Raise a Reader

I am trying so hard to raise readers. So hard.

I switched, a few months ago, to reading longer books at bedtime. Buh Bye, Bellybutton book! (ok, we still read those to MasterP, but follow with a few pages of the chapter book for MlleL. She's so tremendously impatient that I'm trying to train her to slow down and listen.)

We've worked our way through Pooh (the adventures of and further adventures....) and are starting on the Moomintroll books http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moomintroll. (I know, right? You've probably never heard of them. I'm not sure why I have, only that Mrs. Maiden loved them - she had been in Sweden as a young person and was taken. We had as many as she could find, and as a weird result - no childhood complete without Moomins - I might also have a bunch as well as a result of an ongoing relationship with rare book sellers in far away places. Or something like that. I've just done a Google image search for little My, and am shocked to find the following they have, apparently, there are plays and maybe a show? [if so, why does it take a rare book seller to get them? Just wondering.] Swedes. I do have to admit, tho, that I am now wishing for Little My paraphernalia. In case you're considering gift shopping or anything like that.)

I've talked MlleL into them by explaining that she looks just like Little My. And she does. Nevermind that that was MY nickname as a child. Or that Big Brother sometimes still calls me that.) Little House is next. We got the box set when Mrs. Maiden came up last time.

(Me: YAY BOOKS!!! Kids: Where are the toys, Nanny?)

Some nights are an exercise in more patience than I can muster, when MasterP wants me to stop reading the long story, stop, stop, stop, and asks at every sentence something unrelated to what is happening. Mama. Mama.... MAMA! What. I love you. Excellent. Thanks for that. Love you too. As I was saying. MAMA! Yep? Will you give me a hug? Yes. Absolutely. When I'm done with the story, just like every night. MAMA!! Do you like my car? (and..... I'm done. Exactly as he had hoped.)

Some nights, they both settle in, and have a listen while I read several pages. These moments are my favourite. I remember my mother reading these books to me when I was their age, Mindy and I in the bed together (I remember Mindy in the cradle, actually, as reading was going on, and then later the blue crib, in the big brass bed, and finally on our own...) I remember big brother creeping down the hall to settle outside of our door to hear the story...

She sat in the rocking chair and worked her way through Roald Dahl, C.S. Lewis, Laura Ingalls Wilder, E.B. White, Louisa May Alcott, L.M. Montgomery, Frances Hodgson Burnett (the Secret Garden AND the Little Princess), Charlotte and Elizabeth Bronte, Jane Austen, and quite a bit of Dickens. She even got through the first several chapters of Great Ex (to the cemetery scene) before she closed the book and told us if we wanted to know how it ended we should read it ourselves. (Isn't that enough, Mr. Maiden yelled up the stairs, for Christ' sake, the kids are teenagers!)

I know MlleL likes it, because every night at bedtime, our book appears on the foot of her bed. But I'm never sure if she's really listening. I'm not sure if she gets the story quite yet.

Until this weekend, when she was explaining to me how she managed to get MasterP to go to sleep for his nap.

"I pretended I was reading him a long and boring story, and told him to pretend to go to sleep while he listened to it, and he did." (Uh Oh.) Well, what kind of long and boring story, I asked?

"You know, like how Owl told the long and boring story about his uncle and Pooh had to listen with his eyes closed and then Owl's house fell over. Like that."

HOORAY!!!!

Again, some more!

Wow.

Ok. So there was supposed to be some writing about awesomeness of three year olds and their view of the world, and maybe something about six year olds and the continuing drama and what it's like to try to manage child care for first graders (spoiler alert: it sucks; there aren't many choices in my neighborhood.)

But what this is really about, what has consumed me, is that half marathon standing between me and all rational thought. It's tomorrow. It's tomorrow; it's tomorrow.

My favorite shorts are drying on the rack in the basement. My jacket is currently rinsing. I've stretched and gotten ART (ow) and taken my iron. I've run and run and run and run and run.

I don't feel ready in the slightest, but apparently, either I will or won't be tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Writer's Block

I wake up at 6:15ish each day - and get things ready for the day - breakfasts, coffee, clothes, snacks and then at 7, I shower after Husband is out and down, and get myself ready and then I get us out the door.

And then I'm at work and I'm worrying about, oh, tons of stuff, and writer's block. It's with me everywhere. I'm worried at work. I'm worried in runs. I'm worried and irritable at home.

I leave a little after 5 and get myself home, racing through the door and cooking dinner, most often in my suit, and from there, I try to change and it's already 7:30, and the kids need to start getting to bed at 8, and I've fought the homework fight and we finally get them to bed and we come downstairs and it's after 9, and writer's block.

I have 45 minutes until I go to bed, but there's nothing on to watch (what the hell is wrong with TV execs?) and I go to bed.

During runs the thoughts don't flow anymore. I think about my feet pounding and pushing me forward and making the distance. I worry about relationships and people and work. Always work and what's next. What's next? And writer's block.

Words won't line up for me. They refuse - dancing just out of my reach. I have flashes before I fall into a fitfull sleep of the amount of things at work piling up that I need to get to that won't come - words finally aligning somewhat, but not in the way I want, but during the first half of the night, before a child wakes me, they slip away again, leaving me disjointed, and anxious and exhausted again at 6:15.

I'm running Saturday mornings. Which is hard, brutal, really, to wake up the first morning of the weekend for a growing distance, but then, I've got the rest of the day to hang out, and then Sundays are gymnastics, but at an hour that allows me to a) sleep in a bit and b) have a decent breakfast with the family before we head out. It might be the sweet spot. It's ok.

My neighbor came over a few weeks ago and asked me if I was training again - when I replied in the affirmative, she asked abruptly, "don't you think that's too much?"

I don't. Is it? Is that the thing that's wonky?

I yuv you ma-ma, MasterP says, I yuv you the moshe. (hee. awww. me too!)

Things are good. Really. They're ok. I'm ok. The trip to the Dominican was awesome, and I kid you not - resort weddings are fantastic. FANTASTIC.

I'm busy now, but what is the thing that keeps the words at bay?

I can't help but think that people are noticing by now, but I can't find them anywhere I look. And beleive me, I've tried. I've looked everywhere.

Can you think of somewhere I haven't?

Hey Universe?

So you know when there's something that wants to be written sitting at the top of the stack, keeping you from writing anything else?

Remember that time I wailed about wanting to be a rocker of boats? Yeah. About that. I'm good. Thanks. I'm good now.

I'm thinking what I'd like to wail about right now is a general lack of savings, and umm, ooo. The unfortunate dearth of chocolate peanut butter eggs in the Casa Valentine?

So many things, really, but all about the love

"Hey!" says MlleL as she bursts through the door after school, "Valentine and Valentine are the same! EVERY DAY IS VALENTINE'S DAY AT OUR HOUSE!!!!"

"Yep" I grin.

I've seen arguments for and against, for and against this celebration, and I most recently saw one that said basically, it's about family. And socks with little hearts all over them. And for kids. Because love is an every day thing. You can't just pull it out and shine it up and have it work once a year.

It's as Churchill may have said (I've also seen arguments about this too) 'Never, never, never give up.' Really, that's pretty applicable in all aspects of life. With the laundry monster in the basement, with the never ending plumbing issues at the Casa Valentine, with friendships, and arguments, and work.... And Love and Marriage.

With the rewedding so close now (just over a week, y'all) on February 24, at 6PM on the beach in Punta Cana, we've been discussing what real vows you would say to your beloved after 10 years of marriage and a couple of kids:

1. I can assure you that I'll go to bed mad at you, but I'll still love you when I wake up.
2. I will cherish your mother, and strive to roll my eyes only when you aren't looking.
3. I will not try to change you, but will love you anyway.
4. I will laugh at your jokes.

Many of you know the story of Husband and I, how on the first night we met, in January of 1999, after I had just finished explaining to the entire change room at the gym that he seemed awfully nice, but that I wasn't into Asian guys, how moments later in the hall, as he explained why he wasn't coming out with the group for dinner (he was heading out to see what he could do to diffuse a domestic situation between two friends of his) I heard a click.

I did. And it was loud enough to change my life. Later, in that intense period where things are said that never seem corny, but really, really are, he told me that the thing about warriors was that they were there to the end. And so. I am my beloved's, and he is mine.

In about a week's time, after months of the WW and training, ten and a half years of marriage and two kids, I'll meet my husband on the sand, just as we promised, and promise, again, to never, never, never give up.

Ooooh. And I'll be doing it with a new ipod touch in my bag!!

One more time for old time's sake....

Yo.

I don't do this enough.

I promise I recognize it and wear that recognition around like a hair shirt. I think we can all tell when I'm training and when I'm not, as these things generally come to me as I'm running.

So...... I've clearly not had that many long runs of late. Sorry.

I did have a long note qued up and ready to go to discuss the change of the WW over to SOMETHING NEW AND COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, except that it's pretty much the same. Well, I actually had one prior to that talking about how I'd managed to find an extra point (entitled I replace food with tea and gum) to drop to 19 points a day (if this means anything to you...) but then I went to meeting, and all of a sudden I had 29 points a day available to me. So that was a bit of a wash. But on the upside, I'm having fruit as a snack instead of tea and gum, so there's that!

Now. During last night's run (SEE?), I was listening to a recent release from that guy who's stage persona sounds remarkably like my favourite candy. But that doesn't completely explain his draw for me, and I was trying to think what it was.

We're about the same age. We're from the same state - in fact, the Robotic Engineer's grandmother lived just off of 8th Line, in the Detroit, which, I can promise, was very different from 10th line, in case you saw the movie (which I did. Brilliance, right?). But the streets are really called that, and you can probably tell that the two aren't that far away from each other.

But seriously, is that enough? I mean, clearly, we've not that much in common - is it that I'm just drawn to them with an Achilles heel? Feet of clay? Irreparably shattered but brilliant and funny?

I don't know. But I can tell you that I am. It's inexplicable. I mean, I remember what it was like to live with an alcoholic, and it's really not that much fun, so I'm pretty sure Husband is safe, but is it my own rage and sorrow, miniscule in comparison, I think, that I recognize in them?

Am I the only one? I mean, besides Lainey?

Mrs. Maiden, political activist

Now. Some of you will recall that Mrs. Maiden's wintertime abode is in the middle of a small, south-western town currently the centre of a giant amount of world-wide attention.

As you may imagine, I've been receiving updates on the situation from quite a different view point from the at-a-distance news casters here in Canada.

While Mrs. Maiden does not live within reasonable walking distance of the intersection in question (that's rather in the northern, more expensive side of town, y'all), she does live about a mile (or a 20 minute walk) from the hospital in which some of the victims, including THE victim are currently being treated.

And while steadfastly not an AMERICAN, she does feel as if it is important for her to take action as an individual in the ways she finds possible.

To whit:1. She has reported that the Healing touch community (herself included) is focussing their efforts on Ms. Giffords, particularly with respect to minimizing brain swelling. These efforts can apparently work over a distance. She offers as proof of their effectiveness the Doctor's comments that they have no explanation for her success as a patient, but continue to be positive.

2. She has been walking, daily, to stand outside the hospital for an hour or so in the afternoons, so as to be able to extend her energies that much more closely. (that's fantastic, mum, I tell her, and well, at least you can feel like you're actually doing something. (and boy, that's not at all creepy) Yes she says happily, I feel VERY powered up...)

3. In the lead up to the youngest victim's funeral, this awful hate church announced their intention to attend the event and protest America's increasing tolerance to homosexuals. In response, the Arizona leg made any protests of this nature at funerals illegal. Despite this, it seemed as if the haters were going to appear anyway. Mrs. Maiden had read about groups of opposes to the hate church forming a human barrier between the bereaved and those spewing hate filled messages. So off she went, 65 year old granny, to be OF USE. (I mock, and yet, am so very proud of her.) She described the scene - and you, I am sure, may have read of it, but it wasn't really explained that the 'attendees dressed like angels' were a team of people who have trained to act in opposition to the members of this church, in white robes carrying pvc tubing framed 'wings' to create a visual barrier between the grief and the hate. And hundreds of avenging angels had come from miles around (mostly Phoenix, she thought) on their motorcycles, with their slightly darker robes, in a slightly more sinister fashion, to stand in protection of the mourners. And the rest of them stood, hundreds of citizens of Tucson, ready to 'sing very loudly' when the shouting began.

But they didn't. They never came. And so instead, thousands of normal people stood and mourned a child.