I don't know if I have written too much about the teaching (violin and piano lessons) that I do in my spare time (insert chortle like someone who just snorted milk up their nose...or is it out? I can never get that one right). Somehow it must've slipped my mind in between all the other million things that seem to go on around here. Or perhaps it has been in half my posts and in my sleep deprived state, I just can't seem to remember what day it is much less what I have written.
At any rate, I had one of those "moments" recently while teaching. My student was trying to play a Hanon exercise for me but it became apparent very quickly that she wasn't quite ready for prime time, as my father is fond of saying. She could play hands separately just fine but putting them together, well, that was an entirely different thing. It seemed to get especially tricky on the descent. (For those of you who are not musicians, Hanon is a series of finger exercises for the piano in which you play a particular pattern up the keys a couple octaves and then back down again. Some say it is boring and monotonous but I find it almost mesmerizing, relaxing, rejuvenating even; like rocking in a rocking chair back and forth, or how some people must actually love swimming laps in a pool instead of just enduring them like the rest of us who choose to torture ourselves in that fashion. Again, similar to how some people feel about Hanon, but I digress.) At any rate, I kept having her repeat the descending left hand, then adding the right slowly to no avail. And it hit me that this is very much how life can be at times. You get parts of it right. You even get all of it right at different times but it's the putting it all together that can be so difficult to accomplish. There are times in life when things simply don't come together for whatever the reason. Sometimes it is no fault of our own. Other times it is. Quite often it's just juggling too many balls where any one of them alone would be easy as pie.
As I was working with her, I tried to point out how she had no problem playing the parts separately. Even though she was struggling to get them together, she definitely knew each part. She had successfully learned both hands. There is often success underneath our failings, little victories inside our fallings short. There is often plenty of goodness to uncover; sneaky bits of progress to discover just hiding in there. Sometimes all we need is someone to remind us that just because we aren't getting our hands together perfectly yet, we are not total failures. We have plenty to work with; we just have to keep giving it our best until one day we get it, whatever it is. Or maybe we won't but you know, some things, well, they're only Hanon.
It made me think of a scene from a few weeks ago. I had taken the five kids to play in the cul-du-sac down the street and at one point I saw Madeline prowling around in the neighbor's landscaping.
"Madeline, get out of their flowers," I reprimanded. "We don't walk through landscaping. People work hard to make their yards pretty and....." I was about to go on when she interrupted.
"Sorry, Mommy. I was just looking at the beautiful butterfly," she said so innocently as this enormous butterfly came darting up from the yard and right toward where I was standing with Solomon, nearly hitting me in the face. She went chasing after it as my heart dripped from the dagger I pictured plunging into it. When do we stop chasing the butterflies? Heck, when do we stop even noticing them?
Fleeting are those moments. How easy it is in the hustle and bustle and worries of this world to miss the forest for the trees. How easy it is to get stuck on the flailing Hanon exercises of life. How easy it is to feel like we have failed miserably when really, we just need a little more time, a different focus, a certain someone who is willing to believe in us and rejoice in our little successes, regardless of our inability to "get it all together" presently. Perhaps recognizing our need to stop and enjoy the butterflies gently drifting by is what it's all about anyhow. Perhaps sometimes the left hand descending is good enough all on its own.
(Of course, it's a good thing my student doesn't read this blog because I'm totally making her do it again and again and again! Because sometimes what we need is someone to help us get it right when we can't seem to do it all by ourselves!)
10.08.2011
10.07.2011
Correction: The Who
My Husband (and after-the-fact editor) sent me a little message after my last post. He wrote:
Ahhhh! Huge error, Keith Moon was the drummer for The Who. He died and was replaced by that random guy you have listed. Keith Moon, after all, is the second greatest drummer of all time, after Neil of course.
I stand corrected.....but then, isn't that the point? I am CLUELESS but WHO really cares? Bu-du-Chhhh!
There were quite a few typos though and I apologize for the inconvenience of having to figure out what I really meant. They have (hopefully) all been corrected. :)
Cheerio!
Ahhhh! Huge error, Keith Moon was the drummer for The Who. He died and was replaced by that random guy you have listed. Keith Moon, after all, is the second greatest drummer of all time, after Neil of course.
I stand corrected.....but then, isn't that the point? I am CLUELESS but WHO really cares? Bu-du-Chhhh!
There were quite a few typos though and I apologize for the inconvenience of having to figure out what I really meant. They have (hopefully) all been corrected. :)
Cheerio!
The Wrong Generation
"I'm not trying to cause a big sensation
(Talkin' 'bout my generation)
I'm just talkin' 'bout my generation
(Talkin' 'bout my generation)"
The Who
When I was little, I can recall my mom saying at one point or another that I was born a generation too late. I can recall getting my first stereo: a record player with big black plastic speakers, each containing several silver rings of descending sizes in the middle. I later regretted having picked this one as the trendier black-fabric covered speakers seemed infinitely cooler. But, it was a good lesson to me that "cool" didn't really matter. What mattered was that this well-made little stereo opened up yet another window into the world of music for me.
For many years I was content playing read-along books and children's songs on my little record player, even branching out to Stevie Wonder and friends with We Are the World. (We are the children, we are the ones who make a brighter day so....oh, sorry.) But as I got older, and moved on to tape players, my older siblings tried to turn me on to the likes of Cindy Lauper and Madonna, Duran Duran and Kiss, but to no avail. You see, I loved 50's music (and square dancing and re-runs of all the old sit coms depicting life in the fifties and little black and white tile in bathrooms and Woolworths with it's malt shop in the back).... I still have the poodle skirt my mom made me for something or another but gosh darn if the elastic didn't up and die so that it no longer stays up....on Madeline of course....I mean, I'm beyond Poodle Skirts now....um, er....
At any rate, while the pop music of the time did nothing for me, my brother inadvertently turned me to classical music in pre-adolescence when he gave me a tape of Issac Stern playing Beethoven's Violin Concerto, or maybe it was Brahms. But from then on I listened to all the great violin concertos I could get my hands on. After all, I was an aspiring musician and that type of music seriously intrigued me like no other. So, while others my age were singing "You Can't Touch This" and other such "stuff" for lack of a kinder word, I was humming 50's and classical music in my head, truly marching to the beat of my own drummer. It just didn't happen to be the likes of Charlie Watts, Tico Torres, Steven Adler, Eric Kretz, Zac Starkey, or, sorry to say Kurt, Neil Peart or any other drummer from bands I couldn't hum a tune from to save my life. (And yes, I had to do a big google search to even come up with those drummers' names who played for Rolling Stones, Bon Jovi, Guns N' Roses, STP, The Who, and Rush, in that order.) Really, how alternative is "alternative music" when EVERYONE is listening to it?
I don't know why I am like this but ask me about any music or musician or rock band on the radio during the 80's and 90's and I will stare at you blankly as if you just asked me to prove the quadratic formula using only toothpicks and pickles. I was too immersed in the Everly Brothers, the Coasters, and perhaps a little Patsy Cline to keep up with, um, whoever they were. Sure, I eventually found the Beatles (who didn't?) and other bands of the 60's and 70's but, until I was knee deep in adolescence and fell head over heels for jazz (think Stan Getz and Kenny Barron, Ella Fitzgerald and Billy Holiday, oh and we can't forget Johnny Hartman, mmmm), nothing really did it for me like some good old 50's music or Isaac Stern playing any of the great violin concertos.
Kurt and I were at a dinner party a year or so ago when a song by The Who came on and Kurt, being the loving husband he often is, teasingly said from across the table, "Hey Karen, who sings this?" Had I known, and been wittier and perhaps even somewhat comfortable with the surrounding company, I might have replied "What's on second?" but no, I just stared blankly at him with silent but deadly thoughts racing through my brain as I tried to deconstruct the quadratic formula with toothpicks and pickle juice. And of course, all of the previous conversation stopped right on cue, all eyes on me. So, it came out that not only was I by far the youngest chickie at the table, but I was clueless about pop music (actually pop culture in general to be honest) and the host proceeded to go through his very hip iPhone connected to his iTunes connected to the iBone connected to the Hip Bone (which apparently I don't have!) connected to the wireless everything which of course made the speakers work like magic or something (wow, when did they come up with all that?) and he went song by song asking me if I knew who sung this or that....no, nope, nada aaaand no again....oh, oh, I got that one, it's ol' blue eyes himself....God I love Sinatra....But I was burning by that point because, even though he didn't mean to, Kurt had just thrown me under the bus. And I am not talking Jerome Bettis here or the puny school buses Liam rides. No, we're talking those double-decker buses over seas. Ouch, that hurt!
But wait, it gets better. So the neighbor from up the street who is sitting next to me leans over and says, "Karen, if you could only listen to one more song, at the end of which you would die, what would it be?" I paused. As much to go through the files and files of beloved music in my head as to make some silent judgments myself, I mean come on! Get off it already!
"Probably Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto but you know, I'd have to really think about it," I said, thinking through the various requiems and symphonies I have loved over the years....wondering if I would pick the most beloved, or the one that lasts the longest! He looked at me, apparently using toothpicks and pickles to solve something in his head and turned back to the conversation about why I apparently don't like rock music. Do I think I am BETTER than rock bands? Am I somehow superior in nature to them, the host wanted to know? He seemed very intrigued but somehow it felt a bit more like, I don't know, HUMILIATION?! Why can't I just like different music than the herd? If I was listening mostly to the Golden Oldies station and Classical and Jazz, why would I know who, um, [insert band name or random singer here] was? I was the kid who didn't talk music to other kids, or just smiled and nodded or perhaps went to my happy place during those conversations and ate pickles on toothpicks while doing math equations....and no I have no idea where the toothpicks and pickles came from, maybe I am secretly wishing I had pregnancy cravings while reviewing grade school math?
Things were a little better in high school when, caving to the pressure, I was able to sing every song by the Indigo Girls with my girlfriends and we listened to the same song sung in every possible way (yet sold as different songs somehow) by the Cranberries. And of course, I was the designated driver for my boyfriend and his buddies to some pretty "big" concerts, starting with Helmet, where one of our friends broke his leg in the mosh pit (interestingly enough, that just doesn't happen in an orchestra pit...unless of course you accidentally misstep and fall in!) and then Bad Religion, Pennywise, Blind Melon, Lenny Kravitz. I missed Stone Temple Pilots (phew) because of a soccer tournament I believe....The list goes on and on. I dreaded them all to be honest. And when I got to choose the venue and ended up at a Yo-Yo-Ma or Perlman concert or perhaps swooning over Harry Connick Jr., ahhhh, things were just right.
At any rate, I have now branched out into Country music, and as it turns out, I must have always been a closet country music fan because just last week during the Country Music Stations Legendary Lunchtime (where listeners send in their top 7 classic country songs to be played on the radio) I was able to sing all but one of the 5 songs I heard which included old timers like Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, even the song Delta Dawn. Who knew I was such a fan! But looking back, even the country singers we listened to growing up were old school.
So not too long ago, I overheard a conversation between Madeline and Lily about texting boyfriends. (You'd think we could wait a few years to worry about either but no....) And I couldn't help but thinking like an old person: Back in my day we'd actually pick up a phone, one that couldn't fit conveniently in your back pocket nor be carried from room to room, and we'd have real, live, vocal conversations with our suitors....you know, back in the olden days when sentences were more than a series of hopeful letters just waiting to be decoded....
I can recall meeting a girl in grade school who had clipped and cut everything she could get her hands on for her New Kids on the Block scrapbook....I had never even heard of them (and wish I hadn't once I had) and while I envied her for feeling so connected to something and so excited about cutting and pasting and collecting etc, I couldn't see what the big deal was.....As far as I could tell Bach rocked. Ever heard of Paderewski or Berg or Bruch or Albinoni? Good, lasting music there.
So, it's no wonder that when Kurt announced yesterday that "Lani Jane died," my response was, "Um, who?"
"You know, the lead singer for Warrant," he told me.
(Talkin' 'bout my generation)
I'm just talkin' 'bout my generation
(Talkin' 'bout my generation)"
The Who
When I was little, I can recall my mom saying at one point or another that I was born a generation too late. I can recall getting my first stereo: a record player with big black plastic speakers, each containing several silver rings of descending sizes in the middle. I later regretted having picked this one as the trendier black-fabric covered speakers seemed infinitely cooler. But, it was a good lesson to me that "cool" didn't really matter. What mattered was that this well-made little stereo opened up yet another window into the world of music for me.
For many years I was content playing read-along books and children's songs on my little record player, even branching out to Stevie Wonder and friends with We Are the World. (We are the children, we are the ones who make a brighter day so....oh, sorry.) But as I got older, and moved on to tape players, my older siblings tried to turn me on to the likes of Cindy Lauper and Madonna, Duran Duran and Kiss, but to no avail. You see, I loved 50's music (and square dancing and re-runs of all the old sit coms depicting life in the fifties and little black and white tile in bathrooms and Woolworths with it's malt shop in the back).... I still have the poodle skirt my mom made me for something or another but gosh darn if the elastic didn't up and die so that it no longer stays up....on Madeline of course....I mean, I'm beyond Poodle Skirts now....um, er....
At any rate, while the pop music of the time did nothing for me, my brother inadvertently turned me to classical music in pre-adolescence when he gave me a tape of Issac Stern playing Beethoven's Violin Concerto, or maybe it was Brahms. But from then on I listened to all the great violin concertos I could get my hands on. After all, I was an aspiring musician and that type of music seriously intrigued me like no other. So, while others my age were singing "You Can't Touch This" and other such "stuff" for lack of a kinder word, I was humming 50's and classical music in my head, truly marching to the beat of my own drummer. It just didn't happen to be the likes of Charlie Watts, Tico Torres, Steven Adler, Eric Kretz, Zac Starkey, or, sorry to say Kurt, Neil Peart or any other drummer from bands I couldn't hum a tune from to save my life. (And yes, I had to do a big google search to even come up with those drummers' names who played for Rolling Stones, Bon Jovi, Guns N' Roses, STP, The Who, and Rush, in that order.) Really, how alternative is "alternative music" when EVERYONE is listening to it?
I don't know why I am like this but ask me about any music or musician or rock band on the radio during the 80's and 90's and I will stare at you blankly as if you just asked me to prove the quadratic formula using only toothpicks and pickles. I was too immersed in the Everly Brothers, the Coasters, and perhaps a little Patsy Cline to keep up with, um, whoever they were. Sure, I eventually found the Beatles (who didn't?) and other bands of the 60's and 70's but, until I was knee deep in adolescence and fell head over heels for jazz (think Stan Getz and Kenny Barron, Ella Fitzgerald and Billy Holiday, oh and we can't forget Johnny Hartman, mmmm), nothing really did it for me like some good old 50's music or Isaac Stern playing any of the great violin concertos.
Kurt and I were at a dinner party a year or so ago when a song by The Who came on and Kurt, being the loving husband he often is, teasingly said from across the table, "Hey Karen, who sings this?" Had I known, and been wittier and perhaps even somewhat comfortable with the surrounding company, I might have replied "What's on second?" but no, I just stared blankly at him with silent but deadly thoughts racing through my brain as I tried to deconstruct the quadratic formula with toothpicks and pickle juice. And of course, all of the previous conversation stopped right on cue, all eyes on me. So, it came out that not only was I by far the youngest chickie at the table, but I was clueless about pop music (actually pop culture in general to be honest) and the host proceeded to go through his very hip iPhone connected to his iTunes connected to the iBone connected to the Hip Bone (which apparently I don't have!) connected to the wireless everything which of course made the speakers work like magic or something (wow, when did they come up with all that?) and he went song by song asking me if I knew who sung this or that....no, nope, nada aaaand no again....oh, oh, I got that one, it's ol' blue eyes himself....God I love Sinatra....But I was burning by that point because, even though he didn't mean to, Kurt had just thrown me under the bus. And I am not talking Jerome Bettis here or the puny school buses Liam rides. No, we're talking those double-decker buses over seas. Ouch, that hurt!
But wait, it gets better. So the neighbor from up the street who is sitting next to me leans over and says, "Karen, if you could only listen to one more song, at the end of which you would die, what would it be?" I paused. As much to go through the files and files of beloved music in my head as to make some silent judgments myself, I mean come on! Get off it already!
"Probably Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto but you know, I'd have to really think about it," I said, thinking through the various requiems and symphonies I have loved over the years....wondering if I would pick the most beloved, or the one that lasts the longest! He looked at me, apparently using toothpicks and pickles to solve something in his head and turned back to the conversation about why I apparently don't like rock music. Do I think I am BETTER than rock bands? Am I somehow superior in nature to them, the host wanted to know? He seemed very intrigued but somehow it felt a bit more like, I don't know, HUMILIATION?! Why can't I just like different music than the herd? If I was listening mostly to the Golden Oldies station and Classical and Jazz, why would I know who, um, [insert band name or random singer here] was? I was the kid who didn't talk music to other kids, or just smiled and nodded or perhaps went to my happy place during those conversations and ate pickles on toothpicks while doing math equations....and no I have no idea where the toothpicks and pickles came from, maybe I am secretly wishing I had pregnancy cravings while reviewing grade school math?
Things were a little better in high school when, caving to the pressure, I was able to sing every song by the Indigo Girls with my girlfriends and we listened to the same song sung in every possible way (yet sold as different songs somehow) by the Cranberries. And of course, I was the designated driver for my boyfriend and his buddies to some pretty "big" concerts, starting with Helmet, where one of our friends broke his leg in the mosh pit (interestingly enough, that just doesn't happen in an orchestra pit...unless of course you accidentally misstep and fall in!) and then Bad Religion, Pennywise, Blind Melon, Lenny Kravitz. I missed Stone Temple Pilots (phew) because of a soccer tournament I believe....The list goes on and on. I dreaded them all to be honest. And when I got to choose the venue and ended up at a Yo-Yo-Ma or Perlman concert or perhaps swooning over Harry Connick Jr., ahhhh, things were just right.
At any rate, I have now branched out into Country music, and as it turns out, I must have always been a closet country music fan because just last week during the Country Music Stations Legendary Lunchtime (where listeners send in their top 7 classic country songs to be played on the radio) I was able to sing all but one of the 5 songs I heard which included old timers like Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, even the song Delta Dawn. Who knew I was such a fan! But looking back, even the country singers we listened to growing up were old school.
So not too long ago, I overheard a conversation between Madeline and Lily about texting boyfriends. (You'd think we could wait a few years to worry about either but no....) And I couldn't help but thinking like an old person: Back in my day we'd actually pick up a phone, one that couldn't fit conveniently in your back pocket nor be carried from room to room, and we'd have real, live, vocal conversations with our suitors....you know, back in the olden days when sentences were more than a series of hopeful letters just waiting to be decoded....
I can recall meeting a girl in grade school who had clipped and cut everything she could get her hands on for her New Kids on the Block scrapbook....I had never even heard of them (and wish I hadn't once I had) and while I envied her for feeling so connected to something and so excited about cutting and pasting and collecting etc, I couldn't see what the big deal was.....As far as I could tell Bach rocked. Ever heard of Paderewski or Berg or Bruch or Albinoni? Good, lasting music there.
So, it's no wonder that when Kurt announced yesterday that "Lani Jane died," my response was, "Um, who?"
"You know, the lead singer for Warrant," he told me.
"Again, who?" Seriously, it's that bad. But really, he ought to know that already.
He then played me the song Heaven.
"Oh yeah! The slow-dance song they played at all the school dances! I remember that one."
I watched the video (see link above) and had to smile. (What was with that HAIR anyway?!) They just don't do it like that anymore. And really, is that such a bad thing?
10.06.2011
More Gator Stories
A few weeks ago I ran across this story (because my mom sent me a link to my inbox) about a young man in Florida (of course) who caught an 800-pound, 12-foot long gator while on a fishing trip. He reeled it in with a simple bass fishing rod. Apparently, while the rest of us were learning our three R's, you know, Reading, wRiting, and Running-from-alligators, he was doing something crazy, like math. Or perhaps, instead of Running, he took the other course track which included Reeling and Rifles (or at least the proper use of a Bang Stick).
At any rate, here's the link. My favorite part of course is the "Proud Dad" who plans on mounting the head so his son can put it up in his room. Nothing like a good Alligator Head to scare the bejeezus out of you upon awakening each morning!
I think I'll stick to my shot of espresso. :)
At any rate, here's the link. My favorite part of course is the "Proud Dad" who plans on mounting the head so his son can put it up in his room. Nothing like a good Alligator Head to scare the bejeezus out of you upon awakening each morning!
I think I'll stick to my shot of espresso. :)
10.05.2011
It's All Relative
Relativism is the concept that points of view have no absolute truth or validity, having only relative, subjective value according to differences in perception and consideration. -Wikipedia
We have spent the last few years watching, hoping, praying, testing, and then driving Liam to all sorts of classes, doctors and other professionals who have helped get him to where he is today: a walking, talking, almost-jumping, charming three and a half year old who also happens to know all the letters and their sounds. And while we have seen progress in leaps and bounds this last year (ok, well, there haven't been any leaps yet) and we recognize he is so much closer to his peer group than he ever has been, Kurt and I still have moments of doubt and fear for him. We still wonder sometimes what the future holds and whether or not he will get caught up so completely that he can manage to get through school and hold jobs and be successfully independent on the often brutal path that life can sometimes take. And let's face it, he has a super happy disposition. It takes him half an hour to leave anywhere because he has to hug all the random strangers on the way out. Will life just squash him?
And then there are moments where we realize we have nothing to fear. One of these moments happened last week when I had finished teaching some new piano students. I went downstairs to talk to the mom, whom I had only met a week before. She was busy on the floor reading with Liam while her four children and three of mine were all playing Legos.
As I entered the room she looked up at me and said, "Liam is so smart! He knows all his letters and he read me that entire book!"
"Oh, yeah, he taught himself letters but he isn't really reading yet. He just memorized that one," I said. "And really, he is older than he looks. How old do you think he is?"
"He's three, right? He told me," she said. Now I was beaming. He finally remembered how old he is! Woo hoo! And here is someone who doesn't know our family, doesn't know Liam's story and thinks only that he is super smart. My how things have changed.
I was ecstatic to have a new point of view. I was so grateful that this mom spoke up and told me what she saw because sometimes it is easy to miss how far we have come on our journey. It was a great reminder that Liam is not the same little speechless boy we had fretted over. (Actually, I knew as much given how LOUD and NOISY he has recently become.....be careful what you pray for, sheesh!)
Later that day, while in my bathroom, I was thinking about the importance of recognizing where our children actually are instead of remaining stuck where they have been when Liam came waltzing in adorned in silky, red-satin gloves pulled up past his elbows, a red-velvet purse on his shoulder and sporting a hot pink hairband with a gigantic flower on top of his head.
"Well, perhaps it's all relative," I told him, chuckling to myself.
"What? WHAT?" he hollered back.
"Oh, nothing," I said. And he pranced on out to find the pink sword to complete his outfit.
We have spent the last few years watching, hoping, praying, testing, and then driving Liam to all sorts of classes, doctors and other professionals who have helped get him to where he is today: a walking, talking, almost-jumping, charming three and a half year old who also happens to know all the letters and their sounds. And while we have seen progress in leaps and bounds this last year (ok, well, there haven't been any leaps yet) and we recognize he is so much closer to his peer group than he ever has been, Kurt and I still have moments of doubt and fear for him. We still wonder sometimes what the future holds and whether or not he will get caught up so completely that he can manage to get through school and hold jobs and be successfully independent on the often brutal path that life can sometimes take. And let's face it, he has a super happy disposition. It takes him half an hour to leave anywhere because he has to hug all the random strangers on the way out. Will life just squash him?And then there are moments where we realize we have nothing to fear. One of these moments happened last week when I had finished teaching some new piano students. I went downstairs to talk to the mom, whom I had only met a week before. She was busy on the floor reading with Liam while her four children and three of mine were all playing Legos.
As I entered the room she looked up at me and said, "Liam is so smart! He knows all his letters and he read me that entire book!"
"Oh, yeah, he taught himself letters but he isn't really reading yet. He just memorized that one," I said. "And really, he is older than he looks. How old do you think he is?"
"He's three, right? He told me," she said. Now I was beaming. He finally remembered how old he is! Woo hoo! And here is someone who doesn't know our family, doesn't know Liam's story and thinks only that he is super smart. My how things have changed.
I was ecstatic to have a new point of view. I was so grateful that this mom spoke up and told me what she saw because sometimes it is easy to miss how far we have come on our journey. It was a great reminder that Liam is not the same little speechless boy we had fretted over. (Actually, I knew as much given how LOUD and NOISY he has recently become.....be careful what you pray for, sheesh!)
Later that day, while in my bathroom, I was thinking about the importance of recognizing where our children actually are instead of remaining stuck where they have been when Liam came waltzing in adorned in silky, red-satin gloves pulled up past his elbows, a red-velvet purse on his shoulder and sporting a hot pink hairband with a gigantic flower on top of his head.
"Well, perhaps it's all relative," I told him, chuckling to myself.
"What? WHAT?" he hollered back.
"Oh, nothing," I said. And he pranced on out to find the pink sword to complete his outfit.
10.04.2011
Lily's Latest
Lily: "Mommy, you know the baby you had in your tummy before Aidan?" (This can't be going anywhere good....) "I wish the baby you had in your tummy before Aidan hadn't died."
Me: "You know Lily, we were very sad at the time. But it's okay because if that hadn't happened, we never would have had Aidan."
Eerie silence....
Lily: "Weeeeeellll, you know Mom, Aidan isn't all that nice to us anyway."
Eh-hem. Ouch.
Dear (future) Aidan,
Lily really does love you. It's just, well, sometimes you can be a little tough on her. Please take no offense that she might have preferred an inviable embryo over you.
Love, Mom
Me: "You know Lily, we were very sad at the time. But it's okay because if that hadn't happened, we never would have had Aidan."
Eerie silence....
Lily: "Weeeeeellll, you know Mom, Aidan isn't all that nice to us anyway."
Eh-hem. Ouch.
Dear (future) Aidan,
Lily really does love you. It's just, well, sometimes you can be a little tough on her. Please take no offense that she might have preferred an inviable embryo over you.
Love, Mom
10.03.2011
Learning From (someone else's) Experience
Chicken Comb Injections: "One of the most recent discoveries for treating arthritis in the knees is the use of hyaluronic acid, which is derived from the combs of chicken. By injecting this substance into the knee joint, the body uses it as a form of bio-lubricant, coating the bones and allowing them to slide smoothly rather than grate together."
Read more: Chicken Comb for Knee Pain | eHow.com http://www.ehow.com/about_5369657_chicken-comb-knee-pain.html#ixzz1ZRZq6w81
Oh yes, they did! And I am guessing people are lining up in droves to get their chicken comb injections as I type! (Great for the knees, no so much for the chickens!)
I just have to give a big shout out to my dear hubbie Kurt for teaching the children a lesson they may never forget.
You see, last week, my mom sent us this handy-dandy, ever-useful apple corer-peeler-slicer thingamajig. (See Exhibit A...) (Oh and thanks Mom!)
I had put it together and after a few tries (after which I read the manual to make sure I didn't do bodily harm), learned how it worked. It is fast and efficient and so much fun....and as Kurt demonstrated yesterday, it is just the right amount of physical risk to humor even the thrill seekers among us!
*Disclaimer: No harm, physical or otherwise, was done to the sweet Thingamajig in the above incident. He's probably off coring/slicing/peeling as I blog....but I am pretty certain there is no injection, chicken derived or otherwise, that will help the poor little digit involved!
Read more: Chicken Comb for Knee Pain | eHow.com http://www.ehow.com/about_5369657_chicken-comb-knee-pain.html#ixzz1ZRZq6w81
Oh yes, they did! And I am guessing people are lining up in droves to get their chicken comb injections as I type! (Great for the knees, no so much for the chickens!)
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You see, last week, my mom sent us this handy-dandy, ever-useful apple corer-peeler-slicer thingamajig. (See Exhibit A...) (Oh and thanks Mom!)
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| The (Innocent Looking) Thingamajig |
You see, I was out of the house teaching violin lessons when Kurt decided to use the aforementioned Thingamajig to fix an apple for the onlooking children of the house. He hadn't seen me use it however (or perhaps had not been paying enough attention when he had, I know not which....) and starting with the thingamabob exactly how it looks in the picture, stuck the apple on and proceeded to peel/slice/core the apple backwards. In and of itself, that is not a problem, although I am guessing it is not as easy as using it the correct way, you know, with the sharpened side of the blade. (No biggie, it seems that most men like to muscle through things from time to time anyhow.) However, when it came time to remove the core from the three prongs, he had to use all his might, and as the apple core made its dramatic exit from the Thingamajig, his hand flung into the sharpened side of the blade which sliced into his pinky and splattered blood ALL. OVER. EVERYTHING!
My understanding is that the looks on our childrens' faces were priceless. They will never forget and probably never eat sliced fingers apples again. But I have to say, that is one excellent lesson:
Children (and husbands) should avoid using unfamiliar sharp objects no matter how friendly they may appear. :)
Thanks for that, Hun! Oh, and you might want to wash the dried blood off your face....yep, there you go; you got it.
*Disclaimer: No harm, physical or otherwise, was done to the sweet Thingamajig in the above incident. He's probably off coring/slicing/peeling as I blog....but I am pretty certain there is no injection, chicken derived or otherwise, that will help the poor little digit involved!
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