iBeth

Wafergate continues

This scandal has had the weirdest chain of consequences.  I would never have predicted calls for increased security at the GOP convention, or the firing of a 1800Flowers employee.  (I feel sorry for her, too.)

I'm feeling sorry for this kid

I feel sorry for this student. 

Yes, I think if he participates in a communion service, he should follow the rules.  Yes, I think his demand for an apology for being "physically assaulted" was brash.  But he has returned the wafer.  Perhaps I am unduly influenced by my hope that, had he planned to protest, he would have learned basic facts about the first amendment--but based on the news reports, I do not believe that he planned all along to be disruptive. 

Now, as the story has been picked up by CNN and of course countless blogs, the local diocese has weighed in:

"We don't know 100% what Mr. Cooks motivation was," said Susan Fani a spokesperson with the local Catholic diocese.  "However, if anything were to qualify as a hate crime, to us this seems like this might be it."

We just expect the University to take this seriously," she added "To send a message to not just Mr. Cook but the whole community that this kind of really complete sacrilege will not be tolerated."

A hate crime? Really complete sacrilege?  Seriously?  Not just regular sacrilege?  I'm not surprised when your average blog commenter threatens violence, or even when the Catholic League's Bill Donohue calls for the student's expulsion, but I expected that an official spokesperson would reserve the extreme language for actual crimes with actual victims who actually suffer.

This student's act--as offensive as it apparently is--would not be the worst indignity that God has endured.  Surely He can prevail against a baggie.

My family has good taste

My family  has very good taste.  Most of the time.  But tonight, well . . .

I came across this yummy recipe for blueberry cornmeal pudding.  I'm trying to use up my cornmeal (part of a summertime pantry clean-out project), and I had a cup of slightly tart fresh blueberries in the fridge, so this recipe seemed perfect.  I made some (only 7 minutes in the micro) and it was absolutely yummy. 

My husband ate it without comment, except to say that his dad might like it "because he likes that pudding stuff."  My daughters refused to try it.  And then girls amused daddy by making farting noises while I ate my dessert.

Well, at least I know what's good.

Tiger Love

Ever since watching the Smithsonian channel show Tiger Tales a month ago, Amelia has been infatuated with tigers.  She likes to crawl around on all fours "chuffing," and she frequently tells us, "I am pretending to be Soyono.  You can call me 'Soy.'"

Tonight at dinner, she commented, "If Florida gets covered with water [I think she got this from a global warming documentary?], I want to move to Asia."

"Why Asia?" her dad asked.

"Because they have tigers there," she said.  Then she added, "Asia, or Washington D.C."

Best Yogurt Ever

The CSPI Nutrition Action Healthletter, a newsletter I've subscribed to for at least 20 years, has been recommending Fage nonfat Greek-style yogurt. "You'll never believe it's nonfat," they promise. But I haven't been able to find Fage yogurt in Orlando.

So you can imagine my delight when I learned that near our Chicago hotel is a Trader Joe's (which they also don't have in Orlando), and Trader Joe's carries Fage yogurt! I tried some, and CSPI was RIGHT. It was the best yogurt I have ever tasted. Ever in my whole life. WAY better than the limp, runny nonfat yogurts I've been eating. This yogurt was delicious plain, but mixed with honey (conveniently included in the package) it was absolutely divine. Seriously, one taste and I thought I was just going to pass out from happiness. I truly could not believe it was nonfat.

Then I read the label more closely. I'd accidentally purchased the full fat version. AARGH. Well, that means I have an excuse to go back to Trader Joe's, not that I need one.

(sorry for the lack of links in this post--I'm using a powerbook and the little link button doesn't show up on this computer. I don't know what's up with that, but I'm too tired to look up the danged href html code right now.)

We had a terrific day at Navy Pier with Grandma Sally. More later.

"Credit Card" has a new meaning

Most of the jokes my kids tell are the same jokes I remember from elementary school (you know, the "orange you glad I didn't say banana" jokes). But lately they have been giggling about something new. Nowadays, when you see someone's butt crack, you are supposed to holler, "Credit card!" I actually think that's kinda funny, but I have been trying not to let on, since we have enough butt-themed conversations in our family already.

In fact, tonight at Pizzeria Due's (the kids' first Chicago-style pizza--and they didn't like it *sigh*), Amelia embarked on yet another such conversation.

"DADDY," she said, in her habitual VERY LOUD voice, "YOU KNOW SOMETHING FUNNY? WHEN YOU YELL 'CREDIT CARD' THAT MEANS YOU WANT TO SLIDE IT IN SOMEONE'S BUTT CRACK."

"Amelia," I reminded her. "You know those words are not appropriate for a restaurant."

"SORRY," she said, then corrected her mistake. "DADDY, WHEN YOU YELL 'CREDIT CARD' THAT MEANS YOU WANT TO SLIDE IT IN SOMEONE'S *BOTTOM* CRACK."

Amelia and the big clock

We're here in Chicago--the girls' first visit--and we have a spectacular view from our 17th story hotel room. In fact, Amelia just came running over to her sister, saying, "Emma! Emma! I just saw Big Ben!"

We laughed, and she was embarrassed, but we told her she should feel proud. How many five-year-olds would know enough to make that mistake?

Now she knows that it's the Wrigley Building, but she prefers to call it the "Wrinkly Building."

Eating Dinner at a Noisy Restaurant

Emma was happily eating her "cherries jubilee" ice cream sundae with an extra cherry on top supplied by her grandma.  (I'd given my cherry to Amelia.)

Emma (to me): You know, most kids don't like cherries.

Me: Really?  That's too bad.  Cherries taste good.

Emma (giggles): Yeah.

Grandma (sitting on the other side of Emma) :  What?  You don't like the cherry I gave you?

Emma: *I* like cherries, but most kids don't.

Grandma: Oh, I see.

Grandpa (sitting next to Grandma): What was that?  Kids don't like what?

Grandma (to Grandpa): Cherries, Dear.  Some kids don't like *cherries.*

Grandpa: Oh, kids don't like *cherries.*  I see.

Daddy (sitting next to Grandpa):  What?  That's not true.  Emma likes cherries.

I intervened before Amelia could chime in with some comment like "Daddy, why do you think I don't like cherries?" but now I wish that I had just let this conversation go on.  Who  knows where we would have ended up? 

That "telephone" game should really be called, "Family dinner in a noisy restaurant."

Kids Know What To Say

Much as I'd like to be the kind of mom who mildly says, "Oops! We'd better wipe that up," when my child spills, it turns out that I'm really the kind of mom who yelps, "AMELIA!  You SPILLED!  You need to BE MORE CAREFUL!" before I remember that she is only 5 and it's no big deal anyway.  *sigh*

This morning after my needlessly upset reaction,  Amelia began to cry,  and I tried to comfort her, hugging her and murmuring.  "It's ok.  I know it was an accident.  We cleaned it up.  I am not mad at you. I'm sorry I yelled," etc.  None of that did the trick. 

Then Emma said, "You know what?  I thought Mommy was going to say, You spilled my diarrhea!"  Both girls burst into gales of laughter.  "What if someone really spilled diarrhea?  Eew!"  "What if someone spilled diarrhea on the bananas?  Eew!"  "What if someone spilled diarrhea on their homework and then turned it in?  Eew!"  General hilarity ensued and the hurt feelings were forgotten.

Just goes to show that the breakfast table CAN be a good place for disgusting kid talk.

Mom! Duh! FCAT!

"I'm NOT looking forward to third grade," Emma groused.

"Why?" I asked her.

"Mom!  Duh!  FCAT!" she said. 

Just wait until she is old enough to take the SAT . . . .

Amelia Touches Mommy's *ahem*

I was standing at my desk, leaning over to look at my computer screen, when I heard Amelia's little voice behind me:  "I'm going to touch Mommy's butt!  Right in the crack!"

"Don't do it, Amelia," I warned, not turning around.  But moments later, I felt a teeny finger tentatively brush the seam of my jeans.

"I did it!" she crowed, jumping around while her sister giggled.

Of course I scolded her and reminded her that she shouldn't touch another person's private area.  But deep inside, where I hope she couldn't see, I was lmao.

Best Resolutions Site Ever

Got New Year's resolutions?  Check out SparkPeople.  You'll find more goal-achievement tools there than you could possibly use (especially if your goals include eating right and exercising more).  My exercise streak is now 24 days and counting . . . .

Sometimes You Can Fool Daddy

Daddy woke up and then woke the girls.  He disappeared into the bathroom, then re-emerged to check on their progress.  Emma was dressing, but he could see a suspicious, Amelia-sized lump under her blankets.

"Amelia, I told you to get up!" he said.  "You need to get up. Now!"  No response from the lump, so he spoke more sternly.  "Come on now, don't hide under the covers!  You need to get up and get ready!  Emma is already dressing!  We don't have time for you to lay around!" etc. 

Still no response from the lump.  But a small, indignant voice from the kitchen exclaimed, "I *am* up!" 

He had been scolding a pillow.

Kid Political Humor

Just in time for the delegate-less Florida primary:

Q: Why did Hillary Clinton sell all her chickens?

A: Because they kept saying, "Barack, barack, barack."

My girls made that one up (though they were inspired by a classic).  I think maybe they are watching too much MSNBC.

There Is Such a Thing as the Fifth Amendment, Daddy

Amelia requested cheese, and her dad happily provided a slice.  She crumbled it into bitty orange shards; typical, so daddy did not object.  But then he noticed her fiddling with a toy.

"Amelia," he asked.  "Are you putting cheese inside your bug vaccuum?"

She started guiltily, looked up, paused, then said,  "I don't want to tell you."

There is such a thing as the Fifth Amendment, Daddy.

Show me your yo-yo!

What goes up must come down, but what goes down doesn't always come up . . . at least not when you are yo-yoing.  But apparently the skill is like bicycling in that once you've learned, you never completely forget.  Or at least I could still yo-yo passably after a break of at least 30 years.

Today, we joined hundreds of other kids, college students, parents, and grandparents for an attempt to win the Guinness World Record for the most people yo-yoing simultaneously.  Emma could make her yo-yo go up and down twice, and sometimes three times!  Amelia couldn't get her yo-yo to work, but she had fun walking underneath my yo-yo while it spun up and down.  The Duncan company sent expert yo-yoers to demonstrate their artistry, because, after all, "If it isn't Duncan, it isn't a yo-yo."  Turns out that today's demonstrator was my husband's former student!  (Students: teach enough and wherever you go, there they are.)  The student was absolutely thronged with admirers so we didn't get close enough to say hello, but the girls were impressed with his over-the-head, around-his-back, double yo-yoing.

Before the Big Event, we toured a really fun exhibit of classic toys . . . with plenty of opportunities for hands-on play with legos, magic 8 balls, twister, slinky, colorforms, hot rod race cars, etch-a-sketch, those faces that you put beards and mustaches on with magnets and metal shavings (I *cannot* remember what those things are called!) . . . really, any classic toy you've had, we saw at the exhibit.  Daddy was thrilled to see his exact wood burning set (do they still sell wood-burning sets?) and the original game of Life (the new version is apparently markedly inferior).  I learned that Barbie's last name was Roberts, that the most popular Crayola crayon is blue, and that Raggedy Ann was published, in part, as a memorial to the author's dying daughter (who died from a bad batch of smallpox vaccine; tragic).

And--as if a yo-yo weren't cool enough, it turns out that the yo-yo is the world's second-oldest toy, second only to dolls.   

I hope this is a day that our kids remember. 

We Love Alcatraz

Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians, that is.  One great perk of parenthood is getting to read your kid's books!  Emma loves books that are funny and Alcatraz does not disappoint.  She materializes at my elbow every few pages to read me another delicious bit of humor (such as when Alcatraz tries to say "Hello" but is interrupted after the first syllable by his grandfather, who admonishes him not to swear.  Or when Alcatraz tries to act "stoopid" and lapses into misspellings).  I'm hoping to find her some funny books that have female protagonists, just to mix it up a bit.  Suggestions welcome.

I also just finished The Merchant's War by Charles Stross.  Love the series!  Hate the fact that the latest book in the series is a cliffhanger.  Grr!  Now I need to wait until 2009 to find out what happens next.  I try not to read newly published series to avoid just this situation, but when the books are as good as these, well, I just can't resist.

BTW, the Merchant Princes series involves characters who start in our universe and travel to others.  What is the name of this subgenre?  Charles de Lint books do this too, plus many others whose names escape me at the moment. 

Santa Comes Through

This past Christmas Eve, Santa discovered a note crumpled up inside the toe of Amelia's stocking.  She had written it on her own and rather than asking a parent to mail it, she figured that Santa would receive it when he came to our house.

"To Santa, Snoopy Toy with Chikelet Blle [Chocolate Balls], From Amelia."

She was referring to a Snoopy toy sort of like this one.

Unfortunately, Santa couldn't find one of those toys this year.  Fortunately, he did have a Woodstock toy with chocolate balls left from last year.  Whew!

Santa On Vacation

Emma felt that Santa deserved a motivational picture along with his milk and cookies this year.

Moms Can Be Dense

Sometimes what looks to a mom like a disorganized mess is really meticulously organized, as I learned when I ordered Emma to clean up before bedtime.  Near tears, she protested that she had just finished organizing her toys the way she wanted them. 

"Really?" I asked.  "Explain the organization to me," and she did.  This set of dolls (lying under the telescope) was one family.  The next set of dolls was in their house (an overturned chair).  A third group of dolls was obviously a family--they were all Incredibles.  That pile was actually a little girl walking her dogs.  And so on.

I relented and agreed that Emma could leave the organized toys alone and just pick up the others.  She scurried around while I issued helpful instructions.  What about that dirty sock?  That jacket doesn't belong there.  Where does the slinky go?  Those dress-up clothes belong in the dress-up box.  And move that birdhouse (a craft project).

"Mom!" she said, scandalized.  "That's not a birdhouse!  That's a BUS!  Can't you see it's a BUS?  It has DOLLS in it!"

Oh.  I try hard, but sometimes I need things explained to me.