My Life Doesn't Need a Soundtrack

I’m a non-music person living in a house of music people. My husband and most of my children love to listen to music. Me? Not so much. When I’m cleaning the house, I listen to Pat Benatar or Aretha Franklin. But otherwise, I prefer what little quiet I can get. Maybe it’s because I’m with kids most of the day, and there’s always a buzz of noise in the background. So when the kids want to play music on the stereo, I say, “Let’s leave it off. My life doesn’t need a soundtrack.”

My family thinks that’s insane. So when I get in the car, there may be classical, country, or rock playing. Sometimes I just leave the radio on as a favor to whoever is with me in the car. Occasionally, I’ll recognize a song from the 80s, find myself humming along. And someone will say, “Uh, Mom, you do realize what that song is about, right?” And I say, “I have no idea.” My confused child says, “Don’t you understand the words?” And I say, “No. I’ve never been able to figure out music lyrics. Somehow when words and music are put together, my brain can’t suss it out.” Then, my child tells me what the words are. My face pales and I change the station.

This is why my life doesn’t need a soundtrack, I couldn’t understand it anyway.

n.b. I don’t usually post on Tuesdays, but tomorrow, April 2, is World Autism Day, I’ll be posting on our family’s experiences with autism.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Just Call Me "Flo"

My kids have been sick. They’ve had nasty fevers, coughs, and aches. So I tried to be Florence Nightingale. I dosed medications, took temperatures, and even short order chef-ed, all the while reminding myself that I won’t be able to do this much longer. Soon they’ll be gone.

But I’m sure my kids think I’m a poor copy of Ms. Nightingale. I brought Kid One a bowl of steaming ramen. KO sipped a spoonful.

“Mom,” KO croaked, “did you make spicy chicken?”

Me: “Uh, yeah. I thought you like spicy chicken.”

KO: “This burns my sore throat.”

Me: “Sorry. What do you want me to do?”

KO: “I guess I could just eat the noodles.”

Me: “Sounds great.”

Kid Two: “Can you take my temperature?”

Me: “Sure. Put this under your tongue. And remember it takes a while.”

Some time later KT is groaning. I return. KT mumbles around the thermometer, asking if it’s been in his mouth long enough. I check the clock, swallow guiltily, and say, “Yep. Fifteen minutes will give a really accurate temperature.” Sorry, Kid Two.

Kid Three is older and less sick. And would prefer being left alone (not inundated with “drink this tea” and “take this Aleve”) and really would prefer not being mentioned on my Facebook updates. Sorry, Kid Three. Now all of my friends and our relatives know you’re sick.

Yep, I’m more like Flo than Florence Nightingale. But when they’re on their own and get sick, I’m betting they’ll miss Flo. 

(Scroll past the photo of Florence for information on a Blog Blitz)

This public domain image of Florence Nightingale is courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

One more thing.

DL Hammons of Cruising Altitude 2.0 blog is hosting a Blog Blitz. Here's how it works. Sign up on the linky list below, making sure to record your email address, and you'll be instantly included as a member of the Blog Blitz team. Then from time to time, he'll select a blog (belonging to a blog blitz team member) and a specific date. He'll email all the team members the information and on the date blitz team member will visit the blog and leave an encouraging comment. Imagine having 100+ comments in one day!

Party On, Girl!

Luke and Ariel are both going to grad school in the fall. This past weekend, they both visited schools. Luke visited Texas A&M. He called once. I picked up the phone. I settled in to hear all about his visit—his impressions, the people he met, the swag they gave him, etc. Instead, I got two one word answers from him and then he said, “Can I talk to Dad?” He spent twenty plus minutes on the phone with Calvin, discussing the basketball game that was on television. After they said good-bye, I asked Cal, “What did Luke say about his grad school visit?” Cal replied, “Nothing. But his bracket’s being trashed.”  Right. Because that’s so important.

Ariel’s visit was different. She texted, phoned, and emailed me. I know about the professors, the graduate students, why Emory has a fantastic math PhD program, what she ate (not as good as food at home), why she didn’t sleep well (loud heater), etc. In fact, I got an email early Saturday morning about the math grad school party she went to on Friday night. “…no one can party like math nerds. We played Carcasonne, made fun of Fermat, and figured out how many Tetris pieces there would be if the pieces were made up of five blocks.”  Okay, then…party on, babe!

I'm know this has nothing to do with the proofs that my daughter and her math nerd friends do, but  it's a cool math-ish diagram courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Be Careful What You Read

The other day my son Jacob asked me to proofread a paper before he went to class. I said, “Sure.” After I read it, I said, “Uh, Jake, what’s this all about?”

Turns out, Jake had to read an essay in his rhetoric textbook and write a paper on it. As he read, he became increasingly skeptical—it seemed to him that in spite of the author’s inflammatory rhetoric, the author’s quotes were weak and he made several logical fallacies. So, Jake decided to google the author….wow!

Subsequent to the publication of the textbook, the essay’s author was stripped of his journalism awards. Turns out the author not only plagiarized, he invented quotes. Then, when the truth came out, he attacked his critics, etc. Jake mentioned this in the conclusion of his paper.

My hope was that this essay assignment was a “trick” from his professor, that the prof used this as an exercise in always being vigilant—just because something is in a textbook doesn’t mean it’s right.

So Jake took the paper to class for peer review. As the students in his group read his paper, they pulled out their phones and googled the author. Jake said, “They started muttering and swearing.”

Then, during the class discussion after peer review, no one from Jake’s group said anything. The other groups talked about how great the article and author were. Jake felt increasingly awkward. Finally, he raised his hand, shared his opinion, and explained what he found out about the author.

When Jake got home, I said, “So was it a set-up by your professor?” Jake said, “I don’t know, Mom. When, I talked about the article and the author, the professor looked surprised—I don’t think she knew.”

Hmm…I wonder how she’s going to grade this paper.

Update: Jake just had a meeting with his professor--she did know all about it. I guess she was just surprised that any of the students caught it. :)

Image courtesy of Wikimedia

Pods for Turkey

It’s spring again. It means the sun is shining, the wind is cool, and the temperatures are in the 50s. Perfect gardening weather.

So I’ve been assessing. And come to some decisions.

 First, an enemy who feels great hatred towards me has obviously spread seeds of unknown origin everywhere. My “lawn” is now a weed patch. I’m not even sure it’s salvageable. But this is March, so I’m feeling positive and taking dominion over my gardening kingdom. I’ve proclaimed “Death to Weeds.” No doubt,this will last until the end of May. Then, I’ll wave the white flag and have a glass of iced tea.

Second, all my roses have to go. This breaks my heart. Our house is a 1920s cottage, so I planted a hedge of knockout roses around it. It was bliss for six years. On the seven year, stealth mites infected my roses with rose rosette virus. And there is no cure. My husband Cal removed one side of the rose bushes and we planted grape vines. Cal has another 12 or 13 bushes to dig out and then we’ll plant reblooming weigela. I’ve warned the weigela that it better bloom beautifully and resist all manner of pests.

Third, I really hate our massive magnolia tree. It’s huge and ancient. Two things that should make me like it. But it’s also a Southern magnolia, which means I spend a large portion of my gardening time cleaning up after it. In the spring, I have to clean up all the dead leaves—they’re thick and leathery, so they don’t mulch. In fact, I have no doubt they’d survive the Apocalypse (along with cockroaches). In summer, the tree drops its flowers—also huge, gooey, and non-mulchable. And in the fall, it drops massive prickly pods that have to be picked up by hand. When Luke and Ariel move to grad school this summer, I suspect that they’ll do the happy dance because they’ll  no longer have to hear me say, “Slave labor time—we’re picking up pods.”

On the other hand, I sure there will be a lot of pods that need picking up over Thanksgiving holidays. It’ll be a pods-for-turkey kind of thing.

Magnolia pod courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

My Own March Madness

This morning I printed up the official thingie. Okay, I do know its name—the Official March Madness bracket. This is not because I care about basketball the big dance, or the National Championship. I do this because I love my husband and sons. And, of course, there’s the chance that I can beat my husband’s bracket. Yeah, my uber-competitive nature comes out.

Then, once the games begin, I read, edit, or embroider until the last five minutes of the game when my husband nudges me. At that point, I put down what I’m working on and root for whoever’s on my bracket. If my bracket is already ruined, then I root for whoever is not on my husband’s bracket. And if both our brackets are ruined, then I root for the underdog. Or if I’m feeling particularly puckish, I root for the team whose uniform I like best. (Not that I really care about them, but I love telling the guys that’s what I’m doing.) Yes, I’m that kind of mom.

So, I know some of my blog friends are basketball buffs. And I’d loved to have a killer bracket this year. Or, at the very least, beat my husband’s bracket. Could you give me some hints?

(Right now, I’m tempted to let Memphis go pretty deep—my niece attends UM.)

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia

The Met vs. Yale

The other day, the news reported that a group of people had filed a lawsuit against the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City for deceiving people—the museum is actually free, but they lead people to believe that entrance costs $25 per adult with varying rates for other ages. Part of me was grieved because it’s such a wonderful museum and I hate for them to be distracted by the lawsuit. But another part of me was frustrated--I wondered how many poor families didn't visit because they thought they couldn't afford to. I took my children there twice when we lived in Connecticut. Honestly, I would have taken them many more times, but the price tag gets pretty expensive when you have a family of six and you have to pay for gas, parking, lunch and admission fees.

In all fairness, the admission fee is listed as a “donation.” And on the other hand, the museum staff points out the cute button you get to wear when after you pay, which allows you full day access to the museum even if you go out for lunch. So, I absolutely felt that the cost of the museum was $25 per adult. And, the price was worth it to see the art, Henry VIII’s suit of armor, the Impressionist paintings, and the Greek artifacts—when you see an actual libation bowl, Aeschylus’s Libation Bearers becomes real.

But I can’t help but compare their sense of donation to Yale University’s Museum of Musical Instruments (which is free) and their joy at sharing their treasures. I took my children there one Tuesday afternoon. When we arrived, the front door was locked. I knocked. A woman answered and said, “Yes?” I said, “This is the Museum of Musical Instruments, right?” She said, “Yes.” I said, “This is the right day and time to visit, right?” The woman nearly squealed and said, “You want to see the collection? Come in, come in.”

Then, we went on the best museum tour we have ever experienced. She doted on the children. She gave them archival gloves and let them touch some of the instruments. She told us the stories of the virginal, the viola d’amour, the bass horn, etc. She took a harpsichord apart so we could see how all the mechanisms worked. When she found out the children were musical, she let them play on one of the harpsichords. And Bach played by childish hands sounded through a gallery crowded with one of a kind instruments.

Ten years later, my kids vaguely remember the Met, but they vividly remember the Yale University Museum of Musical Instruments.  If I were in the Northeast again, I’d be knocking on the door of YUMMI and praying that a woman would answer and say, “Yes?”

Harpsichord. Photo by Hinnerk11, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.