Cold Spaghetti

Dissertating (a verb, meaning ‘the action of working on one’s dissertation’) is a lonely process that seems to have no end. Lately, though, I’ve found some new inspiration through the internet, specifically through blogs that have served as connecting points to fun ideas, talented writing, and exciting people.

So when I read about Alejna’s newest find, Photohunt, and saw that this week’s theme was “reflections,” I immediately thought of these photographs, taken at the giraffe exhibit at Audubon Zoo in April 2007:

When I saw how easy it was to participate, I was in. I’m officially giving PhotoHunt the old college try.

These photos were taken with a Canon Digital Rebel 300D (the first of the series)with a 50mm 1.8f lens (the one I used exclusively, no matter what the situation, at that time), with an ISO of 100 and shutter speed 1/400. I remember that this effect was short-lived, when the sun came back out from behind the clouds, the reflection was no longer as strong. I also remember that I wished I was able to get further to the left of Will to have more of his face in the frame and ended up taking these with my whole body smashed up against the glass. Luckily, we happened to be alone in this exhibit at the time.

What is this outbuilding, anyway? Well, technically, it’s a storage shed. The leaky, termite-infested space which has held Paul’s tools, hockey equipment (just consider, for a moment, the smell on those pads after 5 summers out there), and dreams of woodworking, electronics tinkering, and grilling. In other words, that little space with no heat or A/C is the room of my husband’s dreams. It’s his Man Palace.

Behold.

Cien and Paul continue to replace termite-eaten boards and have come up with an awesome design of the ‘new’ outbuilding (T.he M.an P.alace). The idea is that the center will be open, with windows in the back letting in light, and with the two sides having french doors. In the picture above, you can kind of make out the center opening. Below, you can see where they have framed out the opening for the new window on one of the sides.

This is the northern side of the building, the one featured in the post below.

This is a ground view of our yard, leading to the outbuilding. Will we ever be free of debris? In the background sits our Mardi Gras float. The one we build last February out of the wood we use to board up the house during a hurricane. Which was why we didn’t have enough wood to cover all the windows when we left for Gustav. Priorities, people. Can’t say we don’t have a firm grip on what is important.

Cat calls are perfectly acceptable while viewing the next few pictures.

This is really why we bought a fixer-upper. So I could sit back and watch him walk around with a tool belt, carrying heavy stuff.

As if that weren’t enough, he’s doing it in his geeky computer guy shirt. Did someone turn the heat up in here??

Today is Will’s 5th birthday and that is a big deal. Five is just a big deal. We have five fingers, five toes. There are five workdays in our week. We have a nickel for five cents and a five dollar bill and learn to count money in fives. And when their children are at the age of 5, Mothers have to take a long, hard look and realize that they have managed to raise a newborn to an infant to a baby to a toddler to a preschooler to a kid.

This post was suppose to be my tome to my first baby, my boy, the infant I cried everyday over for months, spent hours hooked to a pump and feeding through a finger-tube. The baby I struggled to care for while starting a PhD. The toddler I took away from home before a storm destroyed our city. The preschooler who attended three schools in under a year, spoke two languages, and lived in 3 countries before turning 3 years old. The boy I now look to for help around the house. That guy.

But instead, my arm is weighed down by the heavy head of Kate, who has been throwing up for 7 hours. I’m afraid to leave her side, as she’s so lethargic that I am concerned over her ability to turn her head and not choke when her body decides it’s time for another go. She’s wiped out all her pajamas, most of my clothes, and countless towels, bedcovers, and blankets. It’s going to be a long, long night.

One thing we know is that she won’t make it to Will’s Birthday Party tomorrow.

One other thing I know is that we’re two for two on our lives failing apart right before the Po’Boy Fest; this was the same week Paul had the emergency appendectomy a year ago. I sense a pattern.

So until I can say something more complex and memorable about my darling boy, here is the picture-book account…

Will, fresh out. With antibiotic all over his little eyes. (U of Michigan hospital, Ann Arbor, MI)

Will, eating his first ever cake on his first birthday, New Orleans:

Will on his 2nd birthday. We had a small party in the front yard. Folks came from around the block and commented that this was, “the first post-Katrina party”. My Mom brought a helium tank from Alabama so that we could have some balloons, which Will spent the entire morning popping.

Will on his 3rd Birthday. Argh.

Will, with the little O’Delice cake for his 4th birthday.

Will, today, on his 5th birthday, with his classmates signing Happy Birthday (in French, of course).

A local blogger I admire tagged me and I’m feeling a bit like the freshman that gets called over to the senior lunch table. If I were, actually, a freshman walking over to the senior lunch table, what would happen next is that I would trip and shower the coolest of the group in grape juice, which I don’t even drink but happened to have it because the lunch lady with the droopy eye put it on my tray and I didn’t have the heart to put it back and hurt her feelings. Then all the seniors would laugh at my accident and the fact that I was drinking grape juice, and never know that if only they had just given me a chance, I could have been the one to jump the car when it stalls next Saturday night and save the day by having everyone home by curfew. If only.

The rules.

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
5. Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

Six random things.

1. I have a tough time following directions. It’s not that I can’t follow directions, or willingly choose to ignore directions, it’s just that when the directions don’t make sense (which is often the case) I find another, more sensible way. What are directions, anyway, but advice? Sometimes it has to be looked at from other angels, right? Because of my issues with directions, I typically ask for forgiveness, not permission, for things. While this has gotten me in heaps of trouble from time to time, I think that it is one of my best qualities.

2. I slept with a security blanket called “Me-Me” until my son, Will, was born. Although there were several Me-Me’s through the years, around age 8 the quilted Strawberry Shortcake blanket made by my neighbor became the “main” Me-Me. When we evacuated for Katrina, I left MeMe in a drawer in my bedroom. What finally made me break down in tears on Day 3, breaking through the shock and denial, was the realization that MeMe was there and I had no idea if I would hold MeMe again. (MeMe, by the way, is gender-neutral, neither male nor female. As a child, I felt very strongly about this and remember taking a swing at a kid who insisted that MeMe was a girl because it was pink.)

3. I kept my name when I got married. That means that my name is exactly the same as what it was before I was married. That means I am not a “Mrs.” It means there is no hyphen. There is no additional name on the end of my name. It means that the name on my birth certificate is the same one I have now, after 8 years of marriage, and it’s the same one I’ll have 50 years from now. It means that my last name is different than my kids’, who have Paul’s last name (they have my last name for their middle names). While those are the facts, I’m okay with almost everyone — including my closest and oldest friends — consistently getting this incorrect. It was my (and Paul’s) choice and is what works for us, but I don’t have the need to shove it down other people’s throats or make my choice superior to what anyone else decides to do. It’s just a name.

4. The trait that I find most deplorable in people — more than ignorance, arrogance, or pretension — is when people complain but do nothing to be part of a solution. I’m all for sarcasm and wit, and will admit to feeling apathetic at my low points, but I find those who — no matter how intelligently — bitch and moan about things (life, work, politics, kids, schools, health, whatever) and don’t show the initiative to try something different to change the situation, to be closed-minded, resistant people who are a bore to be around.

5. I decided to have children early in my career because I wanted my parents around for as much of my childrens’ lives as possible, because the earlier a woman gives birth the better the outcomes for both mother and child, and because I think it’s ridiculous that women in academics have to ‘delay’ having children inorder to be seen as ‘serious’. But now that I have children, I must admit that it has slowed me down (not necessarily a bad thing) and because of how it has impacted my particular circumstances, I know it has limited my intended international health career. I have no idea what I will do or what will happen after I graduate.

6. The first time Paul and I locked eyes, as he walked up to the booth where I was selling tickets to a play, I felt a shock run through me. We had dinner the following night, went hiking at Mountain Lake (where the movie ‘Dirty Dancing’ was filmed) the day after that, and have been together since then. Until I met Paul, I thought love at first sight was a ridiculous, foolish notion, based on lust, not true companionship. With this, as with other things I’m always learning, I was happy to be wrong.

Now I’m suppose to tag 6 others, which gets me all freshman-lunchroom anxious. Maybe if I admitted in one of my 6 random things that I was a total nerd that it would clear up any misconceptions I have regarding whether anyone will actually respond. (In other words, I expect no one.) But I’ll work with optimism and with the spirit of getting to know people whose blogs I’ve recently found and am enjoying. Here’s my list:

— Su, because she has a 5-year old son, plays the piano, and is very likely someone who can correctly pronounce my last name in one try. (And also because I find her writing inspiring.)

— Jen, because she rocks an incredible job, is moving to a paradise where everything will be different and so much will be same, and because there is so much that can be done.

— Magpie, because “filch” still wins out as my current favorite word.

…and I can’t think of anyone else because it’s Will’s 5th Birthday and my brain is occupied with intense ponderings over the passage of time and how I could possibly have a 5 year old and be just 23 years old? (If you’re reading this — please feel the love, and take the tag if the mood strikes.)

After 16 plus years of being a strict vegetarian (only occasionally would he even eat Lucky Charms), Paul began to eat meat again around the time that Kate was born.

Having already given up vegetarianism a few months before (uncontrollable anemia during my pregnancy was the catalyst — that, and I’d already re-introduced the entryway drug, fish, into my diet when we moved to New Orleans), I didn’t think that there would be a huge change in our eating habits. After all, I was eating meat again and it didn’t seem like a big change.

But Paul. Wow, Paul. When that boy fell off the wagon, he fell off HARD. Now, his life is neatly summed up in this xkcd chart:

Paul is the bacon-cook of the house (I showed no talent for this particular skill early on and formally resigned those duties), so the 1% of the time Paul cooks, it’s bacon. He cooks a pound of it in a pot (“it’s the way they did it in the Grand Canyon”) and then proceeds to eat the entire pot, using a spatula to scoop out any missed crumbles at the bottom.

The upside to this is that now I have ideas on what to get him for Christmas. I thought that I was on track for a non-cholesterol-raising holiday. Then we had this (censored) conversation this morning:

“So, I think the present that I want to give you is going to go down in price after Christmas. How do you feel about exchanging presents later?”

“When I asked you to play a Wii, I wasn’t suggesting you buy anything.”

[Side note: Did I mention that Paul likes to search my computer for signs of what I’m trying to get him for Christmas?]

“[edited] Fine, then. No presents for you, gift spoiler.”

He completely spoiled my surprise, but how can I not have something special for him on Christmas morning? Something more exciting than the socks that currently represent the sum total of what Paul will receive from his loving wife and children. Then it occurred to me: I can bestow upon my favorite meat-eater the gift of bacon! Here are some bacon ideas I’ve found.

Uncle Oinker’s Bacon Mints. “Just for the sheer joy of handing someone a bacon flavored mint!”

Bacon Scented Bacon Print Tuxedo. “You can get married in bacon, get confirmed in bacon or go to the Oscars in bacon!”

Bacon Flavored Toothpicks. “Arm yourself with invigorating pig freshness and the confidence that you can take on the world.”

Maple Bacon Morning Coffee. “Reminiscent of a hearty Saturday morning breakfast around the table, this sweet, savory coffee delights the senses with the smell and taste of home!”

Bacon Air Freshner. “Put one up in the family room and everyone will have a sudden craving for a BLT.”

Bacon Strips Bandaids. “Bacon Strips are cut to look like small slabs of bacon.”

Maple Bacon Lollipops. “The salty chunks of bacon make a delicious and unique counterpoint to the subtle sweetness of the maple, and oh, yeah- you’ll be eating an oh-my-god bacon lollipop!”

Bacon Floss. “Now you can improve your dental hygiene while enjoying the amazing flavor of crispy fried bacon. Is there anything bacon can’t improve?”

Bacon Wallet. “Sleek, yet meaty.”

Bacon Gift-wrap. “Start wrapping in style!”

A Chocolate bar of Bacon. “Rub your thumb over the chocolate bar to release the aromas of smoked applewood bacon flirting with deep milk chocolate.”

Wake-n-Bacon. “This clock gently wakes you up with the mouthwatering aroma of bacon, just like waking up on a Sunday morning to the smell of Mom cooking breakfast. Unless you’re Jewish.”

And of course, a variety of Bacon-of-the-Month-Clubs. Including one offered through The Grateful Plate and one through The Pig Next Door.

Just in case you get bacon overload and aren’t sure what to do with it all, you can always make Bacon Soap.

Finally, if this just isn’t enough and you need more bacon-inspired recipes, products, or advice, you can turn to Mr. Bacon Pants (Alejna, this one is for you) at www.MrBaconPants.com.

Tonight was our first parent teacher conference of the year. The kids are in a French school, immersed in French all day long, so it’s been a bit of a mystery to us as to how they were doing. For Kate we had no worries; she’s young, she’s in the most primary of classes the school offers, and there are no huge developmental issues that need immediate attention (eventually we’ll turn to pottying and removal of Abby — her pacifier — but we’re currently living in the beautiful world of LATER on those issues).

For Will, it’s been constant worry. Worry that he was struggling with a bully. Worry that he wasn’t able to sit still. Worry that he is the youngest (or almost the youngest) in the class. Worry that he isn’t bringing home points to show good behavior. Worry that he is over-tired without a nap. The worry came from little things that we were seeing: a random bathroom accident around the same time as the concern over the bully, increased difficulty and whiny behavior at home, the fact that he wasn’t bringing home ‘creature cards,’ given when students reach 10 points for good behavior (there is the possibility to earn 1 point each day). Although he seems to love school (he never wants to go home when we arrive to pick him up), he complains about going to school each morning. Was he showing us signs that he was stressed? Were we missing important clues that indicate a problem?

We have been in communication with his teacher and the school director about our concerns. It’s fair to say that I am a high-maintenance Mom when I don’t understand something. (Although I would prefer the terms “engaged” and “involved.”) It’s a new school, the learning curve is steeper than we would have thought, and getting information from other parents has been difficult. Thankfully, the school staff is understanding and accommodating of our questions.

Nana (Paul’s Mom) came yesterday and spent the morning with Will’s class. Via her report, in class, Will is quiet. He fidgets, but really no more or less than any of his classmates. When asked to do something, he follows direction without hesitation, which she felt was strong indication that he understood the commands. At one point, the teacher pulled out dice and some cards. She called over students one by one and asked them a series of questions, rolling the dice and showing the cards — a test of numbers, counting, and letters. Nana couldn’t tell what the right or wrong answers were, only that comparatively, Will seemed to fly through the questions.

So we arrived at Will’s conference a little nervous. I had my notebook out, pen raised.

“Will,” his teacher began, “Will is… what is the word…?” (Will’s teacher is French, she’s searching for the right word) “… he is…”

My hand readies to write.

“… amazing.”

I freeze. Really? I put down the pen. This is not the word I thought she was going to say.

She proceeds to tell us that she had wondered if Will was learning at all, that she sees him looking around the room, daydreaming, not really paying attention. That when they learn songs, she wonders how well he knows the words. That he is shy and doesn’t speak. (This is normal with immersion — in the first year, children tend to primarily listen. In the second year, they begin to speak.) So today, when she checked in with the students in preparation for the afternoon’s parent meetings, she was “amazed” that Will not only flew through the dice and cards, but that he did it faster and with accuracy equal to that of the students who had been in French school for several years. “You should be very proud of him,” she told us with a smile.

I’d love to say that we are simply outstanding parents, dutifully fostering his French learning. But outside of asking him to teach us different words or sing songs for the video camera, we’re not doing much. All this time and worry about Will, when the truth is that he is really, truly learning, completely in stride with his class. It was the first time I’d actually believed that maybe he wasn’t going to be held back from Kindergarten (all my worry had resigned me to this reality, because I was so sure we’d made the wrong choice by putting him in the Kindergarten in the first place.) Could this be anxiety over how fast this kid is growing up?

As we left the school, feeling a bit shocked and surprised, Paul says, “We managed to get through our first parent-teacher conference without the words ‘restraining order.’ I consider that a success.”

Then we exchanged glances and he voiced what we both were thinking, “I spoke too soon; we still have to do Kate’s.”

The outbuilding is falling down. Or, was falling down. Part of the roof had sort of caved in and the need to replace the leaking roof became imperative. So our home renovation focus had to shift to the outbuilding.

Luckily, though, we had hired Cien, one of the students who was in last spring’s Peru course, to paint the back of the house where Paul had finished putting up the hardiplank. (Cien stayed in Peru after the course and actually did some construction work with the lodge that we stayed with in the jungle, so we knew he had some skills.) When the immediate needs of the outbuilding became apparent, we asked if he was interested in more work. He said yes… either because he’s a nice guy, or really needs money, or is a bit crazy. While we wonder which is the right answer, here he is swinging on a jungle vine:

No, no, he did it ’cause he’s a nice guy. And a Graduate student, and they always need money.

The good thing that Cien is an international health guy. He can handle all sorts of bugs and heat and fixing square holes in round pegs. All three are necessary skills when working on any of our projects.

Most importantly, though, Cien works well with Paul. A lot of this stuff requires at least two people. Thank goodness Cien has the skill and interest, because another one of these weekends might have killed my Dad. Here are Cien and Paul in the outbuilding, demolishing virtually everything and rebuilding… termites, both past and present, had really made an impact.

So, too, had roaches and a few snakes, according to Cien. The light was dim and the photogragh isn’t the strongest, but this is the sort of mess Cien cleaned out of the walls and put into a huge pile in the yard for removal.

See that big pile behind Paul? And it’s just the roof and 1/3 of the walls. (The dumpster is coming soon.)

Paul and his trusty table saw. With Cien in the background tearing up the front of the building (and finding active termites). As for the termites, we have a contract and they are coming next week to treat everything.

I wasn’t kidding that the debris pile was large. See why a birthday party is sort of out of the question?

The purpose of this picture is so show the special little details of our yard. Specificially, the commode. Because you never know when you’re going to have to go.

You can sit and admire the abundance of foliage, thriving from more than a year of neglect. (Don’t judge. You think that pile is bad? It’s a third of the size of the pile from gutting the bathroom and laundry last winter.) Serious home renovation is serious stuff.

Here is the first look at what it is going to look like when complete… we’re opening up the middle. It will be open with natural light — covered/protected space for a patio and grill. Storage accessed by French doors on either side from the patio. To be ready in 2027.

Will did not want to go to school today.

First, he tried the Peggy Ann McKay approach. He dramatically explained his sudden illnesses and selflessly proclaimed that he “would feel REALLY BAD if he got anyone else sick. REALLY FOR REAL.” When I felt his head and tested his smile button (belly tickle spot), he was unable to maintain the facade. But I wanted to validate his complaint, “let’s get you a good breakfast,” I offered, “and maybe that will help you feel better.”

Because Paul gets up at 5:30 and walks to the corner coffee shop to start work at 6 each morning, I handle the kids by myself. Some mornings are fine. Other mornings… not so much.

Somewhere between changing Kate’s huge leaking poop and dealing with her current obsession of testing just how committed I am to ignore her when she screams, I forced Will to get dressed.

As in, I carried him to where his clothes were laid out. I pulled off his pajamas. I grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him back when he tried to slide away. I forced underwear and pants on his kicking legs. By the time I had his vest on, he was calmer and stood while I tucked in his shirt and helped get on his socks. He fussed and then pouted. Somewhere in the process, he declared me THE WORST MOMMY EVER.

I’m pretty sure that I’ve been called this before, but today I felt like I really earned it. Isn’t forced-dressing right up there with forcing cod liver oil down a child’s throat?

“At least I’m not dressing you in plaid bell-bottoms and taking pictures,” I joked to myself as he continued to be angry.

Finally, I explained the deal. “I love you no matter what names you call me. You can hurt me with your words, Will, but it will never change how much I love you. And I love you so much that I will risk you being angry with me to keep you safe and to do things that are good for you — like go to school.”

He paused and was still.

Then, under his breath, “but you are still not my friend.”

—-

Under the circumstances, I feel it’s okay to post this then.

—

When I have my nervous breakdown and move to the beach to make jewelry on the days when they untie my jacket, THESE are the kinds of things I want to make. Happy place. Happy place. Happy place…

Growing up, my Dad worked nonstop. Terms like ‘work-a-holic’ don’t even apply to military families, because there is no such thing as a nonworking day. Even if he did have a day off, he was changing the oil in the car or dumping my clothes drawers on the floor during a room inspection (drawers not neat, everything on the floor!) My brother and I proudly reasoned that his obsession was due to a higher calling and we did our best to understand.

Then he retired from the Navy and took a real job. And worked just as much. Then we realized that no, in fact, Dad was just a work-addict.

A little more than a month ago, Dad took a new job. Since getting that job, he’s worked from home during the day, come home before 6pm, and gone on vacation. Maybe these sound normal for some, but for my Dad, it singles major alarm. Even my Mom has been complaining that she has no idea what to do with my Dad around the house more than 10 minutes a day. Is this his mid-life crisis? Or maybe worse, could he have been given some sort of terrible diagnosis and is busy working on a bucket list? We wondered.

But I think I’ve figured it out. After meeting who he’s working with, I realize that it’s not that he is a machine. It’s that this is the first time he has not worked for crazy people. Amazingly, when faced with a normal work situation that places realistic demands on it’s employees, he began to act normally. It gives me faith for the future… if only other companies and managers and bosses and government entities could do the same, maybe we can turn this ship around.

So my happy Dad and still-i-shock-Mom just came back from Vegas, where they saw Elton John and Bette Middler. (My Dad was thrilled with their 2nd row seats, “when she slapped her thigh, we could HEAR her slapping her thigh!”) They followed up the shows with 4 days in a resort in Death Valley. Wow. So, here he is, our new Dad.

I especially like when she talks about Wesley and Clare — because she’s wearing PJ’s that we gave to Clare (when she turned 1?). When she out grew them, she sent them to Kate to wear.