Sometimes

Sometimes, apparently, you're just so tired it kind of sneaks up on you. (Neither of my children have ever  done this. I've always seen pictures of other kids passed out in their highchairs and wondered exactly how much Benadryl was involved. No idea on why Laura was this tired but she'd had it.)

Sometimes I would like to jump into Will's brain and swim around in it for a while. The other day, he shushed me while he was pressing his ear to my forearm. He said if I listened hard enough, I could hear the sea. (Not the ocean, the sea.) He also asked in the car the other day, out of the blue, if I remember being a cheerleader. (I would hope that I'm able to remember that, as it wasn't all that long ago that it happened.)

Sometimes (okay, probably more than "sometimes") if it's really nice out like it is today, I do everything in my power to avoid doing yardwork. Because it makes way more sense to me to do it when it's 95 and so humid out you can barely see. But sitting here in the mess that is our yard, I can only stand it for so long. So it's yardwork time. Not to be confused with Hammer Time. Now that I think of it, though, maybe the enjoyment factor for yardwork would be upped if I did it in Hammer pants while rapping and dancing. Something to ponder, anyway.

I feel a little less crazy

It seems that there are others out there who are aware that the idea that only complimenting our daughters (and sisters and nieces and any other girl and woman out there) on their appearance doesn't exactly send the best message. So maybe I'm not so crazy after all, to make sure to point this out to my baby. (Maybe just a little crazy, admittedly.)

Here's the blog post I just read on this very topic, which links to the original article. It also mentions Cinderella Ate My Daughter (in the P.S.), which I read a sample of on my Kindle a few months back. The sample was enough to sufficiently rile me up so that I obsessed about it and the potential problems that we're setting our daughters up for and couldn't sleep. It seems like it would be an interesting book but I don't think I can read it now that I have my very own daughter as I tend to overthink such things and drive everyone around me completely crazy with my fretting.

I wanted to write something a little longer on the topic but I'm still trying to get my thoughts in order and arrange them coherently, which may or may not happen later today or tomorrow. I also owe you some pictures and commentary on our trip to WV for the fair and, to Will at least, its main event--the pig chase. I've got some diverse topics to address in the next few days, don't I?

Yes, she's cute. The cutest. (And if I'm being really honest, I love her little gingham shirt.) But I hope that she always knows that she's also valued for who she is and the things she thinks, not just the beautiful little body that carries all that stuff around inside it.

This post is brought to you by two (!) napping children

***To start, you may want to be aware that this isn't really about my children. It's about books and other boring stuff and my strange thoughts about them. It's perfectly okay to skip this and wait on another post about the little ones if you'd like. You won't hurt my feelings. I promise.***

Another day, another post! (Note: I started writing this on Tuesday, and it's now Thursday and I'm still not finished. Oh well.) I'm on a real roll! And it's all because we now have a mandatory quiet hour after lunch, during Laura's nap, in which Will is restricted to his room, and to activities like looking at books and doing other quiet things with his door closed. We're only on our second day but I'm liking having a few minutes to myself again. Yesterday, he actually fell asleep and slept for an hour or so (he was sitting on the couch waiting on us to get up yesterday morning when I came downstairs so who knows how long he'd been awake, and this was shortly before 6:30) and I remembered again just how much I took for granted his nap-taking days. How I miss them. I felt like a new woman after his siesta and my own hour to do as I pleased. It was pure luxury.

(In any case, now it's Wednesday and he's currently testing the "quiet time" limits as I type, tiptoeing over to the door and opening it a crack before racing back to his bed and his reading. If only he could get paid for limit-testing. We'd be independently wealthy for sure.)

Anyway, I've been feeling like I'm physically able to detect my brain atrophying from lack of use in recent weeks. Vacation is good for relaxing, yes, but doesn't really seem to be good for brain-related endeavors, like thinking about books and reading. I recently waxed lyrical about my Kindle in commenting on my friend Lucy's post about getting an e-reader but Laura and I went to the quaint little library's used book sale while we were in Michigan and I bought no less than seven books for something like $12. I don't know if it's because I've been reading mostly on my Kindle since I got it in December (minus the brief and heartbreaking interlude when I shattered its screen and then I just sucked it up and replaced it since I was already hooked on it), but I have really been enjoying the pleasures of holding an actual book in my hands, turning the pages, placing bookmarks, laying it down on the nightstand with a satisfying little thud.

I swore I'd hate any kind of e-reader from the first time I ever heard of one. So dehumanizing, so devoid of the sensory pleasures of reading. But also so convenient, so quick, so portable, so easy. And so I was won over. I still love it, don't get me wrong, but I also know that I'll never, ever be able to turn my back completely on the good old-fashioned book, the kind with actual pages.

But now that I'm trying to work my way through the stack of books that I bought while we were gone, I'm realizing just what a strange bird I am reading-wise. I will be the first to admit that I'm a literary weirdo. I very rarely like the same books that most people just love, I guess because I'm expecting to be completely blown away based on everyone else's reviews and I'm usually underwhelmed or totally uninterested and/or baffled by the general enthusiasm level. (For instance, I loathed, absolutely LOATHED, The Da Vinvci Code. It seemed like it was written to be a completely implausible action movie even as a mere book before even the possibility of it being made into one, from the few chapters that I read.) In short, I'm picky about what I read mainly because reading time is kind of at a premium these days. If it's not really, really good within the first 20 or so pages (harsh, I know), I abandon it and don't look back for the most part. My philosophy is that there are so many good options out there that it's a shame to waste reading time on mediocre books. (I just reread this and am totally aware that I could come across as kind of insufferable.)

Now, let me be clear about something because I don't want anyone to get any ideas about my ideas about myself (was that confusing?). Never, ever, ever would I consider myself to be a writer. I write this silly little blog for my family and friends with no aspirations for it beyond letting you guys see pictures and read about the kids. I am kind of uncomfortable with the idea of lots and lots of strangers reading about my family and our life, not because it makes me fear for our safety or anything, but mainly because I just find if vaguely unsettling in general, a little strange. All that to say that I don't ever hope to make a living off of this "writing" that I do here. (However, I must also note here that I do absolutely consider the authors of other, better blogs to be writers in the truest sense of the word. I fully support advertising on these blogs and the fact that their authors should be compensated for their time and efforts. I'm also not intending to say that these people are somehow negligent by putting their families and innermost thoughts out there to be, quite bravely I might add, judged by strangers. Different strokes for different folks and all that, you know.)

That was a long-winded way of saying what I'm getting ready to write. While I'm incredibly picky about what I read (and don't read), I don't for one second want anyone to think that I believe that I'm somehow uniquely qualified to judge a writer and his or her work. (I did major in English and there was never a single second that I even considered any other major. I don't think, though, that this makes me any more or less able to read critically and discuss and critique and/or otherwise evaluate books than anyone else on the planet.) Any book, whether it be breathtaking or horrifyingly bad, took crazy amounts of time, effort, and love. It took perseverance, and dedication, and the ability to focus on one project for a singularly long enough period of time to see it through from mere idea to written tome. I admire anyone who has written any book. Period.

However, I'm having some real trouble here lately sticking with books. I get a few pages in and realize that (a) I'm totally uninterested, (b) I really don't like the characters, (c) my mind is wandering, or (d) a combination of any of the above. I finished the (Kindle version) of Bel Canto (Lucy's recommendation, and it was really, really good--I don't say that often) and then finished up a few days ago with an easy (but definitely entertaining) read: A Year in Provence. Since I'd read two whole good books in a row, I guess I was feeling a little cocky about my ability to suss out the good from the bad and jumped right into Life of Pi (I'm way behind, I know, but it was a used book sale find) thinking I'd really like it. Wrong. A few pages in, my mind started to wander and I knew I wouldn't make it through it. I really wanted to like it. I just couldn't. Maybe some other time, I guess. I've heard such good things about it, but then again, that doesn't seem to matter much in my case.

So I've moved on to alternating looking at the new IKEA catalog, which arrived yesterday, and Geraldine Brooks' March, which is starting out to be good in a harrowing, pain-inducing Civil War kind of way. Hopefully I'll be able to make it through, although I'm beginning to think that my attention span is getting shorter the older I get. And that's a scary thought.

I'll just go ahead and apologize for my snottiness book-wise. I don't mean to offend anyone if you happened to like The Da Vinci Code or anything. You know, different strokes . . . Thanks for bearing with my long-winded and completely unnecessary explanation of my reading life. I kind of miss talking to others about books and reading. Curious George and Richard Scarry aren't always the most satisfying reads out there.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig

After a nice week of some r&r, or at least as much r&r as you can get with two little ones around, we're home again! Being away from the mundane responsibilities of home, and also being away from oppressive humidity, was nice. I also found a new favorite walking route (which nicely coincided with my discovery of the world's best blueberry muffin, and I like to think that the two cancel each other out, at the very least...):

Our house was a few blocks back from the lake and the public beach but it was an easy walk. Laura and I took several walks along the lake, enjoying our surroundings (and maybe a muffin). That little white spot on the water is a sailboat.

Look! I exist! Since I'm usually the one taking the pictures, I have around five or so pictures of myself with my children. I'm trying to get better about having my picture taken with them, so that they actually see what I look like as they progressively and rapidly age me. (Laura isn't exasperated, as it appears. She's just playing peekaboo.)

Laura made peace with the beach this trip. She even played in the sand for a while! There were still some grimaces and a handful or two of sand in the mouth, but she seemed to be much more at ease this time around.

She also took the opportunity to do a little light reading.

But by the time the sun set, she was pooped out.

While Big Brother played and played, asking every few minutes if the sun was setting.

Eventually, it was. And it was pretty spectacular. Watching the sunset is a little bit peculiar. It feels like it takes forever to set, but the last few moments, right before it sinks below the horizon, are over so quickly. Now that I type that, it occurs to me that it's kind of like raising kids. It feels like both an eternity and the blink of an eye, simultaneously. (Like the saying that the days are long but the years are short, except that I can't say anything nice and concisely like that.)

Shortly after sunset, everyone became a little cold and a little grumpier.

But it was kind of hard to stay grumpy while this was the view.

The next day was rainy, and there was a lot of lying around. (Well, Will was "lying around" for around five seconds at a time or so, so I had to act quickly to get this picture.)

In addition to the three or so pounds the boys picked, I bought ten more pounds on our way home. (Yes, I said 10.) I've made blueberry pancakes, blueberry muffins, blueberry jelly and have stocked the freezer with plenty of the frozen little guys for smoothies and such. These blueberries are delicious, nothing like many of the blueberries I always seem to end up with from the store. Not to mention that these are a million times cheaper.

Then we drove home. Jamison spent the evening at a local urgent care with some swelling and an infection in his elbow. Seriously. What are the odds of getting an infected elbow?

The next day, we went to the Children's Museum. I can't imagine for the life of me why, but we hadn't been before. I think Will can't believe that a place like this really exists. For starters, it's housed in the old train station, which he can't talk about enough. And then there are the four million things for him to do: play in water, build stuff, climb things, pretend. He could easily spend a whole day there and not run out of things to do. So we bought a membership and will be going back pretty frequently. (I feel much better about buying memberships to causes I can really get behind, like the zoo and the museum center. King's Island, maybe not so much. We're passed/membershipped to the extreme this year, so we should have no shortage of activities.)

There is the best little area for the little ones. Laura loved it. And since she's the only one not really on the move, I only took pictures of her. (And when I was with Will, it often involved the water area, so I didn't really want to take a chance by toting the camera along with us.)

I could just about bite her (in the most non-vampire way possible, of course). Oddly enough, she didn't really get all the constant feedback we get when we're out and about here while we were in Michigan. (And don't think I didn't notice, Michigan. Our vacation dollars may go elsewhere in the future because of it.) I know that she's mine and I know that no one will ever think she's as sweet and utterly breathtaking as we do, but people are always complimenting her, from the teenager bagging groceries at Kroger to the old women at the gym (I know, I've broken down and am finally taking advantage of our gym membership--I'll let you know how it goes).  And, kind of obnoxiously, I always smile and say, "She is, isn't she?" when people tell me how pretty she is. In my defense, though, I usually hastily add that we are, after all, a bit biased. (And then I usually whisper to her that she's more than just a pretty face, like a crazy person. She is only 16 months old, I know. But I don't think it's ever too early to start instilling this in her.)

How did I end up on this? Oh, the picture of Laura. She tends to have this effect on me for some reason. Like the other day when she was eating dinner in her high chair and the sun caught her hair in a certain way and I actually thought to myself that one day she'll be a beautiful bride. Do I need to repeat that she's 16 months old? And maybe she won't want to get married. Then I started thinking about the boys that she'll go out with and I was filled with such trepidation that I actually had to remind myself that she's only a baby. And somehow I've suddenly become the crazy mom who can picture her little one someday in a wedding dress, with the light catching her hair through her veil just so. Maybe it's the heat. Or something.

Whatever. I'll leave you with a picture of all four of us, one of about three that I have of our whole little family. (A little sidenote: the nice man who offered to take our picture was having his picture taken in front of the museum as well. He had a photocopy of his parents in the exact same spot that was taken in 1941. The building, except for the fountains there now, looked exactly the same.)

And here's one of Will, who was kind of shortchanged in this post, getting ready to make some wishes and throw some pennies in the fountain:

Will's looking forward to a fun weekend in WV, with the county fair being the highlight that's taking up most of our conversations about the trip. There is some pig chasing in his future.