Jonathan is refusing to watch Jim Carrey in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.
"I'm afraid of his long wiggly fingers--that he'll use them to steal our holiday."
I can see his point a bit, can't you?
Those are some long wiggly fingers.
Holiday greetings from the kiddos
Quick coffee break on Wall Street
Jonathan is feeling the effects of a busy Christmas seasonI'm relatively certain that tears are not the normal reaction to the Rockettes and all their accompanying extravagance.
Awe, laughter, increases in Christmas spirit...all expected reactions.
Crying-- probably not so much.
I took the morning off from work so I could chaperone Jonathan's preschool class on their field trip to the show. (Jonathan complained that I was the only mom who never helped at the preschool. Little does he know how much of my job is "helping the preschool." It's just that I am in the school office, and he doesn't see me.) The other chaperones and I led the undulating line of giggling/pouting/chatting plaid-clad preschoolers as we walked the 6 blocks to Radio City Music Hall. We found our way to our seats, the ushers handed us 3-D glasses and magically lit star-shaped wands, and the show began. Lights flashed, the orchestra played, dancing ensued, and Santa welcomed us to the greatest show in the greatest city on earth.
It was all very...LARGE.
I glanced at Jonathan, perched on the edge of his upholstered seat, sitting still as stone while he took it all in. It was then that I was blindsided by the thought.
I live here. In this city. And this is NORMAL--that my son and I are on a school field trip to what surely is one of the best known shows in one of the best known venues in the world.
Thus began the tears of gratitude.
I used to have those Wait, I LIVE here moments quite frequently...while playing in Central Park or walking down a crowded sidewalk. But lately, as I've grown accustomed to life in the city, those thoughts have receded. I wasn't prepared for this one.
God is good, my friends. Good because He's called our family to a city that we love, to do work that we love. And while we're working, we're experiencing a vast and rich culture that testifies to God's love of beauty and creativity.
We live here.
We love here.
It's the kind of things the kids and I do on early Sunday mornings.
Watch it here.
(We don't dance together very good, said Jonathan.)
Now that the temps have dropped and the wind has taken the opportunity to whip against all who dare to venture outside, I love my sleeping bag coat more than ever.
There was a brief moment this week, however, when the coat and I had to work through an issue.
I arrived at work one morning, cozy as could be and so appreciative for the warmth the coat had lent me on the journey. The fur on the collar had gently brushed my face and kept the wind from blowing down my neck. "What a great coat I have," thought I.
Out of curiosity, I decided to check the coat's filling. Was it a special down that made it so warm, or was the down intermingled with some new man-made insulation that kept the cold from reaching me?
Down,
Waterfowl feathers,
Wool lining--
All there, the magical combination of warmth.
But what's this?
The fur is
Raccoon Fur!?
I was horrified. And not because I was offended by the presence of real animal fur (sorry PETA, that's not my cause), but because it was RACCOON.
Raccoons, the rodents of my childhood.
Raccoons,
the
trash invading,
birdseed stealing,
rabies transmitting,
roadkill thieves in the night.
And now, I'm wearing a coonskin. Against my face. And liking it. What's next? Ratskin gloves?
I imagined Michael Kors searching the highways and byways for a dead 'coon with which to make the trim on my coat, and suddenly, I liked both Michael Kors and my coat a little bit less. (To be fair, I never said my reaction was rational. I'm sure Michael Kors didn't search the roads for a dead 'coon. He probably sent his people to do it for him...)
How to resolve this dilemma?
In the end my pragmatism won over (as usual).
This is the warmest coat I've ever owned. It can't help it that someone made a bad choice in fur selection.
I was able to forgive it for its rodent trim,
but I have not forgotten, and I still can't nuzzle my cheek into the fur like I did before.
I'll work on that. Maybe with time...
How fitting that we awoke this morning, the Morning to Start Christmas Baking, to find the season's first snowfall had arrived in the night
Frequent breaks in the baking to check snow status ("Yep, it's still snowing!")
Cutout cookies with the secret ingredient and a nod to our Dutch heritage: almond extract
Jonathan didn't buy my "less is more when it comes to sprinkles" pitch;
Bing Crosby's White Christmas+plenty of flour+50% of sprinkles finding their way to floor= Job well done
More pics of our Griswold-esque courtyard.
I especially appreciate the neon lining of the streambed.
Jonathan was taking a bath. I was doing some cleaning.
"Mamaaaa!" He bellowed. With that urgent, "hurry up I'm stuck or I'm going to have a bathroom accident or maybe I just need a drink of juice really, really bad" tone.
I hustled inside.
"What's the matter?'
"Mama, there is NO WAY I can learn to be a good boy."
Pause, while I try to catch up with his train of thought. "What?" (I know; I'll write a book about my mad parenting communication skillz sometime soon.)
"There's no place to learn how to be a good boy," Jonathan explained, with some patience but really not much.
"But what about how Daddy and I teach you? What about preschool?" I asked.
"But Mamaaa (implied in his tone here is: But, Mama, please try to get your slow and sluggish brain to catch up with mine), there are piano lessons and violin lessons and karate lessons, but there is NO PLACE to go to learn how to be a good boy. So. I. Can't. Be. A. Good. Boy."
Right, I think. Good Boy lessons are hard to come by in this town. Maybe at the Y?
Turns out that Steve and Jonathan had had a long discussion that afternoon about consequences and discipline and why we are helping him "learn how to be a good boy."
After learning of this, I returned to Jonathan and spoke with him of Grace. I explained that no one is perfect; we all are broken and do things that hurt each other and hurt God's heart. But, I told him, the beautiful thing is that because of Jesus, God doesn't see those things when he looks at us. He sees how much he loves us, and that's it. In the end, we try to be good out of our love and thankfulness for what Jesus does for us.
His reply to my explanation was not unexpected.
"I just don't know how to be a good boy, though! So I can't be one."
He is only 4.
I've got 28 years on him, and
I'm still wading my way through legalism to fall into grace.
Don't despair, sweet Jonathan. It's not a lost cause.
The kids call it a Winter Wonderland.
I call it...something else. It is indeed something else.
I ate leftover pumpkin pie for breakfast this morning.
Anyone else?
Grandma B's Fabulous Handmade Apron, circa late 1950's (?)I'm drinking maple walnut coffee
and
listening to Sara Groves, "Tell Me What You Know"
and
celebrating that this morning person can invest her a.m. energy in something
relaxing
and
fun
and
a little bit lazy
this Thanksgiving Day.
Also, I'm gearing up for the final preparation of a Thanksgiving meal for 8. (We can easily make it 9 or 10 if you're looking for a place to land this day. Com'on over.)
But the real question is: Have you read this blog?
The beauty of the story and the work that is being done...and the way it's told...sometimes leaves me breathless.
(Thanks, KJ, for directing me there)
Kermit was there
So was a shady-looking Ronald Mc Donald
And Shrek. But he was closer to life-sized and not as full of hot air
Hello Kitty must have been misbehaving; she was tied down tightThe kids have a rough time of it in the mornings.
I mean, I have absurdly high expectations.
Eat their breakfast...brush their teeth...the kind of things any kid couldn't possibly accomplish in one morning.
And most mornings, our interactions go like this:
"Jonathan, turn off the tv and eat your breakfast."
"But, Mamaaaa....!"
"Chloe, stop messing around and get dressed."
"Ok, but Jonathan's not getting dressed, either."
"Jonathan, get dressed."
"But, Mamaaaa...!"
Not exactly the warm fuzzy way to start your day.
So Chloe, my rule-abiding, list-loving, "I'll meet your expectations and raise them one" oldest child, has created some checklists for our morning routines.
Wake uq at 5:30: check (that's a self-prescribed awakening time, by the way, and not mother-approved)
Cuddly and soft as a kitten...now, that's soft!
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant--
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind--
Emily Dickinson
"That same day Jesus went out of the house and sat by the lake.
Such large crowds gathered around him that he got into a boat
and sat in it, while all the people stood on the shore.
Then he told them many things in parables..."
The Bible, Matthew 13:1-3
When I was younger, parables annoyed me. They seemed roundabout,
circumspect...inefficient.
I wanted straight up, unadulterated, tell-it-like-it-is truth.Fresh Direct: Deliverer of Groceries and Robot Costume-making Supplies
Costume Design by Chloe
Modeled by Jonathan
Chloe and Jonathan come with me to the school each morning. It's a 10 minute walk to the subway and another 25 minute subway ride to the school. In general, I enjoy this time (I'll let you know if that's still the case when the temps drop below freezing. Doubtful.). The city is still sleepy when we leave, the air feels fresh, and the sun is rising. Clusters of NYPD cops stand on the corners, window washers are getting a head start on their never-ending task, and the coffee and donut carts are pumping out lovely aromas into the air.
I snapped some pics last Friday.
Taxis line up outside The World Financial Center, which is across from our apt. complex
We cross the Westside Hwy each morning on a footbridge. This is looking north. The World Financial Center is on the left, the WTC site is to the right.
Looking south down the Westside Hwy. Battery Park City is one of the last places in Manhattan with room to build. The condos that are being built will sell for millions of dollars each.
Rector Street Station. Our stop.
Chloe and Jonathan are often the only children in our subway car. We make the most of our time by reading books together, talking about the day to come, and reviewing spelling words or something similar. We're starting to recognize regulars who ride the same time as we do each day.Our apartment building has 32 floors.
But no, it doesn't.
There's no 13th floor.
It's too unlucky, I guess. And there are plenty of buildings in the city with a similar setup.
But are the people on the 14th floor fooled for even one second? Do they really think there's some phantom 13th floor below them and they're really sitting safe on the more fortunate 14th floor?
Our building was built in the early 80's, btw. This is not some throwback to more superstitious times.
A lot of people in this city take their Halloweens seriously.
Today in Starbucks, I saw a man dressed as a Ghostbuster, and it wasn't even noon.
On the subway on the way home from work, I sat next to a stuffed banana. A black ninja was down the aisle, and the "Where's Waldo" guy was leaning against the door. A woman with a crazy short skirt and black fishnet stockings was across the way, but I couldn't tell if that was a costume or just an everyday wardrobe choice.
____________________________________
Steve, Purple Princess, and Buzz are out making the candy-gathering rounds tonight, while I hover by the door waiting for the doorbell and the trailing chorus of "Trick or Treeeeeat!"
It's not a bad job, the Candy Hander-outer. I enjoy all the costumes and Thank You's and the general jovial atmosphere.
But I fear I am discriminatory in my implementation of candy hand-outing.
Yes, I am. Please don't call the ACLU.
When I open the door to behold a little child, perhaps 10 years old or younger, I happily ask them what their costume is, comment on the cute/scary/creative nature of their costume, and hand over the goods. On occasion, there are the really little ones, the ones who are still learning the Trick or Treating ropes, who will stand brazenly with their bags gaping open even after I've deposited the candy. When this happens, I'll smile and throw in another piece for good measure. Happy to do it. Really.
In contrast, when I open the door to a motley crowd of teenagers with half-hearted costumes, I am the Not So Nice Begrudging Candy Hander-Outer. This is especially true when, before I even open the door, I can hear from their "Trick or Treat" that voices have changed and facial hair is forthcoming. Humph! I think. Bah humbug! (which is absolutely appropriate for my attitude and should not be reserved for Christmastime only ).
Tonight, as I was dropping some licorice into a kid's bag, he stopped me and said, "Not that kind! Can I have something else?"
"What!?" I exclaimed, and paused mid-drop.
"Yeah, um...(pause that was a nanosecond too long)... I'm allergic. Can I have something else?"
Right.
I'm a nurse; I can respect a person's food-allergy, but that didn't sit well.
Scott DeVore rocks his camera.
But there is only so much a person can do when working with raw material such as this:
On Tuesday, Chloe asked to have her hair done "different."
This, coming from a child who used to spaz if I approached her with anything resembling a ribbon or barrette (remember that, Mom?).
After a few tries, we settled on pig tails. (Her hair has finally regrown enough since the drastic repairs following The Self-Induced Cut incident.)
That afternoon at parent teacher conferences, her teacher mentioned to me that one of the little boys in her class had told Chloe that her pigtails made her the most beautiful girl in the school. When I arrived home that evening, I asked Chloe if anyone had commented on her pigtails. She told me that one little boy thought she looked pretty and another one told her she "looked like she was in high school!"
It's not hard to guess how Little Miss wanted her styled the next day. And the next.
Those first graders sure know how to compliment their ladies, don't they?
Good Morning, Blogsville. A few questions for you on this lovely fall day.
________________________________________________
After it rains here, or sometimes just because it's NYC, giant water cockroaches will scurry across the sidewalk. They're at least an inch long and quite bulky, so they can't move as fast as their little German cockroach cousins. I've seen many a person lift up their foot and squash the roach dead, taking out all their cockroach resentment on one (ugly, deserving, just plain gross) hapless bug. Steve once witnessed a little boy of about two, begging his nanny not to kill the nice little bug. The nanny barely paused before she lifted her boot-shod foot and brought it down again with a crunch. When people do that, I feel as if they're doing the city a favor, stopping one roach from reproducing into how many thousands more.
But.
My friend Anne Marie, a long time New Yorker and over all city-savvy kind of lady, once told me that if you happen to step on a pregnant roach, a roach with eggs, the eggs can get stuck to the bottom of your shoe. A few steps later, you enter your apartment with an egg laden shoe, ushering all kinds of mayhem into your very home. Blech. I shudder when I think about the possibility.
Can this be true? Anyone an entomologist by hobby or by trade?
_____________________________________________________
On a totally unrelated note,
Some acquaintances of mine recently attended a different church. This church, brand-spanking new and eager to welcome people into their community, does something that gives me pause.
They give a Starbucks gift card, valued at $5, to first time visitors. Attached to the card is a handwritten note of welcome from the pastor.
And I wonder...
What do you think about that? Would it make you want to come back to the church? And if so, would you come back hoping to see what Week #2's gift would be?
Jonathan's prayer at dinner last night:
Dear God. Thank you for everything. Thank you for the world. Thank you for the galaxy, and thank you for dinosaurs. But the one thing I don't like is the T-Rex. Amen.
Michelle recently added a poll to her blog.
"Do you think you could live in New York City?"
Not only can I live here, I love living here.
I'm a bit in the minority, according to Michelle's very official and extensive poll.
If you can't stand the thought of living here, perhaps I could convince you to visit? Check out Tina's blog about the girls' time here (we had a great time) and watch this latest release from NYCVisit (I think it's well done), and then give me your answer. I'll start inflating the aerobeds.
You might call it a sleeping bag with a place for my feet to stick out.
I call it Theres-no-way-this-lower-manhattan-wind-is-going-to-bother-me.
It's made of down and reaches nigh unto my ankles.
A little poof does a body good.
Come now, I haven't forgotten how to blog. Didn't I warn you that September's blogging would be sporadic at best? I've been busy, that's all. I'm not complaining (really, I'm not), but you should know that in addition to working full time and being Mom and Wife, I've been having church related meeting or dinners every night of the week. Which doesn't leave much time for sleep, much less blogging. (Plus The Office started, which I've been watching in the five minute spurts of free time that I have. Priorities, folks.)
I've got some substantial blogs brewing, though.
Like what I've recently learned about forgiveness.
And how City Fellowship Church had its first Fellowship Gathering at our apartment.
And then there is The Weekend that Seven West Michigan Women Took on New York City.
There's even the blog about how I lectured Chloe on the subtle pitfalls of being a know-it-all, and she answered me with, "I already knew that." (Well, that's really the whole story on that one. I'll call that good.)
You know, I've been living, and things have been happening. I just haven't blogged. I've missed it, really. Missed the writing and the processing and the sharing that goes along with blogging. I'm excited to rejoin Blogsville.
I'm back in the saddle again. Yee Haw.
Last night, I held Jonathan's hand as we walked to his bedroom to begin the good-night ritual. His hand was stickier than I would have liked.
"Jonathan," I said. "Your hand is sticky! When is the last time you washed your hands really well?" (After dinner? Before dinner?)
"Ummm," Jonathan considered. "I think it was...Saturday!"
Right.
Next time, I'm not going to ask.
Both Gina and Lorraine tagged me ages ago, and I'm just now getting around to posting in response. Here goes:
1. You have to post these rules before you give the facts.
2. You must list one fact that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of your middle name. If you don’t have a middle name, use the middle name you would have liked to have had.
3. At the end of your blog post, you need to choose one person for each letter of your middle name to tag. Don’t forget to leave a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog for the rules.
My middle name is Marie, same as my grandmother's first name and Chloe's middle name.
I know that I've been out of touch with things lately because I've been so busy at work.
I've not been paying attention to my grocery budget; I've just been picking up things as we need them.
But yesterday I happened to look up as the gallon of milk I was buying was scanned into the cash register.
$4.99.
What?
Is that normal?
How long has it been that way?
The last time I noticed, it was 3-something/gallon.
How long have I been gone, anyway?
I walked around the corner of the kids' room today to see Jonathan scuttle into his closet.
He had a pencil in his hand and guilt in his countenance.
I turned in the direction from which he had come and discovered the beginnings of a stick figure scribbled on the back of the door.
"Jonathan!" I said in my You're in Trouble Now tone.
"I'm sorry Mama! I'm so sorry!" came the voice from the closet.
"Jonathan, come out here," I said. "You knew that what you were doing was wrong, didn't you?"
"YesbutIsaidIwassorry!"
"Jonathan, if you knew what you were doing was wrong, why did you choose to do it?" I suppose I was probing his understanding of original sin, maybe just a bit. His answers told me more than I would have guessed.
"Because...um uh...I was nervous?"
"No, I don't think you were nervous."
"Because I was, um, disappointed?"
"No, not disappointed."
"Because I was just a teeny bit confused!"
"How were you confused?'
Pause. Two. Three. Four.
"Because I was confused! I thought wrong was right and right was wrong! So I was doing right!" He smiled such a confident smile then, sure that his four year old mind had just out-logicked his own mama. Surely there was no way I could find fault with him after that!
How could I not laugh?
Seriously. That boy.
He still sat in the naughty chair, tho.
Jonathan's First Day of PreSchool
Chloe's First Day of First Grade
Exciting stuff.
Last night as we were polishing off another chapter of Harry Potter, Chloe told me she had butterflies in her stomach about the first day of school.
"Excited butterflies or nervous butterflies?" asked I.
"Umm..." she thought for a moment, "Like, one is nervous and five are excited."
All six butterflies accounted for.
At our First Day of School Celebratory Dinner at McDonald's (that's right, folks, gourmet livin' for us here in the city), I asked Jonathan who he played with at school today.
"Sam," he answered.
"And what did you play?"
"Um, we played Run Around."
Certainly, a worthwhile endeavor with subtle and complicated rules, the likes of which adults cannot comprehend.
Also, I managed to get all 140 students on the bus or on their merry way with no one left behind or dropped off at the wrong stop or other mishap. Phew. These last two weeks may have aged me two years.
All in all, a good first day.
Benihana: Japenese Steakhouse where the meals are cooked at the table
Benny Hinn: Televangelist with a propensity for expensive white suits
(Some people in this household have a tendency to confuse the two. Not that either one comes up in conversation more than once a year, mind you.)
Steve's parents visited last weekend,
bringing us some furniture that had been in storage.
We passed the World Trade Center site a few times while they were here, coming or going from this thing or that. At one point, Steve's mother stopped to take a few photos, and Jonathan and I stopped for a difficult life lesson.
"But why are they doing so much construction here?" Jonathan asked.
I picked him up so he could better see, and I scrambled for an answer appropriate for a 4 year old. "Once, before we lived here, right here were the two tallest buildings in New York. Lots and lots of people worked here. And then, honey, a few years ago, some people who don't understand God's love did a terrible thing. They took airplanes and flew them in the buildings. The buildings started on fire and fell down, and many, many people died." I stopped there. Was that too much for him? Would he understand the gravity of the situation?
Jonathan looked at me and held my eyes for a moment, testing me to see if my words were the truth. Then he tucked his head into my neck and cried. I looked silently out at the site and allowed him to share in the grief of so many.
His tears were brief as his optimistic and hopeful spirit buoyed. Jonathan picked up his head and looked at me, inspired.
"But they're building a new one, right? And it will be strong, STRONG! "
"Yep. They'll build it so it is very safe. And we'll pray that God protects the city, too."
"They will build it out of BRICKS. Then it will be so strong."
I walked on with him then, praying that God would protect the city and my son's tender heart.
Crazy Hours.
That's what a school administrator works in the week leading up to the first day of school, as I'm quickly learning. And my recently educated guess is that this will continue through Septeember.
Apologies in advance for what will surely be sporadic blogging.
What do you get when you combine a 6 year old girl
with
5 bucks burning a hole in her pocket
and
Chinatown?
You get this irresistible example of renaissance art gone wrong, that's what you get.
It is fantastically, compellingly ugly.
I need to go in the kids' bedroom and see if their fish died today.
I really don't want to.
You see, last week I jumped the gun a bit and told Jonathan that his fish (named Tucan or Kipper, depending on day and mood) had died when it really hadn't. It was just asleep. At the top of the water. At an angle. (You can see how I made the mistake, right? Especially after I knocked on the tank and the fish didn't move a fin). So 5 minutes of unnecessary tears later, Chloe discovered that TucanKipper was not dead, but was in fact moving.
That was the beginning of the end, though. The fish is not well.
TucanKipper is now named Green Around the Gills in my book.
(Sigh.)
I've got to go look.
Steve and I have been married for 9 years.
In that time, we have moved 6 times.
Could be that we're getting good at it.
We went from this (see, I wasn't exaggerating about how there was nowhere to walk in our old apt.):
To this, in less than 36 hours:
(Look, Mom, full-sized oven and refrigerator)
*Notice that the kids have not adjusted to the extra space we have in our new digs and feel they must sit on top of the TV, as they were forced to do in our previous apartment.
I'll take some outdoor/'hood pics and post them this weekend.
