Post 8.5.1.0 Updating Post Numbers

I really did intend for the post numbers to be of some use.  I also intended to keep them straight.  The keeping-straight thing was definitely not achieved.  I have therefore spent a few hours creating a spreadsheet with all of the post numbers and notes of what's in each post.

What's in the 5 category has shifted to references to things I've read or watched.  A 9 category has been created for stories about my children, especially stories from when they were young. 

I also went through my compilation document and changed the font color to red everywhere that I said I'd write about something later.  I may actually do that at some point, now that I can keep track of what I've mentioned previously.

Got a few things done this weekend, but, of course, not nearly as much as I wanted done.  The bills and other financial things are the only things I'm feeling guilty about, though.  And the day isn't done.  I might get to them tonight.  It's possible.

Post 9.2.1.0 Dear Son's Dream

Dear Son’s Dream

[As told to his Mother, long ago.]

We were playing in the front yard of our house only it was a different house.  It was black and it was across the street from a factory.

The factory made big donuts that rolled after us.  They were big, big, up to my forehead.  They rolled across the street at us.  Brother and Brother climbed a tree to get away and they wanted me to climb up, too, but I stayed down.

And every time a donut came rolling up I grabbed it and put it in a bag.  And I bagged donuts and bagged donuts while Brother and Brother stayed up in the tree.

They were scared, but I bagged them all.  They were even too scared to come down after the donuts stopped coming so I had to eat them all by myself.

The factory made little round waffles, too, but they didn’t roll because their waffle-bumps stopped them.

Post 9.2.0.0 Dear Son and the Tomatoes

Dear Son has been dying to find something to give to the neighbors.  These are the South Neighbors we’re talking about:  the ones that let the kids pet the puppies and hold the pheasant chicks – the ones who have occasionally been so negligent as to bake too many cookies or buy too many watermelons.

Dear Son has been dying to give them something, anything.  He’s had the tomatoes staked out (so to speak) as “something to give the neighbors” ever since he found out that those bushes would grow tomatoes.

Well, the tomatoes finally got ripe – three big ones and two “little, tiny, cute ones.”  It took him three tries before he caught them at home and he came back from that last, successful, trip just glowing.

He came up to and hugged himself to me and said, “Wasn’t that good?”  So I bent over and hugged him back and he whispered, eyes beaming, “You know what?  I told them a lie!”

“What lie?”

“I told them we had lots of tomatoes and we couldn’t eat them all.  Wasn’t that good?”

He was just so proud that he had the social niceties of giving-to-neighbors down.  Not only was he the one who thought of giving something back, he knew how to do it properly, too.

So I said, “Oh, that sure is good,” and hugged him harder.  It was the first time I’ve ever hugged a five-year-old for telling a lie.  It might be the last time, too.

Post 9.0.1.0 Turning Blue

It’s Clean the Room time, and I am sitting on the freshly laundered sheets of Firstborn’s freshly made bed, drinking ginger ale from an oversized beer mug and supervising the operation.  Firstborn is four and a half.  From the looks of things I imagine I’ll be Acting Supervisor of Firstborn’s room until he reaches puberty.

Clean the Room is one of those things that he could do by himself, and would do willingly, if only there weren’t so many decisions and distractions involved.  I mean, it’s hard to know what to pick up first and even harder not to play with it once you’ve decided what should be first and you actually have it in your hands.

And why struggle against such obstacles when, with just a little lagging and a little mumbling, Mother will come solve all those problems and add a little mutual interaction.

It’s the interaction that’s the clincher.  When I was young, several people kept telling me, very profoundly, that “a child would rather be beaten than ignored.”  And while I’ve never done so far as to actually test that hypothesis, I can tell you from experience that small boys glow like soft pink lightbulbs whenever they can successfully drag attention out of Mother that Mother hadn’t planned to give.  It’s a bonus – a little power surge with a dose of half-concealed elation thrown in.

Clean the Room is almost a tradition, now.  Periodically, I get tired of saying “I told you an hour ago to clean this room.  That doesn’t mean play, that means clean.”  Only to hear, “I did clean it,” without any difference apparent in the room.  I kick, shove, or throw every offending article in the room into a pile and sit on the edge of the bed.  While Firstborn fitfully sorts through it all, I sound an occasional “pick up”, “keep going”, “clean – don’t play”, or “more it” in varying degrees of gruffness.

With these words to prod him along, Firstborn sorts what goes in his toy box from what goes in his bookshelf from what goes in the dirty clothes from what goes in the trash.  He is now about three quarters of the way done and starting to ask questions in hopes of starting a conversation so he can stop, or at least slow down for awhile.

I meet all of his opening gambits with curt answers and the words “keep cleaning.”

Then he asks, “Where are we going tomorrow?”

I growl, “To the library – keep cleaning.”

Firstborn perks up.  Smiling all over his face, he asks, “Are you going to get a book that tells how to turn blue?”

That did it.  I’m laughing now.  He knows he has me.  The conversation has started.  Darn his grinning little hide.

I thought he had forgotten that turning blue nonsense.  I certainly had.

You see, yesterday while I was playing with him, I told him that I could turn blue.  He told me I couldn’t, but his voice and eyes had been unsure.  You never could tell with parents.  Maybe I could.

I said that, yes, I could, and asked if he’d like to see me do it. While he sat, round eyed, I sat really still, to set the stage.  I took a deep breath.  Then I squeezed down hard on it, contorting my face and squeezing my eyes shut.  I held it as long as I could.  Then I let out the breath in a loud rush and said, “There!”

By then he knew it was a game and twinkling, he told me that I hadn’t turned blue.  I expressed disbelief.  Was he sure?  Yes, he was sure. 

I checked in the mirror.  Sure enough.  No blue.  Maybe I’d better try again?  Giggles.

I tried twice more, harder each time, and having failed both times, I conceded that I must have forgotten how.  I said I’d have to read up on it.  Then we’d gone on with whatever we had been doing and it hadn’t been mentioned since.

Well.  He remembered it.  And now we’re laughing about it all over again.  He’s still young enough that it amazes me when he makes a smooth connection to something he’s remembered.  Especially when he makes a connection that I haven’t made.

So I’m laughing and proud at the same time.  I remember that I love this kid.  The conversation he has started bounces back and forth between us as he smiles, pleased the he was able to sneak it in past me. 

The pile fades slowly until it’s gone.  It would have faded faster if a conversation hadn’t been added to slow it, but what the heck.  He needs the attention.  I’m the one who needed a clean room.

- - -

Now he’s asleep and I’m remembering again that I love this kid.  And remembering that I gave him a little piece of nonsense that he had thought was precious enough to save.  And remembering that he won’t be four much longer.

Next time I start Clean the Room Time, I think I’ll bring us both a glass of ginger ale. 

Post 3.5.1.0 Like vs Care

While consoling Beloved Son one night, we got to talking and I learned something.  Beloved Son was sad because he was having a visit to Grandma sprung on him because I couldn’t find another evening sitter to cover the hours of my second part-time job. 

He was sad because he and his brothers are enrolled in our city’s Rainbow Summer park program (to cover the part time day job) and they really love it.  Going to Grandma’s is nice, but Rainbow Summer has lots of kids in it and that’s better.

As I cuddled him and rocked him and talked to him, I told him that I was glad that he cared about the people he was with every day. He was glad that I knew that  that was important and said that there were even some people who cared about him. 

Rainbow Summer, which was held at every park in the city, ended last week and we are now in Rainbow Summer Extension, which is held only at our park.  The extension is a bridge between Summer and the School Year that was added for parents who use the program for sitting rather than to give their kids something to do (although the paperwork for the program says explicitly that it is not a day care program).

We’re only three days into the extension and the cross-town collection of kids don’t really know each other, yet.  Beloved Son is pleased that some of these new people care about him.

We talk about how nice it is to be cared about.  I was thinking that he felt well liked.  But he went on to talk about people who would play caroms with him even though they kept telling him rules he already knew and about a time that he had told on a boy who had peeked at him in the bathroom stall and the Yard Duty had made the peeker sit on a chair. 

I thought that he was digressing, using the talk about caring to lead into talking about other important events.  Then he said, “And there’s a girl there, and she was a big girl, and once she was carrying three big sticks, hockey sticks, by me, and she dropped one and she turned around and said “Are you all right? Did it hit you?”, and she didn’t like me!”

Whoa!  There was a difference between liking someone and caring about them and Beloved Son knew what the difference was.  And he thought caring was more important! 

Caring was the reason he didn’t want to leave.  The people who would let him play even though they thought he was too young to know the rules did it because they could see that he wanted to play and because his wanting mattered.

The Yard Duty who put the other boy on time out did it because he could see that Beloved Son was upset and because his feelings mattered.

The girl who asked if he was all right even though she didn’t like him did it because she could see that he might have been hurt and because his safety mattered.

It’s one thing to enjoy someone’s company, to like them.  It’s another thing entirely to notice someone’s needs and to act for their welfare.  It’s another thing entirely to care.  And Beloved Son prefers caring.  Beloved Son is glad that I’m glad that he cares.  Not too shabby for a seven year old. 

So we cuddled and rocked and talked and, finally, he fell asleep.  It’s still tow days ‘til the plane leaves.  Maybe a few more calls squeezed in here and there will turn up a permanent sitter and he won’t have to go.  Or maybe they won’t and he’ll have to say goodbye to some new people that he cares about and visit Grandma and Grandpa and the cat and geese and chickens.

Either way, it will be fine.  Either way, he’ll be with people who care.  And he’ll be himself, which is finer. 

Post 8.5.0.0 sorting and scanning photos

It's been awhile, hasn't it.  A couple of weeks back, I counted up the photos I had sorted and labeled that weekend, both in the computer and in  hand.  That is, they were the same photos.  They had been previously scanned, and I labeled and sorted the photos while also labeling and sorting the scans in my computer.

There were 454 of them.  It had been a three day weekend on one hand, but on the other, I hadn't worked continuously.  That finished all of the photos that had been scanned over Christmas break.

At that point, the old scanning sleeve was scratched enough that the scanner was scanning the scratches more than the pictures, so I had to stop.  I haven't been able to pry replacement sleeves out of either the manufacturer or Kodak.  Their online customer service sucks. 

I tried buying a new scanner, but can't find a simple one, like the old one at any local store.  I tried online and found a larger version of the little scanner I was using.  I just sent it back.  The note I made on Facebook about it reads:

Bought a new scanner. Was all excited. Had hundreds of photos queued up to be scanned. Sucker doesn't work. Sending back. Repacking photos. Damn.

There is a picture.  The problem with the scanner was that it wouldn't pull the photos through.  So my Dear Son tried pushing them through, to see if that would work.

At least if they ever get the rollers to work, the scan part works fine. 

I still have no scanner, so I've been pre-sorting and sometimes labeling more photos.  There are still boxes and boxes in the garage. 

The good news is that I've discovered that the best way to store the pictures is in index card archive boxes.  The bad news is that I now have a box full of unscanned photos and no scanner.  And for most of it, what I really need is just a new sleeve. 

But that's not what I came here to say.  I came to share the glee of finding 9 packets of pictures that could be thrown away with only the mildest of guilt.  Wheee.  They were Gerry's photos.

Gerry was my Mom's second husband.  The photos didn't get thrown away automatically just because they were his.  They got tossed because he would take a lot of pictures of, say, the view from someplace he had visited or from the property where he would build his house.  But it wouldn't be labeled, so it would just be a bunch of overexposed trees, with a few fronts of trucks thrown in.

No people + no labels usually gets chucked no matter who took them.  Oh, there was also a dead deer on a mule and what looked like damaged furniture.  I'm guessing the first was from a hunting trip and the second was evidence for a claim against a moving company.  Not much use for posterity, especially with no smiling hunters in any shot.

The pictures of fish all have smiling fishermen holding them.  The ones with Gerry in them are being kept for now.  I may toss them later, but I won't be able to toss them with guilt-free glee.  And that's what I experienced last night, folks.  Nearly guilt-free glee. 

Post 8.2.6.0 Current Events: Writing Group, Back from Christmas, DIL Cytology Certificate

I'm back in Stockton and at the Empresso again.  The rumor is true, it IS cold in Minnesota in the winter.  The cold and the Minnesota comments are a comment about my recent visit to Beloved Son and Daughter in Law in Rochester MN. She's taking a one year certificate class in Cytology at the Mayo Clinic. He's working from home, doing IT management for an engineering company with offices around the world.

I got a behind the classroom tour of the Mayo Clinic.  The cytology classes get to look into microscopes that are tube and mirror connected to the instructor's microscope, so that students can see what she sees, or a mirror image of it.  Each iteration reverses for the six slaves, three on each side.  Mirror, same, mirror, right and mirror, same, mirror left.

The stains used to make collected epithelial cells turns the new ones blue and the old ones pink.  They look pretty on the slide.   Suitable for fabric. 

I asked my Daughter in Law, who was giving me a tour and who was showing me a stack of slides, whether she would use such cloth for nursery curtains.  She said no.  Gave me the evil eye.  Well, not exactly evil.  The exasperated and endlessly disapproving eye.  She's had practice with it.  Has it on speed dial when she knows she'll be talking to me.  Sees it as necessary protection. 

She doesn't want to risk starting to think of me as normal.  She also doesn't want to risk me thinking that she might accept any suggestion that I might make.  Well, not ANY suggestion.  If I were to make a Normal Suggestion, she would be amiably ready to consider it.  It's not that she intends to be unreasonable or protective, it's just that my ideas are so likely to be odd, from her point of view. 

I prefer whimsical.  She prefers Dammit Woman, where do you come up with these weird things?  No offense meant.  She is pleased to be honest and upfront and spirited.  It does keep misapprehensions to a minimum.  I'm nearly used to it.

Are you crazy?  I mean, I love you dearly, but, damn.  That is some industrial grade crazy.  Normal people don't think of things like that.

She trained the middle boy to keep the apartment clean, including doing dishes more than once a day.  That is so much fun to watch that I would forgive a lot more than a loud statement of things I know that other people are often thinking.  I'm an acquired taste.  That's one of the benefits I have noticed to having children.  Children, being raised around you (general you - One), become contaminated by you (one) and for at least a handful of years think you're normal. 

As long as you don't try saying or implying that everyone else out there is abnormal and wrong, they'll tend to at least stay indulgent to your (one's) idiosyncrasies.   I've learned to appreciate that.  (I'll tell you about Parental Arbitrariness, sometime.)