The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Joyful, Joyful
We're off to California for the holidays. A very merry Christmas from our nuthouse to yours!
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Too Much HGTV, Perhaps
We moved to Idaho at the end of October last year. We lived in a small apartment in the suburb of Meridian. It was cold outside. The boys were one and three years old. They ate different things. They slept at different times. Finding a long enough stretch of time to get out and about was very difficult. Add to these circumstances complimentary satellite television (for the first time in my life I could view more channels than rabbit ears could conjure) and one had all the fixins for a minor television addiction.
I spent an inordinate amount of time watching HGTV ("Home and Garden Television" for my family members who also have never had cable.) It was one of the few channels that could be counted on not to be inappropriate for children, and I was quickly hooked. Room makeovers, interior design competitions, people looking for new houses, homeowners finding out what their homes are worth...what's not to like?
Well, OK, there were a few shows that I quickly learned to avoid. Shows that do things on the ultra cheap and feature lots of crafty "re-purposed" items. As I've said before, I like things to be what they are. And, on the other end of the spectrum, I took a pass on the shows that focus on $35,000 bathroom renovations. I recently saw a bathroom featuring glass "vessel"-style sinks. I don't want to have to Windex my sink every time I use it to keep it looking nice. Also, only one sink in a "master bath" is just fine with me. I don't really need company when I brush my teeth.
Once we moved into our house in Boise, I stopped watching TV during the day. For a long time. But upon putting our house on the market, I allowed myself to be sucked right back in.
One show I enjoy wasting my time with is House Hunters. A house-hunting couple takes a look at three different places and then decides from among them. The US version can make me a little crazy, depending on the subjects of the particular episode. "I don't really like the color in here...this closet's only big enough for MY clothes...this isn't a very big master..." and my most despised comment: "The kitchen's OK, but I really wanted GRANITE counter tops." Don't people know that these counter tops will look as dated as avocado appliances and goldenrod medallion vinyl flooring in about 10 years? As Mark Helprin says in his novel Freddy and Fredericka, "I wonder where in the world there is a hole big enough to swallow all the granite counter tops that in a few years will be marching out of kitchens like an army of the dead.”
Now that HGTV has House Hunters International, the domestic version has lost much of its luster. This program is FASCINATING. I watched a German and Dutch couple search for a home on the Italian coast, where the ages of the available properties varied not by decades, but by centuries. "Is this the original floor?" Why, yes, it is the original floor. From the sixteenth century. I've seen a Brit and Australian looking for a house in Jamaica. And a Japanese couple buying an apartment-sized home in Paris. It's fun to see what does or doesn't come with a house in different places. It's so different everywhere, and so are people's expectations. But the challenge of choosing a house is the same for everyone to whom money IS an object: deciding which items on a long wish list are the things one wants most.
The show that's caused me trouble, though, is not House Hunters. It's Designed to Sell. On this program, some hapless person trying to sell his house is rescued by a designer with a team of carpenters, who spends $2000 and fixes all of the nasty things that would put off potential buyers. The show culminates in an open house at which a steady stream of nicely groomed people wander through the house and "ooh" and "ah" over all of the improvements.
When our realtor started holding open houses to sell OUR house, my only frame of reference was Designed to Sell. I did not have a team of carpenters. I did not have a budget of $2000. That, however, did not prevent my perfectionist tendencies from kicking in. I banished all clutter and piles of stuff. Everything was put in its place. So much so that I think it borderline creeped some people out. After a few open houses yielded no offers, we asked our realtor if he thought there was anything we needed to do to make the house look better. "No, they love it," he replied. "They love the colors, they love the furniture. Actually, someone asked me if anyone lives here or if the house was staged."
Well, that's just silly. No one would stage a house with a fake cat, complete with litter box. But it did make me think I was going a little overboard with the HGTV.
That and the fact that Nels identified the host of House Hunters by name.
"Mommy, is that Suzanne Whang?"
I spent an inordinate amount of time watching HGTV ("Home and Garden Television" for my family members who also have never had cable.) It was one of the few channels that could be counted on not to be inappropriate for children, and I was quickly hooked. Room makeovers, interior design competitions, people looking for new houses, homeowners finding out what their homes are worth...what's not to like?
Well, OK, there were a few shows that I quickly learned to avoid. Shows that do things on the ultra cheap and feature lots of crafty "re-purposed" items. As I've said before, I like things to be what they are. And, on the other end of the spectrum, I took a pass on the shows that focus on $35,000 bathroom renovations. I recently saw a bathroom featuring glass "vessel"-style sinks. I don't want to have to Windex my sink every time I use it to keep it looking nice. Also, only one sink in a "master bath" is just fine with me. I don't really need company when I brush my teeth.
Once we moved into our house in Boise, I stopped watching TV during the day. For a long time. But upon putting our house on the market, I allowed myself to be sucked right back in.
One show I enjoy wasting my time with is House Hunters. A house-hunting couple takes a look at three different places and then decides from among them. The US version can make me a little crazy, depending on the subjects of the particular episode. "I don't really like the color in here...this closet's only big enough for MY clothes...this isn't a very big master..." and my most despised comment: "The kitchen's OK, but I really wanted GRANITE counter tops." Don't people know that these counter tops will look as dated as avocado appliances and goldenrod medallion vinyl flooring in about 10 years? As Mark Helprin says in his novel Freddy and Fredericka, "I wonder where in the world there is a hole big enough to swallow all the granite counter tops that in a few years will be marching out of kitchens like an army of the dead.”
Now that HGTV has House Hunters International, the domestic version has lost much of its luster. This program is FASCINATING. I watched a German and Dutch couple search for a home on the Italian coast, where the ages of the available properties varied not by decades, but by centuries. "Is this the original floor?" Why, yes, it is the original floor. From the sixteenth century. I've seen a Brit and Australian looking for a house in Jamaica. And a Japanese couple buying an apartment-sized home in Paris. It's fun to see what does or doesn't come with a house in different places. It's so different everywhere, and so are people's expectations. But the challenge of choosing a house is the same for everyone to whom money IS an object: deciding which items on a long wish list are the things one wants most.
The show that's caused me trouble, though, is not House Hunters. It's Designed to Sell. On this program, some hapless person trying to sell his house is rescued by a designer with a team of carpenters, who spends $2000 and fixes all of the nasty things that would put off potential buyers. The show culminates in an open house at which a steady stream of nicely groomed people wander through the house and "ooh" and "ah" over all of the improvements.
When our realtor started holding open houses to sell OUR house, my only frame of reference was Designed to Sell. I did not have a team of carpenters. I did not have a budget of $2000. That, however, did not prevent my perfectionist tendencies from kicking in. I banished all clutter and piles of stuff. Everything was put in its place. So much so that I think it borderline creeped some people out. After a few open houses yielded no offers, we asked our realtor if he thought there was anything we needed to do to make the house look better. "No, they love it," he replied. "They love the colors, they love the furniture. Actually, someone asked me if anyone lives here or if the house was staged."
Well, that's just silly. No one would stage a house with a fake cat, complete with litter box. But it did make me think I was going a little overboard with the HGTV.
That and the fact that Nels identified the host of House Hunters by name.
"Mommy, is that Suzanne Whang?"
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Addendum
I may need to make a resolution this coming New Year: no more self-diagnosis via Web MD.
Now, I'm no frontier woman when it comes to bearing up bravely when in pain, but, as someone who recovered completely from mono and viral meningitis (at separate times) within three weeks, not to mention taking only a week to get over being treated for malaria when I really had food poisoning in Africa, it galled me to be laid low by something as pedestrian as pink-eye.
On the morning a week after my eyes began their cruel attack on my face, I walked into Willem's room and was greeted by the cheeriest "Hi, Mommy!" I've ever heard him muster. He prattled on happily ("Daddy doing? Puppy go? Morning!") while I stared aghast at his face. It appeared that a hive of bees had stung him about the eyes. He looked like a different kid. He was in a great mood, for which I was very thankful, but his sanguine mood was so incongruous with his appearance that the overall effect was extremely creepy.
Of course I called the doctor immediately. The nurse called me back. "He has pink-eye," I said. "He got it from me. I'm getting over it."
"OK. I'll call in a prescription for some drops. What pharmacy do you like?"
After we got it all squared away she added, "Now give us a call if it gets inflamed or red around his eyes. That would mean an infection of the tissue around the eye, and that can get pretty nasty. We'd need to see him so he could get oral antibiotics as well."
Now, I may be a bit wimpy when it comes to pain tolerance, but I'm no slouch at vocabulary. So when I said, "Hmm...inflamed. Like, all puffy and pink around his eyes?" it wasn't because I didn't understand her meaning, but because it meant I'd been incapacitated for a week by something worse than pink-eye and that my discomfort could have been quickly alleviated if I'd only seen fit to visit a doctor.
I took Willem in. Less than 48 hours later he looked like a new kid. Or rather, like the old kid. Nels and Shaun escaped with only one red eye apiece and very little puffiness. The whole family has been dosed and the dread words "eye drops" have been added to each boys' vocabulary.
I have found that the sicker I get, the more impaired becomes my judgement. This results in things like having one's appendix out at two in the morning the day before Thanksgiving. So let 2008 be the year: if I can't function, I'm calling the doctor.
Now, I'm no frontier woman when it comes to bearing up bravely when in pain, but, as someone who recovered completely from mono and viral meningitis (at separate times) within three weeks, not to mention taking only a week to get over being treated for malaria when I really had food poisoning in Africa, it galled me to be laid low by something as pedestrian as pink-eye.
On the morning a week after my eyes began their cruel attack on my face, I walked into Willem's room and was greeted by the cheeriest "Hi, Mommy!" I've ever heard him muster. He prattled on happily ("Daddy doing? Puppy go? Morning!") while I stared aghast at his face. It appeared that a hive of bees had stung him about the eyes. He looked like a different kid. He was in a great mood, for which I was very thankful, but his sanguine mood was so incongruous with his appearance that the overall effect was extremely creepy.
Of course I called the doctor immediately. The nurse called me back. "He has pink-eye," I said. "He got it from me. I'm getting over it."
"OK. I'll call in a prescription for some drops. What pharmacy do you like?"
After we got it all squared away she added, "Now give us a call if it gets inflamed or red around his eyes. That would mean an infection of the tissue around the eye, and that can get pretty nasty. We'd need to see him so he could get oral antibiotics as well."
Now, I may be a bit wimpy when it comes to pain tolerance, but I'm no slouch at vocabulary. So when I said, "Hmm...inflamed. Like, all puffy and pink around his eyes?" it wasn't because I didn't understand her meaning, but because it meant I'd been incapacitated for a week by something worse than pink-eye and that my discomfort could have been quickly alleviated if I'd only seen fit to visit a doctor.
I took Willem in. Less than 48 hours later he looked like a new kid. Or rather, like the old kid. Nels and Shaun escaped with only one red eye apiece and very little puffiness. The whole family has been dosed and the dread words "eye drops" have been added to each boys' vocabulary.
I have found that the sicker I get, the more impaired becomes my judgement. This results in things like having one's appendix out at two in the morning the day before Thanksgiving. So let 2008 be the year: if I can't function, I'm calling the doctor.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
I Feel Pretty
“Pinkeye (also called conjunctivitis) is redness and swelling of the conjunctiva, the mucous membrane that lines the eyelid and eye surface. The lining of the eye is usually clear. If irritation or infection occurs, the lining becomes red and swollen…Pinkeye is very common. It usually is not serious and goes away in 7 to 10 days without medical treatment.”
Thank you, WebMD.
With so many friends, relations, and acquaintances dealing with REAL health problems (like cancer), it is perhaps churlish of me to devote a post to an unserious malady that will go away on its own in a relatively brief amount of time. I will do it anyway. My two eyeballs are stuck very prominently into my face, and I have been unable to think of anything else since I woke up Monday morning and discovered that I couldn’t open my right eye.
Two days later the left eye followed suit, sending me to impressive depths of self-pity. That afternoon my right eye was just about as bad as it was going to get before improving, and I had to pick up Nels from school. (Shaun had been kind enough to take over drop-off duty.) Having rejected Shaun’s helpful suggestion that I borrow a pirate eye patch from the boys, I decided to let my hair fall in front of the ugliest eye and keep my head down in an effort to avoid any eye contact.
Alas, I was unable to resist making a gentle dab under my eye with a finger, and at once the jig was up. One very nice mother took a peek at my swollen face and red eyes and exclaimed, “Did something happen? Are you OK??????!!!!!” The alarm and concern were so kind and so out of proportion to what was actually wrong with me that I was tempted to invent a dead pet or relative right on the spot. Instead I sheepishly said that I was fine apart from an embarrassing case of pink-eye.
As I was leaving, another mom inquired how I was doing. I explained about the pink-eye. She was fascinated and offered her help. “I never had pink-eye!”
Well, neither had I. At least, not until a year ago, when I caught an extremely mild case of it from the boys. My contraction of pink-eye contained a double indignity. First, pink-eye, like a lice infestation, is for kids. There’s something unseemly about a 35 year-old woman with pink-eye. Second, pink-eye is not just for kids, it is for OTHER kids. I don’t remember a single case of pink-eye in our house growing up, though my mom may remember differently.
Other kids got pink-eye, of course. I figured it was a case of some sort of deal their parents had made with the devil. These kids had their own bedrooms, slept in hotels rather than tents on family vacations, had televisions, wore store-bought clothes to grade school, and enjoyed lunches that contained items such as chips, cookies, and juice boxes or pouches. In exchange, the children suffered from asthma, allergies, ear infections, and the aforementioned pink-eye. All of the above benefits and liabilities were virtually unknown in our household.
So this killer case of pink-eye renders me suspicious. Now that I’m grown and have children of my own, I realize that my kids have their own rooms, wear clothes from Old Navy, and watch way more TV and eat far more processed food than they should. They’ve been known to have an ear infection or two. I have had a few bouts of symptoms that resemble allergies. It could be that all that’s standing between my kids and asthma is their infrequent (thanks to me) consumption of fruit juice.
No, I don’t really think that. I did get a doozy of a cold courtesy of the virus or bacteria that brought on the pink-eye, so most of this is the DayQuil talking. But it still couldn’t hurt to get a family camping trip in this year.
P.S. I really wanted to include a photo with this post, but I figured I’ve subjected you to enough.
Thank you, WebMD.
With so many friends, relations, and acquaintances dealing with REAL health problems (like cancer), it is perhaps churlish of me to devote a post to an unserious malady that will go away on its own in a relatively brief amount of time. I will do it anyway. My two eyeballs are stuck very prominently into my face, and I have been unable to think of anything else since I woke up Monday morning and discovered that I couldn’t open my right eye.
Two days later the left eye followed suit, sending me to impressive depths of self-pity. That afternoon my right eye was just about as bad as it was going to get before improving, and I had to pick up Nels from school. (Shaun had been kind enough to take over drop-off duty.) Having rejected Shaun’s helpful suggestion that I borrow a pirate eye patch from the boys, I decided to let my hair fall in front of the ugliest eye and keep my head down in an effort to avoid any eye contact.
Alas, I was unable to resist making a gentle dab under my eye with a finger, and at once the jig was up. One very nice mother took a peek at my swollen face and red eyes and exclaimed, “Did something happen? Are you OK??????!!!!!” The alarm and concern were so kind and so out of proportion to what was actually wrong with me that I was tempted to invent a dead pet or relative right on the spot. Instead I sheepishly said that I was fine apart from an embarrassing case of pink-eye.
As I was leaving, another mom inquired how I was doing. I explained about the pink-eye. She was fascinated and offered her help. “I never had pink-eye!”
Well, neither had I. At least, not until a year ago, when I caught an extremely mild case of it from the boys. My contraction of pink-eye contained a double indignity. First, pink-eye, like a lice infestation, is for kids. There’s something unseemly about a 35 year-old woman with pink-eye. Second, pink-eye is not just for kids, it is for OTHER kids. I don’t remember a single case of pink-eye in our house growing up, though my mom may remember differently.
Other kids got pink-eye, of course. I figured it was a case of some sort of deal their parents had made with the devil. These kids had their own bedrooms, slept in hotels rather than tents on family vacations, had televisions, wore store-bought clothes to grade school, and enjoyed lunches that contained items such as chips, cookies, and juice boxes or pouches. In exchange, the children suffered from asthma, allergies, ear infections, and the aforementioned pink-eye. All of the above benefits and liabilities were virtually unknown in our household.
So this killer case of pink-eye renders me suspicious. Now that I’m grown and have children of my own, I realize that my kids have their own rooms, wear clothes from Old Navy, and watch way more TV and eat far more processed food than they should. They’ve been known to have an ear infection or two. I have had a few bouts of symptoms that resemble allergies. It could be that all that’s standing between my kids and asthma is their infrequent (thanks to me) consumption of fruit juice.
No, I don’t really think that. I did get a doozy of a cold courtesy of the virus or bacteria that brought on the pink-eye, so most of this is the DayQuil talking. But it still couldn’t hurt to get a family camping trip in this year.
P.S. I really wanted to include a photo with this post, but I figured I’ve subjected you to enough.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Halloween And A Big Birthday
Ah, yes. Halloween. It's a holiday that ceases to have any importance once one reaches junior high...and then regains its relevance once one has children who are old enough to enjoy dressing up and trick-or-treating. Having Nels around makes it fun, because he's really into all the accoutrements, not just the candy. Fake cobwebs, jack o'lanterns, skeletons...it's all a big thrill. Our kids are still just young enough that we can dismiss the "evil" stuff with "monsters are pretend." I'm sure we'll have a much more nuanced, thoughtful Christian response to Halloween...eventually. For now it's just fun.
Nels wore his costume to school, as did the rest of the kids.
He ended up wearing it all day...to varying degrees.
Willem wore the rooster suit that Nels wore on his very first trick-or-treat outing. Let me tell you, if you want to spread a little love around, all it takes is to run some errands around town with a toddler dressed as a rooster. I'm pretty sure it was the best day of Willem's life, thanks to all the smiles and attention directed his way.
The day after Halloween was my 35th birthday. I can finally give my poor mother her due. All those years of having to costume children and then put on a birthday party the next day...I was worn out and I only had to come up with one costume (the rooster was a no-brainer) and think about getting older in lieu of throwing an actual party.
Despite the lack of a party (or perhaps because of it), I had a notably good day on my birthday. Nels didn't have school, so I didn't have to be anywhere. I didn't feel unsettled or melancholic or lazy (which are feelings I commonly have). I felt lucky to spend the day at home. I felt thankful for my husband and my children and who they are and that I get to spend my life with them. I felt glad for my life, even joyful. Yes, full of joy. I have no reason not to feel this way every day, but emotions are fickle. The alignment of emotion with reality was a birthday gift I wouldn't have thought to ask for but was happy to receive.
Lest you roll your eyes, let me hasten to add that my birthday was celebrated in a less spiritual fashion as well. The following weekend we enjoyed a birthday repast the likes of which will never be seen again.
Shaun made wings! From scratch! They marinated all day in balsamic vinegar and garlic and fresh rosemary and goodness knows what else. The smell of them cooking was beyond belief. The Hamiltons provided the meal proper, which was my birthday request. Beet and goat cheese salad, butternut squash ravioli with browned butter and crispy sage, and a sticky toffee pudding-esque cake. It was all delicious. In our giddiness we washed it down with a few more cocktails than were warranted. Gluttonous? Borderline. Memorable? Indeed.
And I've got a leg up on next year's Halloween costumes. I can send Nels out as Salvador Dali.
Nels wore his costume to school, as did the rest of the kids.
He ended up wearing it all day...to varying degrees.
Willem wore the rooster suit that Nels wore on his very first trick-or-treat outing. Let me tell you, if you want to spread a little love around, all it takes is to run some errands around town with a toddler dressed as a rooster. I'm pretty sure it was the best day of Willem's life, thanks to all the smiles and attention directed his way.
The day after Halloween was my 35th birthday. I can finally give my poor mother her due. All those years of having to costume children and then put on a birthday party the next day...I was worn out and I only had to come up with one costume (the rooster was a no-brainer) and think about getting older in lieu of throwing an actual party.
Despite the lack of a party (or perhaps because of it), I had a notably good day on my birthday. Nels didn't have school, so I didn't have to be anywhere. I didn't feel unsettled or melancholic or lazy (which are feelings I commonly have). I felt lucky to spend the day at home. I felt thankful for my husband and my children and who they are and that I get to spend my life with them. I felt glad for my life, even joyful. Yes, full of joy. I have no reason not to feel this way every day, but emotions are fickle. The alignment of emotion with reality was a birthday gift I wouldn't have thought to ask for but was happy to receive.
Lest you roll your eyes, let me hasten to add that my birthday was celebrated in a less spiritual fashion as well. The following weekend we enjoyed a birthday repast the likes of which will never be seen again.
Shaun made wings! From scratch! They marinated all day in balsamic vinegar and garlic and fresh rosemary and goodness knows what else. The smell of them cooking was beyond belief. The Hamiltons provided the meal proper, which was my birthday request. Beet and goat cheese salad, butternut squash ravioli with browned butter and crispy sage, and a sticky toffee pudding-esque cake. It was all delicious. In our giddiness we washed it down with a few more cocktails than were warranted. Gluttonous? Borderline. Memorable? Indeed.
And I've got a leg up on next year's Halloween costumes. I can send Nels out as Salvador Dali.
House Fer Sale
We've survived two open houses and one lone showing by appointment. No buyers in sight. Please, take the (edited) tour...
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