Artwork Philosophy

Harper wraps up her second week in the toddler room tomorrow. The first day last Monday was a bit rough: she cried when I dropped her off for the first time ever, so of course I did too. It wasn't my first time crying at the guilt of leaving her at day care, but it was the first time I didn't make it to the car before the tears started.

This time I started crying right in the classroom, which was really not helpful for anyone. The more I tried to clamp down on the tears the worse it got. I didn't even cry in the room on the very first day (just for hours afterward). Anyway, though she still seems pretty overwhelmed in the mornings and is completely exhausted in the evenings, the drop-off process has improved and no one has shed any more tears in the classroom. It helps that I drop her off right when breakfast is delivered--food trumps just about anything.

Harper now has art sessions twice a day as part of her new adventures in the toddler room. This means that when I go to pick her up there are two pieces of "art" waiting for me in addition to a very cranky toddler. The first day I brought this art home I told Joe, "We're going to have to establish a philosophy on Harper's art."

There was a long pause while he cocked an eyebrow and looked at me like I'd said, "Hey, I brought home a Martian."

"What, like an artist's statement?" he said. It was my turn to cock an eyebrow. We have a couple of family and friends who are artists that have had to tackle the daunting task of writing artist statements that somehow ring true as unique and personal yet avoid the ring of crazy or hokey. Apparently Joe thought the day care was requesting something similar from us as the parents of Harper, the artist.

"Ah, no," I said. "I think her statement would be, 'Is this edible?' I meant, are we going to keep all these things?" I held up the latest item, titled "Shapes Collage," made of purple construction paper, drizzles of corn syrup (turns out it is edible) and three tissue paper shapes.

Before you think I'm a terribly insensitive mother who is willing to pitch her kid's art before it even dries, let me first tell you we have a stainless steel fridge that won't hold a magnet, and second, I'm a purger. Some people hoard, some people purge. I'm the generally latter.

What I was looking for was some kind approval for a plan of limited display and then toss, some validation that it's ok that I don't want to start a storage unit for the two pieces of art she'll be bringing home between now and high school. Instead I got questions about establishing our toddler's artistic philosophy. Maybe Joe will have to be in charge of the storage unit.

Marriage and Ghostbusters

This week Joe and I celebrated our seven year wedding anniversary...and by celebrate, I mean I remembered in the morning after Joe had left for work and sent him a text. This gave him enough warning to purchase a card before coming home. In fairness to Joe, I think he has gotten me a real card before midnight on the actual day every year. This is a much better record than me, who has only given him a homemade card written in marker on computer paper every other year at the most. This year was an off year.

Joe claims that by hitting the seven year mark we have outlasted the average length of a marriage in the U.S. In honor of this, I thought I'd share a few reasons why I think our marriage has beat the odds. After thinking about it, though, I could really only come up with one. So here it is:

1. The Escape Phrase
An escape phrase is what you say when you don't want to answer the other person's question, give an opinion, or indicate that you are interested in any way without hurting the other person's feelings. Our escape phrase is a quote from Rick Moranis's character in Ghostbusters: "Yes, have some." For example, last week I asked Joe "Do you like how I look without bangs, or should I get them cut again?" His response: "Yes, have some." When pressed he said that he really would be happy to offer an opinion if he had any idea what I was talking about, but he thought I had bangs at the moment and I'd just indicated I didn't, so he was very confused.

Similarly, when he starts talking about Bronco parts and says, "I was thinking that the trans-differential dohicky majob might be better if I changed the torque on the whatchamacallit and tilted the axle to accommodate a rotating whatsit." Without even looking up from my book, I say "Yes, have some." In this way I can acknowledge that I heard him, but like the brain-fried and newly-made Keymaster Moranis, I have no clue what you said, I'm pretty sure it doesn't apply to me, and I very politely encourage you to continue going about your business and leave me to mine.

The escape phrase is helpful because it offers acknowledgment without misleading the other person into thinking that you are interested enough to continue the conversation. This is important because pretending to listen and respond when you really aren't paying attention can lead to some serious misunderstandings.

For example, a few weeks ago Joe and I were sitting watching TV and just when I was getting up to get a drink of water a commercial came on for a brand of Charmin toilet paper that claims it won't leave bits of paper sticking to your butt. This commercial has always baffled me, because I didn't know that bits of toilet paper were such a problem, much less that they affected enough people that advertisers thought there was a need for such a targeted ad. As I got up off the couch I said to Joe, "I just don't really get this. Do you ever have a problem with toilet paper sticking to your butt?"

 Joe was playing around on his laptop and not really watching the TV or listening to me. Instead of acknowledging this by using the escape phrase, however, he decided to pay attention only to the last part of my question, which led him to believe that I was getting up off the couch because I had so much toilet paper stuck to my butt I was uncomfortable. This put him in a tough situation, because while he was concerned for my well-being, he also really didn't want to know any more about my problem. He gave me a very worried look and said, "Um, noooo..."

Of course, I took this hesitancy as reluctance to admit that yes, he has had this problem that I was making fun of. After several more confused looks the conversation ended with:
"Do you have toilet paper on your butt?"
"No! Do you?"
"No!"
"Well good!"
"Good! Why are we talking about this?"


Ten minutes wasted arguing about TP bits, all because Joe forgot to put into practice the wisdom of the Keymaster.

Humbug!

It never fails. As soon as I voice allegiance to a team and actually get excited about watching a game or match, my team tanks. So, you gods of sports and/or Twins players reading this blog, listen up: I don't care. Hear me? I don't care that you had a minimum of four opportunities to bring in a winning run and didn't do it. I don't care that you teetered so tantalizing close to success that I overcame my natural reserve as a Midwesterner and believed greatness was possible, only to have to chastise myself later for forgetting that as a Minnesotan it is my lot in life to always be disappointed by sports teams. Liriano's sixth inning slide, Favre's madness against the Saints (twice), Gary Anderson's missed kick in 1999... It's a legacy that's hard to forget. Or at least, is hard to forget until the bases are loaded and the fans are on their feet and just one run will give us the lead, and your husband is so excited he's jumping and shouting until he remembers we have a sleeping baby, so then he's crouching on the couch and chewing his fingernails in agitated silence...


Our viewing experience was even more exciting because we were streaming the game online, and didn't realize that we were on about a five minute delay until one of our friends texted Joe about a go-ahead run on third, when there was only a runner on first. Joe looked at his phone, looked at the screen, looked at his phone again with wrinkled brow, and then slowly put the phone down in wonder as the runner on first stole a base and advanced to third. His face went from "My friend can see the future--oh my god we scored!--my friend is omniscient--this streaming picture keeps cutting out and jumping ahead--oohhhhh." Two other friends texted us in excitement and we had to tell them to quit giving the game away, but later in the game our excitement was tempered by the ominous silence of Joe's phone. We were very conscious of the fact that as we were anxiously watching a bases-loaded situation, our friends already knew the outcome, and even though we'd told them to shut up, we were pretty sure someone would have told us about a grand slam. It suppose it made the disappointment a little less painful, but it's hard to make yourself believe that what you want so badly really isn't going to happen...two innings in a row.

Smarts

Last night Harper slept through the night--sort of. She slept through the night if 4:45am counts as morning. Even if it doesn't, she still slept for eight hours, which is a big accomplishment.

It's an even bigger accomplishment because 30 minutes after we put her down, our smoke detectors went off. Two months ago we kept having some malfunction where all of our smoke detectors would go off for about 15 seconds every half hour. We changed the batteries multiple times, but after working for a day, they would suddenly go off again--and of course, they would always go off just after you'd fallen asleep, so that you woke up in a panic and couldn't get back to sleep for 29 minutes--just in time for them to malfunction again.

Anyway, the smoke detectors went off again last night for the first time in months, and Joe and I had very different reactions. Joe immediately leaped off the bed and out the bedroom door. As he hit the hallway he said, "You grab the girl [meaning the baby]." It was at this point that I, still sitting on our bed with my book, realized that he thought this was real. So I yelled over the beeping, "It's just that stupid smoke detector again," and I stayed where I was. Right after I finished saying that I was proven right by a sudden stop to the beeping, but I had to wonder about my reaction. How did I know that it wasn't real? I'd just adopted the same attitude I take whenever a car alarm goes off in a parking lot: "Stupid, malfunctioning piece of equipment contributing to noise pollution."

I often make fun of Joe for immediately assuming that the house is falling down when he hears a small noise in another room, or that someone is trying to break down our front door whenever he hears (or thinks he hears) a car door shut outside at night. But as I was checking on the baby (who seemed to have slept through the whole thing, which is mildly concerning), I wondered if maybe his reaction to the smoke detector was smarter than mine. He might be a bit paranoid, but he his a smart guy. And then I heard a surprised, "Wowza" from downstairs.

"What's 'wowza'?" I asked as he came up the stairs.
"I just checked the battery I took out, and it had plenty of juice," he said.
I looked at him suspiciously, knowing that we do not have a battery tester. "What do you mean you checked the battery?"
He looked at me with "Duh" clearly written on his face and said, "I put it on my tongue, and wowza! Plenty of juice. So I saved it."

Yep, that's my smart husband: paranoid about the sound of a car door closing, but shocking his tongue with batteries to save us 25 cents. Maybe I'm the more rational one after all.

Growing Pains: SBUs

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how Joe tried to rationalize my expanding butt as necessary ballast to counteract my even more rapidly expanding belly. If you recall, the very emotionally-uninvolved argument was that without the ballast on the back end, I would tip over.

(By the way, I have since recalled that a man once asked one of my very pregnant friends how it was possible that she didn't tip over. She is a very small person and I'm pretty sure that her butt did not visibly appear to provide any ballast. The point of this little addendum is to prove that men are seriously concerned about weight distribution and balance in pregnant women, to the point where it presents such a mental puzzle that all caution for social niceties are thrown out the window and rather rude comments are made.)

This past weekend I suddenly decided that I simply cannot wear any longer the maternity pants with the large elastic band that goes up and over the belly. This was a problem because all of my maternity pants have said elastic band. So yesterday I went to Old Navy and found some khaki pants with a drawstring and a very minimal elastic band, and I was pretty sure it was a gift from God. People, they were even on sale for under $20.

Anyway, I was modeling these new pants for Joe, and put my hands on my hips just above the low-rise elastic band, only to make a startling discovery: I have love handles. Significant love handles. Since I can't really turn sideways enough to view that area, I went to the nearest mirror for visual confirmation, and there they were. I started lamenting the arrival of these love handles, only to hear Joe say, "I told you, you need ballast."

"I thought my butt was ballast! Just how much ballast do you think I need?!" I replied.

"Well, your butt is the primary ballast," said Joe, his face all innocence. "Those are supplemental ballast units. You know, SBUs. To prevent from tipping side to side..." At this point the innocence started to fade a bit from his face, probably in response to the scowl that had appeared on mine.

So, SBUs. Didn't know they existed, but I've got 'em. And for all the males I will encounter in the next two months, thank goodness they are clearly visible. No one will have to ask me "How do you not tip over?"

Baby Supplies: Truck

We've been putting off purchasing most of our baby supplies until we move into our new house, but as the moving date approaches (this coming Friday!), we made our first baby-inspired purchase: a new Ford F150. Now, there are certainly some features of this purchase that are more for Joe than Baby Beer, like the off-road package and 4WD, but the super crew cab and the leather seats were supposedly selections made in Baby Beer's best interest. Of course, the need for a second car after four years without one is also because of Baby Beer. Joe will have to drive to the park and ride after we move to Golden, instead of being able to catch the bus at the top of the block like he can now.

After spending most of yesterday day at the Ford dealer (the process of purchasing a new car definitely rates in my top 5 "worst things to do ever" list), we spent today packing up what's left in our house. We made great progress. In fact, I got a little carried away. It was only when I went to look in the cupboards to find something for dinner that I realized I'd packed up every pot, pan and glass in the kitchen. I hadn't even left us a pot to boil water in, so even boxed dinners were out of the question. Earlier this weekend I'd been lamenting the fact that we'll be leaving so many great restaurants behind when we move out of this neighborhood, so I guess subconsciously I was just looking for an excuse to eat at my favorite places for the next four days. Oh darn!

This week will be a busy one between now and the big closing and moving day on Friday. We've got a few more closets and cupboards to pack up tomorrow night, and then Tuesday night we have our first baby class at the hospital where I'll be delivering (we're looking forward to the tour of the maternity ward--and figuring out where the heck the hospital is even located in Denver). Wednesday night will be our last night to get ready for the move, and then Thursday morning the moving company arrives to load up all our stuff. Packing the boxes was exhausting enough for me today. I never thought bending over could be so difficult. I'm very happy we'll be paying others to load up all those boxes into a truck. Friday morning we close, and then it's off to Golden to meet the moving company and start moving in! By Sunday I should have some pictures of the new house to post, including some pictures of the nursery-to-be and some more baby supplies.

Toilets: check!

Last week we had the inspection for our new house. For the most part things went very well.
The biggest issue was discovered when I peed in the upstairs guest bathroom (the inspection lasted four hours--how's a pregnant lady supposed to hold it that long?!), and then realized that the toilet had been turned off for some reason, so I couldn't flush.

After fiddling with the lever and lifting the back of the toilet to look in the tank, I realized there was no water in the tank--and no way I was going to fix this on my own. I went back downstairs to find Joe and the inspector, and followed them around for awhile before I could tell Joe about my abandoned pee without the inspector hearing (because I was just a bit embarrassed). Joe gave me a look that said "You can't be serious" and then whispered, "So you want me to go fix it?"

"Uh, yeah," I said, "unless you just want to leave it for the owners to find." He frowned at me and I said, "Well, obviously something doesn't work. Aren't you glad I at least found that out?" His facial expression suggested that no, he was not glad.

He ditched the inspector, went upstairs, started fiddling around with the guts of the toilet, and then once he had it turned back on, discovered that the shut off value was leaking on the floor. As the water slowly dripped onto the tile, Joe gave it a flush--and the water didn't go down. He flushed again and it nearly overflowed. Apparently the toilet not only leaked, but was also backed up, which must have been why it was shut off in the first place.

By this point the inspector had joined us in the bathroom to see what was going on, and as the diluted water filled the toilet bowl to the brim, leaving the toilet paper swirling gently in the middle, he started saying that sometimes toilets just need to be plunged if you're trying to send through a "large quantity," and that he didn't think this toilet's inability to flush was a significant problem in terms of the inspection. I realized that he was suggesting I might have just taken a giant poop and blocked the toilet, so I felt compelled to explain that all I'd done was pee. A lot of pee, perhaps, but not something that's going to clog a toilet. This was partly because I thought a dysfunctional toilet was not something we should gloss over in our inspection report, but largely because I thought having to say the word "pee" in front of him was less embarrassing than him thinking that I had clogged the toilet doing number 2.

Joe, still kneeling on the bathroom floor fixing someone else's toilet, gave me a look that said, "Who brought you along, anyway?" and turned off the water again so that the dripping would stop. We couldn't find a plunger, so we left that little surprise for the current owners and added a stipulation to the inspection report that the upstairs toilets must be in working order when we come back for a second inspection. (The inspector said the toilet in the master bath was also a "slow flusher," whatever that means. I stayed out of that one.)

The current owners didn't say anything about the nearly overflowing toilet in the guest bathroom, but they did have a plumber come in to fix the toilets. On Monday this week we went back and checked them out, along with a few other things. I felt like someone with a strange fetish, walking into someone else's home just to flush their toilets. I did ask Joe if he thought I should pee in the guest bathroom again so we could compare like data, but he did not seem to think that was necessary. The toilets flushed just fine, so we signed the inspection notice and now are waiting for them to get back to us by Friday. Perhaps my method was not the best way to go about inspecting a toilet for problems, but I guess it worked.