Ben was loading himself up with books on his way to bed. He doesn't complain about bedtime, and only sometimes tries to postpone with pleas of "hungwy! hungwy!" No, as long as he can say ni-night to everyone by name and fill his crib with books and the occasional firetruck, he's quite happy to go to sleep.
On his way out, he happened to grab a little plastic Spongebob, left over from a bubble bath bottle. Halfway down the stairs, he stopped, put down his books, and gazed lovingly into Bob's eyes. Here is what my little 2 year old said to Bob:
"HI SPONGEBOB! (whispering) hi, bob.
You funny. You funny.
Ha ha ha!!!
Bob funny.
Ben funny.
Katie ni-night?"
And he continued on to bed. I love seeing the glimpses of the world he has in his mind. Language limits what we all imagine, but sometimes we get little peeps into our children's minds. Seeing my little man develop an emotional vocabulary with words like "funny" or earlier this evening, "scared," strikes an ever deepening chord in this mother's heart. He has an entire life going on in there, and I am charged with nurturing and guiding it. I find it endlessly fascinating.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Venting
I hate colds. I hate this cold I have now more than any cold that ever walked the face of the earth. It makes my head hurt, makes my nose hurt, makes my throat hurt, gives me a fever, and makes me want to lie on the couch and do nothing. This, however, is not possible. I have two children who rely on me for food, clothing, baths, entertainment, channel-changing, and everything else. I just want to curl up and be a blob, then wake up and feel all better. Could somebody please arrange that for me?
Update: 11/29/08
A) All loved ones, take notice: It is a mere one month until my birthday. I arranged it that way so you could hit all the good sales after Thanksgiving AND the day after Christmas. Aren't I thoughtful?
B) The cold seems to be on its way out! Forget soup, vitamin C, and Sudafed; I recommend complaining in a public forum. Worked for me.
Update: 11/29/08
A) All loved ones, take notice: It is a mere one month until my birthday. I arranged it that way so you could hit all the good sales after Thanksgiving AND the day after Christmas. Aren't I thoughtful?
B) The cold seems to be on its way out! Forget soup, vitamin C, and Sudafed; I recommend complaining in a public forum. Worked for me.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Kathryn's First Poem
"Friends"
I know that we are happy
We both think we are just like our great pappy
Being friends though is tough
But you and I do it even though it is rough.
I know that we are happy
We both think we are just like our great pappy
Being friends though is tough
But you and I do it even though it is rough.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Once Upon a Time...
... there was an ill-fated baton twirlers' convention. You see, the event planner was not familiar with the very specific needs of baton twirlers. Not the least of these were the need for high ceilings. The venue was not well-equipped for this group of people, and the ceilings were a mere 15 feet high. However, many of them had traveled great distances, and, being expert at their craft, did their best to work within these limitations. Baton twirlers are known far and wide for their cheerful nature and this was no exception; they were optimistic about the convention ahead of them.
The week went on, and the baton twirlers attended their sessions, listened dutifully to the keynote speaker, and took copious notes. They were inspired. As the week came to a close, these peppy ladies became more and more excited to put what they had learned into practice. Now, it had long been planned that on the final day, there would be a choreographed mass performance. Just walking through the crowds one could sense the energy building. Everyone understood that they could not toss their batons high, but other than that they would be giving their all.
At long last, the moment had arrived. The twirlers' teeth glistened white, their ponytails swung happily, and the ladies twirls their hearts out. In a fit of exuberance, all 200 twirlers tossed their batons in the air; in their minds, they saw batons flying skyward. In reality, the batons were rocketing dangerously toward the low ceilings. At this moment, fate must have been on their sides, for instead of the weapons ricocheting off the ceiling and raining down on the optimistic group, the batons tangled in equal groups and affixed right there on the ceiling. Here is the result:
Thus the convention came abruptly to a close. The 200 in attendance were heartbroken at their failure. They each swore on that day that they would never raise a baton again. In their many small towns across the country, parades would pass with no baton twirlers. Daughters were raised never knowing the joy of twirling. Once a year they return to the site of The Incident and set flowers in memory of the life-changing day, then they return home again a little less perky, a little sadder. In time, the site would become a restaurant, but so that we would never forget the sacrifice of these women, tiny lights were placed on the ends of each of the batons, reminding us of the everlasting light baton twirlers everywhere bring to our lives.
The next time you see a baton twirler, please thank her for her service. When your eyes meet, there will be an exchange of understanding: she will know that you, too, have learned of The Incident. The two of you may never meet again, but your lives will have been enriched.
The week went on, and the baton twirlers attended their sessions, listened dutifully to the keynote speaker, and took copious notes. They were inspired. As the week came to a close, these peppy ladies became more and more excited to put what they had learned into practice. Now, it had long been planned that on the final day, there would be a choreographed mass performance. Just walking through the crowds one could sense the energy building. Everyone understood that they could not toss their batons high, but other than that they would be giving their all.
At long last, the moment had arrived. The twirlers' teeth glistened white, their ponytails swung happily, and the ladies twirls their hearts out. In a fit of exuberance, all 200 twirlers tossed their batons in the air; in their minds, they saw batons flying skyward. In reality, the batons were rocketing dangerously toward the low ceilings. At this moment, fate must have been on their sides, for instead of the weapons ricocheting off the ceiling and raining down on the optimistic group, the batons tangled in equal groups and affixed right there on the ceiling. Here is the result:
Thus the convention came abruptly to a close. The 200 in attendance were heartbroken at their failure. They each swore on that day that they would never raise a baton again. In their many small towns across the country, parades would pass with no baton twirlers. Daughters were raised never knowing the joy of twirling. Once a year they return to the site of The Incident and set flowers in memory of the life-changing day, then they return home again a little less perky, a little sadder. In time, the site would become a restaurant, but so that we would never forget the sacrifice of these women, tiny lights were placed on the ends of each of the batons, reminding us of the everlasting light baton twirlers everywhere bring to our lives.The next time you see a baton twirler, please thank her for her service. When your eyes meet, there will be an exchange of understanding: she will know that you, too, have learned of The Incident. The two of you may never meet again, but your lives will have been enriched.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
An Observation
From my earliest days I have been a watcher. I was a very shy child, and was much more comfortable sitting back, gathering information, so that if the need arose for me to join society, I would know just what to do. I did not have a marriage to observe close-up, but I've always been a romantic. For that reason, I've taken special interest in watching what couples do, how couples interact, and from there I could decide what I wanted and didn't want in a relationship.
Older couples, those who have been married for their entire adult lives, are the most interesting to watch. Fortunately, our parish has plenty of older couples. There is one couple, Brad and Liz, and they have been married forever. They're the kind of couple that is so intuitive around one each other that they have grown to even look similar. I don't know either particularly well, but I've been on some committees with Brad. Liz was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. I don't know the prognosis, but I do know that Brad was scared, and together they were scared enough to stop postponing a cruise they've wanted to take. They returned home a couple of weeks ago.
This morning I sat 2 pews behind them. I happened to catch a glimpse of something that looked so personal and meaningful, I was ashamed to be peeking. I love our old, Episcopal hymns. This is probably the legacy of being raised by a minister of music. To me, they are a prayer, a kind of communion. Our second hymn today was "Come Labor On." I was singing away, frustrated at my poor tone on D's all morning, when my eyes rested on Brad and Liz. They were standing arm-in-arm, slightly turned toward one another. Two short, stout people with very good, thick hair. Then Brad looked at Liz, and she at him, and they were singing to each other with the most tender expression on their faces. There they were, these two people who reach for each other without even a conscious thought. They were singing a love song both to God their Savior and each other. In that moment, I imagined all the ugly, mucky things that happen in a marriage: facing illnesses, disagreements over money or children, sorrow in losing loved ones. And yet, somehow they kept a purity of heart that reached me, two rows back. I'm so glad they did.
Older couples, those who have been married for their entire adult lives, are the most interesting to watch. Fortunately, our parish has plenty of older couples. There is one couple, Brad and Liz, and they have been married forever. They're the kind of couple that is so intuitive around one each other that they have grown to even look similar. I don't know either particularly well, but I've been on some committees with Brad. Liz was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. I don't know the prognosis, but I do know that Brad was scared, and together they were scared enough to stop postponing a cruise they've wanted to take. They returned home a couple of weeks ago.
This morning I sat 2 pews behind them. I happened to catch a glimpse of something that looked so personal and meaningful, I was ashamed to be peeking. I love our old, Episcopal hymns. This is probably the legacy of being raised by a minister of music. To me, they are a prayer, a kind of communion. Our second hymn today was "Come Labor On." I was singing away, frustrated at my poor tone on D's all morning, when my eyes rested on Brad and Liz. They were standing arm-in-arm, slightly turned toward one another. Two short, stout people with very good, thick hair. Then Brad looked at Liz, and she at him, and they were singing to each other with the most tender expression on their faces. There they were, these two people who reach for each other without even a conscious thought. They were singing a love song both to God their Savior and each other. In that moment, I imagined all the ugly, mucky things that happen in a marriage: facing illnesses, disagreements over money or children, sorrow in losing loved ones. And yet, somehow they kept a purity of heart that reached me, two rows back. I'm so glad they did.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Halloween
I have nothing brilliant to say today. I just love my kids so darn much. That's all I got, folks.
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