Mommies Would Write

Sometimes I don’t know which is worse—being forced out of bed to take care of a screaming Livia at 4:00 a.m. and then having several hours of time for reading and writing, or being allowed to sleep until 7:00 a.m. and having no time for my hobbies. Of course, sometimes I can say for sure which is worse. Those are the days when I’m so sleep-deprived that almost everything ticks me off, and though I have time to write, my mental capacity is so low that the words probably don’t even make sense.

This morning Livia woke me at 6:45. Not bad. Marshall got up shortly after that. Now that I’m just about done with all the diapering, dressing, feeding, and cleaning, it is just about time to wake up my husband so that I can go to work. No time for my activities. After a week of getting near-normal quantities of sleep, I’m feeling pretty good, and so those days of absolute exhaustion seem like ancient history. They have an almost romantic quality in my poor, damaged memory. “Ah,” I think to myself. “Those were the days!”

Whichever situation is worse, they’re both bad. It just isn’t fair. I shouldn’t have to sacrifice sleep in order to have time for my hobbies. But, as the old saying goes, “If wishes were nannies, mommies would write.”

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Hmph

“It is true that America is the country of progress,” agreed Poirot. There is much that I admire about Americans. Only—I am perhaps old-fashioned—but me, I find the American woman less charming than my own country-women. The French or Belgian girl, coquettish, charming—I think there is no one to touch her.”

from Murder on the Orient Express

Well, even Poirot couldn’t be right all the time.

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Mixed-Up Memories

“But you know, my dear,” said Poirot gently, “people are never like what you remember them. You make them, as the years go by, more and more the way you wish them to be, and as you think you remember them. If you want to remember them as agreeable and gay and handsome, you make them far more so than they actually were.”

from Third Girl

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Cats and Kisses

Dear Livia,

At nine and a half months old, you were able to say “mama” and “dada” pretty well, but no amount of coaxing would get you to say “mama” to me. So imagine my surprise when I pointed to the cat and told you what it was and you said, “Cat!” And then you did it again and again. I could hardly believe it. Your father could hardly believe it either. You had to demonstrate it for him several times before he would admit that you really could say “cat” and, what’s more, that you seemed to understand the meaning.

Now, a couple of weeks later, you’ve given it up. When I ask you to say “cat,” you just make a guttural “kkhhhhh” sound. That’s fine. No pressure. But you still obviously know what it means, because this morning I told you to say it, and you walked over to the gate and stared at the cat in the kitchen. Then, when Marshall and I pointed to it, you pointed to it, too. It’s amazing that you even realize what pointing means.

I’m a doting parent, so of course I think this behavior means you’re smart. But then again, if you were really smart you’d be saying “mama” to me, right? There’s not much point in kissing up to the cats, after all, but it can’t hurt to be on mommy’s good side. 😉

Speaking of kissing, you’ve learned how to air kiss. Sometimes, when you want attention, you send a few little smooches my way. I air kiss you back, and then you smile, happy and reassured of your position at the center of the universe.

Mwah! You are so adorable!

Love,

Mom

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I Just Can’t Help Myself

OK, I know I said I wasn’t going to do regular book reviews, but it really bothers me to grade a book without saying why I gave it that grade. So, I’m going to do a brief round-up of the unreviewed books on my Books Read in 2011 page.

  • Death in the Air by Agatha Christie, B+
    A notorious moneylender is murdered on a plane. Everyone on board is a suspect, and only Hercule Poirot (asleep at the time of the murder!) can solve the case. I read this so long ago that I don’t remember why I gave it a B+.  I only remember that I didn’t enjoy it quite as much as some of the other Poirot mysteries.
  • Heck: Where the Bad Kids Go by Dale E. Basye, B
    This was an amusing story about a goody-goody boy and his troublemaker sister. They die and go to Heck which, as the title explains, is where the bad kids go, because even a bad kid doesn’t deserve to go to Hell quite yet, right? But Heck is darned miserable, too, and if there’s any chance that the kids can escape, they will. This book is clever, fast-paced, and humorous, but it’s not the least bit believable, so you never “fall into” the story and forget you’re reading.
  • Hercule Poirot’s Casebook by Agatha Christie, A+
    I had already read at least half of the stories in this book, so I didn’t read the whole thing. I enjoyed the “new to me” stories. Some were short, some long. Some were great, others mediocre. The selling point of this book is that you get all of the Poirot stories in one place. This is a book I’d like to own someday.
  • A Holiday for Murder by Agatha Christie, B+
    This book is made especially amusing by Poirot’s explanation of how murder is actually more likely at Christmas (the so-called “time for good cheer”) than other times of year. In this story, a family patriarch requests that all of his estranged family members get together for Christmas, but he doesn’t have exactly a pleasant family reunion in mind. He’s so mean that it’s no surprise when someone kills him. Hercule Poirot is fortunately nearby for the holiday, and he takes up the case. It’s another perfectly acceptable mystery, but not particularly memorable.
  • Mr. Summer’s Story by Patrick Suskind, A-
    When my husband found out that I was reading this book, he said, “You’ll have to blog about this so you can tell how you read the whole thing on the pot.” It’s true. The book belongs to my husband and he left it in the bathroom. I picked it up because it was there, and it was good enough to pick it up the next time I was there, and the next, and the next. It’s a story told by a nameless narrator, recounting the period of his life when a local character, Mr. Summer, had a profound effect on him. The book is charming, nostalgic, and beautifully illustrated by Sempé. The descriptions of the narrator’s childhood piano lessons are absolutely priceless. My only complaint about the book is that you’re never told the whole story about Mr. Summer. I think there should have been just a little bit more of a revelation at the end, hence the minus attached to the “A” grade.
  • Princess Academy by Shannon Hale, B
    This is the story of a girl from a mining village who, along with the other teenage girls in the village, is forced to attend the Princess Academy. There the girls will be taught everything they need to know to be a princess, and at the end of their studies, one of them will be chosen to marry the prince. Honestly, I didn’t particularly like this book. All of the girls except one were so obviously unsuited to be princesses, and the main character was so obviously not headed in that direction. In other words, there was no suspense. Also, most of the events struck me as being extremely unlikely. The very premise is sort of absurd, really. Royalty is almost always snobbish. Can you imagine a prince allowing himself to be wed to a mining girl whose family kept their goats in the house at night for the added warmth? If he had fallen in love with her before he knew that, maybe. But I doubt he’d be interested in falling in love if he knew it in advance. He’d probably just look down on her and all of the other girls. And though the Academy teacher complains that the girls all smell like goats, there is never the obligatory bath scene! Not a single mention of baths! The focus of the story is on the girls’ education, not their appearance. That is so PC but hardly realistic. A princess needs to look (and smell) good, but it isn’t until near the end of the story that the girls finally try on some fancy dresses and get their hair done! So my final verdict is that it’s well-written but utterly unbelievable.
  • Sad Cypress by Agatha Christie, A-
    I read this one too long ago to remember why I gave it an A-. It is, as I recall, about a young woman who inherited a home from her aunt. When her aunt’s death turns out to have been a murder, the woman naturally becomes a suspect. Then, when the woman’s rival in love is also murdered, she’s in big trouble, because she so obviously had motives for both murders. Though all signs point to her, Hercule Poirot never takes anything for granted, and he will not rest until he uncovers the whole truth.
  • The Wolves of Willoughby Chase by Joan Aiken, B+
    I so wanted to love this book. It is #58 on the Top 100 Children’s Books list. That should have made it nearly a shoo-in. But I was quickly turned off by some bad exposition near the beginning of the book, and the action soon departed from Willoughby Chase, which was by far the most interesting setting in the book. If I had read this book when I was a child, the plight of the two main characters might have resonated with me. It is harder to love certain books when you’re an adult. Anyway, by virtue of being mostly well-written, I give it a B+ grade, but I cannot give it my love.
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Watch Your Mouth!

Said Poirot,

In conversation, points arise! If a human being converses much, it is impossible for him to avoid the truth!

from A Holiday for Murder

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Picking Favorites

It seems like most people have a favorite this and a favorite that. I don’t. I have a hard time making decisions on even on the most inconsequential subjects. So today, as an exercise in decision-making, I’m going to try to pick some favorites. It will be interesting to see how I feel about them after a week, a month, a year. Will they feel all wrong, or will I finally be able to say that I have a favorite something?

  • Color: Green. People who know me might say, “But hasn’t green always been your favorite?” Once upon a time it was purple, actually. In recent years I have gone back and forth between blue and green. I’m going to take a stand now, though, and go with green.
  • Month: September. Of course!
  • TV show: Stargate SG-1
  • Band: Coldplay. How mainstream! I know. Once upon a time, I might have said Metallica was my favorite band. That was long before they hit the mainstream. There’s nothing inherently wrong with being mainstream, though. Metallica and Coldplay got there by being very good. I just hope that Coldplay continues to be good (reviews of their recent album make me wonder…). Metallica stopped being good, oh, some time between 1991 (“The Black Album”) and 1996 (Load), and, as far as I know, they haven’t looked back. Shame.
  • Ice-cream flavor: mint chocolate chip. I’ve been thinking about this one for weeks. It’s actually what got me on the subject of “picking favorites.” I realized that I didn’t have a favorite ice-cream flavor, and I thought to myself, “Doesn’t everyone have a favorite? And shouldn’t they? I mean, if I were about to die and someone offered me my pick of ice-cream flavors, and it would be the last thing I tasted before dying, which would I choose?” So I decided on mint chocolate chip, but I hope to eat many more bowls of ice cream before I die. For the record, I am also quite fond of black raspberry, cookie dough, and Cherry Garcia.
  • Book: Oh, this question is cruel. I love so many of them! Falling back on that hackneyed idea of the “desert island,” if I were going to be stuck on such an island, and I could only have one book, it would be . . . The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge. I once read it three times back-to-back and did not get bored with it.
  • Movie: Another cruel question. So many to choose from. I’m going with Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. The music, literary allusions, humor, special effects, beloved characters, and Ricardo Montalban’s chest—all combine to make this such a wonderful movie. If I ever got tired of watching it, I could just listen to the music and be happy.
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Good-Bye, October

It was a strange October. I’m not sure I will miss it. I’m going to say why, and then “Good-bye!”

My husband and I had our third wedding anniversary, though we didn’t do anything special to celebrate. We know that skipping the celebration is potentially bad for our relationship, but we also accept that having two children in three years comes with a price, and that price is a lack of time and energy. As the children grow more and more independent, we begin to feel the weight lifting, the tension easing, and time freeing itself up. All of that energy and time is ours to channel any way we want. We are now channeling some of it toward ourselves. We have plans for a date night on Saturday. Already November is shaping up to be a better month.

Since moving to this forested area, I have learned to love Fall not just as a noun, but also as a verb. I used to think of Fall as existing in two states. First it was the changing colors of the leaves on the trees, and then it was the leaves on the ground, but I neglected the distance and time between. Now Fall is also the leaves as they are actively falling, slow and meandering, sometimes almost dancing, to the ground. It has added a whole new dimension to my enjoyment of the season. So far this year, though, there hasn’t been much leaf dancing. So many of the trees are still green!

What has fallen, unfortunately, are large tree limbs, victims of an October nor’easter. These old oaks could not bear the weight of heavy snow on their leaves, and so some of their branches came crashing down. I heard them falling in the night, but I did not know until morning, when I surveyed the damage from my office window, how many there were and how close to our house, or that one had fallen on our car. While there’s now an ugly dent in our car, we didn’t lose power or heat. We were fortunate where so many others were not. The snow has mostly melted away now, but those limbs remain on the ground, a silent reminder of the storm that temporarily transported us to winter, long before we were done with the Fall.

Usually I get a thrill from October. The foliage, the smell of leaves and acorns, and the chilly air—they all smack of change, of an old cycle coming to an end and a new one soon to begin. But the changes of October are usually gentle. We put away the thoughts and accoutrements of summer, and prepare to cozy down in our warm dens for the winter. We do not expect big storms, outside or in.

The falling out that I had with my friend in October was as shocking as the limbs falling from our great oaks. I suppose given that October’s changes are usually of the cyclical kind, I should consider the possibility that the friendship is not over, but rather coming into a new phase. I make no predictions. I only know that I do not have what it takes to forgive her at this moment.

Then came Halloween. I waited until about a week before the holiday so that I could buy costumes for the kids at a good price. I was a little concerned when I saw how small the selection was, but then I spotted a monkey costume, and it was the right size for Marshall. He loves monkeys! Then I saw the giraffe costume, and it was the right size for Livia. What luck! I paid only $17 for a pair of costumes that would originally have cost $66! At least October brought me a good bargain.

The kids’ costumes not only fit, but they were fitting. Every day around here is like a zoo, so it was fun to see our children finally dressed like the wild animals that they really are. Living Halloween through my children, I think I may come to love the holiday again, like I did when I was a kid. I’m not ashamed to live vicariously through my kids. Isn’t that part of why we have them?

Halloween was the last and the best day of October. It is the only day I would do over, just so I could enjoy it some more. As for the rest of the month, I’m glad it’s done.

Good-bye, October. Come back better next year. OK?

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Sad but True

For your Weekly Poirot enjoyment, another conversation between Hastings and Poirot.

“Is it really necessary to tell such elaborate lies, Poirot?” I asked as we walked away.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“If one is going to tell a lie at all—and I notice, by the way, that your nature is very much averse to lying—now, me, it does not trouble me at all—”
“So I’ve noticed,” I interjected.
“—As I was remarking, if one is going to tell a lie at all, it might as well be an artistic lie, a romantic lie, a convincing lie!”

from Poirot Loses a Client

Sorry to keep focusing on the subject of lies, but the concepts of truth and untruth are very much on my mind lately. As I mentioned previously, I had a falling out with a friend. Part of the cause was that she lied to me. I, unlike Poirot, cannot accept lies and lying so nonchalantly. But I agree that an interesting lie is better than an uninteresting one. Perhaps I should add that to my list of grievances against my former friend—“Not only did you lie, but they were boring lies! How dare you be so dull!”

I jest, but seriously, each of us has to decide how much lying we’re going to allow ourselves to do, and in which directions we’re going to take our lies. Then we have to decide how much lying we’re going to accept from others. And while we might hate lying and we might hate being lied to, we should realize that lies are necessary. Lying is, in fact, an essential social skill. People would not get along very well if they were thoroughly, deliberately, unremittingly honest with one another. Sad but true.

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Keep Talking

Dear Marshall,

Soon you’ll be speaking so well that there will be nothing left to say about your speech development, but that time is not yet.

  • I made banana bread a couple of weeks ago. You called it “le na boodan.”
  • Your favorite movie a few weeks ago was The Land Before Time IX: Journey to Big Water. With the help of this movie, we taught you many new words, including “ocean,” “rainbow,” “disosor” (dinosaur), and “Erf” (Earth). And finally you stopped calling fish “crackers.” Now they are “biff.”
  • Your current pronunciation of the word “frog” sounds almost like the F word, and your pronunciation of “basket” sounds almost like another rude word starting with F. It’s strange to hear your innocent little voice say such insulting words, but it’s also kind of funny.
  • You call your daily vitamin a “bem.”
  • You have been using “dcuck-k-k” to mean “bird” for quite a while. But you said “bird” just the other day, so I know you know the word. For the time being, you seem to prefer that really hard-to-pronounce version of “duck,” and so that’s what you keep using.
  • You’ve learned how to say commands like “Go away,” “Stand up,” and “Lie down,” and you’ve been ordering us all around! If your sister is nearby while you’re eating, you say, “Go ‘way, Nia!” over and over again.

Love,

Mom

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