Me and My Seamripper

I am still working on the quilt for my daughter.  I hesitate to say still, as it could imply I should be finished by now.  Rather, it means that I have not dropped the project.  I am now at the stage where I am taking her old clothes apart with a seamripper.  These parts will become the fabric I use for the top layer.  I think there is an official quilting term for this, but I don't know what it is yet.  Sometimes I'll sit at the table while the kids are eating breakfast and take apart a shirt.  Other times, I'll take apart a dress while I binge watch "Parks and Recreation" on Netflix or Jerry Seinfeld's internet show, "Comedians in Cars with Coffee."

I had no problem taking apart the first few items: the pink dress stained with blue paint, or the tan pants with holes in the knees and flowers embroidered on the hips.  I am now dipping into the next layer -- the clothes are are still in reasonable shape and could be worn by someone else.  Those cause me pause.  The hardest dress was a yellow and white linen sun dress I bought for my daughter in Paris when she was four.  It had an ever so slight stain under the chin.  It killed me to rip it apart.  I couldn't take a picture of it before -- it was too painful.  I hope I'll be happier when I see the fabric from the dress sewn into the quilt.  It is better that than the dress becoming a rag.  That is my only consolation for now.

That, and I still have another dress from Paris, this one pink linen with long straight lines.  My daughter wore it to a birthday party and I have a picture of her wearing it.  She was so beautiful, looking tall, lean and elegant.  I have to give some credit to the French here.  I know they are famous for women's clothing.  I was surprised to find something so graceful for a child.  I can't decide if I would rather see parts of that dress immortalized in the quilt, or if I should save that one for a granddaughter.

Fabric from the yellow dress and the pink dress.

Morphine and "App of the Week"

I was meeting a earnest young college student about local politics last week at a nearby Starbucks.  He had some ideas he wanted to discuss, so he called me and we had arranged to meet.  As we were leaving Starbucks, we passed the display where they have their App of the Week cards.  I almost always pick one or two up.  This week was an app called "Polymer," a game where the screen turns into a grid filled with colorful shapes.  The goal is to move and connect the small shapes into a large one and score points.  I offered one to the earnest young man.

"These are fun," I said.  "Take one."

"No, thanks," said the earnest young man.

"They are free," I said picking one up and handing it to him.

"No," he said, not taking the card.

"Do you have a cell phone?"  I asked.

"Yeah..." he said.

"Here," I said and shoved the card in his hand.  "It will be fun."  He looked mildly repulsed, as if I were handing him a pack of cigarettes or offering him a shot of whiskey.  I should have accepted his first no, but here I was the grown-up.  Perhaps I was offering him the app card that I never would have offered my own kids.  Perhaps I thought the serious young man needed some fun in his life.  While I fully appreciate and respect his ideas, he is a college student.  College is supposed to be fun.  He needs some fun.  There is plenty of time to save the world later.

All of this is ironic as my husband and I are not big fans of mindless screen time.  One of my husband's colleagues did a TEDxRainier Talk on the dangers of fast paced screen time for young children.

We were fortunate that my daughter's brain is wired so that she really isn't interested in television.  To quote Dave Barry, I am not making this up.  When she was a toddler, I would tell my friends that my daughter had little to no interest in television.  They thought I was being an intellectual snob until the television went on and my daughter wandered into another room.

My son, on the other hand, has the potential to be an addict if we don't manage the substance.  When he was little, his eyes would fix on the screen.  Anything that came between him and the box would set him off.  When the show was over, it was like watching a heroin addict go through withdrawal, or so I imagine.  He would scream and fuss and generally storm.  The cost of letting him watch thirty minutes of television--even some bland PBS fare--was not worth cooking dinner without interruption.

Computer and video games pose a similar problem for the boy.  A neighbor of mine, an internist, told me that video games give the user a boost of serotonin.  When the serotonin stops, the user feels bad and wants more, and then an addictive cycle can begin.  My son gets more than cranky when games go off.  We set time limits and limit access as I don't want to spend my free time dealing with an angry child.

Many people can turn off a video game and go about their lives.  Some cannot.  I've heard of a student who flunked out of college because of excessive video game playing.  I've heard of a mother who neglected her child to play "World of Warcraft" while her husband worked.  He returned one day to see his two year old walking down the street while the mother was inside on the computer.  She played about twelve hours a day.  My husband told me about a new study showed playing video games was as effective as morphine as a pain killer for treating burn victims.  I can't decide if I am amazed or terrified on that one.

Now after all of that, I am not a total Puritan.  I enjoy slaying pigs in Angry Birds.  When my daughter was a baby and had her bouts of colic, I played a fair share of Minesweeper to calm myself down while she cried herself to sleep.  Twenty minutes of clearing a minefield was better than taking morphine or taking my frustration out on a child.  She was not neglected, not left alone in her crib all day, hungry and with an unchanged diaper.

I didn't think much about giving the earnest young man the app card until the other night.  My husband also had an app card for Polymer, and he played it for forty-five minutes in one sitting.  He made one giant blob worth 500,000 points.  Later than evening, it took him twenty minutes to make another blob, this one worth 700,000 points.  He was making blobs.  Blobs.  This has zero productive value.  And I love the game, too.

I felt terrible that I had shoved the app card into the earnest young man's hand.  Here he was, trying to make the world a better place, and I was giving him a game, an opiate.  I was saying, "Don't worry, little boy.  Unfurrow that brow.  Take a hit."  Ugh.

All I can hope for is that game is like red wine.  It is great some of the time, like sharing a glass with friends over dinner.  Red wine, however, is not so great for breakfast.  Just like people need to drink responsibly, they need to play responsibly, too.  What better time to learn that than in college?

Dampchill

As I have mentioned, I have a friend who just moved to Chicago, my hometown.  Given the really awful weather, she has taken to talking about the windchill.

http://www.nws.noaa.gov/os/windchill/index.shtml

The concept of windchill is that a person loses heat at a faster rate in windy cold weather than in calm cold weather.  When I was Captain of Patrols in 6th grade, I was in charge of passing out windchill charts to the patrols so they could dress properly while standing on a street corner for 20 minutes making sure kids crossed safely.  Having stood on many a corner myself in the middle of the winter, I understand how cold and windy is worse than cold and calm.  The wind finds ways to push the cold air underneath your pant legs, down the back of your neck and up your sleeves.

What about Seattle?  It doesn't get cold enough to here for us to measure on the windchill chart.  I think we need a dampchill chart, though, that measures the humidity, cloud cover and temperature.  Forty degrees and drizzle is miserable compared to forty and sunny.  Like the wind, dampness finds its way inside your clothes and chills the bones.

Here is my chart:

Dampchill Chart

Temp (F)	Clear and Sunny	Cloudy and Dry	Almost Drizzle	Drizzle	Rain	Snow
45	Regular clothes, sunglasses	Regular clothes	Fleece/Wool	Fleece/Wool	Gore-Tex*
40	Fleece/Wool, sunglasses	Fleece/Wool	Fleece/Wool, hat & gloves	Gore-Tex*, hat & gloves	Gore-Tex*, hat & gloves
35	Fleece/Wool, sunglasses	Fleece/Wool	Gore-Tex*, hat & gloves	Gore-Tex*, hat & gloves	Gore-Tex*, hat, gloves & scarf
32	Fleece/Wool, sunglasses, hat and gloves	Fleece/Wool, hat and gloves	Gore-Tex*, hat & gloves	Gore-Tex*, hat, gloves & scarf	Gore-Tex*, hat, gloves & scarf	Gore-Tex*, hat, gloves & scarf

* Fleece or wool layered underneath

Blizzard Envy

The family was driving home last night from my son's band concert and we were discussing the weather in the Midwest.  One of my good friends just moved to Chicago and has been giving me frequent updates on the miserable weather.  She said this is the fourth worst winter in terms of snow and cold since they have been keeping records and her kids have missed school due to the frigid temps.  My husband looked up the Chicago forecast and said it was supposed to be negative 20 below overnight.  My son, who was wearing a short-sleeve shirt and no jacket in the forty degree weather, was jealous.  He only wears long pants when it snows.  He seems to think he would be well adapted to an arctic climate, even though the coldest weather he has ever experienced was skiing in 18 degrees.

Having grown up in Chicago and lived there in my 20's, I've lived through a few of those record winters.  In 1992 or so, there was a month where the temperature never got above zero F.  Walking to the bus to get to work, my eyelashes would freeze.  I was joking with my Chicago friend that I should have worn ski goggles, and sure enough, there was a picture in a Chicago newspaper this week of a woman wearing ski goggles on the street.  In 1978 or so, there was so much snow the parents dug channels in the sidewalk so kids could walk to school.  I was in third grade and the snow came up to my shoulders.  I remember jumping off the second story deck into the snow bank below.  Before I was born, there was the Blizzard of 1967.  My parents were dating and my dad got stuck her family's apartment for days.  I saw pictures of drifting snow covering the tops of cars.  The city was immobilized.

My favorite Chicago blizzard story was in 1999.  About a foot of snow covered Lincoln Park.  My husband and I went to the Lincoln Park Zoo which was two blocks from our apartment.  The Zoo was open, and we were there with a handful of others.  The place was very quiet, sounds muffled by snow. We were walking along, when we noticed a wolf looking at us.  Snow drifted over and hid the wall between us and the animal.  Here we were in the middle of a big city, and it felt like we were encountering this animal in the wild.  The next day, I flew to San Francisco.  I thought my flight was canceled, but it wasn't.  I raced outside to find a cab.  I found a driver, and he thought I was nuts trying to make it to Midway.  He took the fare, and my plane took about about an hour later.  Later I learned this flight was likely the only one that made it out of Chicago that day.

We told our son stories of how dangerous it was to be out in conditions where your skin can freeze after a few minutes, and he wasn't swayed.

"The weather in Seattle is always the same,"  he moaned.  "It is always forty degrees." He has a case of blizzard envy.  

I remember when I was a kid, hearing stories of bad weather in other places -- tornados, tropical storms, heat waves -- and thinking it would be such an adventure to experience those things.  Not that it would be fun, but it would be a change from the ordinary.  That was what I longed for -- something different.  It is why people read about Robinson Crusoe or "Into Thin Air" by Jon Krakauer.  In "Into Thin Air, Krakauer describes climbing Mt. Everest, where people chose -- and paid -- to go up into freezing temperatures with violent winds, little visibility and less oxygen.  And getting there required a vast amount of technical skill and physical strength.

Why are we attracted to the dangerous, the scary, the unpredictable?  Does it, ironically, it makes us feel alive?  As I've grown, my desire to experience the unusual or the comfortable has decreased dramatically.  Yet, I imagine life after the mega-quake hits.  What would happen if a 9.0 earthquake hit my hometown? I see myself climbing out from debris, looking for food and water, possibly wet and cold if the quake hits anytime other than summer.  I have to track down my children who might be at school, and my husband at work.  What if it happens at night?  We'll all be home, but have to figure out the new world in the dark.  This imagination helps me prepare for the possibility, not that I ever want to see it happen.

My son, on the other hand, is looking for adventure.  He is looking for a tale to tell.

Here are pictures from my friend's home.

Ballerina Dreams

Last night, I went to the a studio rehearsal for the Pacific Northwest Ballet's Sleeping Beauty.  I had never been to a studio rehearsal, and it was great to see all of these people I've watched for years on stage behind the scenes.  My son and I were in the balcony, spying on the dancers below in their workout clothes and no makeup, watching who was chatting with whom.

My son's music teacher said most people she talks to wish they still played an instrument.  I didn't really like playing the flute, but I wish I had never stopped dancing.  When I think about what I want to be when I grow up, I dream of being a dancer.  It is interesting to have this dream when I am 44, beyond the age where that could ever be a reality, where my career would be behind me.

I took ballet as a kid.  My teacher, Ms. Lenore Desmarais, was a professional dancer who had danced with Gene Kelly.  She was old, and lied about her age to get a job teaching dance to kids at the Park District.  She was old school:  there was no pretending we were baby birds skipping around in a circle.  Barre work, French terms and classical music were de rigeur.  Starting pointe at age ten was common -- nine if you were really good.

It was hard work, too.  While Miss Lenore was nice enough, the constant stream of corrections could be hard on the ten year old ego.  Point your toe, Laurie.  Lift your leg, Amy.  Shoulders back, Susan.  Leslie -- chin up.  Tuck in your butt, Julie, were heard every Saturday.  At times she would grab your foot and turn your leg the way it should be.  (She would tell us her childhood ballet teacher whacked girls with a stick if they were off.  One day, her dad came in and glared at the teacher.  The whackings stopped.)  Comments to one were comments to all, even if your name was attached to the correction.  If your mom was watching class, she would gush about how wonderful you were.  If not, your name was in the rotation.  I loved to dance, but got tired of the constant nagging.  It reminds me of the old expression, "The beatings will continue until morale improves."

Even still, we all liked Miss Lenore.  Her criticisms were true, and she made us better dancers.  When I watch the professionals, they make it look so easy and fun.  We don't see the years of hard work, the sore feet, the steel egos that take the beatings all in the name of beauty and art.

Still, I dream.  It makes me happy, imagining I am on stage with the lights, the costumes, the music and the curtain rising, preparing to take flight.

MLK Day of Service and Revisionist History

Yesterday, the family spent the day at the West Duwamish Greenbelt planting native species, shoveling and schlepping mulch, and uprooting blackberries.  One of Peter's teachers suggested the idea as a service project for Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.  A handful of families showed at this event sponsored by the Nature Consortium.  We worked alongside 250 or so other people -- mostly high school and college students.  This was double the number of people they had the year before.

The kids were reluctant to go.  The boy was not excited when he arrived and saw only one other classmate there.  The promise of free pizza at the end of the day brightened his mood, and he joined the other boy.  They shared a shovel and began to dig holes for plants.  After the plants were in the ground, we moved the mulch.  I sweated out a Snapple I had back in 1996, and my back aches today from yesterday's work.  My daughter insisted on pulling out a blackberry rootball on her own.  When I asked to help her, she declined.  "No.  Some other person helped me earlier and they took all of the glory for my giant rootball."  Persistence and independence--I suppose those are two good attributes to show on MLK Day.  And yes, there was posturing over who got the largest rootball.

I hope this Day of Service becomes a habit for my family.   I remember those moments of service in my childhood and early years most vividly.  When I was in high school, we visited the Open Shelter, playing bingo with people who were hard on their luck or were suffering from addiction.  On man was a painter who couldn't find work.  He was in Columbus looking for a job, while his family lived in a small town hours away.  Remembering the work we did at the Open Shelter has a bigger impact on me now than it did then.

I hope my kids look back on this with revisionist history and see yesterday as a time when they gave back to the community, not as a time they missed out on fun.  We didn't spend the day skiing or playing video games.  We didn't take a trip out of town.  We spent four hours moving the earth alongside 250 other people in honor of man who tried to make the world a better place for everyone.

Fireball, or What do I Tell My Kid?

Dear Richard Sherman,

As you are well aware, you made the last minute game saving play on Sunday.  It was a remarkable feat.  As you also know, your post-playoff game remarks have been heard around the world.

"I'm the best corner[back] in the game. When you try me with a sorry receiver like Crabtree, that's the result you going to get."
--Richard Sherman  

Your words showed raw emotion and likely reflected the intensity of the moment. You also have worked on a Master's degree from Stanford in Communication, so you likely know a lot about how words create images and influence perceptions.  In the game of "There is no such thing as bad publicity," you have won.

My question to you is:  How do I explain what you said after the game to my son?  My ten year old son is a fireball.  He is a kind, sweet boy, except when he's not.  At times, he has an intensity that matches the fire of a thousand white hot burning suns.  We are trying to teach him to use his powers for good and not evil.  At times, it is a hard battle to help him contain his energy from overflowing and hurting others in his path, whether through words or deeds.

Like you, my son is a defensive player.  He is more motivated by his desire not to lose than his desire to win.  If he thinks his team isn't working hard enough, he has been known to tell them, often in a loud, non-gentle manner using the word "suck."

You are a role model.  The boy wears a Seahawks jersey every other day to school.  (He'd wear it everyday except his father and I insist on washing it.)  I am torn what to tell him.  On the one hand, you made a brilliant play because of your hard work, dedication and passion.

Talent+hard work+dedication+Passion = greatness

(Talent+hard work+dedication+Passion)^intensity = awesomeness

As I am well aware from having an intense son, it is very hard for someone to turn off the fire hose in the middle of an intense event.  The game clock has run out, but the adrenaline keeps flowing.  What you said on the sidelines after the game wasn't anything different than I've heard my son say on the way home from a game or practice in the car.  The difference is he says these things with the doors shut where his teammates and opponents can't hear him decompress, both after a win and after a loss.  After a loss, he is hardest on himself.  You have probably said these things thousands of times in private.  This time it was in front of a microphone when you had the first words after the game.

So I am conflicted.  We have been trying so hard to help him contain his intensity, to keep it from hurting others. Michael Crabtree is a professional and puts himself in the spotlight like any other professional athlete.  But what if those arrows hurt another child?  Or what if my son is on the receiving end of those remarks?  Is it okay to let our emotions pour out and flow freely, like lava down a volcano?

The next day, you said,

Don't judge a person's character by what they do between the lines. Judge a man by what he does off the field, what he does for his community, what he does for his family.

That is fine and good, except people do judge people by what they do between the lines.  This is especially true for children.  For many kids, the world is not a forgiving place.  They make mistakes and they are in detention, suspended or kicked out of school.  The stakes can be high.  For someone at the top of the game, we grant more leeway.  What about everyone else?

Or do we need to all loosen up?  Honor the power of our feelings and allow for forgiveness?  Can we really believe that actions do speak louder than words?  That we can speak the truth, even if it means saying we are better than everyone else or calling other people out on their poor behavior?  Do we really need to be polite all of the time?  Is there a time and place for being outspoken?  Should we look to Alice Roosevelt Longworth, and her famous words:  "If you can't say something good about someone, sit right here by me."

I am reminded of Ambrose Bierce's quote, "Speak when you are angry and you'll make the best speech you'll ever regret."  Should we say that even grown-ups who are professional athletes get carried away by the moment?  That sometimes people don't pause before they speak, and what comes to the heart goes straight to the mouth, bypassing the brain?  We are animals, not machines.  We have emotions and thoughts and energy, and sometimes they all come out.

Sincerely,
Lauren

How I Got What I Wanted for Christmas from My Husband

I know we are past the holiday season here, but as I was shopping yesterday for the one thing I wanted but did not get from my husband for Christmas.  Which is good.  This year there was only one thing that I wanted that he didn't get me, which I consider to be a wild success.

Perhaps you are lucky enough to have never received a dud gift from your beloved.  I once got a bicycle seat for my birthday from my then boyfriend and now husband.  We did a lot of cycling together and he thought it was great.  I thought otherwise.  I don't need jewelry or expensive gifts (see my post on "Pearls"), but I have limits, just like any woman.

Before I tell you my secret, I'll give you some history.  Three years ago, I was busy doing all of the shopping for the kids, nieces, nephews, cousins, and family friends.  The only person he has to buy a present for is me and his parents.*  That year, I got a $25 iTunes gift card.  Now, I love iTunes.  I download music all of the time.  Yet, this gift brought me to tears.  It was worse than the bike seat.  Why?  Buying an iTunes gift car for your wife requires as much effort as buying a pack of gum at the grocery store checkout line.  In fact, you can buy an iTunes gift card in the grocery store checkout line.  In fact, the grocery store checkout line was exactly where my husband bought my gift that year.  I have my low maintenance moments, but that was scraping the bottom of the barrel.  If he wanted to get me a grocery store gift, how about an orchid from Trader Joe's?  I love orchids, and they cost about $15.

"But you love iTunes..."  he said.

"(sob sob sob),"  I replied.  (Translation:  I bought gifts for everyone else, make cookies, sent Christmas cards, etc. and you brought me a gift card at QFC?)

"It was the kids' idea..." he said.

"(sob sob sob),"  I replied.  (Translation:  Blame the kids?  Not so fast.  You still could have gotten me something in addition to an iTunes gift card.)

"I don't know what to get you..." he said.

"(sob sob sob),"  I replied.  (Translation:  You've know me for more than 20 years.  If I get a jury of my peers in a divorce case, you will be living out of a cardboard box.)

The rest of winter break was not pretty.

The following Christmas, we went to Maui.  While expensive, it was cheaper than a divorce.  In A Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion wrote a lovely piece about how she went to Hawaii with her husband when they were flat broke.  This was her justification.

"Now everyone will be happy because we are in Maui," he said.

"(nom nom nom)," I happily replied, eating mango, some kind of fancy Hawaiian seafood and brown rice after snorkeling in the ocean looking at tropical fish all day, my soul and skin caressed by sun and saltwater.

So Maui was a little bit overkill for one bad Christmas, but I was fine with it.  This year came around and I knew we were not going to Hawaii.  Going to Hawaii is not practical for every Christmas, birthday, and anniversary.  Nevertheless, I was hoping for something better than an iTunes gift card.  As I was shopping and I found things that I would like, I took a picture of it with my phone and texted it to him with the name of the store.  Supplement with a little bit of self-shopping for clothes to wrap and put under the tree, and viola!  Merry Christmas!

This was a great gift -- a cookbook about fancy teacakes and cookies.  I wanted it because my daughter loves to bake and is really good at it.  I guessed if she saw this, she would want to try the recipes.  I was right!

I am still pretty low maintenance.  I ask for books, candles, new dishtowels and postcards.  Seriously, fancy new dishtowels made me happy.  I need to re-read my "Pearls" post.

When taking a picture, give some context of where to find the item, such as "On the left side of the store near the back."

* I don't get my mother- or father-in-law Christmas gifts.  One year, I made ten recommendations, and my husband kaboshed them all.  I gave up and put him in charge of their gifts.   They haven't gotten anything since.  He is setting a bad example for my kids.  When you are grown up and have a good job, you should get your parents a nice gift.  (I must admit I have been pretty slack here myself.)

The M word and Random Thoughts on Swearing

My son missed the bus today, so I had to drive him to school.  I normally walk the dog after I drop the boy off, and I am dressed in dog walking clothes.  These clothes tend to be comfortable and almost sloppy--fleece pants, hiking shoes and the like--not what I would wear to my children's school, if only because they would be embarrassed by my extreme casualness.  The odds of me running into several people I know at school are high, thereby exacerbating my embarrassment at being dressed like I just rolled out of bed.  When I am walking the dog, I have sartorial immunity.  Making sure my dog doesn't pee on my rug is far more important than how I am dressed.  The immunity is gone when I am alone.

As expected, I ran into one of my friends at my son's school.  Let's call this friend Jane.  You've met Jane before.  She was the mom at the coffee shop back in the "Swearing" post who said "We need to kill this mother f---er."  This morning, Jane and I decided to out for coffee, and I apologized for my attire.

"Middle-aged women really shouldn't wear yoga pants outside of yoga class," I said, glancing down at my blue and gray yoga pants.

"Don't say the m-word," Jane replied.

"Wha...?"

"The m-word.  Middle-aged."

I laughed.  The woman who casually drops f-bombs refuses to say middle aged.  At coffee, we were talking about a group she is working with.  "They are mostly older men, whereas I am..." pause  pause pause "...younger."  She was trying to think of another term for the m-word that wasn't the m-word.

Jane was going to meet with this group after coffee, and explained that was why she was dressed up, meaning dressed significantly better the typical mom who is dropping their kids off at school.  I joked that if I had known she was dressing up, I would have worn the new jacket I got the day before from Anthropologie.  I got a great deal from the sales closet.*

"I thought that store was for teenagers,"  Jane said.

"They have the middle-aged stuff in back of the store," I replied, thinking of my new jacket.

"Not the m-word again!" Jane screeched.  I burst out laughing.

Should I or should I not embrace the middle-age?  My daughter starts high school next year, which is a milestone for me just as much as it is for her.  I feel like as she moves definitively from tween to teen, so must I move from "...younger" to middle-aged.  I feel like I've earned it, even if it means I shouldn't wear yoga pants outside of yoga class and I shop at the back on Anthropologie.

* Shopping Secret:  The Anthropologie at U Village has a Sales Closet on the wall behind the cash registers.  I had no idea it was there.  From the outside, the closet looks like a mini-store room for the clerks.  Nope.  Inside, there were a bunch of women digging through the racks.  The previous time I was in the store, very few items were on sale on the main floor.  Now I know why -- they place all of the sales stuff in one spot.

Random Thoughts on Swearing

• My swearing habit has one good effect.  My daughter doesn't swear, probably because she doesn't want to be like me.  She says stuff like "Holy goodness!" which makes her sound like a nun.  The boy is a different story.
• Here is a great video from Harry Potter Puppet Pals called "Wizard Swears."  I love the Elder Swear.

Starting the Quilt

Here is the start of the quilt.  I made the first cut last week.  Ta-da!  I am planning to use this old flannel sheet as the backing.  I'll use the material from the blue stripe on the top.

Here are some other old sheets I plan to use as the backing.  The batting is on the right.

The rest of the materials.  I'd like to show a soft-focus photo of a neat pile of clothes arranged by color and tone, but I am not that organized.  Instead, I have them all piled up in a plastic bin.

My daughter and I have been ripping the seams apart of her old clothes.  There is something mediative about performing a repetitive task.  We sit on the couch, sharing a seam ripper and a pair of scissors, collecting the thread in a bowl.  I feel very old school, until she asked is she can watch an episode of "Battle for Dream Island" (aka "BFDI"), a youtube cartoon show, on the iPad, and the kinship with Amish women fades away.

Crossing the Snoqualmie Pass, Getting Our Sh*t Together and the Worst Case Scenario

I wrote this yesterday and didn't post it.  We made it back from Yakima.  We had to drive through 20 miles or so of snowy weather on the way home, but we made it back fine.

Tomorrow, my son has a soccer game in Yakima.  For those not from Washington State,  Yakima is about a 2 hour and 40 minute drive from Seattle via I-90.  To get there, you have to cross Snoqualmie Pass, which has an elevation of close to 3,000 feet.  In the winter, it can be a major bottleneck for getting across the state.  Snow and scheduled avalanches can close it down.  (The upside is that there is a decent size local ski resort there.)  After very little snow this past fall and early winter, forecasters are predicting "blizzard" like conditions over the pass.

I bought new windshield wipers for our all wheel drive car.  I've added extra wiper fluid and filled the tank with gas.  I am going to pack blankets, towels and extra water.  We have chains in case the AWD isn't sufficient.

So, why do I fear that I am going to die making this trek this weekend?  Is it because we are going to leave our daughter in Seattle while we are halfway across the state, and I imagine her becoming an orphan, hanging out with our dog?  Or because we have no plan in case she becomes an orphan?  Would she have to move to Ohio to live with my parents?  My mom has Alzheimer's and my dad is taking care of her, so that would be less than ideal.  Would she want to leave Seattle?  What if my husband and I die, and both kids live?  How would that be different?  Should we bring her with us to Yakima?  If we do, who will watch the dog?  I could go on, but I will spare you my excessive worrying.

It is interesting that a little fear -- crossing the Snoqualmie Pass in a winter storm -- can bring up a slate of questions that I probably should have answers to.  What would happen to my kids if both my husband and I were both to die?  We really should have a plan.

I am neurotic enough as it is, but my fear of leaving my children orphans got a boost from a Nicole Brodeur article in the Seattle Times a few weeks ago with Chanel Reynolds.

http://seattletimes.com/html/nicolebrodeur/2022523700_nicolecochanelxml.html

Chanel's husband died unexpectedly, which is tragic enough in itself.  He was riding his bike along Lake Washington when he was hit by a van.  This hits a little too close to home for me, as my husband bike commutes to work.  (Someone once told me the question is not if a cyclist will get hit by a car, but when.)  Aside from being a grieving widow with children, she was overwhelmed by the things she had never planned for.  She didn't know her husband's access code to his phone, email or online banking.  I am big fan of divide and conquer in a marriage.  I manage the money, my husband takes care of the insurance and cars.  I don't know when the last time the tires were rotated or oil was changed, and he hasn't paid a bill since Clinton was in office.  But what happens when your other half goes?  Or worse, we both do?

Chanel created a website called "Get Your Shit Together."  As she says, it is important to plan for the worst when times are good.  Her website provides tools to help do that.

Perhaps my fear of dying is tied to my lack of organization.  Of course I don't want to see my children as orphans, but I might rest easier if I had a plan in case they were.

Now that I am back, I have a different take.  I think I have a really good imagination and the ability to see the worst case scenario in many aspects of life.  Neurotic or visionary problem solver? I suppose the difference is in whether one paralyzed or called to action; although I would have been better off with no action in the pear muffin incident.  Just like "discretion is the better part of valor," discretion is equally important when deciding which obsessions to act upon.

Hugo

I am in the middle of reading the unbridged Les Miserables (Julie Rose translation).  I started it last summer and I am still plugging away.  I have read some other books in between.  It is so long and epic, I don't feel bad putting it down and picking it back up after catching up on the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series.*  I should have a wager with myself: will I finish my daughter's quilt or Les Miserables first?  It will be a tortoise race, for sure.

Hugo has so much empathy.

empathy |ˈempəθē|nounthe ability to understand and share the feelings of another.
Some writers create heros and villains.  Hugo creates humanity.  He has everyone -- from the Bishop and his sister, the convict, the beautiful young girl who becomes a prostitute, the business owner, the general, the police, nuns, the orphan, the lowlife opportunistic scoundrels, students, urchins (or gamin), aristocrats, gravediggers, factory workers, and on.  (And I am only halfway through the book.**)  His empathy doesn't mean he likes all of his characters.  It means he understands them, the good and the bad.  He also treats them fairly, even the Thenardiers.
I tag my favorite quotations in the book.  In addition to complex and vivid characters, Hugo writes a lot about politics and philosophy.  Since I just finished my volunteer job helping parents advocate for their children, here is passage that struck me:
"[Combeferre] claimed that the future was in the hands of the schoolmaster and got involved in issues of education.  He wanted society to work tirelessly at raising intellectual and moral standards, popularizing science, circulating ideas and cultivating the minds of the young, and he feared that the current impoverishment of the methods employed, the dire narrowness of teaching literature, which was limited to two or three centuries said to be "classical," the tyrannical dogmatism of the official pedants, scholastic prejudices and routines, would wind up turning our colleges into artificial oyster farms."
One hundred and fifty years later, civilization is continuing to have this conversation, just like philosophers continue to wonder about the meaning of life and astronomers wonder if there is other intelligent life in the universe.

* Parts of Wimpy Kid are the funniest things I have ever read.  He really understands the middle school mind.** My elementary school teachers said never start a sentence with "and" or "because."  I have known this is bad form since I was six.  Sorry.

Adventures in Quilting, Part 2

I went to the quilt store today and got the batting to work on the quilt for my daughter.  Step 2.  Done.  So far I have washed the clothes and bought some quilting books and the batting.

Seeing the batting in hand, my daughter now sees this is going to be a real project.  Unlike the boy, she is teenager has opinions.  Strong ones.  I am debating how much input I should take from her.  On the one hand, I want her to like the quilt.  Or at least not hate it.  On the other hand, I would like some freedom and control over the project.  It also has be to something that can be accomplished within my skill and talent range, which right now, is fairly narrow.  My friend Diane wants to make a similar quilt for her daughter, but she plans to make a few practice quilts first, citing the finite amount of clothes her daughter wore as a young child.  While I think the practice quilt is a brilliant idea, I am not sure I will ever get anything done unless I plunge ahead.

I showed my daughter some pictures in the "Sunday Morning Quilts" book, and she showed me her favorites in another book.  We are getting close to having similar ideas about the style and layout.  No fancy star, hexagon or triangle patterns.  Yay!  I can't cut or sew straight, so the fewer seams I have to work with, the better.  I also don't want to use a protractor.  I studied math in college, not architecture.

I dug out the old clothes and started draping them about.  I picked up a scrap from a bright blue floral patterned dress that she wore twice a week in first and second grade.  She was beautiful and happy in that dress.  That dress is the reason I am making this quilt.  I could not stand to see her favorite clothes tossed aside.  I wanted her to remember it forever.

"I hate that fabric," she said.  "You aren't going to use that, are you?"

Um, yeah.  That was the point of this whole project.  With the boy, he wore t-shirts and shorts everyday, and he still does.  I made his t-shirt quilt with no fuss from him.  We picked out which of his too small shirts he wanted in the blanket, and he helped me cut them up.  The shirts are soft, the blanket is warm, and the memories are sweet.  He loves it.  What is not for him to love about it?

Then I realized these are her old clothes, as in former.  She is a teenager, and celebrating her preschool and early elementary years is not in her mind.  She doesn't want to admit that she was born or has parents, rather she sprang fully formed as the 8th graders she is now.  My mistake.  Which brings me back to wanting freedom and control. Which then begs the question:

Who is this blanket for, me or her?  For the boy, it was for him to use the day I finished the binding.  It is a bit more complicated with the girl.  I think I am making this for some future version of her, not the current model.  The future version where she will look at the quilt and think the dresses are soft, the blanket is warm, and the memories are sweet.

A Nightmare (okay, just a really "out there" dream) and Fertility

I had a strange dream the other night.

When I was a kid, I would go down to the breakfast table and recount my odd dreams.  At first, my dad would listen.  After about the 23rd time, my dad would roll his eyes and tease me.  I would like to say that I was scarred by the experience, that I was scared off of telling people about my visions in the night.  Nope.  I still kept dreaming and talking about my dreams.  And my dad continued to roll his eyes.  I stopped talking about my dreams after college and I started working.  My boss and I were having a casual conversation and I told him about my dream from the night before.  Mis. Take.  He told me that my dream had Freudian undertones.  He said I should not tell people about my dreams because then people could psychoanalyze me.  That scared me from telling people about my dreams.  After that, I got a dream journal and kept my visions private.

At the risk of having everyone on the internet poke into my psyche, here goes: I dreamt my daughter and I were both pregnant at the same time.  She is 13 and I am 44.  It was such a whopper of a dream that I could not make it up while I was awake.  This was the worst possible thing I could imagine.  IF we were both pregnant at the same time, either she would be too young, or I would be too old.  Neither would be good.

In the dream, I didn't know I was pregnant until I felt the baby move.  I went to the doctor and she said just because I had been pregnant before I still needed medical care with this pregnancy.  I was also freaking out because I didn't teach my daughter enough about birth control and I didn't think she'd need it so soon.

Here is what I think this dream means: My daughter and I have overlapping fertility now.  She is at the beginning of her journey, and I am closer to the end.  I never thought about this until I had this dream.  I imagine in the venn diagram of her fertility and mine, the slice that covers us both will be very small.  Which is fine.  It is supposed to be that way.  I feel like I am passing her a baton, that my future phase will be becoming a grandmother, just hopefully not too soon.  In the meantime, I feel like there should be a name and celebration for this overlap time, where we dance around the flagpole of fertility, drink raspberry tea, and pray to a goddess of fertility (there are lots to choose from) to protect and watch over us during this time.

While the thought of this overlapping fertility gave me heartburn for two days, I am actually happy for my daughter, with all that lies ahead.  And I am happy for me, too, with all that I have.  I have been pregnant four times and have two kids.  There was a time when I wasn't sure I'd be mom.  Even though the path was not what I would have imagined, I am grateful for where I am.  Even if it takes a nightmare to wake me up and think about it.

Neuroses and Pear Muffins

We all have our neurotic moments, some of us more than others.  I was reminded of one I had recently when I saw the red rimmed tupperware container that belongs to my neighbors in my kitchen.

neurosis |n(y)oŏˈrōsis|noun ( pl. -ses |-ˌsēz|) Medicinea relatively mild mental illness that is not caused by organic disease,involving symptoms of stress (depression, anxiety, obsessive behavior,hypochondria) but not a radical loss of touch with reality. Compare with psychosis .• (in nontechnical use) excessive and irrational anxiety or obsession :apprehension over mounting debt has created a collective neurosis in the businessworld.

(I am loving the dictionary on my Mac.)

I am thinking of more the second definition, the excessive and irrational anxiety or obsession.  Or perhaps I am thinking of the loss of rational behavior, those moments when we are more like George Costanza and Elaine Benes than Jerry Seinfeld.  Like George and Elaine, sometimes the person with the neurosis is the last to know, unaware of the havoc their irrationality is having on others.

I had my moment over Halloween weekend.  Our neighbors host an annual Halloween pumpkin carving and potluck party in the park.  This year, I made three dozen pear muffins.  Our other neighbors have a few pear trees, and give us dozens of pears in the fall.  Their pears are wonderful to eat by themselves, and are awesome in muffins.  So I made three dozen muffins and brought them to the picnic.  I made them for another picnic a week earlier and the mayor said they were the best muffins he ever tasted.  So that makes it official.  These muffins kick ass.

I brought these muffins to the Halloween picnic.  I made a fresh batch that morning, with a few modifications.  The kids ate a few, and I brought the rest.  At the picnic, our neighbor makes soup with turkey meatballs, noodles and kale.  It is delicious.  There is hot chocolate, hot apple cider, chili, brownies and all sorts of other good stuff.  The other picnic is more of a brunch event, where this one is in the late afternoon and fills in for dinner.

As the afternoon wore on, my muffins were barely touched.  My husband and I had tickets to see the ballet that night, so we left the picnic early.  Of the 36 muffins (minus the few my kids ate prior to the picnic), there were about 29 left.  A group of about 50 Asian college students showed up at the park for a pre-UW Husky football game party.  For many of them, it was their first American football game.  Our neighbor offered to share the food.  Most of them were interested in hamburgers cooked on the grill.  My muffins stood no chance next to hamburgers.  Looking back, I see that bringing these muffins to this picnic was like bringing a quiche to a barbecue.  I love quiche and I love barbecue, just not on the same plate.

Long story short -- my kick ass muffins were a dud.  Perhaps the Mayor lied or exaggerated -- he was running for re-election at the time.  My family left 29 lonely muffins at the picnic.

The next afternoon, my son had Lego Club.  He was leaving for 5th Grade Camp early Monday morning.  I was not organized on many fronts, so we spent Sunday morning shopping for last minute camp supplies.  We were cutting it tight for Lego Club when I called my co-coach.  No one had signed up to bring snacks.

At this point, the train starts to come off the track.  I should have seen my neuroses coming down at 100 miles per hour, but I did not.  I called my husband and asked him to call my neighbors to see if we could get the muffins back so I could bring them to Lego Club.

"Really?  You want me to call them to ask for your muffins back?"  He could see the craziness of the ask, but I couldn't.  He was in a tight spot.  If he called me crazy, I would have been mad.  If he asked the neighbors for the muffins back, they would think he was crazy.

"Yes."  Why was that so hard to believe?  I was sparing them from having to dump the duds in the compost and waste the wonderful pears our other neighbors gave to us.

"I don't think they are home..."

"Fine.  I'll call them."

I called one neighbor and asked if he knew where my basket and muffins were.  He said the host family brought everything home.

"The daughter had a sleepover party last night with eight kids from school," he said.  "I doubt there are many left."

I was still on a quest to rescue my orphaned and unloved muffins.  I wanted to spare them the humiliation of not being eaten and drying out until they have the texture of a hockey puck.  I called the host family.  The parents were out of town and their high school daughter answered.

"Hey," I said, feeling slightly uneasy.  I was hoping the muffins would magically appear at my door without having to ask.  I barged forward.  "I was wondering if I could get my basket back."  Yes, that is the reason I am calling.  It is all about the basket.  I should have left it there, but no.  "I was also wondering if you had any of those muffins left.  I have to bring a snack to Lego Club and I thought I could bring some of the leftovers..."  It wasn't really me talking.  It was some alter-ego that thinks muffins have feelings and no food should go to waste.  An alter-ego who was oblivious to the fact that asking for food back is at best odd and at worst rude.

"Oh.  Sure.  We have about eight left."

Eight?  That's odd, I thought.  I thought there would have been 26 or 22 at the least. 

"I only need six," I said, still not fully aware, but awakening to the absurdity of asking for my muffins back.

Their daughter brought back our basket, plus the muffins in a cute little tupperware with the red rim.  I thought she would have just left the muffins in the basket with a paper towel or napkin.  No.  She had to put them in a nice container.  Her mother probably taught her good manners and how to be nice and tidy, damn her.  Returning the tupperware means I have to admit to the parents that I am almost insane.

"Thanks for the muffins," the daughter said as she handed me the basket.  "They were really good."