Monthly Archives: June 2011

38 Candles

I woke up this morning to discover to my delight that Mabel had stayed dry all night. It was her first night without a pullup – she had gone to the bathroom with me at her 10pm waking, and now, at 7am, she was still dry. (And don’t think she hadn’t had a drop to drink in the meantime. I can personally guarantee that she had.) Even more happily, I was awake enough to hustle her to the bathroom straight away – we can thank the 8pm power cut that ensured early nights all round for that one – and the miracle was complete.

“Mabel,” I declared as she put the stuff where it was supposed to go, “You are officially out of nappies.”
“No, I’m not,” she said, laughing uproariously at silly Mummy.
“No? Why?”
“I’m not a fish ! You said I was a fish.”

All this was so wonderful and amusing that I had honestly forgotten as I came downstairs why Monkey would be waiting impatiently for me at the bottom and handing me a homemade card depicting his newest superhero creation (“Flystomp”).

So, just like Sally Albright, . But it’s still “someday”. That’s okay for now.

 And I got a lovely present.

What more could anyone ask for?

Electric avenue

Boom, boom, boom, Mister Brown is a wonder. Boom, boom, boom, Mister Brown makes thunder.

Right now it’s lashing rain and crashing thunder and if Mabel wakes up from this unaccustomed early night – acquired only at great personal expense due to a total lack of napping – I will be most upset with Thor, or whoever it is that’s in charge up there.

Monkey has been hearing about Greek myths again lately – he was talking about how people believe in God the other day, except he kept saying “gods” instead. I didn’t think it necessary to correct him. There’s not much point saying, “Well, it’s God that we don’t know exists. There definitely aren’t gods, that’s just wrong.”

Oh. There goes the electricity. That was predictable. Time to locate the torches (flashlights, I mean; don’t be visualising us going around brandishing giant flaming branches or anything) just in case. How am I going to get my coffee now, I ask you? I shouldn’t even open the fridge to have milk with my cookie.

Freewheelin’

We had a really nice, low-key day today – played with friends, played outside, went to the co-op without too much trauma – but Mabel’s teeny-tiny naptime coupled with Monkey’s reduced TV time leaves me with, ooh, about five minutes to myself on the computer (not to be confused with all the time I spend refreshing my Facebook page in between breaking up fights, putting food on the table, and denying my firstborn all the recycled-cardboard creations his heart desires (today’s invention: a gas-mask-type voice amplifier held on by an elastic band that would enable him to break glass, coupled with a laser holder and a mirror so that he can direct the laser onto the rope that the enemy has bound him with and escape out the broken window – I think: it was not made, but he did draw a picture which I helpfully labelled for future reference)) so my blogging-at-naptime habit has been severely curtailed.

Yes, that was all one sentence. No, I’m not going to go back and break it up. Just concentrate really hard.

So now I’m snatching moments between dinner and bath, as B has taken them outside on the bikes again, but I can’t for the life of me remember what, if anything, I was going to say.

We do seem to be falling into some sort of a rhythm for the summer, and I’m less frantic than I was about the fact that I have both my children! at once! all day! to cope with. Eh, they’re not that bad, you know. They’ve actually spent quite a while today playing nicely together with the action figures and the cars and whatnot, and if I don’t try to get anything else much done, we can all muddle through pretty well. The pool is always there for when it’s too hot to ride bikes, and somehow the laundry gets done and somebody picks up more milk and something is figured out for dinner.

The weather is slightly less hot than a few weeks ago , when I was afraid we were doomed to unabated hundred-degree days for the next three months, so there has been more bike riding. Monkey has progressed to bumping up and down the driveways around our road, and was angling to go further afield, so on Sunday B took him to Lake Artemesia, scene of former bike-related disaster and triumph . They went around the whole thing, plus a couple of detours, and it was one happy five-year-old who came home an hour later, proud of his accomplishment.

Mabel has taken to saying, “I weeally weeeally want a bike,” and is somewhat disgusted with the hand-me-down tricycle that’s her mode of transport at the moment. She got the hang of the pedals quite recently, but can’t get up any speed and gets terribly frustrated whenever I take the handle to help her up over a bump or stop her from careening brakeless down a hill. (Yesterday she was particularly overwrought after a late night and early morning, and she stomped and wailed and declared, “You have to give it away to some other girl. No more bike for Mabel.” Poor bunny.  She weeeally weeeally needed her nap.)

So I’d been looking on Craigslist and e-Bay for a no-pedals bike for her (walking bike, balance bike, whatever you want to call it), to no avail, and the adorable one I saw in REI yesterday was a whopping $130, which is probably more than my own bike cost, but then I found on Amazon (with decent reviews and free shipping to boot) and ordered it quick smart, so Mabel will be getting her my-birthday present in a few days, and I hope she’ll love it and also not perish, seeing as how it doesn’t have any brakes either. We have some elbow and knee pads that might need to be employed, and she already has a helmet.

The toilet training is trundling along, becoming more and more just how life is, with a diminuitive change of bottom-half clothes in my handbag these days instead of a spare pull-up; and nobody should ever have to do this in winter – or in Ireland for that matter – because you’d need a much bigger handbag. Mabel’s sleeping is just as erratic as ever, but with only a couple of weeks to go till we change time zones for three more, there’s no point trying to make any changes in that arena right now.

I have a lead on a mother’s helper who I’m thinking I might employ a couple of hours a week, to keep me sane, and who could become our regular babysitter as time goes on, if the children like her. Monkey already seems a lot more open to the notion of a babysitter than he did last time the concept was mooted. It might not pan out, but just the idea of it is helping. Much as the idea of paying someone to clean my house, once Mabel starts school and I do an infinitesimally small amount of freelancing, is helping me not care much about cleaning it right now.

Summer, season of happy procrastination.

Light reading

Our cardboard supplies were dwindling dangerously. Nary a superhero mask had been made in recent times, and the days of the robot costume were well nigh forgotten. We almost thought we might have to go and buy some large item of furniture in IKEA, just so that there would be box fodder for young Monkey to demand we make things out of.

B fished a copy-paper/moving box out of the basement, to forestall such drastic measures. He started to make the lid into a shield, as requested, one morning before work, but it was left half finished and then was somewhat dismantled by Mabel, who enjoys dismantling things. Luckily, my friend Anonymous came to the rescue. (That’s her name. It always says so right there in the comments.) Let’s call her Ano for short. She came over for a playdate on Monday – except that her daughter was in summer camp, so it was a very calm and quiet playdate compared to the normal sort. And while I was upstairs putting Mabel down for her nap, Ano fashioned for Monkey the most wonderful shield, and sword – of his design, he’ll have you know – ever.

Monkey spent the rest of the day exclaiming over Ano’s brilliance, and telling us how much better at making cardboard shields she was than Daddy, who was even more in the ha’penny place, as my mother would say, than usual, after this event. (Daddy is regularly judged to be “medium” in the greatness stakes. Mabel and I are the best Mabel and Mummy (respectively) he’s ever had, but Daddy is just about medium. Poor Daddy. Of course, the joke here is that then I have to respond “I’m the only Mummy you’ve ever had”, and then everyone falls about laughing. He’s lucky he has a two-year-old to appreciate his jokes. She’s the perfect audience, really.)

Anyway, the next morning, Daddy was found useful enough, begrudgingly, to be employed writing “KNIGHT” in various places, as directed, on the back of the shield. In case the user should be in any doubt about his occupation, I suppose, so he could just take a quick look from whatever angle he happened to be at in his vigorous slaying of foes, and read his job description right there.

Later that day I heard Monkey trying to sound out the letters – though of course, he knew it was supposed to say knight, but he was making an effort to read it. Knight is probably the worst possible word he could have chosen to start reading with – unless he’d tried “psychic” or “slough” or “onomatopaeia”, perhaps.

So I sat down and wrote a list of words he would know that rhymed with “knight” and had the same -ight ending: fight, might, right, night, light, sight, and flight. And showed him how you couldn’t sound out each letter, but you could learn to recognise that all these words went together, and then you just needed to figure out the initial sound to read them. He started to get the hang of it.

We went on to do some simpler lists: cat and other -at words; dog and other -og words. Mabel wanted in on it too, of course, but Monkey was the one really taking things in. Today at lunchtime I heard him pick up the page (which I had left nonchalantly on the coffee table) and start reading through, working mostly from memory and partly from sounding out. After every word, he’d pop his head around the door and tell me, excitedly, “I just read ‘fight’ all by myself!”

He’s not an early reader, and I suspect Mabel will pick this all up much faster than he does, but it’s so nice to see him start to put it all together, one painful letter at a time.

Adventures in meal-planning

Remember the dinner that wasn’t good enough to blog? Well, I’m blogging it now, because it turned into a new and entirely original dinner the next night.

It began as a interesting-sounding Turkish Lamb Pizza from Darina Allen’s . (Yes, I do have cookbooks that are not by Nigella.) Darina Allen , if you’re not familiar with her, is Ireland’s answer to Martha Stewart, except just for cooking, not for home decor; and without the dodgy book-keeping. She’s pretty much the grand-dame of the Irish culinary revival, or her mother-in-law Myrtle was before her, and she’s passing the torch on to her daughter-in-law Rachel , who is also a successful TV chef and author.)

I had seen this recipe in leafing through the book over breakfast, so when I saw ground lamb at the supermarket, it all came together nicely. At least, then I had to check the recipe again and procure a lemon and some tomatoes and I left out the parsley, which maybe would have made all the difference, but that was all I needed. The base, made from just flour and yogurt, intrigued me.

Darina gives quantities for 8-10 portions, and there were only the two of us, so of course I had a lot of topping mixture left over. More about that later. But this is how mine went:

Topping:
1lb minced lamb (ground lamb, if you’re American)
1 large onion
4 large tomatoes
2 tablespoons flat parsley, chopped
salt and pepper

Base:
2 cups white flour, plus more for dusting
About 1 cup plain yogurt

Lemon wedges to serve

You start these off in a heavy frying pan on the stovetop, then finish them under the grill/broiler. I’m sure you could cook them on the outdoor grill, but you might have to experiment with the method.

For the topping, chop the onion finely. Sautee it in olive oil or butter over a low heat until soft but not coloured.

 

Let it cool completely (or as much as you have time for – you could do this step way in advance, if you wanted). Dice the tomatoes. Then, using a fork, mix together the meat, onion, tomatoes, parsley, salt and pepper.

Next mix the flour and yogurt to make a soft dough. I only made enough for the two of us, so I had to eyeball the quantities, but I think I used about a cup of flour and half a cup or a bit more of yogurt to make each of the small pizza bases. (Sorry about the picture. I shouldn’t have used a white bowl.)

With lots of flour on your surface, roll (or press) it out as thinly as you can. Mine were each about 8 inches across, and a few millimeters thick, and they probably should have been thinner, but I was afraid they’d stick to the surface.

When it’s thin, spread a few spoonfuls of your meat mixture onto the round (ahem) of dough.

 

Turn on the grill/broiler to preheat, and put a baking sheet under it to get hot.

Have the heavy frying pan on the heat at this point. Fold the dough over in half and then into a quarter and transfer it to the pan, where you can open it out again.

(I thought all the topping would fall off, but it stuck quite well to the base. I don’t see why you shouldn’t put it in “naked” and then add the topping, but maybe the dough would stick to itself if you did it this way.)

After about 2 minutes, it should be golden on the bottom. Slide it carefully onto a hot baking tray and put it under the grill/broiler for another 2-3 minutes until the topping is done.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that the meat really did cook in this short space of time. We ate them with lots of lemon squeezed over the top (this is really necessary to cut the fattiness of the meat) and they would probably have benefitted from the parsley I left out.

They were interesting, but not amazing. The dough was a little stodgy – I think it should have been thinner, or maybe I should have cooked them in the pan for longer.

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

But there I was, with all that leftover mince mixture. The next night, I decided to turn it into Turkish meatballs.

To the mixture, I added an egg, some grated mozzarella, and a squeeze of cilantro (coriander leaf) from the squeezy coriander I had in the freezer. Fresh cilantro would of course have been even better. I used my small cookie portioner thingy (looks like a baby ice-cream scoop) to make evenly sized meatballs, and discovered that I needed to squeeze them out before rolling in flour, as the mixture was very wet. I put this down to the tomatoes – if making the meatballs from scratch, I would definitely squeeze the seeds and liquid out of the tomatoes before dicing them.

I baked the meatballs at 400 F for about 20 minutes, and we ate them with rice and broccoli, and they were quite delicious.

The next night, I said to hell with competing flavours and reheated them in half a jar of tomato-and-basil pasta sauce. They were still delicious (though you couldn’t really tell it was lamb any more).

So: three different meals from one recipe. This is why I don’t really bother to plan ahead. Sometimes it pays off nicely.

For their viewing pleasure

Yesterday I made the mistake of letting myself add up just how much TV is being watched these days. And came to the conclusion that it was Way Too Much. I decided that the least I could do, maybe, is try to cut us down to two hours a day, beyond which children become obese and their brains turn into little puddles of mush. Allegedly. It might be too late already, but I suppose better than never.

I told Monkey this morning that he’d have to pick the four programs he wanted to watch because that was all he could have, and I encouraged him to turn it off at breakfast time so we’d have more viewing time later, when we really need it. Surprisingly and impressively, he was able to do that, and we came to an amicable arrangement without bloodshed. (Mabel whined, but I ignored her; Monkey is by far the worse perpetrator of TV viewing around here.) So now – during Mabel’s naptime – he’s going to watch one 15-minute Gofrette, one 15-minute, My Friend Rabbit, and all of Rupert. Later on, before dinner when I will desperately need them to sit down and chill out, they can watch Pearlie and Zula Patrol before bed.

That sounds like an awful lot, doesn’t it? (Though Zula Patrol is downright edumacational, with all the planet and outer-space stuff.) I won’t tell you how much it was on before. The problem now is that he’s going to be bugging me much more often during naptime, and I won’t get so much blogging done. Right now I was supposed to be documenting last night’s dinner, and instead here I am drivelling on about television.

I have given him an egg whisk and he has gone away. For 30 seconds. I fear I’ll be offering up a lot of kitchen implements to the gods of no-TV this summer. Monkey is, and always has been, incapable of just playing with his toys. Even when he sits down with some action figures or a couple of toy cars, he’s usually trying to dismantle them or use them to pry something else open. When Mabel was a baby I was amazed to discover that she would actually play with baby toys as advertised, just like the babies in the photos on the box, whom I had always assumed were drugged or stuffed or something.

And now I’m having Cheerios for lunch. Still haven’t really got this summer thing down.

Weekend edition

Two days without blogging and I’ve completely lost my train of thought. Herewith the things I will not be telling you about:

1. I tried a new recipe for dinner and was going to blog it, but it turned out not quite delicious enough. I don’t want to waste your bandwidth with undelicious dinners.

2. I’m certainly not going to tell you about how potty training is going, because each time I think things are looking up, like the day before yesterday when she was dry all day, and yesterday when she stayed dry during a Father’s Day trip into DC on the metro and only fell at the final hurdle, in the car on the way home from the train station, then I get complacent and things like this morning happen, when she peed on the chair she was standing on while I was dusting the front room – “What are you doing, Mummy?” “Dusting.” “What’s dusting?” – and half an hour later proceded to triumphantly put her underpants in the potty while I wasn’t looking and pee on them. So she was back to a pull-up for the rest of the day, because I decided I wasn’t going to deal with it. Tomorrow is another day.

3. Similarly, I’m definitely not going to talk about sleeping, because that would immediately jinx the fact that she stayed asleep for a further 30 minutes after I came home from the moms’ night out on Saturday, and that for the past two nights I have actually come back to my own bed for a couple of hours after 2am. This morning she slept on her own from 3am to 6am, which is totally unprecedented. (Of course, I was wide awake at 5am, wondering what was up with her. When she did wake, I was groggy and disorientated and mid-dream.) Because I am me, I am calling this a pattern, and will be sad tomorrow when it has turned out to be a mere blip. But then, because I am me, I will call that a blip and hope that the new-found pattern re-emerges the following night.

So instead I’ll just leave you with a photo of B demonstrating the use of his Father’s Day present to the intrigued children. We don’t usually do presents for Hallmark holidays, but considering I skipped out for my pre-birthday massage yesterday morning (just in case the rest of the weekends got away from me and I ended up not celebrating my end-of-June birthday till September or something), I thought he deserved it. Also for all the being great he does. Not to mention the stealth hoovering.

Schooling

I am about the last person who would consider homeschooling. And this is not going to be one of those posts that ends up with the revelation that Hey! I’m going to homeschool! because no, I’m not. But I do enjoy reading homeschooler blogs like Bethany ‘s and Jessica ‘s and how it makes me think about what I want out of my children’s educations.

Last week, in this great post about her son starting his own business, Jessica said they were coming closer to unschooling. Coincidentally, I heard part of a report on NPR about that very thing. The unschooled 12-year-old boy on NPR said he was bored a lot and wished he had a new TV series to watch or comic book to read. Somehow, I don’t think Jessica’s kids are ever bored – even if being bored is a central tenet of some people’s unschooling experience.

Last Christmas we were discussing schools with some friends at home – in Ireland you have to put your kid’s name down for the local (free, probably Catholic) school as soon as they’re born, and even then they might not get in. If you want them to have a non-denominational education, you need to live in the right part of town (or be willing to spend a lot of time in the car), and put their names down as soon as you start dating a guy you think you might have kids with in ten years’ time. A mention of homeschooling was met with uproarious laughter, because it just hardly ever  happens in the British Isles; as far as I know, you have to be a fully qualified teacher to be allowed do it, and even then most people just don’t. Here in the US, on the other hand, it’s reasonably normal – I can think of four or five acquaintances or people I’ve met in the neighbourhood who homeschool. The rules vary from state to state, but in Maryland you have to show that you’re following an appropriate curriculum – and there’s enough market for such things that it’s easy to buy homeschooling curriculums and materials  – or you can put together your own.

I was a good student, in the end, but I took my time getting there. I had good report cards in primary school because I was well behaved and the teachers liked me – I may or may not have exhibited abilities in anything other than reading, but mostly, as far as I could see, it was just about being a good girl. When I started secondary school (at 12, so that’s 7th grade in the US) it took a while for me to figure out how it worked, with a different teacher for each subject, and homework not always due the next day but sometimes not for a week, and projects due in two months. (Our first project, set for Religion on an evangelist of our choice, was a resounding group disaster. The teacher may have mentioned it, but she never told us what to do, and we all conveniently ignored it until a note went home in all our homework notebooks about the missing project. My mother was sympathetic, and I think the teacher learned that you can’t just set a project for a bunch of kids who have no idea what you’re talking about, announce a due date, and expect them to hand it in.)

Anyway, I didn’t bring home A’s in every subject throughout my school years, even though by the end I did pretty well and was considered some sort of “academic” type. Same thing in college: my first-year results were resoundingly average, but I ended up with a first and a 2.1, which is not too shabby. (I have no idea what that converts to in USA-ian, but a first always sounds impressive, doesn’t it?)

And now we have my first-born child, offspring of me and his rather brainy and also academically-inclined father (rather more than I, I have to say, what with the black holes and stuff), heading off to start his life of formal education. What do I want him to do? Do I want him to bring home A’s across the board from kindergarden on? Do I want him to finish up valedictorian and go to an Ivy League school (and condemn us all to decades of debt) and end up working his ass off as a med student or a lawyer or some other member of the professions?

I am not a tiger mother, and I don’t want that. I don’t want my son to learn the value of hard slog and poring over the books and learning by rote and repeating his times tables and study planning and spending hours on his homework every night. I am much more concerned that he gets exercise and fresh air every day, that he makes friends and learns how to get on with people, and that he reads (not right now; by the time he’s 8 or so, say). So long as he’s reading books, everything else will come.

So I think about the homeschoolers and the unschoolers, and about the things I like about their systems. Children follow their interests and thus they learn. I realised early on that the subjects I liked were the ones I was good at, and I followed my interests despite the naysayers who claimed I should do Science to keep my options open, or that I should study law because I had enough points to get into a law degree.

I’m not saying “Look at me now with my multi-million business,” or my great law practice, or whatever, but I am saying that I’m happy and I’m still finding my way. As a SAHM, I’m lucky enough to get a chance to do that. A few years at home with the kids seems to provide a change of perspective for a lot of people, and they come out of it less willing to go back to the corporate grindstone and more eager to stick their necks out creatively and make money on their own terms.

What do children learn from school that they miss in homeschooling? How to sit in a classroom and take notes? How to raise their hand if they have a question? How to function as a member of a team? Or as a member of the proletariat – as a Hand, to hark back to Dickens? How to study subjects they’re not interested in? How to work to a deadline? (That one’s important.) Or do they get a basic grounding in everything so that they can find their interests?

Do homeschooled kids go on to University and have trouble functioning in a classroom setting there? Or are the homeschoolers the go-getters of the future, the entrepreneurs, the leaders, never the followers, the ones who rise to the top despite no formal education? (But someone has to be a follower. If we raise a nation of leaders, what happens then?) I muse. I don’t have answers.

I hope I can learn to navigate the public school system for and with my son without compromising my principles too much. I hope I can help him find a middle path, with friends and fun but also learning and logic and development in directions that interest him.

I hope he’s not just another brick in the wall.

I get all proactive on grey days

This morning it was grey and not even 70 degrees out when I got up, with a forecast high of only 80. I decided to leap on opportunity and take the kids to the zoo. (I must have slept extra well last night or something, to be imbued with enough energy to even consider such an undertaking.)

Major animals we saw at the zoo:

  • Two tigers, reclining
  • Five lions, roaming (one Daddy and four overgrown cubs; Mommy must have been having her nails done or something)
  • Four orangutans, climbing, swinging, lounging, and playing a computer game, respectively
  • Five gorillas, sitting around with their backs to us
  • One panda, sleeping
  • One elephant, wandering
 

Minor animals we saw at the zoo:

  • Prairie dogs
  • Macaque apes

Things that were not animals but had to be examined anyway, despite the fact that I had paid $15 to park at the zoo and we only had till naptime to see as much as possible in the way of real animals, and the traffic was bad, as it always is when you decide to drive to the zoo, but anyone who thinks I’m taking my children to the zoo on public transport has a much higher opinion of me than is warranted by actuality:

  • Bamboo: “Is that bamboo? Is this real bamboo? Let me just check that bamboo to see if it’s real. It is bamboo!” … etc. Monkey is obsessed with bamboo.
  • Pathways to nowhere: “I just want to go up there.” “There’s nothing up there. Let’s go and see the elephants.” “But I reeeeeally want to see what’s there.” “There’s nothing there. Fine. Go. I’ll wait here.”
  • Statues of animals: “I think those apes are dead, Mummy.” “They’re not dead, they’re statues. They’re made of metal.” “But I think they have real apes underneath, like in that other place.” “You mean the natural history museum? No, these ones are just statues, I promise. Let’s go inside the ape house and see the real ones.” “But I want to climb on these ones.”
  • Toilets: This one was my fault, but as a result Mabel stayed dry all morning. Then she peed in her jeans when she got up from her nap because she refused to sit on the potty. Have to work on that one.

(Bonus quote of the day (overheard from a school group): “There’s the ape store!” “The ape house, Johnny.”)

Monkey and an (undead) ape

Slim pickings

This morning Mabel was fishing around inside the hardly-ever-used diaper bag – having been denied access to my handbag; yesterday she waltzed through the kitchen saying “I’m just going to Target.” “Was that my wallet she had?” I asked. “Well, how else do you expect her to buy anything in Target?” B responded reasonably.  Mabel likes to sit at the dining table emptying the coins out of my purse to buy things with at Imaginary Target – which in itself is amusing since I never use cash at Real Target…

Anyway. This morning she rooted several panty liners out of the recesses of the diaper bag and produced them joyously. “These things!” Yes, yes, I agreed. Those things. You can bring them with you in the car if you really want to.

For some reason, “those things” are a constant source of intrigue to my children. Nattily packaged, begging to be pulled open with an easy tug on the little white tab, and look – inside, it’s a giant sticker! What’s not to love? And an aura of mystery and vague forbidden-ness to boot. I usually try to keep them out of reach, but if the kids get their mitts on them, I suppose one or two can be sacrificed for the cause of keeping them amused.

So we got into the car and headed off for the supermarket, a trip I could finally put off no longer, as pickings for dinner have been slim since last Friday or so. The pair of them were squabbling over things in the back seat, and giggling happily. At the lights, I glanced around. Mabel had a panty liner neatly wrapped around each shin, and Monkey was wearing one over his mouth. No, his eyes. No, his neck…

I just hope the people in the car beside us weren’t looking too closely.