Can they be almost
Eight and four?
Thankfully it's not more!
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
You're Gonna Get Tired of Me
Sorry. But I've decided to try to post every day again this year.
You don't have to come read every day, I mean, if you have time to spend getting caught up every once in a while.
But please leave a comment from time to time so I don't feel lonely. I like to say that I do this blog-thing for me, but really I love the audience.
Youscratch my back read my blog, I'll read yours. Okay?
You don't have to come read every day, I mean, if you have time to spend getting caught up every once in a while.
But please leave a comment from time to time so I don't feel lonely. I like to say that I do this blog-thing for me, but really I love the audience.
You
Friday, December 11, 2009
LL Says:
Lulu counted to 12 the other day:
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, (we held our breath because she usually gets hung up right here) 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19... um... TWELVE!!!
We are so proud of her!
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, (we held our breath because she usually gets hung up right here) 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19... um... TWELVE!!!
We are so proud of her!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Second Assignment
I was about 12 or 13 when J ran away. It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear, but one day he was really gone and we didn’t know to where. I admit that I did worry for a moment, until he called from Colorado and told us that he and D had left to get away from the crowd they had been hanging around with and that he was okay. Mom and Dad told him they would send him a bus ticket whenever he was ready to come home and reminded him to keep calling and checking in. That was that for me. I was in junior high had other things to worry about than my middle brother, who may have been infinitely cooler than me but was in no way smarter than me. He would come home. Mom and Dad would handle the worrying. I wasn’t going to miss him teasing me or being obviously embarrassed by me or telling me to go away. I wouldn’t miss the police cars dropping him off in the morning or the green ink stains on the bathroom rug from where he’d tried to dye his hair again. And honestly, it was nice the way the kids at school reacted when I told them my brother and D had run away. Concern, amazement, awe. Finally I had something interesting to talk about.
Eventually he and D ended up in California. They got clean and learned to surf and make bagels. Then when he did come home, he had changed. He was still way cooler than me but now in a way that I actually wanted to be. He was clean and healthy and confident. He got a smart, pretty steady girlfriend and ran for student office and won. What a loser…
Things changed at home, too. Mom and Dad started fighting more. They went to counseling. And when Dad’s contract at the college expired and he got another teaching job in a different state, he moved and we stayed behind. We stayed so J could finish high school and Mom, who had just gotten a promotion, could get a little experience in her new position. The plan was to move to be with Dad after J graduated.
Dad came home for the weekend sometimes. I would come in the front door after school and hear the vacuum running and know that he was there. And I would feel disappointed because that meant I couldn’t watch “Santa Barbara” and that there would be fighting that weekend. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my father or miss him; it was just easier, less tense, when he wasn’t there.
One evening, somehow, Mom, Dad, J, and I were all sitting at the table eating dinner together. My oldest brother wasn’t there, but he had moved out and rarely ate dinner with us. We were eating and talking and the tension was building, like it usually did when we were all in the same place together, and then my dad broke his tooth. He exploded. He swore and then shouted, “YOUR MOTHER WANTS A DIVORCE!”
That kind of ended dinner.
My mom came into my room later to check on me. She had already talked to J; I’d heard her go into his room and knew she’d come to me next. I was doing something random, reading on my bed or lying on the floor or something. She said, “I’m sorry, sweetie. That wasn’t how we wanted to do that.”
“That’s okay,” I said. And it really was.
“Why aren’t you crying? Everyone else is crying?” she asked.
“Everyone?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Even J.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’m just not surprised.”
Eventually he and D ended up in California. They got clean and learned to surf and make bagels. Then when he did come home, he had changed. He was still way cooler than me but now in a way that I actually wanted to be. He was clean and healthy and confident. He got a smart, pretty steady girlfriend and ran for student office and won. What a loser…
Things changed at home, too. Mom and Dad started fighting more. They went to counseling. And when Dad’s contract at the college expired and he got another teaching job in a different state, he moved and we stayed behind. We stayed so J could finish high school and Mom, who had just gotten a promotion, could get a little experience in her new position. The plan was to move to be with Dad after J graduated.
Dad came home for the weekend sometimes. I would come in the front door after school and hear the vacuum running and know that he was there. And I would feel disappointed because that meant I couldn’t watch “Santa Barbara” and that there would be fighting that weekend. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my father or miss him; it was just easier, less tense, when he wasn’t there.
One evening, somehow, Mom, Dad, J, and I were all sitting at the table eating dinner together. My oldest brother wasn’t there, but he had moved out and rarely ate dinner with us. We were eating and talking and the tension was building, like it usually did when we were all in the same place together, and then my dad broke his tooth. He exploded. He swore and then shouted, “YOUR MOTHER WANTS A DIVORCE!”
That kind of ended dinner.
My mom came into my room later to check on me. She had already talked to J; I’d heard her go into his room and knew she’d come to me next. I was doing something random, reading on my bed or lying on the floor or something. She said, “I’m sorry, sweetie. That wasn’t how we wanted to do that.”
“That’s okay,” I said. And it really was.
“Why aren’t you crying? Everyone else is crying?” she asked.
“Everyone?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Even J.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’m just not surprised.”
Thursday, November 5, 2009
First Assignment
Dad and I had an early dinner and headed out to my piano lesson. It was dark earlier than usual because the sun had gone down behind thick snow clouds. He parked the car behind the church, and as we got out and started across the street to the building that housed the church offices and Sunday school classrooms, we could hear the gentle tap, tap of the first snowflakes falling on the holly bushes that lined the side wall of the church.
The front door of the renovated old farmhouse stuck a little. It always took the slightest extra nudge to pop it open. My stomach jumped with the sound of the door un-sticking, and the butterflies that had been fluttering just a little became more forceful as we went in and started up the wooden stairs. I was always a little nervous before my piano lesson, but this night, each step up to the next stair just increased my nervousness because I knew that Holly would know that I hadn't practiced what she had assigned for me. Plus, I needed to cut my fingernails.
The lesson before mine was just finishing. I could hear the last few notes of a piece and then Holly's voice. My nervousness turned to a guilty dread as I listened to the sound of a folding metal chair scrape the floor and then the student's mother's voice getting nearer as they came toward the door. I hoped that they knew they could take their time. There were the usual hello's and how-are-you's when they opened the door and came out and my father and I went in. I took my time crossing the long room to the tall antique upright in the far corner. I sat on the round-topped wooden stool and was relieved to feel that it was too low. I stood and postponed my lesson a little longer by spinning it higher. Very slowly. Eventually, though, I had to sit down. It wasn’t that I hadn’t practiced at all; I just hadn’t practiced what Holly had told me to.
I sat and turned to Holly. “Before we start, can I play something for you?” I asked. I had read ahead in my lesson book and knew that I could play the next piece well. She agreed, and I opened my book.
I don’t remember the name of the piece or the way the notes looked on the page or even the melody. I have a vague feeling now that the piece was in the key of D Major. Maybe D minor. What I do remember is that when I started to play, I felt the music fill the room. I don’t know where it came from. The music didn’t come from inside me. It felt like came through me. It flowed out of me as if I was the instrument and the music played me. And while I played, I wasn’t full of butterflies anymore. I was confident and comfortable and whole, engulfed by the music.
The front door of the renovated old farmhouse stuck a little. It always took the slightest extra nudge to pop it open. My stomach jumped with the sound of the door un-sticking, and the butterflies that had been fluttering just a little became more forceful as we went in and started up the wooden stairs. I was always a little nervous before my piano lesson, but this night, each step up to the next stair just increased my nervousness because I knew that Holly would know that I hadn't practiced what she had assigned for me. Plus, I needed to cut my fingernails.
The lesson before mine was just finishing. I could hear the last few notes of a piece and then Holly's voice. My nervousness turned to a guilty dread as I listened to the sound of a folding metal chair scrape the floor and then the student's mother's voice getting nearer as they came toward the door. I hoped that they knew they could take their time. There were the usual hello's and how-are-you's when they opened the door and came out and my father and I went in. I took my time crossing the long room to the tall antique upright in the far corner. I sat on the round-topped wooden stool and was relieved to feel that it was too low. I stood and postponed my lesson a little longer by spinning it higher. Very slowly. Eventually, though, I had to sit down. It wasn’t that I hadn’t practiced at all; I just hadn’t practiced what Holly had told me to.
I sat and turned to Holly. “Before we start, can I play something for you?” I asked. I had read ahead in my lesson book and knew that I could play the next piece well. She agreed, and I opened my book.
I don’t remember the name of the piece or the way the notes looked on the page or even the melody. I have a vague feeling now that the piece was in the key of D Major. Maybe D minor. What I do remember is that when I started to play, I felt the music fill the room. I don’t know where it came from. The music didn’t come from inside me. It felt like came through me. It flowed out of me as if I was the instrument and the music played me. And while I played, I wasn’t full of butterflies anymore. I was confident and comfortable and whole, engulfed by the music.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Can You Help?
Would you do me a favor? Would you leave a comment describing the sound of snow falling at night? Thanks!
Saturday, October 31, 2009
New Stuff
MN, Didn't You Mention a New Writing Project? Remember when I posted about NaNoWriMo and mentioned that I had another thing I was going to be working on (Rae @ Us in Tejas is doing NaNoWriMo, by the way - and The Grandpa)? So Thursday before this last one, it started. My new project.
What?! What Is It, Already?! I joined a writing program at my church called "Writing Your Spiritual Journey." The end goal is for us to each create a rough draft of our own spiritual autobiography by the end of the... um... seminar (? I'm at a loss for what to call it... It's not really a class...). I joined because I thought it might help me answer the question, "Why am I a UU?" but I'm not so sure it's really going to do that. So far it looks to be an exploration of our definition of "spiritual" and events in our life that we might call spiritual. What's cool is that everyone in the class seems to have a different definition of spirituality so there is bound to be some good food for thought.
Huh? So at our first meeting, the leader had us draw a picture of a place from our childhood that we considered spiritual. I drew the mulberry tree in Moomie's parents' front yard because at my grandparents' house I felt safe and free and in touch with my spiritual self. Then she gave us the assignment to write about a moment from our childhoods when we felt spiritual. It seemed like this moment might possibly have happened in the spiritual place (for lack of a better term, but you know what I mean, right?), but I couldn't think of one there (until later). The moment I have chosen to write about didn't even happen in the same state. But it was. Spiritual. And it has been followed by similar spiritual moments throughout my whole life, and when those moments are missing from my life, I don't feel quite whole.
Are You Bored Yet? I am not sure that I am going to come away from this with a "spiritual autobiography," as she claimed, because to me that should include the questions in addition to the certainties. But I think I will at least have a clearer idea of when I feel most spiritual and will be able to explain it to other people. Better than I'm doing now. Hopefully...
What?! What Is It, Already?! I joined a writing program at my church called "Writing Your Spiritual Journey." The end goal is for us to each create a rough draft of our own spiritual autobiography by the end of the... um... seminar (? I'm at a loss for what to call it... It's not really a class...). I joined because I thought it might help me answer the question, "Why am I a UU?" but I'm not so sure it's really going to do that. So far it looks to be an exploration of our definition of "spiritual" and events in our life that we might call spiritual. What's cool is that everyone in the class seems to have a different definition of spirituality so there is bound to be some good food for thought.
Huh? So at our first meeting, the leader had us draw a picture of a place from our childhood that we considered spiritual. I drew the mulberry tree in Moomie's parents' front yard because at my grandparents' house I felt safe and free and in touch with my spiritual self. Then she gave us the assignment to write about a moment from our childhoods when we felt spiritual. It seemed like this moment might possibly have happened in the spiritual place (for lack of a better term, but you know what I mean, right?), but I couldn't think of one there (until later). The moment I have chosen to write about didn't even happen in the same state. But it was. Spiritual. And it has been followed by similar spiritual moments throughout my whole life, and when those moments are missing from my life, I don't feel quite whole.
Are You Bored Yet? I am not sure that I am going to come away from this with a "spiritual autobiography," as she claimed, because to me that should include the questions in addition to the certainties. But I think I will at least have a clearer idea of when I feel most spiritual and will be able to explain it to other people. Better than I'm doing now. Hopefully...
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Oh, hey! I Changed My Alias
I'm not Mommy's Nintendo anymore. I chose that name for a purpose (so PSP would know who I was), but now I'm just gonna be me. So you know.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
To Answer a Question
The Grandpa Asked "Are you doing NaNoWriMo?"
It Didn't Work Last Year I thought about it. I got a little more written last year during the month of November, but I got nowhere near the 25,000 words they encourage you to write. So maybe I'll commit to write but not to track my words...
Besides Starting Thursday, I will be working on another less fictional and more personal writing project that I will probably be filling you in on as it progresses.
How About You? Have you got 25,000 words to get out during the month of November? If you're doing NaNoWriMo, leave a comment and we'll follow and encourage you!
It Didn't Work Last Year I thought about it. I got a little more written last year during the month of November, but I got nowhere near the 25,000 words they encourage you to write. So maybe I'll commit to write but not to track my words...
Besides Starting Thursday, I will be working on another less fictional and more personal writing project that I will probably be filling you in on as it progresses.
How About You? Have you got 25,000 words to get out during the month of November? If you're doing NaNoWriMo, leave a comment and we'll follow and encourage you!
Friday, October 16, 2009
Natural Remedies and The Crud
So it turns out that adrenalin and sheer will power are enough to keep a cold at bay for at least 2 weeks. For the last 2 weeks of rehearsal before the Follies, I was ignoring something. It caused me to wake up with full-fledged laryngitis one morning, from which I recovered before rehearsal, and had me singing in the tenor range the morning of the show, but all the happy-energy chemicals one produces when in the presence of like-minded friends doing something incredibly fun made it possible for me to sing in the right octave well before the show. I refused to be sick and so I wasn't.
Unfortunately my life has returned to the same old same old (for the moment) and my adrenalin supply seems to be waning and so now I am sick. And the stupid virus is apparently ticked off about having to wait. But no fever. So no flu. Just The Crud.
Unfortunately my life has returned to the same old same old (for the moment) and my adrenalin supply seems to be waning and so now I am sick. And the stupid virus is apparently ticked off about having to wait. But no fever. So no flu. Just The Crud.
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