Heptadecagon

Talia's birthday cake Zoe's birthday cake Family photo at the end of January Playdough art by the kids in February More playdough art School art by Aaron Melina at ballet (in the blue stripes) in March Sock hop! Coloring eggs in April Milk mustache in May Fun with friends (I) in June Fun with friends (II) in June Walloon Lake sand building Porch sitting at the cottage at Walloon Lake Melina's July birthday Fun with a new cousin Back to school in August Melina heads back to school in September Aaron in the basement lab in October Climbing a tree (Talia) Hide and seek (Zoe) Aaron's birthday cake on November 1 Sharing Aaron's loot Fun at a local metro park Merry  Christmas! Silly kids This year is dedicated to our dear friend, Ferdinand.  We miss you, buddy! Ferdinand, 1999-2012 Happy New Year to you all!

Talia:  Mom, can, um, can Zoe and I watch TV? Me:  Yes.  Fifteen minutes and only 15 minutes. Talia:  Fifteen minutes? Me:  Yes. Talia:  Fifteen minutes could save you 15% or more on your car insurance. Me:  Obviously, even 15 minutes is too much.

I drive an old Oldsmobile.  It isn't too old, but it is a 2001 model with over 100,000 miles on it.  Actually, when you think about how old it is, I find it remarkable that it has just over 100,000 miles on it and not more.  However, even better than being old and an Oldsmobile is that the car I drive is a MINIVAN.  I have four kids.  It really is no surprise that I drive a such a car.  But put MINIVAN and OLDSMOBILE in the same sentence, and that sentence just screams soccer mom or some other phrase that makes me cringe. Someday, I plan on driving something more sporty, more fun, more in line with what I consider to be my personality.  I haven't looked around, considering I'll be wedded to the MINIVAN for years to come, but yesterday, for 45 seconds, I had a glimpse of the future.  A sleek sedan with heated seats and zero crumbs.  No Trader Joe's stickers on the windows, and I could actually see the floor, which was clean.  The brakes worked well, as did the accelera

This has been a GREAT Christmas already, rife with much emotion. As in... Oh, GREAT !  We don't have to travel anywhere (relief). Oh, GREAT !  Marco's is open and I don't have to cook Christmas Eve dinner before heading out for the children's mass (thankful). The girls look and sound GREAT at mass, singing with the chorus (pride). What do you mean?  Santa came while we were at church?  How GREAT is that?  So very cool, I think (happiness). Hey, Tim, the kids are in bed now.  All of them.  It would be a GREAT time for sharing some Christmas joy, if you know what I mean (insert inappropriate feeling here). It's 5:40 am.  What are you awake for?  Oh.  You threw up?  GREAT , just GREAT (sarcasm, but I probably didn't need to tell you that). Merry Christmas to you all!

Happy Christmas Eve!  The kids are so stoked (yes, that is exactly how I would describe it) that Christmas is finally arriving that I haven't been able to sit and write about my thoughts. And considering we need to leave here by 4 pm this afternoon to hear the girls sing at mass, I won't be doing any writing now, either. So I hope you and your family, if you indeed celebrate Christmas, have a wonderful and very merry day.  And if you don't celebrate it, I hope you have a very peaceful and quiet day.

My semester ended on the 15th.  I gave my finals and took a few days to peruse the dismal grades.  In the end, with the extra credit I gave, the students of both classes managed to squeak out an acceptable grade distribution.   However, as with any semester, there are some students who just aren't happy with their grades, and they want to blame the instructor.  This is the email I received from one young lady. I was under the impression that you were going to curve the grades at the end of the semester? I was only wondering because my grade is so close to a B and was still holding out hope that I could make it to the B. My reply? I repeated ly stated over the course of the semester that I have to wait until the end of the course to see if a curve is needed.  Usually, the grades even themselves out d ue to the ext ra credit that I give .  In some circumstances, I do need to curve.  So far, based on the grades I am seeing, I probably will not have to, but I am still in

In our living room on Thursday morning... "Will I be a ninja?  Will I be a ninja?  Will I be a ninja?" Melina chanted, shaking the Magic 8 Ball.  Someone must have told her to repeat the phrase 3 times.  I looked up to see Melina staring, with a furrowed brow, at the ball. "This isn't doing anything!  Mom, can you help?  What does this say?" "Bring it over here, honey, so I can look."  I was a few steps away, so she made it over in one second.  Melina handed me the Magic 8 ball.  The light was dim, and with the cloud cover and rain yesterday, there was no light coming through the windows.   "Uh, I can't see it.  Hold on a moment.  Let me finish this up and I'll help you." Melina took the ball, headed back to the chair she had just vacated and started shaking the ball again. "Why can't my mom see it?  Why can't my mom see it?  Why can't my mom see it?" she said. I just shook my head and laughed.    

Melina is almost 4.5 years old.  She has been speaking clearly for a very long time, and has known and used the word Hi , since before she was 1 year old. Melina:  Hi! Me: Hi to you, too! Melina:  Mom, what does Hi mean? Me:  Hi ?  You know what that means. Melina:  Well, I don't really think that I do. Me:  Well, it is a greeting.  It is something you say when you see someone.  You know?  As in, Hi, how are you doing ? Melina:  Well, no, I really don't think I know what it means. Me:  ...Um...Okay. I stood in the kitchen and looked at her.  Just looked at her.  I had nothing else to say.  I think sometimes she is teasing me.

Today, my loving husband thought he'd be helpful and send me this message: If you don't feel like shopping the book around to publishing houses, there's always this option: http://www.npr.org/2012/12/19/ 167448748/self-publishing-no- longer-just-a-vanity-project Love, Timmmie The book to which he is referring is my Harvey story, the one I lovingly call Jupiter Girl , because I have not yet come up with a better title.  And no, Tim didn't misspell his name in the closing.  From the get go, he's always put the extra m in there.  I think it was his way of being quirky way back when we were dating.  Perhaps I should have realized he is just weird.  But that is, of course, for another post.   So of course his email intrigued me.  It made me think of what my long term goal is.  Why, pray tell, am I writing this novel?  Good question, don't you think?   I don't have a lot of answers these days, but I do have the answer to that particular questio

The kids are done with school this Friday, December 21st, for two weeks. "Yes!" one of them yelled.  "Vacation!  I can sleep in!"  Knowing that, it had to be one of the girls.  Melina and Aaron especially don't do anything close to sleeping in later than 6:30 am.  "Cool," the other said, an enormous grin breaking out on her face. "Cool for you, anyway," I replied.  The tone of my voice must have alerted the twins to something, for both of their heads jerked my way.  "I don't get a vacation." "You don't?" They both said.  I wanted to say jinx, but I declined. "Nope.  I still need to get up every day and take care of you guys, right?  I might not be teaching, but what job do you think is more difficult?" "Oh.  Yeah.  And daddy doesn't get a vacation, either," Zoe said.  "He only has Christmas Day off." "That's right," I replied.  I thought maybe this con

Didn't that last post just make you wonder?  What could possibly keep me from spouting something?  I mean, I'm the one that talks about everything:  from chin hairs to books to social commentary.  And I'm sure you were asking yourself how I could put you on hold, right?  Admit it, you waited with bated breath.  FRN, I know you did.  Well, read on, but do not judge. The short story is this:  I took a pregnancy test. I usually don't need to take pregnancy tests.  We've had this conversation before, the blog and I, but let me remind you that my cycle is a pretty regular textbook type of 28 days.  Well, it used to be anyway, and once I knew the signs and symptoms of ovulation and all the rest, it was pretty easy to not get pregnant.  Until Melina.  The anomaly.  The one conceived even when there were no signs of ovulation.  The result of a union on day 6 when I never ovulated before day 15 (did I forget to mention that there would be some TMI in this post?)  Our mir

I am suspiciously silent today. Which means this could be the calm before the storm; Before the torrent of a very long post. Then again, It might not. Stay tuned.

I love science, really, I do.  I've loved the subject since I was a kid.  My parents bought me anatomical models to paint.  I owned a Gray's Anatomy Coloring Book.  I possessed a couple of boxes of different kinds of rocks, some of which were polished and bought from a museum, and I always avoided earthworms after a good rain.  I was more interested in looking at the little squirmy things up close when they were whole rather than after they'd been squished.  I don't really know how to explain what fascinates me about science, but something about the study of all these living things has a hold on me. Except for bugs.  I have a slight problem with bugs.  Sure, it is cool that ants can carry so much more than their size.  And, I can appreciate the beauty of a butterfly, a bumblebee, or the praying mantis.  But this?  This link to a lovely little Cereal Leaf beetle in juvenile form?  This sight was so terrifying to me that I asked Tim to shut my account and turn off the c

In the kitchen yesterday: Me:  Oh!  I need to get that dog license! Melina:  For who?  Shadow? Me:  Of course for Shadow. Melina:  Why does he need a license?  Does he need to know how to drive? Episodes like this remind me of why this blog will someday be very important to my kids.

Last week, Zoe and Talia came home from school all in a dither. Z:  Mom!  Some kids got recess taken away. T:  But we didn't, since we were in the art room. Me:  Why?  Why did recess get taken away? Z:  The kids were apparently not behaving. T:  We don't know what they did. The next day, the girls walked in the door with long faces. T: We all got recess taken away. Z: But we didn't do anything wrong.  It's just that the majority of kids are misbehaving. T: And now we have to do spirit classes during recess time. Z:  Yeah, the teachers gave us a list of 33 things we did wrong. T:  If we have a problem with it, we're supposed to talk to Mr. C Mr.  C is the principal, someone we all very much like.  He is fair and really, overall, a great guy and wonderful principal, in my opinion. Me:  Well, do you have a problem with what the teachers are doing? Z:  Yes. T:  Yes.  We might lose out on going to the amusement park. Me:  Then I guess talk to Mr. 

The ideas that pop into my head at the most mundane moments of my life... Would you, if your life depended on it, be able to identify your very own toothbrush in a line up of toothbrushes?  I think I would.  It isn't that I always know what color my toothbrush is (I just get whatever is on sale), but as I stood brushing my cutters last night, I noticed something.  Apparently, I don't rinse my polisher too well.  Oh, don't get grossed out.  I do rinse the bristles until they gleam with only water droplets and I let them dry appropriately so as not to collect anything in them.  But the part of the brush where you grip it...where the thumb and forefinger come together? That part of all of my toothbrushes tends to collect toothpaste.  In fact, in a couple of days, if I don't take care of it, I'll find a little collar of dried dentifrice sitting on my Oral B precisely at that point.    So there you have it.  Check out your own toothbrush.  See if there are any iden

Yesterday afternoon, it finally happened. Melina asked for her first piece of beauty equipment.  We've already been through ribbons, hair gel, hair ties, barrettes, head bands, and bandanas.  We own scads of tights, mostly in pink, and the sheer amount of ruffles in her wardrobe is astonishing. But this afternoon, in a uncharacteristic whiny little voice, Melina said, "Mom, I need my hair wavy." "Well, I guess we'll need to put it back into braids," I said.  The previous night we'd managed to place 3 braids into her fine silky tresses.  She wore her hair down and wavy to school. "But that will take too long. Can you curl it?" Melina asked. "The curling iron won't make it wavy." "Well I need it wavy." In a moment I now realize was a bad parenting moment (or maybe not), I went ahead and gave her an idea.  "I guess we could put a hair crimper on your Christmas list." No sooner had the words escaped

I knocked on the girls' door quickly and went in.  Talia rushed to cover a book with her pillow, a look of extreme guilt creeping into her eyes. "What are you doing?"  I asked. "Reading," she replied. "And what are you reading?" "A book." "What sort of book?" "A book," she said, again. All sorts of thoughts spun through my head.  Did she have Twilight under her pillow?  I won't let the girls read that series yet, but I have the first two books, and a friend of theirs is just finishing up New Moon . Or was she reading a kid book and was embarrassed for me to see it?  Was it a note from a friend, or worse yet, a boy?  Two seconds and all of those questions made the loop through the brain circuit. I stepped into the room and pulled up the pillow. And there it was... Natural Childbirth the Bradley Way . I kid you not.  Talia, apparently, is interested in reading about natural childbirth.  Well the only thing

Goodreads , a site I love because I get many ideas for books to read, just announced its choice awards for 2012.  Emphasis on the word choice here, because we all know that reading is very subjective.  Well the list completely confirms that notion for me. The winner for fiction?  JK Rowling's The Casual Vacancy .  I have not yet read it, but I have been told by many trusted readers not to waste my time.  Furthermore, the Goodreads rating is only 3.31 stars.  And so I wonder, is this book really worthy of the title for best fiction?  Or is the book just riding the coattails of Harry Potter's success?  I am guessing the latter, but if I choose to read it, which I should, then I guess I can make a better judgment. The winner for best mystery and thriller?  Gone Girl , by Gillian Flynn.  Well, I did read this one, but I did not agree with its rating of 4.01.  The blurb for the book, as provided by Goodreads, reads: Marriage can be a real killer. One of the most critically

Who am I to judge fashion?  I just have trouble with this concept.  Running in a skirt can't possibly work, can it?  Anyone care to explain it to me?

That I could live in a more temperate climate and be happy.  Sixty-five degree Decembers are just heaven to me. You can never have so many friends that you can't fit in a few more. And that you might find those friends in unexpected places. That it is difficult for me to say no to people, except when it comes to my kids. There is something to be learned from everyone and every situation, if you are open to learning. That my tolerance for intolerance is getting a bit low these days. The value of touch and a great big bear hug can do wonders for just about anybody.

Not every Sunday, but some Sundays, a few lady friends and I meet up while the kids are at Sunday school.  We sit and chat, have a cup of coffee and a doughnut or bagel, and recharge for the week.  I find these ladies funny, and fun, and to be quite honest,  I look forward to our meetings. Even though alcohol is not involved (it is just 9:15 am in the morning, and Sunday of all days), we can get pretty loud; there are a lot of laughs at our table when we inhabit it.  We discuss our kids, our husbands, our jobs, our pasts. And so far, there are no off-limits topics.  Well, this morning, we learned from someone who shall remain nameless that she worked at a summer camp with a person (we'll call her camp counselor from here on out) who didn't like three words.  I can appreciate that.  The topic had come up and all of us admitted to not liking certain words.  I happen to abhor the words bowel movement and regurgitate .  Something about those just makes me shudder.  Another per

Early Saturday morning with Aaron: Aaron:  Mom, can I show you how I hang this ornament on? Me:  I'm watching. [Really, I was, but I also needed to check my school email.] Aaron:  You hang it on like this, and then this [he takes the ornament off again to adjust it...it has to be perfect] and then like this. Me:  I see.  Great. Aaron:  What? Me:  Great...[blank stare from him]...that you put it on there.   I look into Aaron's eyes and the look on his face indicates that I am crazy and I know, I just KNOW, that he forgot he was showing me how to hang up his special ornament.  That's life with Aaron.  And this will be proof to whomever he marries that he was always like that.  Sorry, honey, you chose him.  I was just special enough to be blessed with him.  And what the heck?  How old am I?  Haven't I figured out how to hang the ornaments yet?