Eight-year-old Marie was talking to her sister Margaret about my upcoming Socialization book. I managed to catch a snippet of their conversation in which Marie was announcing:
"And on the cover page, Mommy's going to have an asterisk with teeny, tiny letters at the bottom saying, 'RESULTS MAY VARY.'"
Maureen: I can't find a bandaid, and Eileen has the biggest cut in the world!
Mom: That's OK, honey. Why don't you just comfort her with your presence?
Maureen: I don't have any presents!!!
A couple of years ago, I poked a bit of fun at this Eloise Wilkin illustration:
But I don't think I showed you how very closely life imitates art here at the cottage:
[Many thanks to Marie for posing--this picture took about ten shots to attain!]
Helen as The Big Green Pocketbook.
Helen, you are truly beautiful--and so much fun!!!
Well, leave it to my cousin, Therese. She knows my children well, particularly Marie!
I just loved this picture of Marie in the tulle ballet skirt she received for her birthday. Her head to toe pink reminded me of the third week of Advent, and I called the original post "Joy." An hour or so after I posted, my daughter Theresa noticed and laughed out loud.
"I can't believe you posted that picture," she said. "It was a joke between Marie and me--if you look really closely, you'll see she is not wearing the skirt, just holding it up in front of her!" [Marie was very quick to tell me that she was wearing a different skirt though, one you cannot see behind the tulle.]
I for one never would have noticed, but my cousin Therese did! Mary G. did too. You both have eagle eyes!
The Roman city of Pompeii, suddenly decimated by the wrath of Mount Vesuvius, is, as you know, a perfectly preserved example of an Ancient Roman town. There to this day you will find uncracked eggs gathered in a bowl, a leashed dog curled in endless sleep, pots and pans left set to boil upon the fire--the precise and permanent picture of life as it was at a distinct moment in time.
This was exactly the way we found things here at home upon our return from San Francisco.
The truth is that I had done no preparation for our three month trip, hurling some clothes in a box to be shipped to our destination one or two days before leaving New York and that's about it. Upon our return, I was amazed to find the house exactly as we had left it, the perfect time capsule of our life back in May. A script from A Midsummer Night's Dream sat splayed on its spine; a Scrabble game in progress awaited a next move on the coffee table; a pitcher of pink peonies drooped forlornly on the mantle, the centerpiece from our almost forgotten Rhododendron Tea.
The Mary Garden outside, long neglected and left to nature, reminded me of Sleeping Beauty's Castle, the green things embracing Our Lady so that we could hardly find her. Full grown melons we had never planted huddled beneath the hostas, their vines and yellow blooms crocheted in a chain stitch throughout the unruly bed. Tomatoes sprang up mysteriously, the evidence of a child's afternoon snack all those months ago.
It was only yesterday--believe it or not--that I entered the learning room in the cottage for the first time, surprised to find scrap paper, books, blocks--all left in their places since May. I reached for a garbage bag, tossing the useless papers indiscriminately, when my eye fell upon a bright yellow sheet covered in numbers. It was Agnes' scrap paper from last year's foray into Algebra. Words were written on one side that made me laugh out loud--the "doodling" of a student whose mind was evidently more on Shakespeare and A Midsummer Night's Dream (not to mention escape!) than anything else.
Here is her simple [she's only changed a few words from the original], yet amusing, parody of Nick Bottom's speech to the "Wall" from Pyramus and Thisbe, the play within a play:
O grim-look'd math! O math with print so black!
O math, which ever art when play is not!
O math, O math! alack, alack, alack,
I fear my mother's promise is forgot!
And thou, O door, O sweet, O lovely door,
That stand'st between the smaller house and mine!
Thou door, O door, O sweet and lovely door,
Show me thy pane, to blink through with mine eyne!
Thanks, courteous door:
Jove shield thee well for this!
But what see I?
No recess do I see.
O wicked door, through whom I see no bliss!
Cursed be thy wood for thus deceiving me!
*******
I must admit to enjoying this visit to our lives as they were in May.
Still, I think it may be time for a bit of spring cleaning to bring us back into the present!
[This is the 500th Cottage Blessings post.]
can only mean one thing:
One of my favorite people in the world has a brand new blog!
And the memorable stories are just beginning to pour in!
What was Love2Learn Mom expecting?
We had only been planning her San Francisco visit for two short months (OK, maybe three). How could I possibly be ready when she arrived with a mere two or three months to prepare? And surely, she was not expecting for the children to be dressed or for us to have food or water in the house? Where on earth was I supposed to get food and water with only three months' notice?
If the incomparably endearing and good-humored Alicia was expecting the author of Cottage Blessings to be a gracious hostess--or even a normal human being--that folly was dashed within moments of entering our fabled manse in San Francisco. We were preparing to leave town only a few days later, and to say that I had lost control of things would be putting it mildly. When the doorbell rang at our appointed hour, I was on the phone upstairs, barely aware that the morning was over and our long awaited date had arrived. I bolted down the grand staircase in bare feet, greeting my hapless guest with apologies for everything from the bedraggled state of my hair to the sundry odds and ends collected (and waiting to go in boxes addressed for home) in the formerly beautiful front hallway.
Alicia laughed and smiled, merrily enduring the endless comedy routine I automatically go into whenever things go awry. [If you have ever seen a mother bird squawking and awkwardly feigning a broken wing to draw attention away from her hidden young, you will know about how delicately I use humor to keep guests' minds off my shortcomings.] We sat chatting in the living room--feeling uncannily like old friends [complete and utter disarray will do that]--while the children appeared in dribs and drabs like dwarves to the house of Beorn.
Or perhaps more like timid munchkins: "Come out, come out, wherever you are, and greet the young lady fresh from a cable car . . . ."
Not at all surprisingly, Alicia--a San Franciscan at heart--loved the grand old house, which was still glorious in spite of all the living we had done in it. She was at once taken with our large collection of books (amassed during a three month reading frenzy on all things San Francisco) poring over them with alacrity. If Alicia noticed that the baby was undressed and covered in pen marks from shoulder to foot or that Patrick and Maureen were wearing a layer of morning cereal on their shirts, she did not let on.
Before long, she found herself riding shotgun in the big white van, rolling up and down break-neck hills and bound for Golden Gate Park. We introduced her to one of our dearest friends and sipped tea in The Japanese Tea Garden. Over cups of Oolong, I took out my trusty digital camera only to discover that the memory card was back home in the card reader!
Alicia took the picture below at my urging. The purple plum in the center is actually Marie's San Francisco Zoo cap. It fell off her head as she leaned over the Drum Bridge to look for Koi and seemed to me the perfect still life representing the quirky things that kept happening that day. More than once, I found myself repeating, "You know, Alicia, we are not usually like this" or "I'm not really this ditzy, honestly, this is very unusual for me." Dear soul that she is, Alicia almost looked convinced!
Perhaps my favorite line from the entire day came from my daughter Agnes--it was uttered with heartfelt sincerity and spoke perfectly for all of us: "Mrs. ___, we have only known you for an hour now, but already I feel as if I am going to miss you."
And miss Alicia we do!!!
We would like to have another day just like it in New York, but this time with Alicia's children along as well!
*******
Trivia question: While in San Francisco, we had the pleasure of seeing both the wonderful Diane and the fabulous Alicia (among other friends). What other blogging Mommy greeted the same two guests this summer?
"Nothing is a waste of time if you use the experience wisely."
--Auguste Rodin
By popular demand ("popular" meaning, at least one or two people), I give you Rodin's Thinker in cream cheese (circa 2001):
"The modes of expression of men of genius differ as much as their souls."
--Auguste Rodin
Several years ago, Brigid O'Neill and I were emailing each other back and forth commiserating. Our local homeschooling group was supposed to be having a "World's Fair" of sorts. The details of this ill-fated event are unimportant now--suffice to say the Fair was canceled at the last minute because of Chicken Pox. Ever the clever one, Brigid emailed me a photograph of the project she had been working on to represent France--an enormous Eiffel Tower made entirely out of sugar wafers! This marvel of icing and engineering--looking for all the world like a collaboration between Leonardo and the Keebler Elf--would never see the light of day.
Eager to make Brigid laugh, I showed the pictures to dh, asking for his help. What if we were to make something huge, I suggested, say, an Arc de Triomphe out of kitchen utensils, photograph it, and email it to her? It would make her chuckle no doubt. Dh, oddly enough, was not keen on a massive (and almost pointless) building project at eleven o'clock at night.
With the muscle behind the operation headed off to bed, practically no materials or ideas, and a desperate, overwhelming need to make Brigid laugh, I turned to the only thing in the house still humming at that hour--the refrigerator. Swiping a cold block of cream cheese from the door and slipping it out of its silvery case, I set to work smoothing and pinching and poking and giggling to myself until I had a pint-sized replica of Rodin's Thinker. Photographing it from all angles, I wrote to Brigid triumphantly, "You think you're disappointed? Look what I was going to bring!"
It was absurd and ridiculous and hysterical, of course, and Brigid wore out her L-O-L keys responding, printing the photos to display in her kitchen from that day forward.
Now, it is a little known fact that, in order to appreciate fine arts and sculpture fully, one must first replicate it in cream cheese, so you can imagine my great joy when we stumbled upon San Francisco's famous statue of the Thinker at the Legion of Honor Art Museum. (Of course, Rodin's piece was not as sensitive and unique as mine, nor can it be served on a bagel, but it has its merits too.)
Our happy discovery took place a little over two weeks ago. The children and I left home early with no definite plans other than a stop at Peet's Coffee. Sipping my latte in the car (life here is so hard), we mulled over possibilities for the day--the San Francisco Zoo? Golden Gate Park? The Muir Woods?
I suggested a patch of green on the map called "Lincoln Park," and the children were eager to try it, hoping for slides and a swingset. The park is an easy drive from our house, yet, for some reason, it never even occurred to me to go there, perhaps because the lure of Golden Gate Park has always been so great. Imagine my surprise to find a rolling golf course overlooking a panorama of the Pacific Ocean and Golden Gate Bridge. In the center of this verdant kingdom of grass and golfballs sat Rodin's Thinker, contemplating his next stroke and enthroned in the columned courtyard of an architectural jewel of an art museum. The Legion of Honor is crammed with works by Monet, Reynolds, Rembrandt, Durer, El Greco, Manet, Bougereau, Rodin, and others, not to mention one of the largest and most stirring collections of religious artwork we have ever seen.
I was thrilled, feeling as if we had just landed with a thump at the end of a rainbow, though it was bittersweet finding the pot of gold so late in our trip. There had been many afternoons and mornings we would have spent wandering the hallways of that museum if we had known of its existence. Joining as members, we began making up for lost time, visiting at every opportunity--not only to the Legion of Honor, but also the de Young Museum, its sister in Golden Gate Park--so much so that the curators and docents now smile with recognition everytime they see us.
Apparently, they appreciate a young family fond of the arts--then again, perhaps my reputation precedes me. Can't you just hear them whispering in awed tones, "There she goes--New York's Cheesiest Artist!"
[Amended to add a link to the photos of The Thinker in cream cheese: Give the People What They Want]
[Please click here for a few more photographs. I put them on a separate page so this one would not be too hard to load.]
[Most of this post was written on August 7, 2007.]
[San Francisco Zoo, July 31, 2007]
"Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone?"--from The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe
One evening in the not so distant past, I was helping the girls get ready for a special event--Christmas maybe, or perhaps a Communion. Whatever the occasion, it was important enough for me to comb each of their freshly-washed heads myself. I began with Agnes, sitting her in our upstairs bathroom, carefully parting her straight brown hair and running a comb through it. This tedious process always takes a while, and before long she was absently tapping our loose shower door with her foot. Back and forth went the foot, closing the faulty door, only to have it spring open again and again. "Honey," I said, not especially liking the repeated taps, but still unruffled, "Would you please stop doing that?" "Sure, Mom," she said, immediately pulling her foot away from the door as I continued to comb.
Finishing up, I called Theresa into the room, carefully parting her straight blonde hair and running my comb through it. Before long, I heard a tapping and saw that Theresa was nudging the loose shower door closed with her foot, only to have it fall open once more. "Theresa, could you stop doing that?" I said firmly, "The noise is bothering me." "Sure, Mom," she obliged, retracting her foot as I continued to comb.
Next in the chair was (then) six-year-old Margaret, who had been playing dolls in her room with Marie. I carefully parted her strawberry blonde hair, running my comb through it. Within minutes, I could hear a tapping--a maddening, grating, inexcusable tapping. Margaret was closing the loose shower door with her foot, reclosing it each time it fell open. "Margaret!!!" I bellowed like a Bear in a Baiting, "WOULD YOU STOP OPENING AND CLOSING THAT SHOWER DOOR?!!!!"
Margaret looked dumbfounded--my sudden outburst in that enclosed space taking her entirely off guard. She did not even cry, but just stared aghast, her stark white face going red to the ears. In my mind, there was nothing for her to be surprised about--hadn't I repeatedly been saying to STOP making that awful noise?
Within ten seconds, of course, I realized what I had done. My patience had been worn thin by the tapping and the monotony of combing head after head after head. Margaret had not done anything wrong, although it certainly felt as if she had. Collecting myself, I apologized to her, explaining exactly what happened. We shared a laugh over it, and all was well again as I finished combing that strawberry head.
Every now and then, a single event shines a floodlight upon hundreds of others, and so it was with this one. How often had I lost patience with one child over something inconsequential when in reality my nerves were frayed by one or two or half a dozen other people who had just done the same thing? [This is completely understandable too, isn't it? No mother wants to yell at her kids--that Bear in a Baiting would much rather be eating blueberries placidly, or better yet snoring in her cave!]
To this day, when I feel the heat of maternal indignation rise within me, I try holding off just long enough to ask myself the question: Am I being fair, or am I giving my child "The Shower Door"?
And when, as it often does, it turns out to be the latter, we usually share a laugh over it!
Moments ago, I was sitting at the computer, when five-year-old Patrick tried to squeeze in on my lap. I was just finishing something and space was tight, so I responded absently, "There's no room, honey." To this, he let out a dejected sigh, lamenting in the most pitiful voice, "Oh, I wish I were the wipes box!"
It was only then I noticed for the first time that the box of wipes was in the coveted spot, with my elbow resting on it.
Needless to say, the boy is on my lap now--and I'm signing off!
Well, I promised a point to those early posts about our grand lodgings here in San Francisco, and it seems my day of reckoning is at hand. The trouble with beating around the bush for a month is that sometimes, in the business of living, you realize your original impression and intended "point" were not precisely right. You find that maybe you should have taken some time before drawing (and worse, promising) a conclusion.
So here is where I finally get to my original point before admitting new facts in complete opposition to it--then swiftly reconcile the two, so that I appear to have been right all along. (Ah, that law school training finally comes in handy.)
When we first arrived, you will recall, we were impressed and even overwhelmed by the
beauty of this place. Yet, quite honestly, it left me uneasy and wound up—the way I might feel wheeling a triple stroller though a narrow-aisled crystal factory. Our son Patrick hated the place right off the bat. Victorian gables and elaborate furnishings suggest haunted houses to little boys, and he would not so much as walk from one room to the next by himself for a full month.
The girls, although enamored at first, did not really fare much better. Only Agnes continued to love her surroundings without complaint (primarily because of a volume of Shakespeare eight inches thick to keep her occupied). It was clear the other girls felt stifled, as if they could not play or do anything lest something should break. Television viewing and bickering were embraced as cherished hobbies, and I began wondering if we had not entered the region of California known as “Whine Country.”
After a few days of beating up against the bars of her gilded cage, Theresa seemed to speak for one and all by exclaiming, with no small measure of disgust, “I feel as if this is a Stuck Up House.”
Now according to thirteen-year-old Agnes, there are two subjects Mommy is obsessed with and raises whenever possible—the importance of choosing a good husband (if they are one day called to married life) and the perfection of small houses. My speeches on husband selection usually take the form of pointing out potential “red flags” to keep in mind for the future, red flags being things like nose piercings, pink hair, unnerving tattoos, smoking, excessive drinking, sullenness, dishonesty, tax evasion, bad manners, a criminal record, boorishness, reckless driving, reluctance to hold doors, soup slurping, and a seemingly bottomless list of other quirks and foibles I do not wish to see in a son-in-law.
My speeches on small houses, on the other hand, are designed to help my girls become content and joyful in any surroundings. Hopefully (so my theory goes), if the children see small spaces and cottages as the ultimate in beauty and coziness, they will avoid a lifetime of yearning, covetousness, disillusion, debt, and discontent. The moment the girls grumbled about our stately manor house here in San Francisco, I felt validated. “You see?” I remarked smugly sagely, “It is just as I have always told you. Big houses do not lead to happiness! Remember this when you grow up!”
This was the point I was planning to reach in those first few posts, and I probably would have attempted to make it more delicately were it not for everyone’s complete and utter change of heart.
Once again, Theresa acted as the mouthpiece for one and all. As we sat talking about our love for San Francisco, hoping to return one day to this ethereal City by the Bay, the coiner of the term “Stuck Up House” declared (and adamantly, I might add), “If we do come back, I hope we can stay here again. San Francisco just wouldn’t be the same without this house.”
So you see my dilemma? I was trying to come to a point based on my daughter’s feelings over a month ago, and experience appeared to have taught her the complete opposite. Moreover, she had uttered my own unspoken thoughts as well. I would be lying if I did not admit to loving every inch of this place, each tasseled curtain and soaring ceiling, the front stairs, the back stairs, and all five glorious mantels. Even the reluctant Patrick has his favorite nooks and corners, perfect for pitching sheet tents or establishing imaginary zoos in which he is the naturalist in charge of all exhibits.
Mulling things over afterward, I realized what had happened, relieved to find the “point,” though off shivering in a silken-tasseled corner, still remarkably intact. No house could make us happy--WE had made the house happy! We did not love this place because it was opulent. We loved it because we had begun to fill it with family history and memory. It was no longer a looming, antiseptic, untouchable museum, but a living, breathing bower of light and life. It would forever be the fairgrounds for Margaret’s nightly “baby romps” and theatre for Agnes’ loving readings of Romeo and Juliet. It would form the backdrop in our minds for Maureen’s historic penny swallowing, Eileen’s first birthday and her triumphant maiden voyage up a full flight of stairs. In six weeks time, we had inflated this house with our laughter, sprinkled her with tears, affronted her through tiffs and tantrums, and impressed her with our lofty thoughts. We prayed many a Rosary wrapped in her embrace and transformed her trim gilded gables into steeples for the Domestic Church.
It is the family that finds its own measure of contentment, joy, and sorrow wherever it may be, and I hope the children will come away remembering this new adage: “Be it ever so humble--or extravagant--there’s no place like home."
If this shawl makes me look like the kitchen table, then surely little Eileen is the bouquet of flowers at the center.
I would show you a photo of the real tablecloth for comparison, but it is at the dry cleaners! That's right, dear friends, the tablecloth--which saw its fair share of fruit juice, maple syrup, jelly, strawberries, ketchup, and tea this month--is DRY CLEAN ONLY!!!
If the stains do not come out, I may just leave my shawl and hope no one notices!
[By the way, today is the one month anniversary of our flight to San Francisco!]
Photo credit: Theresa, age 11
Well, enough about picnics and broad pink brows. Six days ago, I promised a point, and by golly, I plan to deliver. (Soon.)
Our first Monday in San Francisco dawned with the only promise of blue sky in four days. The weekend had been so gray and cold, I was beginning to despair of anything but gloom in the City by the Bay. With light filtering through long lace curtains, our manse seemed grander than ever--I was half expecting a lace-capped chambermaid to curtsy at the door, ready to plait my hair.
The place was still feeling a bit sunless in another respect though. Not having a proper phone or internet connection in a new city was a bit like being alone on a highly ornamented desert island, my varied thoughts a message corked in a bottle, hurled to the obscuring tide never to be found. Fortunately, I had something any castaway would give his eye teeth for—a cell phone.
I managed to reach Lissa for an update from the mainland. A Promise Kept was appearing that day on Catholic Exchange, and I was eager to know if it had been well received. “Ooo, there are already quite a few comments,” she said, rattling them off one by one. The reviews were mostly positive, but one thread of conversation fascinated me—the impression a few readers had that the author was a “rich” attorney.
How can I express to you the surreal feeling of hearing oneself called “rich” while lounging in an opulent room appointed with soaring ceiling, gilded chandelier, and tasseled draperies? The term certainly felt apropos, so much so that I could almost believe it. Can’t you just picture me, eyeballs spinning, repeating, “I am Elmer J. Fudd, millionaire. I own a mansion and a yacht.”
Sure, it’s true I hadn’t seen my name on a paycheck since 1993. Yes, my only piece of haute couture was a tablecloth (and, truth be told, I was beginning to wonder if the tea cozy might not make a jaunty beret). Granted, my personal sense of style and fashion was closer to Jane Goodall than Jane Austen, but wasn’t my job description at least somewhat comparable to hers? [“Observing, nurturing, and photographing a playful group of primates in a familial setting in hopes of eventually training and communicating with them.”] Besides, that errant chambermaid hadn’t been around to dress me yet! Good help is so hard to find.
Meanwhile, the children were entering a fantasy of their own. I hung up the phone to find my “middle littles” (Marie, Patrick and Maureen) crowding by the front window, waving madly. A tour bus, cunningly disguised to look like one of San Francisco’s iconic cable cars, lingered outside the house. Visitors of every description lined the open passenger seats, smiling broadly, and waving up to the kids—several even snapping pictures. A highly amused tour guide was saying something through a microphone, no doubt with a bit more material added to his repertoire that day than usual.
“Well, what do you know?” I said, chuckling and vaguely embarrassed. “Our house is a stop on the tour of the City!” By this time, nine-year-old Margaret had joined the others and was speaking in awed tones, “Wow, I can’t believe it. Do you think they think we are rich kids?”
“I think they think The Beverly Hillbillies just rolled into town, “ I quipped mercilessly, standing back from the window for cover as the impostor cable car resumed its uphill grind, adding, “If they come again tomorrow, we can send Patrick down with his baseball cap to collect change.”
“He’ll be like an organ grinder’s monkey!” Agnes called from the next room.
As if on cue, Maureen, who (unbeknownst to her generally watchful mother) had been discreetly twisting herself in a twelve-foot lace curtain, gave the thing one last toddler-ish tug, bringing reams of fabric cascading down on top of herself. No damage was done, but the tension rod could not be replaced without a ladder, leaving a gap in the panels to the front bay window as conspicuous as a missing tooth.
Musing to myself, I could picture the owner wondering what had become of it. If he knew about my adventure with the tablecloth-formerly-known-as-a-shawl, he would undoubtedly assume I had enlisted the curtain for use as an article of clothing—perhaps a billowy skirt or frothy nightgown. Then again, maybe he would imagine a certain Germanic father of seven striding through the door in the evening and roaring, “Do you mean to tell me that my children have been roaming about San Francisco dressed up in nothing but some old drapes?”
These hills are alive with us around—that’s for sure.
three year old Maureen, who just observed that these two look an awful lot alike.
Once again, Patrick reminds us that he plays a bit differently from his sisters.
Yesterday, I found him locked in a desperate struggle with--of all people--our normally mild-mannered friend, Raggedy Andy. When I came upon the fray, I asked Patrick what was going on, and he said, "Oh, Andy's just kicking himself in the face. Look, there's the fat lip and two black eyes."
Such odd behavior. I guess Andy doesn't hold his liquor well.
[Postscript: When Marie heard this report, she exclaimed indignantly, "Fighting? It was Patrick acting him out! He would never do such a thing!"] 
You didn't think we would leave them in New York, did you? : ) : ) : )
Noah's New York Bagels is a popular eatery here in San Francisco. I smile whenever I go inside to see its emphatic subway motif and list of coffees with homey names like "Midtown," "Gramercy," "Soho," and "Chelsea." We have become regulars at our local establishment, instantly lining the small shop to the walls and drawing amused glances from the locals every time we show up. (San Francisco is chock full of spry young mothers with babies in every kind of carrier imaginable, but not many moms with a double stroller and five children besides.)
The other day, I was shivering on a bench outside the shop, warming my hands round a piping hot cup of Soho, when Agnes observed, "These don't really taste like New York Bagels."
"No?" I asked. "What do they taste like?
"They taste exactly like the bagels we get at home."
Noah's should hire us for their next ad campaign!
Patrick (looking glum): Mommy, today [a neighbor] said I was a crybaby.
Me (sincerely): You most certainly aren't. Why did he call you a crybaby?
Patrick: Because I was crying.
Me: Well, why were you crying?
Patrick: Because he called me a crybaby!
*******
The best part: That last line was delivered with a giant grin, and the two of us burst out laughing. To quote more Shakespeare, "All's well that end's well"!]
Here's a little something perfect for our Midsummer Night's Dream phase: The Beatles performing a version of Pyramus and Thisbe--with Paul McCartney as Pyramus, John Lennon as Thisbe, George Harrison as Moon, and Ringo Starr as Lion.
My view is no doubt colored by the sweeping strokes of mother's admiration, but, to me, the children's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream was the most magical, memorable, and magnificent performance imaginable. (I am, after all, the mother of Titania, Hermia, Puck, Cobweb, the changeling boy, and the littlest fairy!)
Here are a few scenes:
"Full of vexation come I with complaint against my child, my daughter, Hermia."
"The course of true love never did run smooth."
Titania and her retinue of sprites.
"Set your heart at rest. The fairy land buys not the child of me!"
INTERMISSION:
The fairies' lunch hour.
The three inseparable First Communicants, this time arrayed as fairies, were caught on the scooters once more. When MacBeth saw me running off to get this shot, she quipped, "You can bill it as 'The Scooter Photos: Pagan Edition.'" (I hope you will agree that this line was too funny not to repeat.)
Many more photos to come, but I must start our day!
may be found In the Shade of the Old Oaks: Twenty Years Later.
It is also the most heartwarming!
And if that isn't enough to keep you smiling this morning, take a look this Laura Ingalls Wilder fantasy come to life: Little House in the Shade of the Old Oaks. It comes complete with the prettiest Laura and Mary imaginable!
Find out how Karen Edmisten fared against some of the world's toughest opponents:
Not long ago, the ever resourceful Danielle Bean made a suggestion for busy mothers. If you need eager hands to hold the baby while you are trying to cook dinner, just be sure to show off those rippling rolls of lovable baby-ness!
Eileen and I are here to tell you that this advice works. So now, I am ordering Danielle's new book, Mom to Mom, for more!
[I am disappointed to say I cannot link to Danielle's specific post on this, because an anonymous person somehow entered and deleted some posts on her blog. Trust me though, it was a cute one!]
With fervent apologies to Danielle Bean for dopey post title.
Marie (cuddling next to me and sighing deeply): Wouldn't it be great if Life was all just hugging and kissing your Mommy?
Patrick (in the kitchen): Maur-reeeeeeennnn, STOP!!!
Me (calling from the next room): What's the matter?
Patrick: Maureen was teasing me about the Top Ten Healthy Foods!
*******
Well, all righty then.
If you would like to see the list of the Top Ten Healthy Foods, something I have obviously discussed with the children since reading it--although I did not figure it would lead to mockery--check out Kristen and Suzanne's cooking blog, The Virtual Kitchen.
Patrick: Did you know that Quetzels live in the Rain Forest?
Maureen (adamantly): No, they DON'T, Pat--they live in the kitchen!
Patrick (after a moment's pause): Are you talking about pretzels?
Maureen: Yes!
Eileen looks so solemn, stricken even, with those two tears running down her face. The poor child is the poster baby for the Lenten season!
God, in His infinite goodness, saw to it that it does not take much to entertain a toddler.
Maureen and I had a blast playing a ridiculous game this afternoon. I made it up on the spur of the moment in an attempt to be silly, but she just loved it. Mom does all the talking for this one.
Me [who happened to be holding a bottle of water]: "This is my nice little baby water."
[Turning to pat Maureen]: "This is my nice little baby daughter."
[Ttouching water again]: "Water!"
[Patting Maureen affectionately]: "Daughter!"
"Water!"
"Daughter!"
"Water!"
"Daughter!"
"Water!"
[Throwing both arms around Maureen suddenly]: "Caught her!!!!"
The "caught her" brought screams and squeals of the deepest laughter, not to mention a crowd of amused young onlookers. So enthusiastic was Maureen that she pressed me to repeat this game at least a dozen times. Even seven year old Marie begged for a turn (and received several)! Needless to say, the rhyme needed to be tweaked quite a bit for Patrick.
For a far more dramatic look at a real life game of "Water, Daughter," please pay a visit to the Cottage Garden. But be warned--you will need your rubbers.
Realizing our destruction theme may be growing a bit tiresome, it seems high time for a splash of color. Drawing an idea from the always lovely Kim of Starry Sky Ranch, here is our nod to blooming Pink!
Pink Petals:
Pink Pedaler:
Pink Pregnancy:
Pink Present:
Pink Portrait:
Pink Perspective:
Pink Peaks:
Pink Pallor:
Pink Picture:
Pink Pals:
Pink, Precious:
Pink Partiality:
Pink Playtime:
Pink Pixie:
Pink Palladian:
Pink Pots:
Pink Pet:
Pink Publicist:
Pink Project:
Pink Parting:
Maureen (puckering her lips and looking wistful): Mom, I wish I could kiss my head . . . but I can't.
Friday it was cold, extremely cold, mind numbingly, bone chillingly cold.
Saturday it was warmer, cheerily warmer, ice thawingly, mud meltingly warmer.
Today it was Springtime, bright blessed springtime, birds singingly, pipes burstingly springtime . . . .
That's right dear friends, the theme for this week is: MASSIVE DESTRUCTION.
It seems, horrified readers, that a pipe froze on Friday, thawed on Saturday, and proceeded to rain down on our furniture and books for, oh, about a day and a half.
The girls had been looking for a diversion this afternoon and asked permission to go next door to the cottage to make fairies. Moments later, the ill-fated party returned bellowing and breathless, barely coherent with cryptic ejaculations of "hissing sound!" "ceiling down!" and "sopping books!"
Dh and I sprang to our feet and were standing amidst the wreckage in a trice, not believing our eyes. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, the paint on the walls was bubbling, my wooden furniture was peeling, and our school books, notes and projects looked like noodles in a can of Campbell's. I think if the Superintendent of Public Schools could have shown up at that moment (preferably toting a chainsaw, or maybe just a really rusty pencil sharpener), we would have had all the elements of the perfect homeschooler's horror movie.
Here are some spine-tingling previews of the would-be flick now:
Here is a bit of melodrama for you: Do you see the soaking white pouch on top of "The Wheels on the Bus"? (Bottom Left.) It is one of the bags from "A New Beginning."
This Hail Mary Angel was a gift from our beloved neighbors when we moved from our old house. With a bit of cleaning up, she will return to her rightful place of honor in our learning room:
The funny part is--and I do not know why--this does not bother me! Yes, I was sorry to lose the books, particularly the children's projects (a year's worth of Agnes' artwork for example, not to mention a book of religious poetry inherited from my father), but isn't this really why Our Lord said:
"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and decay destroy, and thieves break in and steal. But store up treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor decay destroys, nor thieves break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be." Mt. 6: 19-21.
Honestly, I am not at all trying to sound saintly or sanctimonious. (Truth be told, much of my calm comes from the naive belief that a good portion of this will be paid by our insurance company. Believe me, if my photo albums had been on those shelves I would have cried like a baby.) Still, maybe I am becoming a bit more mature. Perhaps, after thirty-nine years of seeing objects come and go, I am finally figuring out how not to put too much of my heart into things that are passing away with all speed. Seeing my husband set to work hauling and hefting, mopping and airing, all I could think about was the blessing it is to have a sturdy and steadfast husband--my prayer is that our problems may always be this inconsequential!
As for the books, I was starting to feel that our curriculum lacked pizzazz this year. There is no doubt--none whatsoever--that, freed from the bondage of certain Math, Language Arts, and Spelling standards, we will have more time to pursue the things we *love,* and learning will go on. It will flourish like a tree newly pruned.
I am seeing lots of Montfort, Montgomery, Shakespeare, Homer, Comstock, Caroll, and Keats in our future. Rejoice with us!
*******
A word to MacBeth: Do you see that sopping pile of books? The ones on the very top of the right hand bookshelf in the first picture? Well, that's the Jacques Cousteau trilogy you sent home with Patrick last Halloween. We will not be returning them, but I think you will agree that at least they met a fitting end.
Most hilarious phrase choice of the day: A dear friend called to see if we would still be getting together tomorrow. I told her my sob story, and she was very understanding. "It's OK," she said, "we'll take a rain check!"
Mom: So, Patrick, do you like The Long Winter?
Patrick: Nope.
Mom (surprised): Really, why not?
Patrick: It's long!
*******
Life imitated art in the cottage tonight.
To begin with, I served the family a meal to mirror the one we had been reading about in The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder--pot roast, pan gravy, mashed potatoes--it was everything a snowed-in pioneer family with dwindling provisions could desire. The girls, bless their hearts, instantly recognized my purpose, entering right into character. With one or two pointed remarks about "running low on flour," "the train from the east" and "burning straw," dinner was passed most pleasantly, although we all missed Pa who was apparently out in the stable tending to the stock.
Later on, Ma was washing up with Mary and Laura, when Mary remarked upon how determinedly cold the kitchen seemed. (Blindness sharpens the other senses.) The indefatiguable Laura looked wide-eyed and shivery, and even Ma had to admit that the sink water was running rather icily.
Sure enough, our heat was out--in real life--and no crisis has ever been better timed!
With all the gravity and unflappable level-headedness of Ma, I told the children we must pass the time as best we could until the heater could be fixed, ordering them to wear their warmest nightclothes. [They change into pajamas every night--why is it that tonight the process seemed--and was--magical?] They were back in a flash and all smiles, with Marie sporting an ensemble that could best be described as a "get-up": a too-short red plaid nightgown, stray ballerina pajama pants, and a lamb-studded pink button down sweater. Crowning the effort most emphatically was mommy's brown felt hat, absurdly cute when worn by a seven year old and tilted just so. Our intrepid girl looked as if she could have held out until Spring and quite possibly intended to do just that.
Still in character as Mary and Laura, the older girls swaddled Maureen (our Grace) in toasty blankets, and we all huddled together in the big four poster bed upstairs to read. The advancing chill added to the ambiance, so that it was a joy to begin each new chapter--The Wheat in the Wall, Not Really Hungry, For Daily Bread, Four Days' Blizzard--surrounded by those bright-eyed blanket-bound listeners. Patrick and Maureen dozed on a pillow next to me, and the older girls lounged comfortably on all sides. I half expected to hear Pa's fiddle ring out in the distance or perhaps the windswept whir of a storm brewing, but the next sound we heard was a smart rap on the front door.
No, gentle readers, it was not Mr. Edwards or even Almanzo Wilder, but only the oil burner repair man. The moment his unmistakable poundings met Ma's ear, she thrust baby Grace (by this time played by understudy Eileen) to the nearest empty-handed girl and bounded off to let him in, returning to 2007 by way of the front stairs and ending our little fantasy for the night.
But, oh, it was fun while it lasted!
As I was tucking her into bed tonight, two-and-a-half year old Maureen mused about the morrow, asking, with a typical toddler's grasp of reality, "Mommy, in the morning, can we go to the pet store and get Patrick a fish? And then get Marie a doll? And then get me a doll?" I grinned to hear her generous, yet self-serving scheme, but before I could utter a word, baby Eileen beamed with shining eyes, clapped those two dimpled palms together for joy, and rang out a long note of assent clear as a bell, "Yayyyyy!!!!!"
Now I ask you: Does "Yay" qualify as a first word?
