I love the hairdos on the Mommy Seed packets. Now you can grow your own blue-haired mommy. You can even plant gray helmet hair. This next one looks like Donna Reed Show 1958 tv hair.
Cultivating real mommies is trickier than drawing mommy hair. Those thoughts will be in a future blog. Best wishes this Mother's Day weekend to all mommies and gardeners!
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
Growing blooming mommies can be done easily in most home gardens with the proper cultivation techniques. The preschool students love the idea of a blooming mommy with flowers growing out of her head. Today they each made a portrait of their own blooming mommy on the seed packets for our special Mommy Seeds.
The Mother's Day projects are nearing completion. Like the Little Red Hen, the preschoolers grew the plants last summer, collected the seeds last fall, saved the plastic applesauce containers from their lunches this winter, drilled holes in the containers this spring, then filled them with potting soil, planted the seeds for the flowers, and marked the flowers with plant stakes. The Mommy Seed packets are the Mother's Day cards to accompany the gift of flowers.
The children are learning about cultivation, which they define as "taking care of the things we plant". At the same time, the children are being cultivated.
I've spread out my old American Heritage Dictionary, turned to cultivate and cultivation. Preschool is all about forming, refining, educating, fostering, and nurturing. To educate, we improve and prepare, plow and fertilize, tend and till.
Cultivation can also mean "socialization through training and education to develop one's mind or manners". Preschool is a never-ending battle for acculturation, which is "the adoption of the behavior patterns and norms of the surrounding culture". We aren't talking about diversity and multicultural awareness here. That is the territory of my eldest son working with university students. We are talking about not picking noses in public, and remembering to flush the toilet, the behavioral norms of the surrounding population of human beings! It's often a harrowing experience.
Till means to prepare for the raising of crops by plowing, harrowing, and fertilizing. It means to work at, to labor. It is definitely hard work to get preschoolers to stop picking their noses and start flushing the toilet. The word "till" seems to carry the frustrations of hundreds of generations of farmers on its back.
My young sons each went through a John Deere phase of fascination with farm implements. As a MOBO, I excelled in the choo-choo railroad fascination phase, and performed bravely in the truck stop big rig phase. I could identify every Matchbox car pulled from the three-gallon tub by year, model, and color. I really knew my hook-and-ladder trucks in the firefighter stage. I was damn tolerant in the military vehicle phase, if I do say so myself, waiting out G.I. Joe. I was never very good at farm implements, aircraft ID, or motorcycles, though. If I crammed for the test I could pass, but I never retained the information!
Harrowing experiences sometimes require using a plunger instead of a farm implement. A harrow is used to break and level plowed ground. It's a farm implement with heavy disks and teeth. To harrow is to inflict great distress or torment on the mind. Or perhaps on the foot. My mom used to receive an annual Christmas letter from an old high school chum. The best year the letter recounted the farmer dropping a sharp harrow upon his foot, but having to pull the harrow teeth out of the punctured foot so he could drive himself to the regional hospital because his wife couldn't shift gears on the manual transmission pick-up truck.
Sometimes on the commute home from work I chant, "It was a tough day, but at least I didn't drop the harrow on my foot." Being a mommy is a tough job, too. There were a lot of days when I felt I'd dropped the harrow on my foot as a parent. The most difficult years were those when I felt unable to shift gears.
Fortunately, there were many more days when I felt like flowers were blooming out of my head!
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
I think this part of the Chihuly exhibit would have been my mother's favorite. It reminded me of her red Dansk cookware and serving pieces. Chihuly calls it the Orange Basket Forest, but the orange is very close to red.
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
Fabulous convention of redheads at the Dallas Arboretum Monday morning, and not just the full range of red tulips lining the walks. Everywhere I looked, cute young mommies and proud grandfathers were taking photos of darling redheaded children all clean, combed, and polished in their best spring outfits. Usually the Arboretum is headquarters for bridal photography, but I did not see a single wedding gown. I don't know how I got in, as the park seemed magically and unofficially reserved for the redheads. The man directing parking did ask me why I hadn't brought my grandkids, which isn't very nice to say to a youngster like myself.
If I'd know about the convention, I could have brought my Midge doll with the red flip hairdo. I'm glad to report the children were dressed in light greens, whites, seersuckers, stripes, oxford shirts, khakis, dress shorts, twirly Easter dresses, and no magenta. These mommies clearly understood Midge's first rule for redhead attire--don't wear pink.
Just finished adding labels for my blog posts of late 2004. Crying. Stingy eyes. My chest hurts reliving my heart being sucked out with an industrial vacuum. There are no labels for knowing your mother is dying, for knowing you can't prevent it, for feeling that pull on your heart, for trying to send your dad enough energy over the phone to get through the next day, for wanting to grab doctors by their ears and yell in their professional emotionally-detached faces. There's no way to categorize veins that can't handle yet another attempt to start an IV. There's no way to make the pain go away. It doesn't surface as often now, but the ache is the same. I look at my posts and realize I was trying to send whatever positive energy I had out to the universe to envelope Fritzi and strengthen my dad while keeping my head from spinning way off my neck.
While I was in Nebraska helping my dad move home from the hospital, I wondered often what Fritzi would want me to do. I wanted to grab Dad by the ears and yell in his face that I can't blog my way through this again. It feels like prickles and electric shocks all through my veins. I am as dry and brittle as the rice cakes I serve my students for morning snack. Rice cakes spread with wet concrete.
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
Brought up the rear on the elementary class daily nature walk. I'm subbing in the classroom this week, and enjoying it very much. Our walk is along a little creek behind some dental offices. The children have been taking this walk after lunch for about a month, but this was my first time.
Most of the kids want to see how much dirt they can churn as they walk, or how far they can yank the arm of their nature buddy system partner, of course. Some want to call out descriptions of each piece of litter they see. Most want to find the ducks they've seen before, and feed them, but they are too loud. A few do a great job spotting birds, including some mourning doves camouflaged against the dirt bank of the creek. Some of them are already hooked. They are the ones trying to point out the robin on the branch, or scanning the tree where they saw the woodpecker last time for the slightest movement.
Contemplating a job change last fall, I thought I was done with teaching and good riddance. Teaching had never been my career plan. Funny, though, I find myself wanting to share with these little nature-walkers the joy of noticing the color of the brackish olive creek water, the soggy silver quality of the spring sky filled with windblown seeds. I want them to question why they draw that darn yellow smiling sun in the corner of their paper. Look around! Look up! Where is the corner of the sky? Where is that yellow sun?
Bird-watching is one of my most powerful connections to my mother. What wonderful hours we spent pouring over the pages in the field guide, studying details of color, markings, movement, song. Sometimes these discussions were on the phone long distance, each of us turning the pages in our own bird book. I can't help it. I'm wondering how the school could combine its Grandparents Day observance with a day of bird observation. Like learning to sit quietly with a bamboo pole and a red/white fishing bobber, watching for birds is best learned from someone older, more patient and experienced, very loving, but mildly disapproving.
My walking partner keeps his eyes on his shoes. When other children try to show him the robin, his attitude is all, "yeh, yeh, I got it, okay."
"What was that bird?," I ask him.
"Hummingbird," he says.
"Hmmm. What color was it?"
"Kinda black."
"Hmmm. Anything special about its tummy?"
"Kinda grayish. Mockingbird." His eyes never leave the dirt cloud stirred up by his shoes.
I am engaged. I can't help it. I want to teach him that the impact of observing nature is far more exciting than observing his impact on nature. I want him to hear the poetry in the names of mourning cloak butterflies, Queen Anne's lace, of cedar waxwings, and painted buntings. I want him to discover that a great blue heron standing in shallow water looks ever so much like a skinny, elderly uncle dressed for an evening at the symphony.
http://birdsofsanibel.free.fr/new_page_4.htm
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
Wizard camp is in full gear. We were horsing around pretending to do trick shots with magic wands, shades of our Annie Oakley Wild West camp sneaking back in.
Don't try this at home! We were wand-zapping behind our backs. "You wouldn't want to accidently turn your mother into a frog," I said. A preschooler piped up, "Maybe you could turn her into a crab!"
Forget the magic wand! I'm sure every kid in this camp has the power to change Mom into a crab any day of the week.
Any afternoon we arrived home from Eastridge Elementary School and found my mother vacuuming or cleaning my brother's room, we knew she would have been magically turned into a crab. On such occasions, it is good to retreat into your wizard cave. Maybe practice those most excellent magic words--Please, Thank you, and I'm sorry!
"Ernestine, we have a problem."
My oldest called me last night to let me know he was reading my email updates about his grandfather in the hospital. He told me I had obviously flipped the switch and gone into my heavy duty Mission Control mode.
I'm a mom. I've been in Mission Control training most of my adult life. I've got badges for Time Coordinator, Planning Specialist, Logistics Engineer, Communications Hub Advanced Training, Terrain Tech, and Encoding/Decoding Operations, although not for Weightlessness Counseling. If I could just get my hands on one of those Mars Rovers, there'd be no problem programming it to sift through the debris on my youngest's bedroom floor in search of evidence of life.
My sister and I could team up to out-FEMA any Bush appointee on crisis and disaster relief. Homeland insecurity? Put the wagons in a circle! When we got word that Dad had fallen and broken his femur, we were instantly marshalling forces from all across the country's time zones, setting up communication chains, and procuring emergency transportation. She was in charge of children, pets, and paratroopers. I was in charge of MREs--Maybe Recognizable Edibles, fact-checking, and press releases. Thank heaven none of this was necessary, but we could have had banks of porta-potties set up outside any sports arena in this country AND ensured that each one would have both Northern Quilted toilet paper and a Purel dispenser.
My dad's mother worked as the night telephone company operator in a small, northeastern Nebraska town in the middle of the twentieth century. I felt Halma's presence as I did what I could long distance for her son. She might have been surprised at the technology, but not at the motivation.
I used to be phone-a-phobic, and I'm still phone-adverse most of the time. When it really matters, though, I can talk on my cellphone, check messages on the home phone, type lower case emails, and wear my Skype headphones all at the same time!
It was good to hear about my oldest's progress at his new full-time position. He turns twenty-four this week. He seemed a little down about it. Every phase of his life until now had a specific time allotted; seven years of elementary school, three years of middle school, two years of high school, two years of senior high, four years of undergraduate, two years of grad school. Now a very long road stretches before him of grown-up full-time responsibility; over forty hours a week for over forty years. He has crossed the line into the middle stage of life, where we are citizens, members, parents, and worker bees, subscribing to the governing rules for family, job, community, and nation.
At almost exactly his age, I hit an emotional speed bump. I was sitting at a table at an outdoor wedding reception when I suddenly realized I was "grown-up", but that the status did not have any of the wisdom or privileges I'd always assumed. It was like searching for nonexistent answers in the back of the math book. Shouldn't at least the odd-numbered questions have the answers?
Though the thresholds aren't as clearly demarcated, "grown-up" adulthood gradually shifts into wonderful mature stages of learning, loving, being internally governed instead of externally controlled, becoming traveling minstrels, sages, crones, and fools. Yes, Ernestine, I have reached the party. The answers still aren't in the back of the book, but I can choose my own questions.
Happy birthday, son.
A large mass of low energy is being pushed out of a fatigue trough by a stabilizing front of powerful antibiotics. This sudden change in atmospheric pressure could produce volatible weather for persons south of a line known as Park Boulevard, and west of a line known as Custer Road, due to rapidly increasing frustration with status quo unaccompanied by disipating breezes and measurable precipitation. Particularly at risk during this storm event are male persons between the ages of eighteen and twenty with pack rat tendencies and low interior aesthetic motivation, not to mention sweaty baseball caps. Said persons are instructed by the National Mother Service to move to higher ground, turn down the bass, and clean up their acts. This large mass could become a Category Three at any moment. Stay tuned to Mother Watch Radar for new developments. In the event of an emergency, you may be advised to move quickly to a trailer court.
The motto of the United States Army Infantry is also the title of Bruce Wood's ballet about the service, sacrifice, interdependence, and brotherhood of infantry soldiers performed Wednesday evening at Bass Performance Hall by his Bruce Wood Dance Company. In just eighteen minutes of dance, I received a transfusion of understanding about my father's long reluctance to talk about his WWII experiences, the life of friends' sons and son's friends currently serving in the armed forces, and even the army play of my young sons.
Wood is a Fort Worth choreographer of great originality and very professional production standards. The dance's physical power, intense repressed emotion, and symbolism are still with me. I wonder if Mr. Wood created an eighteen minute dance because so many army recruits are just eighteen years old.
Mr. Wood and I are about the same age--Sixties kids too young to have been in Viet Nam but too old not to have been impacted by it. At or about age fifty, we are both grieving over the deceased hope that our generation would bring about peace, justice, and tolerance in the world.
There were many children in the audience, and they were all enthralled and marvelously well-behaved. A nice couple with two fifth-grade boys were seated ahead of me. The boys had an animated discussion after the first piece on the program, the world premiere of Wood's "Dust, Texas," mainly about the small, quirky movements of the barn dance section, the actions that resembled windmills and farm machinery, and the athletic feats of the dancers.
After "Follow Me" I asked what the fifth-graders what they thought about it. They informed me that the ballet was set to music from "Band of Brothers". They told me they really liked WWII history, but they had some trouble finding the word they wanted to describe "Follow Me". The father helped them by suggesting "solemn". The boys reminded me so much of my own sons at that age. We chatted a bit more about how to build a theater like the beautiful Bass Hall out of Legos, then laughed at the idea of little Lego people as ballet dancers.
I really regret not taking my sons to modern dance or ballet performances! We try so hard as parents to expose our children to all the fabulous opportunities. Those efforts are not wasted. Every outing or event opens a window for new ideas and appreciation. We all need the arts. They are carefully planted seeds, crisp spring breezes and cooling summer rains for our brains.
Before the final work on the program the young family had to weigh whether to stay up late just this one evening. So many students seem to not get enough sleep on a regular basis. I really respected the couple's concern that the boys be well-rested for school the next morning, but I did hope they would stay for Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue." I just knew Bruce Wood's choreography of that favorite would be fabulous. I was wishing that my mother could have been with me, and also my sister and niece. Fritzi would have loved the dancers in their blue satin, and the playful leap-frogging to Gershwin's rhythms. And I would have cried if the fifth-graders had missed the literally glittery finale and final slide through the sparkles.
The story of Wood's "Follow Me" commission and the creative process it involved is intriguing reading. There are also some photos of the dance on the web at http://www.popphoto.com/idealbb/view.asp?topicID=47834. For additional fun, watch the video clips.
Saw this velvet shawl in a little shop, and it seemed to know I'd been in Nebraska recently. The sale tag said I could have it and not feel guilty.
The jewel-like blues and golds immediately brought Lincoln's First Plymouth Church and Sunken Garden to mind. The purple and red recalled Omaha's art deco Joslyn Art Museum, and the lovely afternoon spent there with my dad.
The shawl shimmered with the color of the Joslyn's Georgia pink marble. The original building was built in 1931. Foster and Partners designed the 1994 addition, and I was pleased with the way the two sections worked together. Foster and Partners designed the Witherspoon Opera House being built in the Dallas performing arts district.
The shawl's colors reminded me of the large sculptures by Dale Chihuly on display at either end of the Joslyn atrium. Dad and I had lunch in the atrium cafe under "Glowing Gemstone Polyvitro Chandelier," the Chihuly sculpture of blown plastic recently given by Suzanne and Walter Scott. 
It would have been fun to share my bargain find with Mom. Her arrangement of thread spools shows her love of color and order. 
This photo is a small section of the new pavillion dome at the Lincoln Sunken Garden. The garden was constructed during the Depression, and is listed as one of the “300 Best Gardens to Visit in the U.S. and Canada” in the National Geographic Guide to American’s Public Gardens. I was thrilled to see that recent renovations has not changed the feel of the garden.
The dome itself is truly of this time. It is constructed out of powder coated steel. Each of the 128 panels is custom designed and laser cut here in Lincoln. The images range from local architectural landmarks like First Plymouth and the Capitol building to a rising and setting sun, geese flying south and a crop duster. --Architect Jeff Chadwick
I will wear my new shawl to the opera next week. It's a very fine souvenir for a wonderful Nebraska visit.
Dear Mr. Selig,
Opened the newspaper this morning, and saw that another MLB pitcher, Kenny Rogers of the Rangers, injured himself punching out a water cooler. Rogers will miss at least one start with a broken bone at the base of his pinky on his non-pitching hand. If I were signing his paycheck, I'd be pretty disgruntled, but I wouldn't take it out on an inanimate object. That is why I have a suggestion for you that might solve several problems you are facing in Major League Baseball.
Bud, if I may call you Bud, you need Designated Dugout Moms. It worked in Edmond, Oklahoma t-ball, and it could work for you. Back in Edmond we took turns in the dugout, because we also had to be Designated Baby Watchers and Designated Toddler Chasers. We had to contribute to the cheers of "Be a hitter, MAN", "Way to watch'em", and "Good eye, good eye!" Still, the Designated Dugout Moms made a significant improvement in the baseball experience for all parties.
Bud, face it. Baseball just has an awful lot of waiting around. Players in the outfield can generally amuse themselves safely by stomping on bugs, watching passing trains or planes, rearranging their underwear, or picking dandelions. They are spread out so they can't put the bugs or dandelions down other players' underwear. Probably it was a mom who decided that one player was enough each for right field, center field, and left field no matter how unlikely it was that any of them could catch or throw a ball from way out there. Probably it was the same mom who invented minivans with three rows of seats. Bud, that's just the kind of creative problem solving MLB needs.
Players in the dugout are a much more challenging Mom Management issue. You've seen those stories about how caged animals behave more aggressively with increased population density, right? When you put a whole team of kids in a dugout without a DDM, someone is bound to get hurt. Players climb the chain link, get their arms stuck and broken (I won't name names, but it wasn't one of mine!), they pick up broken glass and sharp cans left by previous unsupervised players. They stuff dirt and grass down each others' shirts which leads to poking eyes and bickering. They drink from each other's squeeze bottles and get cooties. They trip over the catcher's gear, swing bats around, swipe each others' gloves, and throw caps over the fence. They eat chocolate, which is a really dumb thing to do when you have to run in 95 degree, 60 % humidity weather. They taunt each other, and cry. They become convinced the other players are getting more turns to bat, and they put stupid things in their mouths.
Designated Dugout Moms don't tolerate this stuff. They make players watch the game just in case they could learn something. They tie shoes, and not together. They get the catcher in and out of that ridiculous lobster costume, and put helmets on the upcoming batters to speed up the game. I'm sure it was a DDM who first taught players how to make rally caps and shell peanuts so they would keep their hands to themselves. Moms say, "We don't do that here", "spit that out RIGHT NOW", "I don't think you really need a band-aid", "let's put a little ice on it for a minute", and "respect your teammates". They recognize the dance when a player needs to race to the outhouse before the next inning. Most importantly, DDMs do not allow tantrums, because they don't want all the younger siblings to get the idea you can behave badly just because you struck out.
The history of baseball tantrums resulting in injuries is long, and reinforces the old stereotype of the dumb jock, and the new stereotype of the professional athlete as hoodlum. A Designated Dugout Mom would be quick to tell the water cooler-punching player, "If you're going to act like that, no mom will ever invite you to a birthday party or over to play at her house." Dave George had a few thoughts on the matter,Cox News Service Friday, May 13, 2005 :
"Everybody has a boiling point and I think it's about time I vented," said [former Baltimore manager Ray] Miller, who addressed the media later with a bag of ice on his hand to reduce the swelling from punching the wall. "I think I've done all that's been asked of me as far as promoting the team. I think I'm entitled to snap every once in a while."
Words to live by, as long as you wear a baseball uniform to work and not a postal worker's.
Marlins pitcher Brian Moehler believes in another piece of timeless wisdom. "My mom always told me," he said, "if you're going to start a tantrum go up where they can't see you."
Bud, I've sure enjoyed this chat. I hope you will put my suggestion of Major League Designated Dugout Moms into effect immediately. If not, I sure hope the next commissioner is somebody's mother.
An important part of my life is coming to a close. I have loved being a soccer mom, and a sometime t-ball/baseball mom since the final year of the Reagan administration!
When I explained to my students and their parents that I would be rushing out of class right at six p.m. to make it to the last regular season game of the PYSA Recreational Soccer Under-19 League, they asked if I would cry on this occasion. They were kidding around, but I seriously answered that it was entirely possible.
Turned out I didn't get to cry. The game was close and well-played. Our team advanced to the playoffs. At least one more game for my career!
Plan ahead for May seventh, Soccer Mom Appreciation Game Day, aka the day before Mother's Day:
1. Save one small water bottle for each member of your young team. Cut the bottles off 3" from the bottom to make a tiny flower pot.
2. Put a jiffy pot in the water bottle "pot", and moisten according to instructions.
3. Have your little team members plant seeds in the "pots" for marigolds or sunflowers--something that sprouts fast.
4. Get some plastic straws, coffee stirrers, or skewers.
5. Use the coffee stirrer as a florist-style plant spike. Staple a little sign on the spike that says something like,
"Thank you for tying my soccer shoes, cheering for me, bringing the orange slices, and kissing my boo-boos. Thank you for being my very own wonderful Soccer Mom. Love, _______ XOXOX".
6. Tie a sports shoelace around the flower pot.
7. Have the kids make an arch for the moms to run through! (Do not dump cold Gatorade on moms.)
8. Present the flowers to the moms, and give them sweaty, muddy hugs.
an oblergver. I try to watch life as well as live it, but sometimes I can't even talk straight. That's not the same as my mom with her occasional slurred speech and confusion and CAT scans.
I am going to create a new blog with the record of her struggles, and maybe, finally, her recovery. I'll fictionalize it a tidbit to avoid the wrath of the health care system.
Being old is the toughest job description out there, and we are nearly all going to be hired.
Today's newspaper had an item about a pseudo-travel guide called Molvania: A Land Untouched by Modern Dentistry, that is either very funny or not depending who's reviewing it. I have been doing my own on-line travel investigation of beautiful Rochester, Minnesota. My parents arrived there today by transport ambulance to spend time touring the hallways of the St. Mary's Hospital part of Mayo Clinic. This is not funny, by any review, but it is a relief that the Mayo staff is on the case trying to find the answers to her persistent intestinal questions. As a long-time Prairie Home Companion listener, I can't help imagining her Minnesota gastroenterologist as Dr. Noir, G-I Guy.
As a library junkie, I couldn't help clicking on the library link of the St. Mary's website. I will ask my dad to stroll to the library sometime to see the stained glass window. While Dr. Noir is performing tests of a gastroish sort on my mom, my dad is going to need some stress relief and exercise.
The magical fruit is the one that can help get my mom back on track, or tract. I have great faith in bananas even though I am personally allergic to them. They are the very best things for babies and grownups with upset innards. They are also the thing to eat if you want to weigh enough to get into the Army.
My dad ate a bunch of them before he went for his Army physical. He was very cute and skinny in those days. He was the age my own sons are now, so I worry a lot about our Rummy's No Exit adventure in Iraq.
This is how to make gluten-free smoothies:
Place one peeled banana in the blender. Add 4 oz. or more of plain yogurt. Add 1 T powdered milk for extra protein. Add 4+ oz. milk or juice. Throw in frozen fruit--5 strawberries or 8 peach slices or 20 raspberries (any combo). You can also throw in one peeled kiwi, or 1/2 peeled orange, 1 ring of pineapple, 1 fresh mango, or just about anything fruititious. Make sure you added the milk or juice.
Start with the low speeds on the blender, then slowly accelerate through all the speeds. Baby, you were born to be wild! Eat it with a spoon or sip through a straw. Freeze the extra for a home-style sherbet.
Yes, free! No prescription needed! Just close your eyes:
My mom is in the hospital, and she is getting better, I'm thrilled to report. The amount of fluids she is receiving through her IV has been halved now that she is eating and drinking liquids. She is still receiving fat through the IV, though. We all realize that we need some fat in our diet for our bodies to function. Looking at a clear bag of the ugly stuff hanging from the IV stand and dripping into you is a real turn-off, though.
I haven't been able to blog much this week, and I feel weird. Blogging's like an exercise routine. When I miss for too long I feel grumpy right down to my toenails.
My mom has been in the hospital back home since Sunday. She had been through a prolonged spell of nausea, and was dehydrated and weak. My dad was exhausted from taking care of her. Things are getting better now. Mom is rehydrated and able to eat some soup, although still on an IV, and is pleased with the care she is getting. The therapist has her up walking now. Dad is rested, but worried, naturally. He's able to get more information from the doctors now, and the doctors are starting to figure out what has caused this problem. We are all relieved that the diagnosis isn't as scarry as it might have been.
So I spent my week on the telephone getting updates, feeding my questions to Dad, and disseminating information to other friends and relatives. By the time I sat down to watch a bit of the video of Bizet's "Carmen" I would conk out in the chair.
Why "Carmen"? That will be a different blog.
Why is it when we are stressed our tolerance for little stuff goes down? All week my disgust with my shower caulk has escalated. So I spent my Friday off in a crazed mode hacking and pulling out the old caulk, getting stains off the tile grout, and going to the hardware store. I can't change the situation for my parents, but, by golly, I can change the appearance of my bathtub!
Mike drove home from college, and did the actual caulk application. His hands are steadier and stronger, and he can even read the tiny print instructions on the caulk tube. We talked about his plans to change his major. He told me after he graduates and gets a job, he will help me repair and improve the condo so I can sell it and move wherever I want. I used to think I would live here forever, but I have days when I want to live in an urban loft or a small older home like my Grandma's. Anyway, Mike is a great kid, and he gave me a much-needed boost. I'm so glad he came back for a visit.
My shower looked fantastic this morning, even if I couldn't shower in it. I trudged upstairs to the teen bathroom to shower. Next thing I knew, I was tearing out the gross caulk in that shower, and running back to the hardware store.
Now the day is winding down, and I even have new caulk in the kitchen, and around the lavatory. A little part of my life is clean and orderly, and my effort will be visible for awhile. It's time to call Dad for today's update.
I'm so darn proud of my mom! She called up the Lincoln Journal Star and gave them holy hell for refusing to print last Friday's Doonesbury strip. I wish I had been there in the dining room near the rotary dial phone for that moment. I would give her an atta-girl.
