I'm probably not supposed to discuss this "in public" or say the actual word, so I didn't. I mean, really, what's a century or so of European art and architecture among perfect strangers on the Internet? Because even back then you might tell everyone over the dinner table that you were down to a few pounds (the curly L sort that I can't locate on my keyboard), whatever the hens lay, and maybe a goat for emergencies. Then, you would go to bed secure in your knowledge that everyone is aware of the "era" you're living at the moment.
They most definitely would NOT go straight out to the market the very next day and spend all the pounds and a few more (even then I'm sure the, ummm, "establishment" understood cash flow or had some method of causing the family accountant to fall over dead, revive, fall over dead, revive, etc. wash, rinse, repeat) commit the hens to some serious egg-laying, and paint a bulls eye on the goat that has just become your sole source of food.
That was yesterday. The day we entered the Baroque period. Today, as is typical of Baroque periods, the carriages have started to mutiny. I came home at lunch to get better footwear. The Baroque librarian had her one pair of nice heels on and it was stupid. Not as stupid as some things, but still stupid. Needless to say, my carriage lost at least one horse and most of the leather whatever-you-call-it that connects the horses to the carriage. I shall have to ask a student what all of that is. The real name, anyway. Around here there are some who will know.
At my house, we'd say it lost a squirrel and half the rubber bands. I took a look at where the alternator is supposed to be and I already know this repair involves me because a) we are Baroque and, b) I have the smallest hands in the family and even I have to perform hangar tricks to get belts back on. That Honda is put together tighter than sardines in a can. Alternator repair apparently involves removing part of the exhaust...a special length made to come out just in this special case. The compressor replacement is starting to sound rosy. But we are waiting for the Age of Enlightenment (at the very least) for this repair
Meanwhile...thus continueth the 17th century. People keep handing me receipts and bills that need paying to which I keep replying (in order) "that's not doing a thing for me" and "there is nothing I can do about that." I'm the sort of person who naturally worries about where THE FREAKING HELL is the money going to come from. I don't chew my fingers off or occupy my mind with it, but I think some people just have a brain that thinks a certain way. Mine is detailed. It's back there crunching numbers. So far, it's concluded that by the time all these people are dead (and I'm not) I'll be living in a box.
My brain also just naturally intuits random things like the one job I have isn't going to be enough. It's making a huge difference, but it hasn't been long enough to tell that. I'm not patient when it comes to results sometimes. However, in my defense, we can go from modern day whatever to Baroque just while I'm at work for the day.
Maybe we should stop using debit cards! :)
Scat
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Monday, September 23, 2013
So It's Like This...
There are capital letters and there are lower case letters. You are supposed to use capital letters at beginnings of sentences and at the beginnings of proper nouns. EtC. In Squib's classroom, there is a copy of all the lower and upper case letters on his desk and on the wall.
...HoWEveR...
He has a different concept of the use of capitalization. The artiste believes each word should be crafted or sculpted to look just so. That includes random capitalization. Grammar, syntax, style manuals be d*****, that child writes with great emotion and "big" versus "small" letters are all a part of what I can only say is the Squib Manual of Style. And to anyone who believes they can change him, I say...
Good flipping luck.
Scat
...HoWEveR...
He has a different concept of the use of capitalization. The artiste believes each word should be crafted or sculpted to look just so. That includes random capitalization. Grammar, syntax, style manuals be d*****, that child writes with great emotion and "big" versus "small" letters are all a part of what I can only say is the Squib Manual of Style. And to anyone who believes they can change him, I say...
Good flipping luck.
Scat
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Naked
I've been sitting here in my sweet, isolated, mommy-of-special-kids cocoon contemplating when it's time to not let my children see me naked. (mostly only in bathing situations) It only happens on occasion (well...) and only because we live in a house the size of a postage stamp. They are 8 and 11. Boys. Boys have a different relationship to nakedness than girls. I realize this. However, they still need to learn. This isn't an issue for Beanstalk for several reasons. He can shed his pants in one-quarter of a blink. He'd never think mom was doing anything weird or giving a personal anatomy lesson. Also, he never sees me naked.
Squib, however, being the scientific-creative-whimsical-curious-contemplative one is not just interested, but deeply interested in anatomical parts. Also, he is carrying on this 24-7 narrative of "important stuff" that cannot under any circumstances be interrupted by anything ever never ever. Not even shaving. He's not doing any of this in any sort of malicious or inappropriate way. He studies everything's anatomy and can't understand what the difference is here. The psychology is pretty much lost on him still. I tried to explain nakedness and the fact that we don't share it with anyone unless mom says ok (you know as in he shouldn't let anyone touch him--not even a doctor--unless mommy or daddy is there). He knows that, but it's academic. If he has a question and I'm shaving my bikini line, then so be it. Then on the other hand, I had to be clear that he shouldn't be sneaking around trying to solve the mystery of how you pee without a penis. There. Now you know. That's what he wants to see. So I've banned him (politely and with all the proper mommy-explanations) from the bathroom when I'm using it or bathing. So he still comes in (he forgets...he says) and he still peeks around the curtain (then slams it shut). There is no door except the one that divides the house in half, so it's been a bit frustrating and I was wondering if I was being picky for no reason.
Shortly after all this business, I was with a friend at her house and we were bathing the kids to get them all ready for the next day. Babies/girls, then boys style. This is the country and they are used to all this. This is how I was raised with all my cousins. Most of these kids are related or believe they are anyway because everyone here is your "Aunt." Or...she will be some day...I guess. Anyway, I went to grab one of the babies (we don't separate babies out by gender and when it comes to the bath mill they are pretty compliant) and was carrying him back into the bathroom just as my son had his hand on the knob of the door where, on the other side was a bathtub full of nine-year-old girl about to get out of the tub.
**Gah!!**
He was only trying to ask me a question and he thought I was in there with all the babies. However, the close call made me understand clearly that what he experiences at home needs to prepare him for possible situations outside of home. So, things need to change.
Like, knocking!!!, for crying out loud! Of course, no one here knocks. After they don't knock, they don't observe any other sorts of manners, either. This is why you can sit on the toilet in your very own bathroom while your father discusses disbursements of your grandmother's annuity at seven o'clock in the morning with barely a curtain between you. Yes, you heard me right. That was the tame example for the media. Everyone here has seen everyone else naked. And not just because we were somebody's baby. We're talking in the last three years. Baba and I try to limit exposure to only necessary events like hospital stays and recovery therefrom. Dad and Squib have no limits...on anything...including the areas they dedicate to momentary outdoor urinal conversion. When they have to pee, apparently it's NOW. Mimi generally escapes the wrath via a strict use of lock and key combined with growling and some sort of unknown communication. When I discover her methods I intend to patent them and put them to use, but there again I need another couple sets of doors. I use locks, too, but they're on the front door and office door. Then the pounding on the doors (and windows because they assume I'm dead if I don't come running and answer my phone) makes me absolutely irate and I can't relax and do my thing. So. It's basically like a monkey house over here. Only Beanstalk doesn't throw any poo anymore.
Thank heavens for that.
Scat
Squib, however, being the scientific-creative-whimsical-curious-contemplative one is not just interested, but deeply interested in anatomical parts. Also, he is carrying on this 24-7 narrative of "important stuff" that cannot under any circumstances be interrupted by anything ever never ever. Not even shaving. He's not doing any of this in any sort of malicious or inappropriate way. He studies everything's anatomy and can't understand what the difference is here. The psychology is pretty much lost on him still. I tried to explain nakedness and the fact that we don't share it with anyone unless mom says ok (you know as in he shouldn't let anyone touch him--not even a doctor--unless mommy or daddy is there). He knows that, but it's academic. If he has a question and I'm shaving my bikini line, then so be it. Then on the other hand, I had to be clear that he shouldn't be sneaking around trying to solve the mystery of how you pee without a penis. There. Now you know. That's what he wants to see. So I've banned him (politely and with all the proper mommy-explanations) from the bathroom when I'm using it or bathing. So he still comes in (he forgets...he says) and he still peeks around the curtain (then slams it shut). There is no door except the one that divides the house in half, so it's been a bit frustrating and I was wondering if I was being picky for no reason.
Shortly after all this business, I was with a friend at her house and we were bathing the kids to get them all ready for the next day. Babies/girls, then boys style. This is the country and they are used to all this. This is how I was raised with all my cousins. Most of these kids are related or believe they are anyway because everyone here is your "Aunt." Or...she will be some day...I guess. Anyway, I went to grab one of the babies (we don't separate babies out by gender and when it comes to the bath mill they are pretty compliant) and was carrying him back into the bathroom just as my son had his hand on the knob of the door where, on the other side was a bathtub full of nine-year-old girl about to get out of the tub.
**Gah!!**
He was only trying to ask me a question and he thought I was in there with all the babies. However, the close call made me understand clearly that what he experiences at home needs to prepare him for possible situations outside of home. So, things need to change.
Like, knocking!!!, for crying out loud! Of course, no one here knocks. After they don't knock, they don't observe any other sorts of manners, either. This is why you can sit on the toilet in your very own bathroom while your father discusses disbursements of your grandmother's annuity at seven o'clock in the morning with barely a curtain between you. Yes, you heard me right. That was the tame example for the media. Everyone here has seen everyone else naked. And not just because we were somebody's baby. We're talking in the last three years. Baba and I try to limit exposure to only necessary events like hospital stays and recovery therefrom. Dad and Squib have no limits...on anything...including the areas they dedicate to momentary outdoor urinal conversion. When they have to pee, apparently it's NOW. Mimi generally escapes the wrath via a strict use of lock and key combined with growling and some sort of unknown communication. When I discover her methods I intend to patent them and put them to use, but there again I need another couple sets of doors. I use locks, too, but they're on the front door and office door. Then the pounding on the doors (and windows because they assume I'm dead if I don't come running and answer my phone) makes me absolutely irate and I can't relax and do my thing. So. It's basically like a monkey house over here. Only Beanstalk doesn't throw any poo anymore.
Thank heavens for that.
Scat
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Being a grown-up...
Sometimes being a grown-up really blows.
6:00 a.m. last Saturday morning, Squib asked me the same question he always asks me on mornings when he gets up, but doesn't have to: "Can I be awake, Mama?" I always say the same thing: "You ca-an." This time I attempted to depart with some serious advice.
[Correction: Usually, when he asks if he can be awake, I say no and he gets up anyway. This time I answered as above/below.]
"Look, bud, seriously...every other day and even on some Saturdays you have no choice about waking up before you want to and you complain. "Too bright!" One day, you'll be grown up and you'll have less than no choice about waking up early and you'll wish on every object that isn't nailed down that you had layed in your bed as long as you were allowed to do so. Why not lay around a bit?"
He looked at me like I had horns, asked if I was going to use some discarded piece of trash that he wanted for his next sculpture, and padded off into the office to otherwise destroy the planet in under an hour.
Right now it's 9:43 p.m. on Thursday. I left the house at 6:45 a.m. and I am just now back at home and sitting down for the last time. I am supposed to be balancing the books. My parents and grandmother have dutifully saved all the bills for me to pay and receipts to put in the ledger. All I really want to do is kick my legs and scream and thrash and howl.
But that would take energy that I desperately need to use for sleep.
I have a job that I love. I can't imagine getting to the bottom of the workload anytime within the next couple of years. I can imagine nodding on occasion (the place gets hap-hazardly quiet on occasion regardless of our efforts to the contrary), but there are active things to do as well. I get to work with a supervisor I get along with. In every way (except the hourly rate...just being honest) it's ideal. Considering the break I get now that I have benefits, the hourly rate is tolerable (certainly preferable to nothing!!) what with my medical, vision, and dental expenses over past years.
It's just the normal issues of being an active adult added to work hours that begin to chip away at my sanity. Get up (at 4:30...I know, right??!?), do my normal hours of study and writing, exercise, errands, volunteer, chores, church activities, kid stuff, be at work around 7:00 a.m. and leave around 4:00 p.m. (-ish). That's all. I've been a good little grown-up for almost two weeks now. Mostly.
I'm DONE!
Ok, not really.
Scat
6:00 a.m. last Saturday morning, Squib asked me the same question he always asks me on mornings when he gets up, but doesn't have to: "Can I be awake, Mama?" I always say the same thing: "You ca-an." This time I attempted to depart with some serious advice.
[Correction: Usually, when he asks if he can be awake, I say no and he gets up anyway. This time I answered as above/below.]
"Look, bud, seriously...every other day and even on some Saturdays you have no choice about waking up before you want to and you complain. "Too bright!" One day, you'll be grown up and you'll have less than no choice about waking up early and you'll wish on every object that isn't nailed down that you had layed in your bed as long as you were allowed to do so. Why not lay around a bit?"
He looked at me like I had horns, asked if I was going to use some discarded piece of trash that he wanted for his next sculpture, and padded off into the office to otherwise destroy the planet in under an hour.
Right now it's 9:43 p.m. on Thursday. I left the house at 6:45 a.m. and I am just now back at home and sitting down for the last time. I am supposed to be balancing the books. My parents and grandmother have dutifully saved all the bills for me to pay and receipts to put in the ledger. All I really want to do is kick my legs and scream and thrash and howl.
But that would take energy that I desperately need to use for sleep.
I have a job that I love. I can't imagine getting to the bottom of the workload anytime within the next couple of years. I can imagine nodding on occasion (the place gets hap-hazardly quiet on occasion regardless of our efforts to the contrary), but there are active things to do as well. I get to work with a supervisor I get along with. In every way (except the hourly rate...just being honest) it's ideal. Considering the break I get now that I have benefits, the hourly rate is tolerable (certainly preferable to nothing!!) what with my medical, vision, and dental expenses over past years.
It's just the normal issues of being an active adult added to work hours that begin to chip away at my sanity. Get up (at 4:30...I know, right??!?), do my normal hours of study and writing, exercise, errands, volunteer, chores, church activities, kid stuff, be at work around 7:00 a.m. and leave around 4:00 p.m. (-ish). That's all. I've been a good little grown-up for almost two weeks now. Mostly.
I'm DONE!
Ok, not really.
Scat
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