Daddy wil do that

"Don't worry, Mommy. Daddy will wash the dishes tonight."

So spake my firstborn when my wife suggested that he could be a big boy and help her clean up the kitchen the other afternoon. Evidently my reputation for late-night housework marathons is not confined to my co-workers; the children have now caught on as well.

A violet fluid

Breaking out of a years-long hazelnut rut, I just tried -- and loved -- a violet latte at the J&S on Thomas and Hamline. I got a bit of a double-take from the solitary barista when I ordered, leading me to believe that she must not make a lot of that particular permutation, but the delicious result has certainly made me eager to try other flavors going forward, even when the choices are not quite so exotic (I could have also tried lavender).

Budget permitting, of course, I am looking forward to spending some regularly-scheduled time in various coffee shops in the coming months as I work to get my writerly groove back in preparation for my upcoming adventure into an MFA writing workshop beginning in January.As the household/family routines (bedtimes, nutritious evening meals, sufficient sleep for parents, et cetera) gradually fall into place, my creative routines will, I am grateful to report, be next on the list to be acknowledged, accommodated, and encouraged. (My historical preference is to write in bars, but pints still seem to demand a higher price point than espresso drinks. Sad, but true.)

The Plot Against America by Philip Roth

After a much-longer delay than I had hoped for I am finally reading Philip Roth's 2004 novel, a fictional memoir of his imagined childhood as Jew during Charles Lindbergh's presidency, covering roughly the years 1940-1942. I am currently about one hundred pages in, and it is a very compelling narrative so far, richly textured with observational detail, making me eager to find out what turn the story will take next.

I have never read anything by Roth before and I have the impression that this work is somewhat atypical of his writing, not just in terms of subject but in style as well. But I would be inclined to try more Roth in the future if this book continues to be as good as its first three chapters have promised.

"Did God Die?"

I will be honest: I did not really think much at all about when the questions about religious beliefs would begin to come out of my son's mouth — I am not, after all, any good at forethought of any kind — but I am fairly certain that had I given this eventuality the planning it indubitably deserves, I would not have expected it to start at age three. But I should have, because that is when it has.

This morning, as Primus and I were eating our early breakfast, giving Mama and Baby a little extra sleepytime, he looks up at me and asks, very intensely, "Did God die?"

Not really expecting that one, I hemmed a bit, then said, "No, I don't think so."

"Jesus is dying on the cross in the office," was his reply, referring to the large crucifix in the other room, a gift from my parents and grandparents on the occasion of my confirmation and high school graduation.

Oh, that. "Well, yes, Jesus died for us, and Jesus is God. So, I suppose..." Seeming answered, he returned to his oatmeal.

So we (my wife and I) need to do some serious deciding about how exactly we want to approach our tentatively-shared faith with our ever-inquisitive offspring. Neither of us want to cram him full of glib rote catechetical formulae; we want to share from our hearts what the core beliefs of our faith mean to us as earnest believers. And to do that, I am going to have to snap out of my spiritual sloth and get my head around my personal faith, because it will prove singularly difficult to confidently share something with Primus that I am not consciously incorporating into my daily life.

Singin' In The Rain

The Lad loves puddles, and rainy days mean fresh, full puddles that must be splashed in. Today was no exception: even though he is still a ways from getting over a ragged-sounding chest cold I bundled him up and headed out. We were about fifty feet from the building when gave a little skip-hop and started singing at the top of his puerile voice:

"I'm SINGing in the rain
just SINGing in the RAIN
what a GLORious feeling
I'm HAppy again"

Then came the amazing part. He brought his battered blue umbrella down and held it out at arm's length as he began a slow twirl, rotating the umbrella rather gracefully as he trailed the edge through the puddles all around his circumference.

Perhaps he will soon take up dancing as well...

Squidginess: chronic or reversible?

I am not a fit person; I never have been. Oh, I was a slip of a thing in my youth, but scrawn does not really equal fitness. Never quite reaching six feet, I was a wispy 143 pounds when I started college, where I managed to gain sixteen pounds by the end of my first semester, twenty-three pounds by the time we broke for summer. I enjoyed the mandatory Phys Ed course, especially my first experience with weight training. By the end of two months I was able to bench-press 95 pounds (more than half my body weight, mind you), and felt more physically confident than ever before in my young life.

But it was not a routine I was capable of maintaining. I kept sporadically active throughout the rest of college, particularly enjoying intense games of racquetball with a few good friends. Regularly scheduled physical endeavors never lasted for long, however. Why? My explanation is that, growing up a country boy, there was never any need for me to seek out physical activity; the whole day was full of it, from throwing hay bales to milking goats to the mile-long walk to the mailbox and back (seriously). And when I wasn't doing chores around the farm, I was excavating pits in the grove with a shovel or breaking large rocks into hand specimens with a sledgehammer for my collection. Why would I need to exercise? When would I have the time, or the energy?

Unfortunately this was not a mindset I could easily shrug off when my lifestyle changed dramatically to an urban existence. By the time I had graduated and worked in retail for half a decade (including at least a year where my work lunches consisted of two doughnuts and a quart of chocolate milk) my waistline had expanded several inches, and my face was so round that I have difficulty recognizing myself in photos from that period. Then the Boy was born, the fiscal belt for our household was excruciatingly tightened, and to save the money spent on bus fare I began walking the two and a half miles to work each day, and frequently walking back home as well at the end of my shift. Combined with a dramatic reduction in calories (not only where the doughnuts out of the question, but food in general took on something resembling scarcity), this summer of privation was characterized by one colleague as the "Frog Daddy Less Input, More Output Plan", and the pounds literally fell away. On the eve of our son's birth I weighed myself in the hospital at two hundred twelve pounds avoirdupois (or fifteen stone two, for our British readers). By August I was a more familiar one hundred seventy pounds, a drop of more than forty pounds in just seven months without any real effort, just force of circumstance.

Life has eased a great deal, and having learned no real lessons apparently, I have gradually swelled to a more generous girth than I find entirely pleasant or practical. This time, I really want to push myself to actually build up healthy habits of both eating and activity. I am starting with daily push-ups, trying to build up to a solid number of steady, confident reps. I have plans to start stretching extensively twice a day, in addition to my pedestrian commute each day (about three miles round trip). And more vegetables, less meat, nothing fried in my diet. It is a slow, sporadic process, but I have real hope that I can gradually push myself to become, if not a brand new me, at the very least a me I can take out in public again.

Don't love LE

I don't love Louise Erdrich. To say "I love Louise Erdrich" would be a profoundly flippant statement dishonoring the deep respect I have for her writing. Bone satisfied may be more accurate. I have just finished Four Souls and Painted Drum.
Four Souls was a fleshing out of Fleur Pillager from The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse but the sentence that knocked my breath from me with it's power and truth was this [Nanapush speaking of Fleur]:

She should have known that it is wrong to bear a child for any other reason but to surrender your body to life.

Painted Drum took me by surprise because the first character voice we hear was more like a modern novel seemingly devoid of intuition and mystery. The painted drum draws us back to the reservation and the initial character comes back unable to ignore or hide the full dimensions of her life, history, love.

Pushing the swing higher

We are swinging very high these days. It was only at the beginning of this summer that the Boy graduated from the bucket-with-leg-holes that is the playground Baby Swing to to the classic strip of rubber on chains: the Big Kid Swing.

So far no serious mishaps have occurred as I nervously indulge his gleeful demands of "Higher! Higher!" My own admonitions of "Hold on tight!" are only partly acknowledged as he shimmies his hips, lurching the swing about as it hurtles through its sweeping arc.

As nerve-fraying as his excited nonchalance is for me as a parent, as a former child it is impossible not to share in his exhilaration and wonder how long it will be before he is ready for the rigors of leg-pumping and the breath-taking rush of his first underdog.

impossible dream

When I was four my mother took me to a college production of Man of La Mancha. Never imagining I would fully understand the upsetting bits she ended up carrying me from the auditorium bawling. So began (or solidified) my theatrical bent and empathetic support of the underdog. "The Impossible Dream" has been part of my psyche and unconscious mantra ever since. No wonder I cry every time I hear it or get misty when someone mentions Glenn Gould.

I was a little nervous when they announced on the Morning Show (MPR) they would be playing a different take on the song by Ken Boothe. First I heard the Reggae beat, my trepidation increased, I heard the first lines, predictably began tearing, still leery, then thank my stars I wasn't the one driving as I would have had to pull over. As moved as I normally am by the song it was nothing to my pregnant reaction, emotions rallied as never before, to hearing this new version. All who wish me ill now know my kryptonite.

splashing in the pond

Well, I think I have left this blog go sufficiently long enough without an entry. If anyone is still curious, we are, in fact, still alive. Indeed, more of us are alive than ever before. In another month the Three of Us will officially become the Four of Us (although the new one's presence is VERY obvious already). Exciting stuff, and more could obviously be said, and hopefully will be very shortly. But I should start small here, and strive for consistency before I extend myself too far into verbosity.

Sprinkle, really?

I've started reading mysteries again. I spent most of this pregnancy rereading Laura Ingalls Wilder, L.M. Montgomery and introducing myself to Kingsolver, Erdrich, and various pregnancy/parenting topics. But this last month I have once again been craving the comfort of a good mystery. I don't like to be bothered with romance or too much suspense, I just love watching/reading about other people puzzling things out. I have recently broken away from my usual Laurie R. King and Ellis Peters and begun looking for Patricia Sprinkle. Not her Maclaren series, which is too light for me, but her new genealogy series. As my husband says nothing like a bit of history to give the illusion of depth. And while I enjoy some pulp to quiet the neurotic insomniac part of my mind I don't want to feel like I'm actually numbing my brain. So far Death on the Family Tree and Sins of the Fathers have been striking the balance for me.

Fourth

I have fond memories of the Fourth of July as a child: going out to the golf corse, my little brother falling asleep on the same picnic blanket every year and staying up with my mom to watch the fireworks. We weren't just watching fireworks: we were describing our world, trying to devise the perfect name for each one. There were easy ones like popcorn and the slightly more interesting blueberry cobbler and prom dress and my favorites screaming yellow zonkers and fizzing mimis.

It wasn't just fireworks; my mom helped me capture sunsets. When I was older I switched dance studios and my lessons took us from our small town to the next following the sunset. They were all so beautiful I wouldn't want to go inside for my lesson. So the ride there was filled with descriptive phrases my mom would copy down while she waited to drive me home again.

I see now how vital it was for her to keep her hand in writing/describing everything from fireworks to family vacations, but I reaped the benefits of closely observing my world and solidifying each precious moment by our descriptions. At the same time never losing the wonder and awe that I could never encompass or remember it all. Eventually, I saw the value in that lesson, too.