Done, For Now

After three days of work, I've finished cleaning and painting the master bedroom.  Although I'm tired and wondering why I couldn't have chosen to laze about this week rather than tackling an enormous project, I think that it's a start.

Here's the before:

And...here's the after:

It might not look like there's a great deal of difference, but the color photographs much lighter than it actually appears on the walls.  Believe me, I was so panicked after painting a splotch on the wall that I made the mistake of soliciting G's advice.  He gave his opinion on the gray color by asking "who sunk my battleship?"

Great.

After going all the way back to the Home Depot for more paint swatches, I managed to convince myself that the color would be okay and finished the first coat.  It was.  I like the color.  It's a pretty gray tinged with purple, although it's easily the darkest room in the house.

When we get back  Over the coming year, I'm going to implement many of your suggestions.  We're going to do the crown molding and figure out how to do a simple upholstered backboard.  I'm going to get some curtains and put some pictures on the wall.

But, for now, I'm out of time and proceeding as fast as I can onto the second phase of our vacation.  On Sunday, we're flying to my parent's home in Florida.

I'll get excited about it eventually, but right now, I'm terrified of the layover in Atlanta.  What can you possibly do with twin two-year olds in an airport for four hours that doesn't involve them destroying it in some way?  All my experience is with business travel.  I have little clue when it comes to occupying kids in a strange space for that amount of time.  My only recourse is to pack the playroom into our carry-on bags.  It's a pity the limit is three.

Safe as Houses

Although I happily lived in an apartment during my early and mid-twenties, house hunger struck hard as I grew closer to completing graduate school.   It seemed so terribly unfair that so many other people my age could afford to purchase a modest home and I could not.  My decision to leave academia and work for a corporation was, in part, fueled by the desire to own my own home.  And, I did.  I purchased my house the same year I earned my doctorate, the year that I turned thirty.

Home improvement is in my blood.  As a child, I called myself "big rock" as my parents spent numerous afternoons searching for rocks with which to build a landscaping wall for their first home.  I remember that home, and the amount of time that was spent putting a deck on their second home.  After that, my parents love for home improvement went unfulfilled as my father made an investment gamble which drove them deep into debt.  They sold their second home and, for a period of ten years, rented house after house after house, always within the same school district.  It's odd.  I've lived in eleven homes, but none of them more than ten minutes away from another.

Perfection was a necessity for my father, so I never got to participate in all this painting and planning and putting together of pieces with parts.  I had to learn everything from scratch, mostly from my neighbors as we all worked on our houses together.  I redid my entire 35 year old home.  I replaced faucets and light fixtures, took off awful seventies wallpaper, put up crown molding, and painted everything.  I paid someone to put in a new kitchen sink and countertop.  It wasn't anything fancy, but the work did enable me to sell the home for a nice profit, almost three years after I purchased it.

Much of that work was done during my days off, which usually meant holidays.  As a single person, I didn't really go on summer vacation, so would have tons of time to use at the end of the year.  Before spending a couple of days with my folks, I would start and finish a project, whether it was redoing the downstairs bathroom or painting the den. 

And, as I think about holiday traditions, I realize that this isn't a bad one.  It's a little odd, but it works for me and I think for our family.   Caught in the same bind as always, despite taking summer vacation, I have this week off.  I'm using it to finally do my master bedroom project.

I've found a duvet cover.  Although you can't tell from the picture, it has subtle hints of gold, which I'm picking up in the sheets and gray, the color that I've decided to paint the room.  I did want to go with brown and blue, but this duvet cover seemed to suggest otherwise.  In addition to painting, I'm replacing my husband's ugly gold mirror with a silver one, getting rid of the broken speaker stand, and cleaning everything.  All in all, I'm spending under $500.00 and hope to get a big bang for the buck.

The feeling I get from doing all of this?  Of course, priceless.

Getting Back to Normal

Just as you thought he would, Hen-bug sprang back to normal and now enjoys a much more reasonable amount of tantrum time.  Unfortunately, I managed to contract a nasty cold and spent all day yesterday in bed, watching my Christmas gift of Project Runway, Season Three.

Watch five to six hours of anything and it gets in your head, so I thought that I typed the URL in wrong when I got Google Deutschland.  Typed it in again, same thing.  I've been searching das web all day long.  Either it's sabotage, a glitch, or Google has decided to give Germany a day in the sun.  If the later is the case, I hope that we all get to enjoy Google Greenland someday soon.

I started feeling better this morning, just in time to start my week of cleaning and home improvement.  This is actually a compromise.  If it was up to me, it would be all home improvement all the time.  But, my lovely husband gently suggested a little bit of cleaning would be in order, especially as we haven't really cleaned the house since the twins were born.

For anyone keeping track, that would be two years ago.

The good thing about infrequent cleaning is that all the supplies you could ever need are at the ready.  As you can probably tell, I don't really like to clean.  I don't really see the point of it.  I mean, yes, you want to maintain a certain level of cleanliness just so nobody accuses you of living in a frat house.  Other than that, though, isn't it just going to get dirty again?  And dusting?  I just don't get dusting. 

I am, however, a compulsive straightener.  Surfaces must be clear with items arranged in tidy groups.  Things that are not currently in use should be thrown away, given away, or stored.  My philosophy about this is that my thoughts aren't terribly organized, so the space around me must be tidy.  Otherwise, it's just chaos. 

So, which are you?  A cleaner?  A straightener?  Or both?

Hurricane Hen

It's been relatively easy to fix the problem of the missing set of keys.  I had duplicates of everything except for the keys to the Miata and a locksmith can replace those for under a hundred dollars.

I've had a much more difficult time with Hen-bug.

The "mine, mine, mine" which was so cute last night, persisted into today.  Everything Hen-bug saw was his - from my toothbrush to his brother's toy car.  When it was denied, he would burst into angry sobs.  In fact, he probably spent most of the day screaming and crying and stamping his feet in frustration. 

Immediately after we returned from his successful checkup with the pediatrician, I handed the boys over to G. and took a break.  After dealing with Hen's anger in the hospital, I felt that my patience had run completely out.  I had expected it to be better at home.  It wasn't.

It could be as simple as terrible twos hitting early.

Or, it could be something more complex. 

I think that the hospital stay might have rocked Hen's world.  He's gotten cranky when we've traveled and this wasn't traveling.  His brother wasn't around.  G. and I were only together with him only a small fragment of the time.  He had to be tied up to a crazy amount of wires for the better part of two days.  His routine and everything he was used to seeing every day was thrown out the window.

Oddly enough, we took Hen-bug to the same hospital where I stayed for five weeks while pregnant.  For the longest time, I had trouble driving past that hospital.  It was hard to take the Bug there. Even while living there for the better part of three days and taking care of the Bug, I stayed as far away as possible from the maternity wards.  It never even crossed my mind to visit any of the nurses I had gotten to know while I was there.  Actually, it did cross my mind as a nice idea.  It just wasn't going to happen.

I know how I feel about being in the hospital.  However precious I find my home, my routine, and the people around me, that these things are also transitory and fragile.  They might seem to be cemented by the repetition of thousands of moments, but they could disappear in an instant.  I wonder if this is something similar to that experienced by the Bug.

If so, I'm sorry.  And I hope that it's better tomorrow.

Home Again

After two nights and three days in the hospital, Hen-Bug finally made it through a nap without needing to be put on oxygen.  Just when I was thinking that we were set for a third night, he took a surprise second nap and passed the breathing test.

Hen-Bug was really ready to go.  As he felt better, he got increasingly more irritable.  He didn't want to be held.  He didn't want to be put down.  He certainly didn't want to go in the room, but he didn't want to be out of it, either.  He would knock away anything offered, with a scream.

One of the nurses told me that Hen-bug's mood was as a result of missing his brother.

This was proven untrue when G. showed up at the end of the hall with Ty-baby.  Ty let out a shout and raced down the hall.  Hen-bug did likewise.  For a moment, G. and I thought that they would meet to hug in the middle.  Passing by each other without a second glance, they wrapped themselves around the knees of the opposite parent.   G. and I smiled over their heads.

When Hen-bug got home, he ran around claiming everything as his.  "Mine," he proclaimed, clutching at the doorknob.  The dog was "mine."  So were the carpet, walls, and kitchen chairs.  He ran around the first floor three times, changing "mine", "mine", "mine", "mine." 

I think that it was "baby-speak" for "I'm glad to be home."

We do have to go back tomorrow, though, just to make sure that Hen-bug is still on the mend and to find my keys.  Hen decided, sometime during the hospital stay that the keys were also "mine" and put them somewhere completely mysterious. 

Ordinarily, I would be completely freaking out about this.  My. Keys. Are. Gone.  I am going to have to replace my keys.  How do you even do that?  But the minute that my mind starts chanting this, a competing sound drowns it out.  My Hen-bug is here.  At home.  With G. and myself and Ty-baby.

It's not all easy, but it's all okay.

Breathe.

The good thing about being fearful all the time, expecting the worst all the time, is that when something bad happens, you're not surprised.  In fact, you're downright efficient.

Because Hen-bug had some bad congestion, I made him an appointment with the pediatrician.  So little did I think of the congestion that I didn't even go to the appointment.  I stayed home with the sleeping Ty-baby and caught up on some work.  The nanny called me twice.  The first time she said that they were giving Hen-bug an oxygen saturation test, to determine the amount of oxygen he was able to pull into his lungs.  I asked if I should drive on over.  "No," she said.  With the second call, she put the pediatrician on the line.  G. and I drove on over.

Just because I'm efficient when bad things happen, doesn't mean that I'm a good packer.  I managed to pull together a bag for Hen-bug including three changes of clothes (?!?!), three Wiggles videos (thanks, Jenny!!), and a few books, but brought nothing except technology for myself.  This would explain why I'm writing this entry while listening to my iPod, after washing my hair in baby shampoo and putting on a spare pair of scrubs bummed from one of the nurses.

I think I thought that the pediatric ward was going to be like the Special Care nursery where the babies stayed right after they were born with round-the-clock-care and parents sleeping snug (if somewhat restless) in their own beds at home.  It's not.  I'm right here in the hospital, on a cot, next to the Bug who's sleeping in a stainless-steel cage of a crib.  Perhaps I'm a really awful parent, but it's not really where I want to be.  However, I'm sure that it's not where the Bug wants to be, either.

Hen screamed for the first three hours.  Only the Wiggles were able to calm him down.   Our pediatrician came in and scowled at the image of Hen glued to the Wiggles, but I didn't really care at that point.  If TV keeps my sick kid from screaming, bring on the boob tube.

We know that the Bug doesn't have RSV.  It could be any one of thousands of viruses that's producing the mucus that's crowding his lungs and making it difficult for him to breathe.  The only treatment that's possible is oxygen and a nebulizer every four hours.  This seems to be doing the trick, though.  His oxygen saturation is now up to a respectable 94 and will hopefully stabilize soon.

I hope that we'll get to go home tomorrow.

This baby shampoo just isn't any good for my hair.

The Tale of Four Santas

I love our Santa picture from last year.  The boys may not be looking at the camera, but they are looking at Santa, with a mixture of wonderment and curiosity.

This year, the curiosity is gone.

They've figure out what Santa's all about.

And he's evil.

He's an evil, scary, evil man.

The first indication of this came about three weeks ago when the nanny took the boys to visit their first mall Santa.  They didn't even get up to the roped enclosure before Hen-bug caught one look at the man in red and started screaming. 

A retreat was hastily beaten.

The second time; it was Ty-baby who sounded the alarm.

You would think that we would learn, right?  You would be wrong.  Thinking that the third time would be the charm, we carefully approached another Santa, settled the boys on his lap, and quickly retreated for the flashbulbs.  We weren't fast enough, however, because Ty-baby took about one second to latch onto Santa's (real) beard with both hands.  Sensing a threat in the rapidly approaching "elves," he pulled all the harder.  I had to literally pry his fingers away.

I'm beginning to think that Santa and twenty-two month olds just don't mix.

We finally did get our photo with Santa, by the way.  G stands to one side of Santa with me on the other. Santa's in the middle.  The boys are on the outside. 

Just for A Second

I was in the bathroom.

G. was in the yard....raking leaves.

I heard two little giggles and came out.

Our Christmas tree was leaning precariously to one side.  It had no garland.  And the twins were pulling the strand of lights across the kitchen floor.   Pine needles and ornaments littered the bottom of the tree.

If only they were old enough to understand the concept of coal in one's stocking.

Liberal Card

After I say what I have to say here, they're going to cut up my liberal card.  My presidential choices will be restricted to Huckabee or Romney.   There'll be a 20 foot "I support our President" sign planted in my yard overnight and, if I try to remove it, it will only show up again, but bigger.

Our county has been repeatedly cited as being one of the most progressive in the country for making school assignments based on economic equity with the stated goal of having no school with more than 40% of students classified as low income.  As the Supreme Court recently restricted how race can be used in school assignment, this policy makes sense as a way of insuring diversity and gently increasing achievement across the county.

However, it seems to cause a great deal of stress and strife when put into practice.  For instance, they are building a shiny brand new school right down the street from us, within possible walking distance.
If we stay in this neighborhood, however, the twins will not be going to this school. 

Instead, the twins could attend one of two schools - an aging "traditional" school about seven miles away or a year-round school about ten miles away.  Looking at these options, I dismissed the "traditional" school due to it's age and my preference for year-round system.  I've heard really good things about the year-round school and was excited that we could have the opportunity to go there - until I read that the county proposed to bus low-income students to this school, increasing the percentage of these students from 13% to 28%.

And here's where they're taking away my liberal card, cutting it up and throwing it in the trash.  Here's where I feel like I'm being asked to weigh my kids with my values and my kids are winning.

I could be more politically correct and say that I disagree with busing for the sake of diversity because I want my children to go to a small neighborhood school, as I did.  I want them to go to school with their friends in the neighborhood and make friends that they can play with after school.  I also want them to enter school with the relative certainty that they will move through that school over a period of years, get to know it well, and eventually graduate from it. 

All of these things I took for granted are taken away under our county's committment to economic diversity.  The children in my neighborhood will go to different schools, in order to spread the diversity around a bit more.  Some students in my neighborhood are being reassigned under this plan, when they were reassigned under last year's plan.  These students, having braved a new school last year, will have to find their way around another one this year. 

I think that most folks can agree that this is not a good idea, but here's where I move into iffier territory.

My real problem with some of these reassignments is the idea that schools should have the same reduced lunch percentage as the schools around them.  This is why our year-round school is moving from 13% to 28%, to be more consistent with our area.  This is why we're not assigned to the school right down the road, because we would presumably move it up in percentage. 

Our area seems to be in the mid- range as far as the percentage of low-income students go.  There are pockets where the schools range around 40% and other pockets where it's allowed to exist from 15% - 17%, simply because busing those students would mean virtually moving them across the county and parents have strongly objected to this practice.

This means that we're probably moving.

Maybe we're doing the same thing that Jonathan Edwards did and moving away from our county's schools to those of small university town; maybe we're moving to one of those 15% -17% pockets; and maybe we're just moving to the private school down the road, but I'm pretty sure that we're not going to go to any of the schools to which we're assigned.

Sound of card being torn up.....thrown in trash.....people leaving blog in disgust.

To be completely, totally, brutally honest, I tend to be elitist when education is concerned.  I succumb to the stereotypes of lower-income kids not having the educational support at home that I will provide for my children.  I tend to believe that parents will not be as involved in the school system and these kids are more likely to be disruptive in the classroom.  In my informal survey of the schools in my county, those with the better test scores seem to be those with a lower percentage of lower-income students.  This has only solidified my belief that schools with wealthlier routing patterns tend to be more academically successful schools.  And I care, deeply, about finding the best school academic environment possible for my children, even if it means publically admitting to a certain elitism.

I don't know all the answers.  I'm uncomfortable with even the exercise of judging schools based on the percentage of lower-income students (or test scores, for that matter).  I'd rather judge the schools in my area by going to them and talking to the instructors and the principle and I'll do that.  I'm also going to take all these other factors into account, but I'll decide for whatever school I think will give my children the best education.

Hands down.  Liberal card or no.

READ -- Restless

About a month ago, Cat and I discussed starting an online book-club and chose the first book, Restless.  You can go here to join in the conversation.

If this just isn't the month for you (hey, it's a busy month), please think about joining us in the future!  If you have any ideas for the next or subsequent books, please let Cat or I know in email or in the comments section.

Happy reading!!

Open Letter To ANN TAYLOR

To Whom It May Concern,

Actually, this might not concern you at all.  You're a chain of women's clothing stores.  You have 869 stores throughout the United States which generate 2.3 billion dollars in income.  I'm just a lowly consumer.

However, I also have a few numbers of my own.  In 2004, I was thirty-six and a size 12/14 who spent over $5,000 annually in your stores.  The number is pretty consistant throughout the early part of the decade.  I was shopping Ann Taylor back when it was a small, small chain in the Northeast. Over the ten years from 1995-2005, I probably bought about $25,000 of clothing from your store. 

I purchased my business suits at Ann Taylor.  My jeans came from Ann Taylor.  All of my blouses and shoes also came from the store.  The style suited me and made me look good.  It was also easy.  Rather than spending three hours at the mall, I only had to go to one store and one web-site.  Easy peasy.

When my husband asked me to marry him, I was wearing a top from Ann Taylor.  My rehearsal dinner?  I needed to find a dress last-minute, drove to an Ann Taylor and was out again with an outfit in less than an hour.  I wore an Ann Taylor skirt and shoes when I ate at The Ivy (I know, cool, right?).  I bought those items at your Rodeo Drive store.

It was the perfect relationship between woman and clothing store.

That is until I gained the ten pounds that would push me from a size 14 to a size 16.  My taste didn't change.  My budget didn't change, either.  The only thing that changed was my booty.  It's impossible.  IMPOSSIBLE to find a size 16 in an Ann Taylor.  There are size 2's and size 0's by the boatload.  There are a few size 14's and a few more size 12's.  There are no size 16's whatsoever. 

"We sell that size online," the sales girl said when I asked. 

"I don't usually buy pants online," I said.  "I'm hard to fit and you have to pay shipping both ways."

"Oh," she said. 

I have to tell you that I don't like being this size.  I plan to loose this weight; I really do.  But, it's difficult to loose weight, especially when you have twin toddlers, your husband loves to cook, and you aren't terribly motivated to begin with.  Nevertheless, the weight is coming off.  Until it disappears, however, I would like to look good.  I would like to carry on my relationship with your store, but I have gotten the clear message that the Ann Taylor woman does not come in a Size Sixteen.

Like any ex, I fantasize about finding another brand and walking into Ann Taylor dressed in it from head to toe.  "Look," I would say, "you dumped me, but I came back better than ever." 

The problem is that suitors are few and far between.  The stores that stock my size either have inferior fabrics or a fuddy-duddy look.  Although the money is probably better spent elsewhere, it's frustrating to want to buy clothing but be unable to do so.  That is why I'm angry at you, Ann Taylor.  You could help me out, but you don't.  And don't even think of opening an Ann for the Larger Woman.  That would be a slap in the face and I wouldn't shop there.  I mean, you have an entire petite section in your store, but you can't spare part of a rack for a size 16?

So, I don't know what to do.  The sad thing is that if you decided to once again stock a size 16, I would probably come back.  Until you do, you know what you can do?  You?  The 2.3 billion dollar corporation with thousands of employees?

Ann Taylor?  You can bite me.

Much Love,
Suz

Post Baby Shower Report

Of course, it went just fine.  There was cake.  There was punch and soft-drinks (no wine)!  And there was a lot of ooohhing and ahhhing over little pink onesies and booties.

The first nanny, whom I was afraid to see, proved to be more afraid to see me.  She showed up 15 minutes before the party's official beginning, made some excuses, dropped off her present, and left.  I am an object of fear, apparently.  Feeeeear Meeeee.....bwhahahaha!

I did have fun. 

However, the party made me think.  After all, I have a degree in English.  There's nothing much that doesn't make me think.

There were several groups of people there.  While I could talk to all of them, I didn't click firmly with any of these groups.  Some nannies attended as well as the neighborhood stay-at-home moms.  They were all dressed nicely, in jeans and dressy shirts.  One of them brought her daughter who had bows in her hair and handed out the presents.  Since I stay at home, too, I felt something in common with these women - right down to the jeans and the silk blouse.  But, they lost me when they started talking about the next playgroup outing.

The other group of women were colleagues of the nanny's employer, a lawyer.  They all had pointy-toed shoes, dress pants, and per--fect hair.  These working mothers were the group with whom I should have the most in common.  After all, I'm a working mother.  I give the children to the nanny in the morning and gather them up in the evening.  I have career and I travel for business.  I enjoy what I do and it's a big part of my identity. 

Somehow, it wasn't quite enough.  It wasn't that they all worked in the same office; it was that they all had the experience of going to work at an office. 

I used to do this, too.  Our office, after being open for seven years, closed three years ago with employees dispersed to work from home.  While I like the flexibility, I miss having colleagues.

So, it seems that I have a toe in both worlds.  I stay at home, but I work.  It makes it difficult to find people with whom I fit exactly.  It makes things a little lonely.  However, it's good for the family.  Since I don't have a commute, I only have eight hours away from the boys rather than nine or ten.  I talk to the nanny all the time and get constant reports of how the boys are doing.

It's the best of both worlds, even when that world involves a baby shower.

No Go

Sometimes the babies learn things from us; sometimes we learn them from the babies.  Today, I am a whiney toddler, stomping my feet.

No go.

No go.

I don't want to go to that silly baby shower even though it's right down the street.  Literally, within walking distance.  I probably will walk there.  If I wanted to go at all.

This happens to me all the time.  I tell my husband that it would nice to have more friends.  I get all excited when an invitation is offered.  I handle the logistics and think a minute about my wardrobe.

And then....I drag my feet about leaving the house.

My house is warm and comfortable.  It's much easier to sit here and grade papers than it is to walk down the street and talk to people.  Who knows what they will say?  Who knows what I will say in response?  Besides, the old nanny will be there and I'll have to play nice.  Playing nice takes a phenomenal amount of energy.  It's is not nearly as soul restoring as sitting here watching the Polar Express and clicking away.

I don't want to go.

But I will.

My husband says I will have a good time.

I only partially believe him.