Wednesday, May 25, 2016

The Witching Hours

If you were to stop by our house for a visit these days, I would recommend that you NOT come between the hours of 5:00 – 7:00 pm.  The witching hours, as my sister, Martha, calls them, are when my normally kind, imaginative, helpful child becomes a brat of monstrous temperament.  Daily, he is almost always very unpleasant to be around then.  I’ve tried different approaches – I’ve tried ignoring him unless he is annoying a pet (this is my go-to witching hour attitude, as it gets the best results); I’ve tried distracting him with a better activity--peppy suggestions such as, Let’s go play upstairs! (sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn’t); I’ve tried getting angry (this doesn’t work well; Owen seems to get angrier himself in proportion to my anger); and I’ve tried time outs (which do not work at all with Owen.  How is it that the time out is so popular with parents?  How do they get their child to sit still and reflect?  Owen becomes a dervish in a time out and gets so ragey, that by the end of it, he is about 200 times angrier and apt to misbehave than he was when he earned the time out in the first place.  So ixnay on the time outs from here on in.)

I’m hoping it is just a last ditch vestige of the threenager, and that once he turns four the witching hours will change to a time during which we can dine peacefully and talk of things like books and future plans.  Ha.  I’d settle for two hours in which he isn’t flinging toys recklessly at my head, or whining, or hitting, or pinching.


Owen:  When I grow up I’m going to put lipstick on and go to work!
Me:  Well you might!  Or you could put on chapstick!
Owen:  And I’ll put shaving cream on my beard!
Me:  --


Owen:  Daddy shares all his food with me.  And mommy shares her water.
Me:  That sounds about right.


Owen, upon seeing Sean wear shorts for the first time this spring:  Dad, [wringing hands] why are your legs sticking out of your pants?!


Owen:  Mom, what are you doing?
Me:  I’m thinking.
Owen:  Oh.  Are you thinking about Lady Gaga?
Me:  --


I mentioned in a previous entry how Owen likes for me to tell certain stories about our pets over and over.  There is one I tell about the time I was living in my Philadelphia apartment and had a blue cupcake on a plate.  I turned around to get some milk, and Posy faceplanted into my cupcake, so that when I turned around, her face, whiskers, etc., were covered in blue.  Now when I tell this story to Owen, he adds, “And then Owen came in with many cupcakes!  A blue one all her own for Posy!  And chocolate cupcakes for Owen and Mommy!”  One time Sean was sitting with us, and added:  “And then Dad came in with even more cupcakes!”  But this made Owen angry!  (We have a lot of oedipal feelings in our household these days).  Owen said indignantly, “You weren’t there, Dad.  You were away…eating an onion.”  Ouch!


Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Tell It Again, Mom


If you were to spend any time in my house these days, you would likely hear me tell, over and over and upon request, a very boring story about Dorothy being noisy in the night.  For some reason, this very quotidian story fascinates Owen, and I can’t quite figure out why.  In a nutshell, Dorothy jumps off my bed, goes and drinks water forever and loudly, and then comes back to the bed, upon which I have to get up and help her back on.  This is a nightly occurrence in general, but one night she jumped off, drank, and then needed help getting back on three times, and so after the third time I kicked her out of the bedroom.  But as the “story,” such as it were, has been told, Owen has added on his own coda, in which he, Owen, came in with a sign on which he had written “BE QUIET, DOROTHY!” and taped it to my door.  So that when Dorothy returned to attempt to get back on the bed, as she did multiple times throughout the rest of the night, she was able, according to Owen, to read the sign and understand why she was denied entry.

Is it that he is the hero of the story that makes it appeal to Owen?  Or that he was able to explain something to Dorothy? Or that it is a joint story-telling effort with Owen picking up the tale at the time that Dorothy is heading glumly downstairs by herself?  I’m really not sure.  He likes to hear other stories about the pets, his favorites being When Plum Ate My Vitamin C, When Norman (my childhood dog) Played With a Grape Instead of Eating It, and When Posy Faceplanted Into A Blue Cupcake And Then Pretended She Hadn’t.  These are all stories he requests multiple times per week.

The other day Owen and I were eating and I bit my tongue and said ouch, and then had to explain to Owen what happened.  The next morning Owen said, “tell me the story of when your tooth got too excited and bit your mouth.”  Okay, although I think he just told the story himself better than I could have done!





Sunday, May 1, 2016

Book Reviews April 2016


My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante.  I’ve heard so many good things about Elena Ferrante’s quartet of novels, of which My Brilliant Friend is the first.  Having said that, however, I realized while reading that I didn’t know any specifics about why the novels are thought to be so good; all I really knew was that Ferrante never makes any kind of author appearance, and all of Europe is abuzz over just who she might be.  (That is, is she really a literature professor or is “Elena Ferrante” the nom de plume of someone famous.  Speculation abounds).  I enjoyed the book, although I was not blown away by it.  If I understand it correctly, the quartet is about a friendship between two women, and this first book is about their childhood growing up in a slum in Naples.  The narrator, Elena Greco, excels in school, and is driven to do better by the innate talent of her classmate and eventual friend, Lila.  Education is not the norm for either Lena’s or Lila’s family, but Lena’s family enables her to continue on to middle and then high school (unheard of for that area) because of a teacher’s intercession.  Lila is not able to continue on after elementary school, although for awhile she works hard to educate herself by reading almost every book in the library.  Lila is smart and odd and ferocious, and Lena is drawn to her, although she does see her good and bad qualities.  The book is about how their paths veer and how each is envious of what the other has.  It’s also about a friendship and luck.  It was interesting and I look forward to reading the next three; I don’t quite see what the fuss is all about yet.

A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara.  I just finished this book on the train today and am still struck speechless by it.  It’s a long novel and wonderfully written.  The writing drew me in so much that I would just barely remember to get off at the right train stop, and once I did I really didn’t know where I was or what I should be doing.  It would take me a few minutes to regroup.  It starts out being the story of four male friends who meet in college, and then she follows two of them in particular through the next almost forty years of their lives.  The main character, Jude St. Francis, is a man who had probably the worst imaginable childhood possible.  He is very scarred by his first fifteen years, mentally, emotionally, and physically, and Yanagihara focuses on how he struggles to believe himself worthy of a fulfilling life, despite his life’s beginnings.  The novel is really a love story about Jude – between him and his partner, between him and his friends, and between him and his father figure, Harold.  It is often a hard book to read – Jude self-mutilates – but there is something so magnetic about her writing that I couldn’t wait until I could open the book again.  I have a few small complaints – the organization is a little haphazard for one.  At first it seems like it is going to be about the four friends equally, but then it ends up being mainly Jude’s story.  Also, at some point through the 700 page book you realize that it is always going to be about the present, but then with bits of Jude’s past story doled out here and there, and sometimes that got a little annoying.  I’m also still working out what I think about how she presents Jude’s abuse.  There’s been a lot of controversy about this book, some of which concerns the constant victimization of Jude, and what this says about the victim culture of today.  And then Jude and his friends all end up so successful and with such money, that the book has been criticized as a kind of rich city lifestyle porn.  Both are valid criticisms, but I think the book goes beyond that and is a really impressive achievement.  It is epic.  I can't stop thinking about it.

How To Cook a Moose by Kate Christensen.  This is the kind of nonfiction I like best:  a mixture of memoir and food writing with recipes.  A new Mainer, Christensen concentrates in this book on her adventures with Maine food and the people who grow and make it.  She’s a good writer and enthusiastic and I enjoyed reading the book.  That being said, I don’t think I could find someone who I have less in common with culinarily than Christensen.  What she likes to eat, I do not; what I like to eat, she never does (she even wrote a sentence in her book that caused me to gasp in horror:  she doesn’t like sweets and desserts and never eats them.  Ever.  Except for the occasional donut.)  So I think there is not one recipe that she included that I would ever attempt to make, and that is generally the fun of culinary memoirs—you find good recipes and know the context for them.  Her comfort food tends to be very spicy red sauces on pasta.  Her writing also is without a sense of humor and tends to be very earnest.  I find her nonfiction to be very pleasant and interesting; she just isn’t my kindred spirit.

A Window Opens by Elisabeth Egan.  This first novel was a very entertaining read.  I began it with a bit of skepticism, as it seemed t might be a little lighter than I like, and it was relatively light, but also funny and well-done.  Alice is a mother of three in New Jersey and has to find a full-time job, since her husband was recently downsized at his big law firm.  She gets a job at a huge corporation that is planning on opening up virtual reading rooms; this company is a nightmare of corporate speak and acronyms and twentysomethings forcing Alice to be enthusiastic and join in the groupspeak and be available at all times.  Alice is a good sport about it at first, since she is happy to be back at work, but tensions escalate both at home and at the office.  It reminded me of a Liane Moriarty novel, only based in NJ instead of Australia. I recommend it.

100 Essays I Don’t Have Time To Write by Sarah Ruhl.  The word that came to mind while I was reading these essays is delightful.  As an essayist, Ruhl has a great voice—she is funny and wry and very thought-provoking.  I do not know much about theater and drama issues, but she’s so good an essayist that that didn’t matter.  These essays are about plays and the theater and the audience, but also about being a working mother in general and a working playwright mother at that.  It was an enjoyable read and I hope she writes more.



Friday, April 29, 2016

The Kid Birthday Party

Spring seems to be the season for birthday parties, as Owen keeps coming home from school with party invitations tucked into his backpack. This is our first time on the kid party circuit, and I admit to finding the experience strange.  Especially when the experience involves teenagers dressed as superheroes dancing in a basement. 




He did have a party at a nice playground near us that we hadn’t been to before, and indeed didn’t know was there.  So now we have a closer playground to visit, which is a plus!  This playground had a tricycle feature too: 




Owen’s birthday is in August, when people are generally dispersed, so I’m thinking that will get us out of having to have a kid party for him for another year or two.  We are birthday party scrooges.  Bah, humbug.

For the first party we went to I made the mistake of trying to involve Owen in the wrapping of the gift.  Rookie error!  Owen of course was very upset to see the cool toy that was not for him and became absolutely hysterical, poor fellow.  I think he was even more unprepared for this by the fact that he’s an only child, so all toys in our house are generally for him.  We need to practice Sharing.  However, I learned my lesson, and wrapped the second birthday present the following week on the floor of my closet with the door closed.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Polka Dot Accent Wall

For my birthday this year, I asked Sean to paint our master bedroom.  We didn’t paint it when we moved in, and I had reached the point where I could no longer handle seeing the horrible powdery green-blue color it was.  I usually like a lot of color in a room, but the two windows in the bedroom are filled with the leaves of one large tree, which lends the room its greenery, so I thought I would try to have it be white.  But since I like color, I also thought I’d try circles on one wall.

Here are the results:




I like it!  Sean thinks it looks a little bit like the outside of some of the crazy daycare centers we pass in the city, and I do think the colors are perhaps a tiny bit more circus than I was going for, but it pleases me on the whole.

And it pleases Posy.


Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Breakfast Hit and Miss

Back in my childfree days when my commute to work was a ten minute walk, and my morning routine included time enough to talk to Martha on the phone while I enjoyed my coffee, I often would make steel cut oats for breakfast.  But then things changed, as things are wont to do, and I had Owen and a commute that included catching a train, and there was much less time for breakfast in general, let alone cooking it for thirty minutes on the stove.  I don’t like instant oatmeal though, or even quick oatmeal—too gloppy -- so I’ve long been on a quest for another healthy breakfast.  One gets tired of yogurt.

I’ll begin with the miss first.  I read a lot of food blogs and every time I would read about overnight oats (sometimes called Swiss Oatmeal?), it would seem like a great idea to me.  Oatmeal that you make the night before by mixing it with yogurt and milk and a few other ingredients and letting it sit overnight to be all ready the next morning with no further preparation necessary?  Count me in.  So over the past few years I’ve tried about six overnight oats recipe and each has been more horrible than the next.  It turns out I don’t want to find yogurt in my oatmeal, and the whole cold mushy mix (no matter if it is served in a twee jar layered with fruit and nuts) is horrid.  A few weeks ago I hopefully tried a slightly different recipe and when I pronounced it inedible the next day, I decided enough with overnight oats.

But then I decided to jump on the chia pudding train!  Chia seeds are easy to procure these days (Trader Joes even has them), and are filled with Good Nutrients (I read), and of course, they had me at “pudding”.  I’m a big fan of desserts masquerading as breakfast or vice versa, so I gave them a try.  And at first my attempt was a failure – whatever I tried always ended up runny, like a seeded beverage.  Ick.  But I kept trying, and I tinkered, and finally found the right proportion of ingredients, which are:

·         1 can of whole coconut milk (has to be whole fat; I tried the low fat kind and it doesn’t work)
·         ½ cup of chia seeds
·         1 tsp vanilla
·         ¼ cup of maple syrup.

Just whisk those four ingredients together the night before and then the next day – voila!  A nice thick, healthy breakfast pudding, with four servings.  Of course, I’ve been eating it for about two months now and am ready for a change – but I do recommend it.

Owen wants nothing to do with the chia pudding...yet.
Here he is eating "space chocolate" in his rocket ship.

Friday, April 22, 2016

Tulips!

Tulips are my favorite flower, followed closely by blue hydrangeas.  We’ve planted a hydrangea bush each summer we’ve been at this house, so last fall I finally got my act together and ordered some tulip bulbs.  Sean also bought a bag of surprise tulips at Lowes, along with a little bulb planter tool, and one nice day in October I planted about sixty bulbs somewhat willy nilly in our front yard garden beds.

I might have mentioned in entries past about how I am not a natural gardener.  I cannot look at a plant, like my father does, and know what it needs—more water, sun, trimming, what have you.  I have no plant instinct.  In the almost four years we’ve been at our house, I have practiced my weeding, and have worked up some skills at taking horrible predator vines off of plants and trees, but I’m still on the very beginner side of beginner gardening.  I realized this winter that there is another way that my temperament doesn’t match up well with gardening, and that is because I have become, in my old age, a worrier.  And so what did I do when we had a strangely warm December that caused the bulbs to start growing?  I worried! I worried all through January as they inched higher, and February as they inched higher still.  And then I worried in early April during our freak snowstorm.

And then I kept seeing rabbits in our front yard and started worrying that they’d eat the flower heads.  (They didn’t with the tulips, but might have done with the daffodils?)  At any rate, despite my worrying, the tulips look lovely, if a bit in need of some weeding:










Our backyard woodchuck was late in reappearing after her hibernation.  I didn’t see her until April, and then the second time she appeared, Dorothy, all primed to chase cats from our yard, forgot that she is friends with the woodchuck and chased her back under the shed with her bulldogge fangs a millimeter from the woodchuck’s derriere.  Sigh.  I haven’t seen the woodchuck since, although I did give her a few apples as a peace offering.  She likes them cut into quarters and left outside of her main hole.  I’m hoping she does not hold a grudge.