first words at the circus

For today's videos, we're going one month back in time.

It's Papa reading "First Words at the Circus" to Zoralee - in two parts.

the poky little puppy

featuring an actual, distracting dog (heard panting)

and surprise guest appearances near the end

File was too big for blogger. I posted it to youtube as one of these people.

good tuesday morning, papa

Today Zoralee slept until 9 something. It was glorious! She has a cold, and really needed the extra rest, but also, I slept her in a disposable diaper to see if she'd awaken less out of discomfort. She still woke in the night a few times, as usual, but overall she slept more solidly and also longer into the morning. Woop! This calls for more experimentation.

3 kid tips (two from me, one from a smarty pants magazine)

I am going to be giving two tips today that I figured out on my own!!!!! My own!!!!, I say. I am only this braggadocios because of how often I feel like a flailing idiot. The first tip is for the bath time, and it might make up for the fract* that I didn't think to wash behind Zoralee's ears, I mean really scrub into those tiny folds, until she was six months old. Yes, there was a build up of crud. Listen. Don't worry about that.

1. Bath time tip: use a hand towel to dry her hair and face while she's still in the tub! She's that much dryer and warmer to keep playing in the tub and while you wrap her into the big towel and carry her to the bedroom. Plus, there's less jostling of the baby as you dry every piece and part. This flash of inspiration hit me while I myself was taking a bath; I'd washed my hair but wanted to hang out longer and read a book. I nearly froze to death and realized poor Zor probably does too. Now I wait until the very end to wash her hair.
2. For when the baby insists on hanging around the dishwasher while you work in the kitchen, and you decide to keep her busy by feeding her messy nectarine bits (for the entertainment value more than the need for food): tape the dish down with a good, solid packing tape. She'll keep busy maneuvering food out of the dish instead of dumping it on the floor all the live long day.

(By the time this photo was taken, we had moved on to Cheerios.)

*Fract: friggin' fact; refers to something obvious you've nonetheless overlooked

Tip from Real Simple Parenting (which I can't try yet, so let me know how it goes): when the kids won't finish those last bites at the table, make it fun. Have them roll dice and eat as many more bites as they roll. The magazine claims it gives the kid a sense of control about it. Commentary: we all know that rolling dice is the most quintessential, out of control, 100% based on chance activity of the universe. Also, couldn't this really mess with them mentally? If they always roll 10, 11, or 12, they'll be kicking themselves the rest of the night.

IF YOU LIKE MY TIPS, LET ME KNOW. IF THEY ARE OLDER THAN DIRT, DON'T TELL ME.

story time in the bathtub

puttin' the sneak up on Zor

WARNING: a rash of short, unprofessional, video clips is coming to a blog near you (very near, if you're reading this). We're separated from Jason by half of a continent and he has not the means to access phone videos.

9/11 then and now

In 2001, I was working in Operations for Alaska Airlines up in Anchorage. My work team was part of the airline industry you never think about - a small group of non-uniformed number crunchers working in a basement room near the ptarmac, far from the ticket counters. We collected passenger, luggage, and cargo counts, figured weight and balance for each flight, directed the loading of cargo planes, communicated weather, gate information, and other data to the pilots. It was one of the most enlightening jobs I've had in terms of getting a feel for how a system works...and how much is affected when something goes wrong.

On September 11, my shift started at 6:00 a.m., which was 10:00 on the east coast. I remember hearing news on the radio and being very confused. Is this a joke? A drill? What's going on? I got to work and, of course, everything was grounded. We listened to the radio, waiting. Fearing. Asking how this could be. Tracking our own flights, ensuring that all of Seattle-bound planes had landed okay.

I called Jason. "Honey, sorry to wake you up so early. First of all, be sure and let Beth out this morning; I didn't have time. Also, you might want to turn on the t.v. It looks like our country is under attack." To this day, he gives me grief about my news-breaking prioritization skills. But if I had told him about the attacks first, he would've totally forgotten about Beth! And then who would've come home to a soiled carpet? Me.

It's weird how when tragedy strikes, whether or not it directly affects you, you HAVE to go on with things. You might wish for the world to stop so you can soak everything in and figure it out, but the dog needs let out and you still need groceries. After work, which was much earlier in the day than usual since no planes were flying, I stopped by Carrs grocery on Huffman Street. I watched people walking in the parking lot and thought, "What can we do? Look at us. We're all still walking into the grocery store. Are we lice?" There was a definite quietness to the crowd though, a heightened sense of being, longer pauses looking into each others' eyes. We knew this to be a forever-altering kind of day, even before we knew what in the world was going on or who was involved.

* * * *

On this September 11, my day began with the chickens. Zoralee on my back, I was standing in the yard with the hose, filling their water bin, when Dad came onto the porch and told me Aunt Sue had just passed away. Great Aunt Sue, one of our national treasures, a wellspring of stories about growing up as a sturdy farm hand in Illinois and going to New York City as a young lady. Great Aunt Sue, strong as an ox, they always said, and gorgeous. Ate nuts and berries and raw foods, drank loads of water, and took a dollop of whiskey in her coffee every morning. She'd gargle salt water and shoot it out her nose because it "cleans you out good." 96 years old. She seemed like the person who'd finally break the curse and live forever. But she didn't.

Beyond Dad on the porch, I saw the American flag waving. Oh yeah, September 11th. Nobody can see the flag from there except the two households across the meadow. Irrelevant. We can see. We remember. We honor all who lost their very lives that day eight years ago. We think of what it must've been like to be on those flights knowing something wasn't right. We thank the ones who rushed in to be of help, to be of service, to give direction and impart calm to people fleeing down smokey staircases. What were their last words? Last thoughts? We wonder. We remember. And we grieve.

Mom and Dad took off then to the courthouse. They're standing with a man we know who has been accused of a crime that he maintains his total innocence over. If a jury of his peers agrees, okay. If not, he could spend the rest of his life in prison.

In the evening, we went to eat Chinese food for Grandpa's birthday. September 11th in my family has always been Grandpa's birthday, until 8 years ago when it also became the day the towers fell. While eating, Heather told us about our friend's troubles during these, her last weeks of pregnancy. Visits to the hospital, talk of inducing early, bedrest, threats that losing the baby is possible if they don't get her blood pressure under control.

Birthdays. Chickens. War. Airplanes. Trials. Chinese food. Pregnancy. Death.

What we all could use...is a little mercy now.