go leave when it’s Wednesday, Mama,” he whispered into my shoulder. “Don’t go on vacation.” GUILT BOMB: TARGET ACQUIRED. So of course I promised to bring him back a bunch of loot if he kept a stiff upper lip. He brightened up instantly, and started begging for Speed Racer paraphernalia. I counter-offered with dinosaur stuff from the Natural History museum. He accepted, and has been excited about the trip ever since. I’m so glad we could come to detente on this.

So yes, the kids are staying at my parents’ house for the week (and let’s pour out a forty for them, bless their souls), so it’s just me and the hubby. Romantic? Oh yes. A week of free museum-hopping is hot, sweaty nerd fantasy right there. There’s so much to do in DC, I can’t imagine we’ll even get in half of the cool stuff on our itinerary. But we will go for the gold, and if they find us dead of exhaustion on a Red Line train after a marathon Smithsonian junket, well, just know we went out on a high note.

My $12,000 toaster

I swear, Mom, it just followed me home! But it’s so cute, and it’ll pay for itself, and, and…well, just look at it:

Isn’t it cute? It is totally cute. Especially the gas gauge. That is far and away the cutest part of the whole thing.

So, yeah, we bought a new car? SUV? wagon? vehicle on Tuesday. Our homely old 97 Jeep Cherokee wasn’t getting any younger, and it guzzles gas like a barfly swilling PBR. The only reason we kept it so long is that it’s paid for (no small thing), and it has the storage capacity to haul my husband’s drums. Finding a vehicle that’s gas efficient, fairly inexpensive, and able to haul Slingerlands was a pipe dream until a few weeks ago when I read up on Scion xB’s. Imagine my elation when I read that they get 30-35 mpg, have tons of storage space, and are not too expensive (for a newish car).

Some people are not so keen on the way they look—and let’s be honest, it looks like the love child of a Volvo and a Borg cube—but I don’t mind so much because I’m too busy nuzzling the gas gauge. My husband, on the other hand, loves the way it looks. When he first saw it, he was jumping around it and hooting like one of those chimps in 2001: A Space Odyssey when they first encounter the Very Unsettling Monolith.

Because they get such good gas mileage, they’re selling like crazy right now, but I was able to get a really good deal on mine. And I didn’t just get a good deal on any ordinary Scion, oh no (inserting tongue into cheek now). The dealership decided to spruce up the Toaster before putting it out on the lot, so it’s all tricked out with fancy racing headlights and other such frippery. Actually, the only reason I know that is because a guy in my husband’s band patiently pointed out to us the plethora of after-market goodies that has apparently been invested in the Toaster. One thing I did notice, though, and this cracks me up to no end: I got rims, yo. Big, ginormous aluminum rims. With scorpions on them.

Ph33r:

I will totally be the baddest mommy at the soccer field. *snort*

P.S. For you Battlestar Galactica fans, please know that owning a Scion xB is a BSG joke waiting to happen. We call it The Toaster because of its obvious resemblance to said appliance, but “toaster” is also the derogatory name used by humans to describe the bad guy robot Cylons in BSG. Also, the Sprog couldn’t pronounce “Scion” at first, so he kept calling it “Cylon” all day. Awesome.

A little mystery, please

I am only 29 years old, so I know that I’m not wallowing in a fog of nostalgia when I say: Who on Earth lets their daughter out of the house wearing a Prom dress like this? Seriously? The video of the news story is down below, but here’s a picture from Boing Boing just to give you an idea:

Apparently the theme at Prom this year was “Streetwalker”. Or not. Predictably, when Marche Taylor showed up to her high school prom wearing this little scrap, she was denied entrance, then arrested because she started making a big scene. Stay classy, Marche.

Whatever happened to leaving a few things to the imagination? Whatever happened to cultivating an air of mystery? Because if a modest dress = mystery, then this dress = “Chapter 1: The butler did it! In the pantry with the candlestick! THE END.”

One thing I noted while watching the news video is that the girl’s mom and dad are nowhere to be seen. Please tell me they’re at the library, checking out a parenting book.

The Lost Boys of the FLDS

It’s been just over a month since the government raid on the polygamist Yearning For Zion Ranch in Eldorado, Texas, and I continue to be amazed at the appalling spectacle of the whole thing.

Obviously, the state government has bitten off a lot more than they can chew. The raid was poorly executed, ill-advised in the first place, and possibly illegal. But if I object to the raid at all, it’s because of the sloppy handling, not because I disagree with the state’s decision to investigate. Certainly not because of the Fundamentalist Latter-Day Saints’ tearjerker Captive FLDS Children website and interviews featuring weeping mothers begging to see their children again.

It’s not that I’m unsympathetic—I never like to see children being taken away from their parents unless there is a darn good reason for it. And if the state felt that the children were in imminent danger of abuse, I think they should have taken the men away and left the women and children at the ranch while they investigated. But as impatient as I feel toward the Texas authorities, I confess that my pity for the FLDS parents is somewhat limited.

They’re working overtime to present themselves as law-abiding citizens who were peacefully practicing their religion before the bad old state came in and tore children and parents apart, but the FLDS was tearing families apart all by themselves long before the YFZ raid, and all in the name of their religion, too.

So, yes: go look at the pictures on their Captive FLDS Children site. Lots of mothers, most of whom were raised in the FLDS faith. Lots of children—boys and girls—also being raised in the faith. But how many FLDS men do you see? Not many, and it’s not just because of the raid.

The FLDS depends on an extremely lopsided male-to-female ratio to achieve the kind of polygamous marriages they’re known for. The YFZ Ranch is utterly typical of the sect. According to a CNN article:

Of the 463 children, 250 are girls and 213 are boys. Children 13 and younger are about evenly split — 197 girls and 196 boys — but there are only 17 boys aged 14 to 17, compared with the 53 girls in that age range.

So what do they do with the extra boys? Kick ‘em out.

It’s a well-documented practice among the FLDS: in order for older men to have their pick of young plural wives, they commonly excommunicate teenage boys—some as young as 13—for ridiculously minor infractions like listening to CDs, wearing short sleeves, or talking to girls. Hundreds of boys are being systematically exiled to a world they know nothing about, convinced they’re going to hell, and never allowed to see their mothers again. Many are so hopeless and confused that they turn to drugs, alcohol, or even self-harm. And small wonder why. Consider a passage from this article:

Abandoned by his family, faith, and community, Gideon Barlow arrived here an orphan from another world.

The freckle-faced 17-year-old said he was left to fend for himself last year after being forced out of Colorado City, Ariz., just over the [Utah] state line.

”I couldn’t see how my mom would let them do what they did to me,” he said.

When he tried to visit her on Mother’s Day, he said, she told him to stay away. When he begged to give her a present, she said she wanted nothing. ”I am dead to her now,” he said.

So, though I’m sure the FLDS women are sincere when they tell the media how badly they want their children back—what mother wouldn’t be?—I’d be a lot more sympathetic if these women were willing to go to the mat to protect their sons. Where are the mothers’ tears for those children?

Heartsick

I have so many things to blog about, but let me take a minute here and ask you all for some prayers.

My dear friends, J. and R. had their baby on Friday, and on Saturday they learned that he has a serious heart valve defect. They thought at first he might have to have immediate surgery, but at this point they think a life-long course of medication will control it.

J. sounded like he hadn’t slept in four days when I talked to him this morning. He hadn’t. R. is exhausted too, not only from the emergency C-section but from the grief of being in a different hospital than her baby, and all while watching the other happy families up and down the hallway who are cuddling their new babies.

I wish so much that their birth had been easier. Not just the baby’s—though I’m sure they rather not have had an emergency C-section—but their birth as parents. Even under the best of circumstances, a new mother and father come wailing into a new world that seems larger, colder, and scarier because there is so suddenly so much more to lose. Our hearts are wounded, too, and there is no easy pill to take for it.

So please, if you’re the praying type, say a prayer for healing and peace for this new little family. If you’re not the praying type, keep a good thought for them anyway, and all of you go home tonight and love your own family extra hard.

I am knitter, hear me roar

Remember how I said I was going to knit a cardigan to go with Baby Girl’s Easter dress? Remember how I said that only a week before Easter? So of course I only finished it two days ago, which is plenty of time to go with her Easter dress…next year.

So yes, it took me a while, mostly because of the unholy trinity of knitting obstacles: lack of time, ADD, and inexperience. Trying to find time to knit was like waiting for the planets to align. And when I did find time, I still had to unravel the tangle of unfamiliar stitches and pattern abbreviations like any other newbie knitter (do what through the back loops?). And even after I had the stitches down pat, I suffered needlessly because I would get all ADD and make the most unbelievable mistakes. You know that Bible verse that says “let not the left hand know what the right is doing?” Yeah, that.

Example: My mother-in-law was visiting a few weeks ago, and I decided to sew together the front and back at the right shoulder. I had already done the left shoulder, and seaming turned out to be super-easy. So no sweat, right? Wrong. So so so wrong.

I carefully aligned the pieces, then executed a flawless three-needle bind-off with my nose about three inches from the sweater. Then after my triumphant finish, I zoomed out and realized that the front piece was backwards. As in, purl side out, stockinette side in. I could have wept.

I grimly undid the shoulder seam and started again. This time I made sure the right side was out. Another flawless three-needle bind-off: w00t. Then I realized the shoulder seam was on the wrong side. Let me explain that more fully: sewing two pieces of knitting together makes a big huge speed bump of a seam. It’s supposed to go on the inside of the project, but mine was on the outside, perched up there on the shoulder like a fat pink woolly worm. A saner woman than I would have torched the whole thing at this point, needles and all. Instead, I undid the seam–AGAIN–and did it one more time. With a rum and coke. This time I got it right, and it was 2 a.m. at that point, so there was mercifully nobody awake to see me taunting a ball of pink alpaca yarn. Okay, so maybe that was a bit much. Probably should have left out the victory dance, anyway.

I didn’t take pictures of that particular screw-up, but I just had to snap a shot or two of my next mistake. I…well, I don’t even know how to justify this. Baby Girl had a cold this past week, so I was a bit distracted with her anyway. As I was rocking her bouncy seat with my big toe, I was attempting to sew up the side and down to the end of the sleeve while simultaneously watching Training Day. I think you know where this is going, and that it is not a good place. That it is, in fact, the crafting equivalent of a dark alley in Compton.

But let me not waste words where a picture will suffice:

See what I did there? That’s the left front sewn onto the back right side. No kidding. The front right side and sleeve are both flapping around uselessly up top. But I had not come so far, only to let that sweater defeat me now. I gritted my teeth and undid the seam, which I was getting quite good at.

By that time the knitting gods must have been done laughing at me, because I had no more mishaps and was completely done the next day. Here it is, in all its glory:

Is it not nifty? It is so nifty. And soft. And the perfect size for Baby Girl. And best of all, completely finished.

Next project: SOCK WARS!!!! What’s that? Why yes, I am a masochist, thanks for asking.