I'm a Lancaster. Is that OK?

So, fellow Grammarians. I submit the following for your consideration. It was posted in the women's restroom at our city's central library. 

(Are you wondering why that photo looks so funkified? Well, it's because SOMEONE monkeyed around with the settings on my phone so he could take self-portraits like this one: 

But we're not mentioning any names. Nope. Love covers.)

So, anyway. In case that first photo's a bit ambiguous, let me translate:

"OUT OF ORDER. DO NOT USE. 

Facilities has been notified."

Except that someone (and I guarantee you, it wasn't the same someone who monkeyed with my phone) had taken up the pen of outrage and modified the sign to read: 

OUT OF ORDER. DO NOT USE. 

Facilities have been notified."

I really get my kicks, imagining a passive-aggressive battle  unfolding between two prim librarians, both smug in their respective towers of Proper Grammar. 

"Facilities HAS!" 

Tsk, tsk, my ignorant colleague; it's "Facilities HAVE!" 

It's like the Wars of the Roses all over again (Ian and I just read about that infamous affair again; gosh, what a writhing mess of Richards, Henrys, and backstabbing Edwards). The Lancasters confidently assert that Facilities is an entity, an office, a singular body to be notified in the case of malfunctioning hand dryers. The Yorks rebut that no, Facilities ends with an "s," is a plural word, and therefore must always be treated as such.

Where do you stand on the issue, gentle readers? 

I Get No Respect

Oh, look. How cute. My five year old started writing a story. What a budding genius. Remember, I taught her everything she knows. I found the first line on the floor last night. Let's take a closer look.

"Mom had gas."

Oh. Never mind.

************************

Last night as I tucked the girls in, Caroline asked, "Mom, where does the word 'strawberry' come from?"

Me: "I don't know. It's kind of a funny word, isn't it, since there's no straw in the berries. Maybe we can find out by looking it up in the dictionary."

Caroline: "No, I think we can just ask God."

*************************

Caroline, with utter certainty: Mom, Pongo [our puppy] is a Christian.

Me: Oh, really? How do you know that?

Caroline: Because he has a cross on his belly!

*********************************

I found the following text messages on my phone this morning.
Me [or should I say, a message originating from my phone]: I love pizza.
Tim: Hi Ian.
"Me": Ian?
Tim: Oh you mean this isn't Ian? I'm sorry. I thought he had your phone. He's pretty tricky that way. Do you want me to order pizzas tonight?
"Me": Yes that would be nice.
Tim: OK. Please call me to discuss raising allowances for the kids.

What can I say? I  married a man who wasn't born yesterday.
********************************

In Which I Dismember a Chicken and Do Not Die

No, not one of our beloved pets, of course. But STILL.

So, I volunteered to make a dinner for a mom from our homeschool co-op who had emergency surgery. Here's the catch: Their family does not eat dairy. My family (read: I) does not eat gluten -- I don't make separate dinners for myself and my family. Here's the other catch: This friend? Is? A CHEF.

Awash in a wave of paranoia, I could not think of a single transportable meal to cook. Therefore, I did what any self-respecting person would do and posted a desperate status update on Facebook. Within minutes, I was informed that I should be making Chicken Marbella, from the Silver Palate cookbook. (Personal Note: If I were marooned on a desert island and could only have three cookbooks with me, my Silver Palate would be among them. It's that crucial to my survival.)

Armed with a couple of hormone-free broiler hens from Costco, I checked my directions this morning and found that I was supposed to have marinated them overnight. Yay me. But here's the kicker: I had to quarter them first.

I quailed. Please! Give me dental surgery! Give me waiting in line at Sea World! Give me walking barefoot a public pool in puddles of warm, slightly slimy water! Just ... not ... the quartering of a poultry carcass.

Normally I foist this job onto the Professor, in fact I'm pretty sure that figured somewhere in our wedding vows, but he had the gall to go to work and abandon me to my own devices. It's just me versus the bird. Again to the Internet I go. VideoJug offers an instructive video in which the cook neatly, tidily, renders the chicken into six perfect, juiceless parts. And talks about popping joints. Deep breath. I can do this.

So there I am, in my kitchen, averting my eyes from the view of the yard, where our five cheerful hens are innocently strutting around eating mosquito eggs and earning their rent. Do not look at the chickens outside. Do NOT. 

And as I attack the bird, I discover that the VideoJug chef was using a super-awesome, super-sharp knife, while I am using a knife that was awesome and sharp in its glory days. My friends, I am here to tell you, this makes a difference.

Also, nowhere in the VideoJug feature did I see a four year old helper uttering the following sampling of helpful phrases every few seconds:

"Mom. That is DISGUSTO. I am leaving the room." [Oh that this would actually occur!]

"Ew. Do you know how gross that looks? What is the skin for? Is that fat, Mom? Is it? Why don't you eat it? What do you mean it's not good for your heart? What would happen to your heart if you ate it?"

"Mom, Bear Grylls ate a DEAD SHEEP once." [Terrific, honey. Could you get him on speed dial for me?]

As I saw away, mimicking the VideoJug chef's work in the way that a pigeon resembles a peacock, I consider profanity, but God and the four year old being on the premises, I resort instead to creative visualization and yoga breathing. I picture the friendly smile of the mom for whom I am cooking. I do not picture her wearing her chef's hat. I picture the sailing excursion the Professor and I took years ago in Hawaii. I do not picture my sunburned toes.

Of course, every two minutes I have to scrub my hands in hot water and soap to go consult VideoJug again. Turns out, when your mind is in Hawaii, it's not really retaining much information that's actually relevant to your current situation. 

Half an hour later, I have two fully quartered chickens happily marinating away in a delightful sauce. I have a clean, sanitized countertop. I have broth simmering on the stove, fragrant with bay leaves and elephant garlic. The house smells almost heartbreakingly wonderful. To all appearances, it's been a June Cleaver kind of morning.

Oh, how deceiving appearances can be.

Olympic Records

The Professor and I always get a kick out of the background babble of the commentators at the Olympic Games. Particularly, we enjoy the very meaningful stats they lob our way.

"No American man has won the Olympic gold medal in figure skating while also being the world champion in figure skating since Scott Hamilton did so in 1984."

Wow wow wow. Let me file that away for my next appearance on Jeopardy!

Some we haven't exactly heard yet, but find entirely within the realm of possibility:

"This is the first skater with a blind, left-handed father ever to place seventh in an Olympic Games held on a year ending in zero!"

"This is the only snowboarder EVER to land this particular combination in competition while wearing eyeliner AND lipgloss on a Wednesday since 2009!"

"This is the highest score ever awarded by this panel of judges since I started scratching my left shoulder!"

One day, you'll encounter us in a game of Trivial Pursuit, and we will make you shudder in fear.

Portrait of An American Boy

Just when you think you have your kids figured out, you come home to a printed list like this on the kitchen counter.

Ian’s list of things to do

Bow [archery] practice

Form [taekwondo] practice

Lie in room and shoot darts at various objects

Snitch pieces of food

Play with oscar

See if can go 2 friend’s house or vice versa

Play with legos

Jump on Oscar’s trampoline

Read

Draw

Play on computer

Rig booby traps

Play with Knex/Zoobs

Listen to audio book

Play on Wii [Editor's Note: Might be tough since we don't currently own one.]

Have nerf war with dad/friends

Go on tire swing

Play with eliza/caroline

Outing

Hide and seek

Tag

Watch TV

Listen to ipod

Take nap

Study pets

Play Crazyball

Invent things

Build things

Chores

Spy on neighbors

Watch clouds outside

Dig hole outside

Dig in Oscar’s house’s hole

Disappear/go camp out somewhere weird

Look for bugs/snakes

Go to Shoal Creek

I can't decide whether my favorite is "lie in room and shoot darts at various objects" or "snitch pieces of food." Or maybe it's "disappear."

And I can hardly contain my astonishment at not finding "scour and disinfect toilet" or "polish silver 'til gleaming" on this list. Maybe that piece of paper just got jammed in the printer?

Speaking of Ma Ingalls ...

The Professor has decided that he is comfortable enough with his manliness to allow me to share his latest accomplishment.

But first, look at this:

See? Very manly. Are we all agreed?

So, moving right along, he has, or HAD, this gigundous stack of T-shirts. So abundant that often, I could barely close the drawers when putting away clean laundry. It's been an issue in our marriage from the very beginning. But we don't need to get into that. That's what therapy is for.

Yesterday, no doubt inspired by a surge of love for me, he decided to purge the stack. Helen of Troy's face launched a thousand ships; mine launches about ten T-shirts.

But sharing my abhorrence for waste, he didn't want to do something so dastardly as throwing them all away. And we have more than enough cleaning rags, thankyouverymuch. So, are you ready for this?

HE CUT THEM ALL INTO STRIPS AND BRAIDED THEM INTO A RUG. And, at her request, a jumprope for Caroline.

And tomorrow, he'll begin a three-day walk, just like Ox-cart Man, to the nearest city to sell our wares.

Or not.

Starstruck

I met Kate the Great on Saturday.

Kate DiCamillo, that is. And she was FABULOUS. I might even be understating the case a bit.

Here's the scenario: I'd been waiting four weeks for this event, which took place at Bookpeople, our local (huge) independent bookstore. You can't listen to the audiobook version of A Tale of Despereaux, for instance, without falling in love with its author. It simply can't be done. I dare you. So even though our family car was otherwise occupied, Eliza and I rode the bus downtown, walked five blocks past bars full of TX-OU game fans, and secured our seat in the audience, an hour in advance (oh, and I had gone at 9:00 a.m. to get us wristbands, which turned out to save us a ton of time later).

We met our young friend Penelope and her dad there. I had to avert the girls' attention from the length of our wait by reading Babar Visits America to them.

That Babar. He's just so riveting.

Finally, Kate arrived. Y'all, she was so adorable. Not only was she cute in terms of size, but also she was wearing really dapper jeans and cowboy boots. I just think it's important to pass on all the pertinent information.

She read the first half chapter from her new book, The Magician's Elephant. Then she took questions. And I took notes. The highlights of which I will share with you.

Guess what Kate did for a living in her twenties? She worked at Disney World, telling people to "watch your step; look down" hundreds of times a day as they entered Space Mountain (I think).

At age thirty, she decided that if she were really going to be a writer, she needed to actually write. You may think that's funny, but some of us could relate to that logical disconnect in which she had been living. So, she began sending out short stories. Guess how many rejection letter she got before Because of Winn Dixie, her first children's novel, was accepted by a publisher (on its first try, incidentally)?

470.

Yes. As in, four hundreds, seven tens, zero ones. Hurrah for expanded notation!

She bought herself a dartboard and every time one of those letters arrived, she'd tack it up there and hurl a bunch of darts. Then she'd mail that story right back out.

Now, even though she's won the Newbery Award and scads of other honors, guess what she has to force herself to do every single day?

Write.

Two pages a day, she does, feel like it or not. She gets up at 5:00 a.m. so she can start writing before her inner critic, the voice that tells her she's fooling herself to think she's a real writer, what she's producing is junk, etc., arises to full consciousness, which happens around 6:30 a.m. And this from a Newbery Award winner!

I asked her whether there was a particular incident that had inspired her picture book, Great Joy (a favorite of Caroline's). She talked about two different experiences of witnessing homelessness as a child and feeling so disturbed by what she saw. She also quoted the sentence that popped into her head to begin the story -- a sentence which eventually met its demise on the chopping block.

A book she called perfect: Charlotte's Web. In an interchange with the audience, she asked why Stuart Little is great, but not perfect. Our friend Penelope pointed out that at the end, we don't know whether Stuart finds what he's looking for. Kate thought that was brilliant. She made Penelope's day.

When we made it up to the front to have our book signed, I commented to her something about the parallel endings of two of her books. She was super friendly and didn't say, "Yeah, DUH!" or anything of the sort. Then I thanked her for the writing advice and she lit up and said, "Are you a writer???" I told her that I had a little collection of those very special letters she had referred to. She looked at me and said, "You MUST read this book," and scribbled this name on a piece of paper. Then she had to graciously tend to the 200 people who were waiting.

She made my day. Maybe my month. Maybe my year. I think Eliza liked the experience too, and we both enjoyed the one on one time, but just between us, I think I did this one more for me. Mom's prerogative.

Long live Kate!

[Edited to add: A reader emailed me to ask about the audio CD of Despereaux. It's the one read by Graeme Malcolm. This is a public service announcement. Finis.]

I made this (and you can too!)

Seriously. I really did. Try not to collapse in a faint.

Not only the outfit, but the model inside. Of course, I had quite a bit of help with that one.

Which brings me to my point. Ahem.

How Sewing and Childbirth are Alike:

1. Childbirth is laborious work.

Sewing is laborious work.

2. Childbirth mystically connects you to millions of women who have traveled this earth before you, drawing you into its productive sisterhood. [Note: I remember thinking this very thing as I paced my front lawn under the stars, laboring to bring forth Eliza.]

Sewing (for one's children, especially) mystically connects you to millions of women who have traveled this earth before you, drawing you into its productive sisterhood.



3. When childbirth is accomplished [and considerable time has elapsed], you're so entranced by the cuteness of the finished product that you forget the words "NEVER AGAIN!" and start to think, "Hey, maybe I could do this again!"

When the sewing is accomplished, you're so entranced by the cuteness of the finished product that you forget the words "NEVER AGAIN!" and start to think "Hey, maybe I could do this again!"


4. After childbirth, you can't help but marvel at the tiny, detailed perfection of what you have wrought.

Um. Sewing is also a pastime.



[Time to give credit: directions for the skirt can be found here, complete with photos. T-shirt was made using a pumpkin stencil, fabric scraps, and something called Wonder Under. Can't help you with how the girl was made. Most of y'all are moms (I think). You've figured it out. Let me know if you make the skirt, though!]

That's Good! No, that's Bad!

A couple years ago we received a very clever picture book for one of the children's birthdays entitled That's Good! That's Bad!, by Margery Cuyler. In its honor, I thought I'd try a riff about my day.

I was sooo tired all day today. Kept feeling like I wanted, no, urgently needed a nap.

Oh, that's bad.

No! That's GOOD. It forced me to actually lie down on my bed and read a delightful book during "quiet time," where my husband found me when he arrived midafternoon.

Oh, that's good.

No! That's BAD. The reason he arrived early was that I had to go to work, and tutor children in various stages of willingness while inwardly longing to put my head down on the table and snooze.

Oh, that's bad.

No! That's GOOD. When I arrived home, I was so ready to keep the whole evening simple and relaxed, so willing to abandon our unspoken "no TV at the dinner table" principle, that I cheerfully instigated a family viewing of "Wipeout," a show that draws us together in mutual hilarity.

Oh, that's good.

No! That's BAD. We started dinner late, so we started the show late, so the kids ended up staying up too late.

Oh, that's bad.

No! That's GOOD. By the time they were all ready for bed and had duly celebrated the very rare arrival of some rain in our back yard, the sun had fully set and they all wanted to cuddle up in a "family jumble" on our bed.

Oh, that's good.

No! That's BAD. After about two minutes of cozy bliss, the bickering over flashlights and misplaced body parts began.

Oh, that's bad.

No! That's GOOD, because it made me appreciate those fleeting moments when young children, often (let's face it) a major source of exhaustion to a full-time parent, are also very much the balm in Gilead that soothes that stress away. There's nothing quite like being all together, stinky feet and all.

Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day, everyone! Hope everyone who IS a mother and everyone who HAS a mother had a wonderful, memorable day.

Caroline had a memorable day because after we emerged from the University Club where we have our traditional Mother's Day luncheon, her little feet got bitten by several fire ants. See below.


Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln says the show was quite lovely.

And now, in honor of Mother's Day, instead of telling you about how my sweet children made me some nice mixed-media cards with my scrapbooking supplies and then left a mess all over the floor for me to clean up as I rejoiced in that very special irony, I will tell you three funny little stories, one for each reason I am a mother today.

Caroline went running into her room to get dressed yesterday morning, but the blackout shades were still drawn. She came pitterpattering back to our room, pouting audibly. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" inquired her daddy. "My room! It's ... FLOODED WITH DARKNESS!!!"

Eliza melted into tears Friday night upon discovering that Ian was about to shove off to his semiannual all-night lock-in at his taekwondo place. "But I'll miss you TOO MUCH!" she wailed. "I'll call you on the phone!" Ian offered. "But you can't do that while I'm SLEEPING!" "Eliza, honey," I intervened, "how can you miss Ian while you're asleep?" "Because he's just ..." sob, sniff, sniff, "warm and ...... snuggly."
Needless to say, she was allowed to go to the lock-in with him (Daddy brought her home at eleven).

Ian had the most delightful conversation with his friend Truman on Friday afternoon, and I got to eavesdrop and transcribe. Here's an excerpt:
Ian: You should meet Ashley, my cousin, she's awesome. (Pause.)
But sometimes she goes off with Amber and Eliza and does all sorts of
GIRLY stuff.
Truman: Ewww, girly! Ian, you're gonna have to marry one, you know?
Ian: I don't really have to, but yeah, I know, I'm gonna have to,
because I want to have kids.
Truman: You have to have kids with a girl, you know.
Ian, sighing: Yeah. I know.

(Not sure whose kids these are; we just noticed them sitting outside the restaurant this afternoon. Strange-looking critters, no?)

Certain as the sun, rising in the east ...

Here are three things you can take to the bank with you in these uncertain times. 

1. When the children ask what we're having for dinner, and someone answers, "Hamburgers," they will always, always, shriek, "Ham-BOOGERS!" and then shriek with laughter, as if this is the VERY FIRST TIME anyone has come up with this astonishingly clever remark. 

2. When we read a book by a certain favorite author/illustrator of ours, Caroline (or whoever's listening) will say, craftily, "By who?" just so I can respond, "By Tasha Tudor," and she can yelp "Tasha TOOTER!" which is also, oh, so, funny, fresh and original. 

3. When we are driving down the highway, I will be asked approximately 62 "Why?" questions, complete with about 3 follow-up questions each. When I run out of reasons and am backed into a corner (you know, "why is it safer to ride with the back of my seat up instead of reclined?" type questions that involve at least a passing understanding of physics or philosophy or whathaveyou), and I say, "Because I love you," the three year old in question will shout, "But I don't WANT you to love me!" because what she really, really wants is to have her questions answered, and she ain't fallin' for any of Mommy's cutesy tricks. At which point her mother will begin silent prayers along the lines of "Dear Lord, please provide me with a wall against which I may repeatedly bang my head, right NOW." 

Caroline informed me yesterday that she no longer wants to be an astronaut in addition to being a mommy. She wants, instead to be a "play mom." Which I find highly flattering, because I guess that's her version of my job description. I wish for her oodles of stamina and a lifetime supply of either very large coffees or very large tranquilizers.

Also, a white picket fence

A dinnertime conversation with my three year old: 

When I grow up, I'm going to be TWO THINGS! A mommy, and an astronaut!

Oh really? How many kids are you going to have?

[Holds up three fingers.]

Do you know what you're going to name them?

Francis, and Katherine, and ... Lily. 

Oh? Any boys?

Francis is a boy. 

Aha. How old will they be? 

One, and two, and three. 

Wow, you will be such a busy mom! And a good one, too!

Yes. My children will NOT eat candy. 

[Ouch.] 

And tell me about your pets.

I'm gonna have a dog, and a cat, and a horse and a bunny rabbit. 

Will you live out in the country?

Yes, I'm going to live just like Aunt Jenni. 

What about Ian and Eliza? Where will they be?

They're gonna live with ME! And they will be my kids!

What about Mommy and Daddy?

They will live with me, too. Daddy's going to be my husband. 

Oh, you'd better tell him about that. 

I will tell him later, because he's mad at me for getting into my princess costume instead of my pajamas, so I will tell him in a few minutes. 

What will Mommy be?

She will live with us and cook our food!

Oh HURRAY. She must have been demoted due to her failure to prevent her current children from ever eating candy, including the child who begs for it (see above). Does she get to scrub the bathroom floors with a toothbrush too, I wonder ... ?

Politically Incorrect

You know something I appreciate about my mother-in-law? Her sense of humor. And the fact that she does not expect her grandkids to be anything more than KIDS. An example:


That is the birthday card she received from my son yesterday during one of our longest restaurant experiences on record. He worked long and hard on it, and yes, it says, "Happy Birthday to you, you live in a zoo (#1Grandma!), you sml like a monkey, and you look like one too!" (She chose to interpret it as "SMILE like a monkey" and thank him for the compliment, but he assured her that no, he really meant "SMELL," he just ran out of the appropriate letter stickers.)

I know she is just going to treasure that one forever.

I am so boring, apparently, that all I could come up with to give her was a homemade card with FLOWERS, and a bag with little gifts for an afternoon teatime -- monogrammed mug from Anthropologie, tea, book by favorite author Nicholas Sparks, pumpkin ginger pound cake-scented candle that's supposed to burn for 35 hours. I mean, how staid! How insufferably lacking in juvenile humor!

And speaking of juvenile humor ... if you live in Austin, you know that all the major intersections are populated by homeless folks hoping for some charity. Since my dear husband is AGAINST giving out cash, but at my insistence wants to honor the children's generous instincts, he came up with the idea of handing out cans of beans.

Today, we saw a man on the corner by our local HEB. Caroline shrieked, "A HOMELESS MAN! Quick! Let's give him a can of beans to make him TOOT!"

Clearly, at least for this child, flatulence trumps charity any day.