Gnumoon's Stuff

Ending and Beginning

I haven't posted anything on this blog in almost two years. I've meant to, I've had things to say, just no time or energy to say them.  

2012 was.... damn. What was it? Wonderful? Terrible? A world of laughter, a world of tears. If you take the average of life events from 2012, it was absolutely a wash. But then, the average takes out the best and the worst, doesn't it? It leaves you with the mundane, the bland, the C-student experiences of existence, void of extremes in emotion and substance. On a scale of 1-10, 2012 had a 1 and a 10, stark opposites that cannot be averaged.

When someone says, "I have good news and bad news," I say, "tell me the bad news first," because the good news can be there to cheer you up, to offer a kind hand after a gut-punch. We experienced death last year. The slow, painful kind of death that robs your loved one of themselves, the kind that makes you keenly aware that each conversation you have with them will be a conversation that you cannot  have ever again, so you hold onto each detail, no matter how insignificant or boring it seems. You tell yourself, "Remember this voice. Remember this conversation. Remember."  

My mother-in-law was a wonderful woman we were lucky to have. She raised my husband to be a compassionate man who loves his family and is respectful and even-handed in all he does. Those two sentences look so hollow and impersonal written like that, but they're true. She considered him, her only child, to be her life's work, and she did a damn fine job of it. To watch her wither and die in those 19 months was hellish. Not because I loved her (I did), but because I saw how he withered to lose her. It's been five months. Time will not erase or mute his pain. 1 on the scale because that's as low as the scale goes.
{Note: I never really cried. Not until Sandy Hook, a month later. The night after that happened I was home alone and collapsed on the couch. I sobbed for what seemed like hours: loud, braying, honking wails of sorrow and despair. It was a physical, racking pain. I cried for them as she would have. And I missed her so very much.}

and yet.

When Natalie was diagnosed, back in March of 2011, she confronted it with grace and poise. As the rest of us ran in circles waving our arms in the air screaming with our hair on fire, she sat and watched, sipped on her Starbucks, and was composed. A few months into treatment, she said to me, "You know I'm going to die. Unlike most people, I have the opportunity to have a general timeline of when that will happen." (I was still very much in denial about that inevitability) Then she leveled her gaze at me, steady and unwavering, as always, and said "I don't know if you are planning to have another child, but if so, I'd like to meet them." 

Even writing it now, that seems awkward. To discuss fertility and family planning with one's mother-in-law really brings up issues that most people, myself included, would rather not discuss. But Shit Got Real after the diagnosis, and being fairly blunt became a thing in our family.
We'd become fairly set in our routine with M, and she was almost 4 at that point. It looked as if we might be a one-kid family, and I was okay with that, if a touch sad she'd miss out on the sibling experience. We were fine with this version of ourselves.

I'm so glad Natalie gave us that nudge, because Louisa is the most amazing addition to our family, a piece we didn't even know was missing. She joined us in April, and she and Natalie felt the same sun for seven months. And I am so thankful for that overlap, for that precious, brief, bittersweet time. So thankful for my sweet, good-natured baby, content to travel so young and be held and sleep on her grandmother's lap and laugh and marvel at the shiny breathing tube. Each moment they were together was an exquisite kind of pain, sharp and immediately tinged with nostalgia. It was emotionally exhausting because joy and sadness weren't meant to occupy the same space, and it burns a lot of energy when they do. 

DJ, his dad, M, and I didn't know we needed Louisa Ann. But when her dad comes home from work, his face lined with stress and his gruff expression masking the sorrow of such acute loss, she sees him and squeals with delight. He goes to her and scoops her up, engulfing her little body in his arms, their faces pressed together. I see him, eyes closed, breathing her in, not smiling but for a moment disarmed and overwhelmed by her simple love. 10 on the scale, because that's as high as the scale goes. 

Pretty Pretty Princesses Ate My Daughter?

OK, I've now left two posts hanging - the gingerbread one and a new one about some cookies I-man and I made last week that were biiiitchiiiiin (imagine I sang that all high-pitched). I'll do those soon, hopefully. 

But since everyone keeps asking me what I think of this "Cinderella Ate my Daughter" anti-princess book that just came out, I guess I might as well get down a few thoughts on it. As an aside, I originally thought the book was some kind of awesome zombie/fairytale crossover, and was very much interested in reading it. Imagine my disappointment. Braaaaaaiiiiinssss! Tiarrrraaaaaasss!

Evidently the author is doing the rounds on TV, which I missed completely (much like the whole "How to Be a Grand High Chinese Bitch So Your Child Makes Straight A's But May Eventually Stab You In Your Sleep"  brouhaha a few weeks ago). But in general it seems to be that there is a "new" culture of super girliness going around, spearheaded of course by the evil overlords at Disney, that makes our female children demand to be dressed in pink at all times and addressed as a princess and catered to and blah blah blah. The book offers no solutions to help a hapless parent counter this onslaught. 

Since I am not a girly-girl, and I do have a female child, people seem to think I might have some kind of outrage about this issue. But here's the thing: I don't. Despite the fact that we've taken the wee one to Disney World a few times and made wonderful memories, I recognize that The Mouse is there to make money. No money= no funding for Pixar or theme parks or Imagineers. I figure out how much money I am comfortable giving The Mouse in exchange for entertainment from Jessie, Tangled or the Haunted Mansion, and that's that. Sure, sometimes we go overboard and end up with a whole set of Cars-themed Matchboxes to race around our Ikea play carpet, but indulgences like that hardly worry me in the grand scheme of things. (And yes, oftentimes she'll go a several days at a time dressed as Buzz Lightyear, zooming around and requesting I "say the words" for Zurg. And in my defense, I bought the costume secondhand (but new in box, booyah!) for $2.)

But those are toys for BOYS, people say. Bullshit. Those are toys based on well-written, witty films (although with Cars, the premise was so silly we avoided it for years), that are accessible to both boys and girls. Sure, the Disney marketing machine has separated the playthings by gender, but that's to make sure they cast the widest net to pull in as many dollars from as many families as possible. Again, I understand that's just business, just Mickey Taggart intent on building his intercontinental railroad. Nothing to see here, move along. {Insert Walt/Galt line here}

So the Princesses. The Princesses. What's to be done about these princesses? When I was 7, my aunt found a dress pattern like the "make it pink! make it blue!" dress from Sleeping Beauty, and for my birthday that year we made it together. The experience was wonderful, the dress beautiful, and I have such grand memories of spending time with her making that magical dress. Apparently it is appalling to Disney that people might have HOME-MADE replicas of their costumes, so they launched this branded line of Princess schwag to address that perceived need. And as they make several BILLIONS of dollars a year doing it, I'd say their market research was spot-on. But hey, not everyone has an aunt Julie. 

So you have a daughter and she is demanding pink Disney Princess dresses and tiaras and movies and lip gloss and purses and related supplemental shit. And this bothers you, because you feel it may (1. give her unrealistic expectations about life and her place in it (2. set a dangerous precedent about one's perceived value being based on looks and bling (3. teach your daughter that only a handsome Prince Charming can save her from an average, boring life (4. eventually turn her into a slutty, poorer, trashier version of Miley Cyrus/Lindsay Lohan/Demi Lovato, or (5. do any combination of the above.

So, here is your silver bullet, the answer you have waiting to hear: just don't buy it for her. You are an ADULT, your child is a CHILD. Just say no. Decide to limit the exposure, or hell, opt out completely if you feel that strongly about it. So your kid whines and cries and says it's not FAIR and she's not your FRIEND. Tough noogies, pipsqueak. If your kid is smart/old enough, explain your problems with it, and provide alternate games/toys/costumes. If your kid is stupid, well, might as well buy her the shiny sparkly shit and get her on the Mickey Mouse Club. Maybe she'll be the next Britney. 

Now, I understand that some girls are just girly. Girly girly girly. This is nothing new, no matter how much this book would love for you to think it's an invention of the Walt Disney Company and Mattel. There are girls who would rather die than play in the dirt (some boys, too), and pulling the plug on their royal dreams might prove to be dramatic. For a lot of kids, the whole princess/fairy/tulle encrusted world thing is just a phase, but I know a lot of adult women who hold on to it a lot longer than they should and pass it on to their kids. They aren't reading this book, though, because they're too busy waiting for a callback from Toddlers & Tiaras. 

Just because a kid is obsessed with pink and princesses and sparkles doesn't automatically mean she'll turn into a 9-year-old eyeliner-wearing mallrat and then an entitled and out-of-touch 17-year-old. But it's worth paying attention to, just in case. I'm a firm believer in stopping bad behavior as early as possible; no matter how headstrong a four year old is, she can't hold a candle to a hormonal teenager. As a parent it is your job to weigh the risks, consider the options, and make tough decisions and stick with them for the good of your kid. Sometimes it sucks to be the heavy, but them's the breaks. 

So in our world, this translates to moderation. Sure, there are some princess-branded items in the mix, but how do you even "play" princess? Dress up and look pretty? That gets boring to my miniature Space Ranger pretty damn fast. Did she want to meet Tinkerbell at DisneyWorld? Sure, we waited in line for that, but it didn't hold a candle to dancing with Woody or revving up with Lightning McQueen. (We also got to meet Vidia, the bitchiest fairy...why do they even have her there? Don't hug my kid, I don't want your picture.)

What it all boils down to is media literacy. Little kids don't know they're being marketed to. As a parent, it is your job to be savvy enough to shield them from this, and teach them the difference between forming their own opinions and having them spoon-fed by those who stand to make a profit. Do we watch television? Sometimes, and never anything with commercials. Why? Because a three-year old lacks the ability to make the distinction between fact and crap. And when the shows themselves (Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Dora, Spongebob, etc) are basically extended advertisements for merchandise, that's another reason to limit exposure. Again, this is nothing new...I have warm & fuzzy feelings about Rainbow Brite, a cartoon character from the 80s, but she was owned and marketed by Hallmark as a way to squeeze money out of kids. 

But then again, tonight my child asked me for a cake shaped like a dalek. So I may have no clue either. At least we're having fun, and not choking on pink tulle. 

Pink and tan and cute all over: baby cookies

I'm not going to lie. The detail on the onesies appeals a little bit too much to my "OCDetail" nature. I could make them all day long.

Halloween Cookies & Turtley treats

I don't believe in "overkill." Anything worth doing is worth overdoing, in my opinion.

 

Those were my treats, but we let the turtle go collect her own:

Mickey Mouse jack-o-lantern

I've been too busy to carve pumpkins this year. I know, weird. But we finally got around to doing one this evening, so I could indoctrinate Pookie into the fold. Teach her the ropes, show her how to gut a gourd, draw a face, drop a lighted votive into the top in such a way that it lands without going out OR burning your hand. Okay, that last one, and anything with an exacto knife, may actually be lessons for next year.

Our rudimentary "must be finished in 6 minutes because that's the attention span of a 2 year old" jack-o-lantern turned out decently, I thought. She did try to feed it yogurt and then asked when we'd be eating its head. What are those Baptists teaching her at school, anyway?*

*Apparently it was picture day at school today. I didn't get the memo that it was CHRISTMAS picture day, so my child went flouncing in wearing a black and purple Halloween shirt, polka dot skirt, and bright purple tights. Maybe I'll just Photoshop in a turkey, ships and a dreidel somewhere in the pics and do a "fall/winter holiday card" this year.

 

In other Pookie-news, she has finally fallen in love with the light-up skirt and fairy wings my aunt got her for Halloween last year. It adds something to the overall effect when she pokes at the lit up transluscent threads and proclaims, "Those are fiber optics!" Ah, the magic and wonder of childhood. 

I have compiled a list of more halloween songs, but I left it at work. I'll try to get them posted tomorrow.

Dr. Pookie, pachycephalosaurus expert

My little paleontologist. Ah, they grow up and get their doctorates so fast.

Here Comes the Science (and the cookies)

They Might Be Giants are big in our house. Have been since the days before Pookie, but we listen to them most consistently now, because it falls into that rare category of "stuff everyone likes to listen to without wanting to poke pencils in their ears." The stellar "Here Come the 1-2-3s" and "Here Come the A-B-Cs" are perennial favorites, and they are now being joined by a third album (this is where a bad sports writer would try to sound smart by using the word "trifecta" without any reference to a horse race). Our copy of "Here Comes the Science" is, I am assured by Amazon.com, even now making its way up the mountain, where it will be voraciously devoured by our little music nosher, over and over and over again. (Aside: as it's about science, here's hoping the word "miasma" is involved. I love that word.)

The video for "I am a Paleontologist" is great, and we've already committed most of the song to singalong in the car status. Have you ever heard a 2 year old say "pachycephalosaurus?" It's hilarious. The video inspired these cookies, made with leftover dough during this week's "FIRST HOME GAME CRAZINESS." In a world of black and gold butterfly cookies, helmet cookies, football cookies, not to mention the GIGANTOR BLOCK A COOKIE THAT ATE CULLOWHEE, these guys were a fun little diversion.

Note to any actual paleontologist who might read this blog (I know you're out there, Ross Gellar wannabes), I am well-aware that there is nothing skeletally correct about these cookies. That poor T-rex wouldn't even be able to move his leg, as I completely neglected to give him a knee or tibia. He's all femurs and teeth (and of course those ridiculous little arms). And I think it's been decided that the T-Rex didn't actually stand upright like that, but instead pitched forward more, and his tail stabilized instead of drug on the ground. Ross? Wanna pipe in and help me out here? It's a flaw in the cookie cutter (not one of my designs, it was in a set of 101 random shapes), perhaps I should demand my money back. 

I will post my ASU Gameday cookies later, they deserve their own entry, if for no other reason than how silly they are. I'll be hosting a tailgate for the first time ever on Saturday, and I want it to be good, dammit. I've ordered bar-be-que (no time for cooking, there are cookies to be made!), bought cutesy napkins and plates and accessories, and of course there will be cookies. More on the upcoming blur of a weekend later!

For your viewing and listening enjoyment, may I now present They Might Be Giants with "I am a Paleontologist." {note: I heard there is some controversy about this album because it discusses *gasp* evolution and scientific facts. It's about science. Duh. In my opinion, those who would protest this album do not deserve to listen to something as special as TMBG.}

Be sure to look for the pachycephalosaurus doing the Roger Rabbit at 2:22!

Laughing toddler, video upload test, and a weekend wrap-up

You know what is funnier than a teddy bear rolling down the windshield of a car over and over and over? Apparently nothing in the world.

We capped off yesterday with blueberry picking and a dinner of blueberry-wheat-flax pancakes. I ruined any illusion of "healthy dinner," however by heating up some of the honey-roasted hand-mushed peanut butter we'd picked up at the Farmer's Market and pouring it over the stacks. I'm not generally a huge PB&J fan, but it was incredible. My mouth just started watering thinking about it. I'm sorry, regular butter, you had a good run. Take that good-fer-nothing syrup with you. Then for good measure we showed Pookie the joy of feeding the dog peanut butter. She wasn't laughing quite as hard as in the above clip, but almost.

Today I made omelets with fresh veggies out of my grandmother's garden, and they were quite good. Even Pooks approved of the "yittle cute greenies" (sweet peppers), when usually she prefers her eggs infused with nothing but more eggs. (This page is quickly becoming "Gnumoon talks about food a lot," isn't it? Oh well, I do. I love food. *shrug*) Then, because I have all this free time, I painted Pooks' bathroom. I haven't posted about this much, but we're having some difficulty in the potty training area. The difficulty is that Pooks refuses. She CAN, she knows HOW, but she will NOT.

So, having tried begging, ignoring, "Potty presents," and other gimmicks with no success, I was left with no other option than to redo the upstairs bathroom (in the nursery). To change it from a dark, never-decorated cave suitable for only hand-washing post diapering and holiday-decoration-storage purposes into a room so bright, so fun, so cheerful that she will literally pee with delight upon entering. Let's hope that lofty goal can be achieved with paint, shelving, and tile. (PS - Do NOT just hand your paint swatches to the good people at Lowe's and then poss-ass off to do the rest of your shopping. Take the paint base of your choice to them. Otherwise, they will default to the MOST EXPENSIVE PAINT ALLOWABLE BY LAW in your state. Lesson learned.)

Then after some lunch we headed off the mountain to do some shopping (filling the pantry to avoid those "Oh shit, we have a sitter coming during football game and NO FOOD IN THIS HOUSE" moments) and meet the family for dinner. My youngest brother is going to portland to visit the middlest brother in the morning, and it's sort of an unofficial family tradition to meet for a meal the night before a trip and take turns chasing the toddler around the restaurant while not actually getting to ingest any food.

So that was our relaxing weekend. My husband spent the rest of the evening in the recliner, reading media guides and spot charts, writing furiously on index cards and highlighting words in his special Game-prep code. I puttered around getting ready for my week, quizzing him on stats and bringing him green tea, as is our gameweek custom. It's a routine we fell back into with stunning ease.

Since I'm starting back to school tomorrow I have this guilt about leaving the family to fend for themselves, not that they aren't capable of survival. I made turkey meatballs, and instructed DJ on where the sauce and pasta were, and the feta and cranberries for the spinach. He exaggeratedly rolled his eyes at me and went back to his charts, indicating that he knew all these things. I also made fresh basil pesto and a triple-recipe of hummus (forever known around here as "Thomas," since that is what Pooks calls it) for later in the week.

I know all these preparations seem silly, manic even, but it's as if I'm stacking sandbags on a riverbank. The flood isn't here yet, but I can feel it coming, and I want to at least say I tried not to get swept away.

Birthdays, the Farmer's Market, and a few moments of stolen peace

That's what I'm doing, ayup. Stealing peaceful minutes while the family naps on this Saturday afternoon, this Last Saturday of Peace before football. We purposely planned to do nothing at all this weekend, but of course we're harried anyway with the business of life.

Maggie's birthday party was lots of fun. The kids all played, the band was great (it was at the park, where they have music on Friday nights), we met some new fun people, and a good time was had by all. Despite cookies, cake, ice cream, and a general overload on sugary treats, Pookie conked out on my shoulder around 8:30. We woke her up at home just long enough to brush her teeth.

The birthday girl, Maggie, getting ready to blow out her candles:

The cookies were a hit, by the way, and several people even asked if I owned a bakery. That is high praise indeed! (And it has gotten me thinking, which is always dangerous)

****

I don't recall if I've blogged about it before, but one of my very favorite things about living here is going to the Watauga County Farmer's Market on Saturday mornings. We get up, throw some clothes on (no makeup or fuss, it's not that kind of scene), and head over as soon as we're conscious. We stock up on basics (squash, tomatoes, eggs), find new ingredients and recipes (rainbow chard wrapped around fresh mint tabouli), and catch up with fellow Boonies. We go there for the cameraderie as much as we do to support the local farmers and get wonderful food. There's just something quaint and wholesome and refreshing about the experience we love, some intangible thing that makes us sad when we have to miss it (as we will next week).

The above photo shows today's haul of fresh basil, chard, onions, squash, potatoes, apples and zucchini. The pineapple came from elsewhere (what, you're shocked that they don't grow in the mountains?). Below is a bouquet of sunflowers from the market. They make me smile, which is well worth the $3.

When we got home and everyone else retired to their naps I spent time destressing by cleaning and organizing the kitchen. There is something about having everything in its place in that one room that centers me. Something about having the spice jars clean and ready, in just the right place (turmeric and garlic front and center, tartar and ginger relegated to the back) to grab when I need them. Something that makes me smile to see the low-sodium soy sauces side-by-side, Kikkoman for DJ and La Choy for me. Marriages are about compromise, but this is not an area where we will ever agree, so there they both are, seperate but equally important to our household.

The dishes are all done and put away in order, not haphazardly stowed like they will be later, when  football/work/class are in full swing. The cookie cutters and mixer parts have been carefully handwashed and packed up, ready for the next project. The floor is freshly mopped (Shark for the win!), peppermint oil on cotton balls has been discretely tucked away under cabinets (to distract any curious mice who might be in search of a winter home). (note: so handy that what mice think smells so bad smells delicious to humans. Also, thanks for the tip, Sarah!)

These things all center me, enabling me to not shudder at the thought of all that is coming at us, fast. In an hour everyone will be awake, the house abuzz with noise and activity, and likely the kitchen will again be a wreck. And Monday I start class (I WILL finish this damn master's degree if it kills me), Saturday we start The Season, and work and toddler and life is all in between.

But for now all is in its place, and the restful silence is beautiful.

Army of Cuteness

Back from vacation - it was fun, I missed the kiddo, I'm glad we're home (but not looking particularly forward to another football season yet). I'd post all about it, but really it was 5 days sitting on my butt in or around the Caribbean while sipping mojitos, snorkeling, and reading the fifth Outlander book. Not much else to say.

But we're back to reality now, trying to navigate the choppy waters of parenthood, ASU students returning to school and gridlocking the whole western part of the state, me attempting to finally finish my damn graduate degree, and us all bracing for the inevitable impact of Football Season. (I'm sure that will be addressed in another post.)

But tonight. Ah, tonight.
My friend invited us to her daughter's 2nd birthday party on Friday. I offered to bring something and she waved me off, "No, no, just come. It's a ladybug theme, I'll get the bakery to do something." When I asked again she said if I really wanted to do something I could make cookies. So yeah, cookies. No problem-o. Who doesn't love sugar cookies? They're quick and easy!

So tonight during post-dinner playtime we were sculpting in play-doh, and I thought,"I could make ladybugs out of this for Magster's party, but they'd taste narsty." But THEN I remembered that I had some leftover fondant from Octocake. I got it out and worked in some food dye, and Pookie and I sat at the table, fashioning little red balls, approximately 2x the size of real ladybugs. Fun, fun.

 After she went to bed, though, things got a bit Out of Hand. I made them little heads. Then I used chocolate sprinkles for antennae and poked those into the heads, then used my trusty exacto knife to carve the wings out a bit, and then painted them with black food dye.

By the time the double batch of sugar cookies (cut into flowers, hearts, and the letters in the birthday girl's name) were out of the oven I had an army, a swarm, a plague of these little edible red and black bugs. They go forth and cause people to have diabetes at my bidding, so beware.

Also, I'm fairly sure my friend is going to think me daft. I don't think we've been friends long enough for her to know that to me "ridiculously time-consuming and intricate bug-making in gum paste" translates to "fairly normal wednesday evening" to me.
Most importantly, of course, I want Maggie to love them. (She is the sweetest, most adorable child - she looks like a little wood sprite, a dryad perhaps. I'll have to ask her mom's permission to post her photo so you can see how beautiful she is) And apparently she has a great love for bugs and worms and creepy-crawlies. I hope mine pass muster!