Monday, June 29, 2009

Laundered Words

I don't want my son to read. I know, I know. Gasp! Who'd a thunk I would come up with an anti-reading blog post? I mean, my husband certainly doesn't. I've got this thing about books. They're scattered everywhere on my side of the bed, down the stairs, in the kitchen... We trip over my reading material more often than we trip over my shoes or the kids' toys or the laundry perpetually unfinished because I am reading.

But here's the deal. Before our visit to MN Bug said, "airport," like "ohport." It's the cutest dang thing! My sisters even call it the ohport now and it is definitely ohport in our little family nucleus. Bug loves planes and airports and really just about anything with an engine. In MN, Bug went on an airplane ride with my dad in a sporty wee plane. Earlier posts have pictures of them checking the plane and my son wearing the headphones.

Since then whenever I say, "ohport" Bug corrects me and says it's the "erport." He says it proudly and corrects me kindly. And I know, once he starts reading, my cute little reminder of my cute young boy will vanish into the word correctly pronounced "airport."

Reading begins early here in Scotland. He starts school soon. And, I just know I will start getting comments like, "What a spunky guy." Or, "He's growing up to be such a nice kid." Maybe even a, "Ma'am, sorry to disturb you at this hour, but your teenage son has been caught streaking the village center again." There are many who know him who've already placed bets on such a thing happening.

I am his mother writing this blog and so, of course, I imagine only the good and the questionable comments that I will receive about my son who will most likely be able to read the word "airport" and God willing also correctly pronounce the word airport. And, when I hear the good and the questionable comments about my son, I know I will want to say, "I knew him before he could read! He said lovely and endearing things like oatmoh and ohport." But I won't. I will probably have to say, "I'm sorry about that officer, I was reading and haven't done his laundry in ages."
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Sunday, June 28, 2009


One of the calming things about not being in the States is to realize how very universal some of America's struggles are. As an American, there is a spector of slavery, of racism. I think it's more in the past than it is when I find out that there are still segregated proms in parts of the States. Finding these things out, I just can't breathe. How do you bring kids up in a world where the human condition is tenuous enough to be feared and not shared?
Then there is Louis Hamilton. He's a superstar Brit racecar driver. Some Europeans dressed in blackface last fall during one of his races. I realized then, in a visceral manner, that Americans aren't the only ones that can be racist. Then, I saw him tonight in a commercial. HA! Praises be. He's making more money than any racist has at his expense. Whew. That's how you do it. You don't listen to the fears or the fearful. You listen to what's right. Friendships, celebrations, chocolate (if you're Baby G for sure you listen to the chocolate cake for celebrating your birthday with friends). You also listen to your God-given talents, your good attorney and your agent that signs you up for a lucrative commercial deal...

One of G's talents is balance. Ah, yes, balance. Attorneys and lucrative commerical deals, please sign in below....
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Wednesday, June 24, 2009


My sisters and I used to dance in our jammies after a bath. My parents would laugh with pleasure and we thought we were beautiful. Skilled. Amazing.

It is with great pleasure I note that this belief is a genetic trait which I have passed on to my daughter.
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Sunday, June 14, 2009

catch up

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catch up

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of plight and friendship

I am a worrier. We all know that I am. I worry about the plights of things. I worry about bees. I worry about their little unnamed plague and how it could affect the world as we know it. I worry about them so much that I bought my mom a bee hive from Andrew's Recyclables in Seattle. Recycled timber made into a bee hive that needs no upkeep. Perfect. Surely a safe home for some of the buzzies while the scientists figure out how to save the entire world's bee population. Keep in mind that my mom complained more about a bee sting during our visit home than her recovery from the major abdominal surgery which was the cause for our visit home. But, she is an avid gardener and I thought it wasn't a self-serving a gift until the complaints began.

I also have a fear of bees. Walking home through the fields from the Tickled Trout yesterday, I noticed quite a few bees amongst the wild phlox and flowering mint. Then, I had a vision of a giant killer swarm of Scottish bees surrounding me, stinging me to death, and leaving my warped and stung body where it dropped with only the Highland Cows as witness. I've not claimed my worries or fears are reasonable.

Sure enough, around the bend and over the creek there was a field flowering Scottish something growing on both sides of the path. A bee for each blossom. A buzz for each stamon. Truly, the air hummed. I thought that I had psychic powers, that I had foreseen my death amd that death was my next step through the field. There were even Highland Cows chewing their cud in the rare Scottish sun.

Then my phone rang. It was a friend calling to tell me her woes. I don't even remember getting through the deadly fields or up the path or even through the park to get to the train station home. That's the best thing about my friends. I am fearless in their company.
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Friday, June 12, 2009


A basic tennant of my parenting philosophy is that it is good for a kid to be bored. So bored that it is better to hang your head off the edge of a slide in the young summer's sun and wonder, just why you've not fallen off into the sand pit. So bored that it is entertaining to figure out that you don't hear so well with headphones on your temples versus your ears and you don't hear at all when you chew through the cords hanging off the headphones.
Boredom is the source of great creativity. It lets your mind wander and your soul settle - barring electrocution before said soul settles. G wouldn't love her ears quite so much and Bug wouldn't respect gravity that much more if they weren't delightfully bored during our visit to my parents' last week. I bring toys when we go out as a family because I want to finish conversations not because I don't want my kids to be bored. Boredom takes energy and explanation and lots of quiet and lots of talking too. It is the perfectly balanced activity. We've only got 7 weeks before Bug starts proper schooling. I've not signed him up for any summer activities this year. Rather, I think we will get dressed when we want, explore the city when we want, and get bored on trains and subways and long walks. I hope it's enough time to be bored.
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Saturday, June 6, 2009


We've just returned from a visit with my family in Minnesota. As usual I've got too many stories and thoughts careening around my head, to pick one would be impossible. Best to let time do the sifting and find a picture that sums the visit up nicely. I think this one does the job.
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