What I'll miss

A sign you don't see in the US

We have about 6 weeks left in Ireland and I've started getting questions about what I'll miss.  In truth, I'll be glad to be going back home but there are a number of things I wish were the case back home.

I'll miss the little community school.

We walk to and from school every day.  It takes about 10 minutes and I think there is nothing quite so likely to set children up for a good day as a freewheeling scooter ride, saying hello to their friends and getting some wiggles out before the day begins.  By the time the children are 9 or so, they are easily able to do the walk on their own and it's a nice beginning independence sort of step.  The children start at the school at age 4 and leave around age 12 with each grade having one class.  By the end of their time at St Matt's, the children know one another as well as their own siblings and the staff can't help but know every child's unique ins and outs.  The classes stay together all day, generally in their classroom with just the one teacher.  You don't see all the marching about the building that you get in the US nor the constant parade of adults.  The day is a more sensible 8:30-1 for the 4 and 5 year olds and 8:30-2 for the older ones so there is plenty of time for play in the afternoons even after homework and after school activities.  Breaks also tend to be significantly less disruptive to the school routine with periodic breaks of 1-2 weeks and then 2 months in the summer without a bunch of half days or sporadic mid-week days off.

I'll miss the people.

In my experience, the Irish are some of the most welcoming, community oriented people I have ever come across.  They would like to know about you, your story, how they can help you and if you'd like another pint.  They would like to commiserate with you and tell you all about themselves.  They would like to give you directions and figure out exactly how Mrs. McGillis and McKenna are related.  They would like to loan you a mixer and invite you to tea.  If you ever need a fail safe guest for your next dinner party, befriend an Irishman.  It's not all wine and roses but there is always good chat.

Another sign you don't see in the US.

I'll miss the acceptance of the progression of life.

Ireland is sort of an odd mishmash of ancient and modern sensibilities.  It is a Catholic country by it's constitution and the influence of the ancient church is still quite strong.  Families still tend to live quite close to one another and it's is typical for grandparents to watch the children while the middle generation works.  At the same time, you're starting to see rather a lot of fathers being responsible for the children during the day.  I'm not an economist nor sociologist but from some questioning of friends my understanding is that a lot of men were in trades that traditionally have allowed them to support a family but with the economic downturn, their wives, working office jobs to help the ends meet have been able to hang on to their positions more successfully than the tradesmen can find work.  My understanding is that a lot of fathers would rather be the primary wage earner but that pragmatics rule.

I have found Ireland to be the most family friendly culture we visited with babies and young children considered to simply be a part of life- not overly fawned over but also not frowned over.  Strollers are lifted onto buses and subways cars.  Pedestrians keep a weather eye out for scooters and bikes and wobbly toddlers.  At the same time, it's common to see elderly women out for a stroll with their chums.  Television has the teenybopper melodramas but you also see a reasonable smattering of the 30-50 crowd.  Adults of all ages are expected to go to the pub and attend sporting events and concerts.  Life, in all it's iterations, is welcome in Ireland.

Yeats hangs out at our Square

I'll miss the walking.

It will be a struggle to get anywhere near 10,000 steps a day when we return to Blacksburg.  While the post office and grocery store are technically within walking distance, sidewalks are lacking.  I will have to drive the children to school.  In Ireland, I hit over 8,000 steps just by dropping the children off at their 2 schools.  On days I also run, I'm easily at 12,000 steps by the end of the day.  Daily activity hasn't been this effortless since college when I walked all over creation for class.

I'll miss the customer service.

Irish shopkeepers are of the firm opinion that the only way to survive a struggling economy is to offer excellent customer service.  Not only that, they are always trying to be sure you get the best deal to ensure your loyalty.  At the grocery store, I was in the check out line and actually had an employee spot a box of tea on the belt, tell me that there was a much better price on a different brand, take the other tea box back and reappear with the cheaper version all before the cashier finished ringing me up.  The pharmacy employees are always having to wander about the shop with me to try and figure out what the Irish version of the US medication is.  The hardware store guys give me directions to all over town and know me by name.  The grocery check out lady told me that I should by x, y, and z at this store or that to get a much better deal.  If the Irish economy collapses, it won't be for lack of effort on the mom and pop front.

Baby carrots that look like... carrots

I'll miss the food.

Being an agrarian island, finding locally produced food is no problem.  High fructose corn syrup is unknown here.  Most food colorings are plant based rather than chemical.  Baby carrots look like baby carrots.  I haven't actually toured a farm but we regularly drive past them.  The chicken parts are normal sizes and the beef doesn't taste like it hung out on a feed lot.  I see more people wandering the streets eating apples or chugging milk than I see eating chips/crisps or chugging soda.

Child on a public zip line!

I'll miss feeling like my body is a normal size and shape.

There doesn't seem to be quite the wild careening regarding weight that we see in the US.  The women on the billboards and on TV (at least those originating in Ireland) seem to be the lower end of pretty normal rather than the low end of cosmetically enhanced twig.  The women I encounter in daily life are generally on the spectrum of "healthy."  The same goes for most of the men.  People here stay moderately active up into their quite senior years and their bodies show it.  People walk to get from place to place and they don't mess around.  I'm pretty sure that the average walking speed in Dublin is around an 11 minute mile which makes a lot of sense when you consider the weather.  I see clutches of elderly women making their stately way down the block to do their shop or visit the post office.  Men will get together to play football or rugby.  At the same time, I see women with a little tummy on them and a bit of wiggle in their booty.  A body that has clearly produced a child or two seems to still be in the realm of attractive.  I have even been given the once over a couple of times!  It all combines to make it a lot easier to focus on a goal of staying healthy and active rather than a number on the scale or, since I have yet to figure out what size I am in UK measures, a dress size.  :-)

Another Child On A Zip Line
Does no one think of the children?

I'll miss the playgrounds.

Europe knows how to build a playground.  There are ziplines and all manner of climbing apparatus that tower far too high to ever be allowed in a US playground.  But, most of all, they tend to have these enchanting paths.  There are holes in the fence lining up with holes in hedges where the bushes were pruned by adult hands at some point and then the path further trampled and maintained by a 100 little hands and feet.  The branches ask to be climbed.  Fairy parties beg to be had.  Cool and dark adventure beckons.  They are irresistible!  And, a wonderful way to be sure that even the most citified of city kids enjoys the allure of the forest.

I'll miss the sense of history.

I'm not of Irish heritage but I am clearly Western European and I'm confident in saying I'm also of strong Celtic descent.  I've always enjoyed European history- especially the stuff before about 1600.  Pre-1600 Europe is distinctly my history.  It's also history I feel like I can really firmly grasp.  It's old enough to feel very different but familiar enough to not feel completely unrelatable.  This is where my ancestors learned to structure larger social groups and government.  They established the basic rights of man via the Magna Carta.  They developed a concept of the afterlife, spirituality and then organized religion... a couple of times, actually.  This is where my people learned about cultivation and where the beginnings of my dietary staples became cultivated staples.  I walk on soil that people I share a sizable hunk of dna with, have walked for centuries or even millenia.  When I walk past the church, the butcher, the grocer, the pharmacist, the next church and then over the bridge I know that this is the same path, past the same basic things that people walked on and past before English as we know it was spoken.  That's history.

I have come to the opinion that Ireland is perhaps the ideal place to get an initial taste of living abroad.  Things are different enough that you always know you are somewhere new while not being so very different as to be paralysing.  There is a bit of a language barrier but it's surmountable.  The people in Ireland are fond of Americans and are interested enough in our goings on that you still feel you aren't completely adrift of how it goes back home.  The social conventions and structure are reasonably familiar and the people are, generally, quite forgiving of lapses.  While I'm ready to go home, I've had a lovely time.

Happy Birthday, Megan!

Color me beklempt!  Megan is 5!

In the words of mothers everywhere...  How did this possibly happen?

Only yesterday, she was giving me a hearty kick in the kidneys!  She also had an extra special talent for kicking some mystery spot that never failed to set off contractions.  Happily, the doctor assured me that they were "non-productive."

When Noah was born, there was commentary about how very sad it would be that Megan had only brothers and how this would impair her development as a fragile flower of womanhood.  I replied that based on current data, Megan was most likely to punch someone on her brother's behalf.

It took ages for her hair to grow but it was worth the wait!  It's the lovely chestnut curls I always hoped for when I was growing up.  Her grandmother got very determined one day and pulled off pigtails shortly after she turned 3.

Megan's favorite place in the world is Myrtle Beach.  Allen is part of the Hilton Honors program so every summer, we stay there.  It's incredibly well set-up for families of young children with a quite nice water park on the property in addition to pools and then the beach is just down the back steps.  She has plans to open a bisketti restaurant where she will offer an option of sauce or no sauce or with a meatball and salad.  She will also have in-house daycare so her children can come to the restaurant with her.  She plans to frequently vacation to Belfast so she can visit the W5 museum.

You may notice that she wears a patch in some pictures.  She uses Patch Pals.  While she would rather not wear a patch, they create as little strife as could possibly occur with patching and Megan views them as yet another fashion accessory in her arsenal.  Somewhere around 2 months gestation there was a blood vessel in her left eye that should have gone away but instead hung around.  It supplies too much nutrition to the cornea and caused a cataract.  It's an extremely rare occurrence and is one of those "it just happens" sort of things.  If we let things alone, her brain would gradually begin to pay attention to the information that eye gave less and less, pruning off neurons and nerves until the left eye simply stopped working at all.  By forcing her brain to use her left eye, we are staving off "lazy eye."  She'll likely always need glasses but will probably stop patching around age 8, when the brain becomes more set in it's ways.

If I were to have picked a child to handle such a thing, it would have been Megan.  She handles the questions with cheerful spunk, explaining to all who ask about her cataract, her "silly eye," and how her eyes have to exercise.  She meets the curious stares (and, no, it's not the children who stare) with a friendly grin.  She is a child who dresses with imagination; the patches are just part of the milieu.  

Megan has an exuberant curiosity that is a teacher's delight.  She is determined and brave and clever and passionate and is not daunted by most any limitation be it vision, size or sex, finding a way over, through, or around any obstacle that meets her fancy.

Happy Birthday to the Princess of Books!

The Island of Teeny Tinies

After even a couple of years off the Island of Teeny Tinies, you remember the cute outfits, the baby snuggles, the tiny toes, and the exciting firsts and your forget the full contact sport which is mothering when you only have very littles.  I can't speak specifically about anyone else's experience but I don't think mine was especially unique and I want to remember.  I want to remember just how hard those first years are so that I can be of better support to others.

I saw a therapist after having Charlie to check in on whether I might have post partum depression.  Her assessment was that I was depressed but in no way in need of clinical intervention.  I was just really tired.  Charlie slept in 25-45 minute intervals for his first 3 months of life stretching to maybe an hour by 6 months of age. (yes, we tried that)  You get a little weird when you haven't met a REM cycle in 6 months.

None of the 3 was a sleeper but the thing that struck me as we rolled through Noah's infancy was that while I was frustrated and tired and overwhelmed I had a tool that made all the difference... The tool of perspective.  I had personally experienced a baby who Would Not Sleep and had seen the other side.  I had that to cling to when I was most despondent about the idea that I would never, ever, sleep for 6 hours in a row, ever again.

This happens over and over as my children grow a bit older.  I have personal experience that one day I really will have no knowledge of the state of Noah's bowels.  I will one day, be able to tell Noah to get dressed and he will.  One day, Noah will wake up in the morning and not have a temper tantrum due to the fact it's not Saturday.

The thing that drove me most crazy as a very new mother was the way that other mothers would tell me that it doesn't really get any easier nor do you have any more time to yourself.  As a not so new mom, I can tell you that's a lie.  Our culture values "busy" and sacrifice and persecution and "I'm so stressed."  That's what those moms bought into.  I don't.  I found the issue is not so much pockets of "me time" or pursuits of your interests as it is pockets of choice.  When you only have tinies, your choices are oh, so, limited.  I came across a housekeeping tip that if you are in a time of clutter, it's vital to have at least clear surface for your eyes to "land;" a little bay of tranquility.  When you are on the Island of Teeny Tinies, that bay doesn't exist.  When they are ALL tiny, they are ALL in crisis, All The Time.  They have no perspective, you have no perspective, everyone is new to the game.  You can, perhaps, sneak very small bits of your interests into your day but it's rarely really what you chose so much as what you managed.  You can read a book while you rock the baby but it has to be a book you can hold while rocking as well as one you can follow on 3 hours of broken sleep.

Figuring out how to put in those pockets of your interests takes time and support and seriously, if you have 3 under 4, it's not happening.  It becomes that one more thing that someone told you, you should be doing.  You haven't learned all the tricks.  You don't have the resource of older children.  You don't have the advantage of having a bigger child you can count on to let you know things are going south downstairs.  It's hard.  A mom of just tinies has it hard.  It's grueling.  It's full-on.  It's a steep learning curve.  And most of us lack the social resources that might make it palatable.

Yes, there are still times that it's hard with older ones or even older ones mixed with tinies.  But, it's not hard in the same way.  The learning curve is leveling out.  While there are still daily crises, they don't generally occur more than once an hour.  I have a lot more choices about what must be responded to and then what my response will be.  Sure, there are times blood is drawn and the wrath of mommy comes down upon your head, swiftly and surely.  But, saying "I'm hungry" is a very different sort of thing than a baby desperately howling from the car seat for completely unknown reasons and you lacking the experience and perspective to have any real idea what to do about it.  If nothing else, I slept for 7 hours In A Row last night.

The thing about perspective was that when I was slogging through the very hard beginning bit, it was easy to lose all sight of why I had ever decided to do this.  Motherhood did not look like I had envisioned it.  I am a Protestant, we don't do the whole vocation thing.  It was hard.  I was exhausted.  Everyone was crying.  And the end game was unclear and that just made it so much harder.  There seemed to be no point other than that there was really no way out other than through.  I wish I had had an understanding of just why it needed to be so hard when I was in the thick of it.

The thing that I'm slowly coming to understand is that there was point.  Motherhood is transformational.  In the beginning the transformation is dramatic and violent and forms the larger shape of things.  I was pushed to physical limits I would never have encountered had I not been given the children I was.  I was taught selflessness.  I was taught to believe in myself and my own instincts.  I was taught to draw boundaries even while making them more porous.  I had to learn to think for myself.  I grew closer to God and deepened my understanding of man's relationship with the divine.  My body was broken and my blood shed so that someone could experience the mortal plane.

And, yes, motherhood continues to be transformational but the process is becoming more gentle.  The shape has been forged.  The hard lines drawn.  I am moving into a time where my children are becoming a slow, small, persistent force against my human frailties.  While one mom characterized this as losing her selfishness, I characterize it more as simply growing.

As my children become older, they become a more finely hewn mirror, showing me where I can perfect myself.  I have often found myself sneaking a cookie only to ask myself why I love my children enough to deny them excessive sugar but not myself.  My children absorb so much love and parenting that it spills back out onto me.  I learn to take care of myself as I take care of them.

So, what I'm really saying is that the words from moms who have been there to take care of yourself either by going beyond what you once were or finding her again, were written with the advantage of hind-sight.  We forget just how very hard it is when you are on the Island of Teeny Tinies.  Remind us so that we can be a better servant to you and our daughters in turn.  We offer the dual assurance that yes, there is a point and more importantly,

it gets easier.

Really.

Giant's Causeway

Last summer, Allen had to go to some meetings in Belfast.  We decided to make a trip of it and had to find something for me to do with the children that was close to the train station, self contained and would keep us occupied for several hours.  We settled on the W5 children's museum and it was a fabulous stroke of luck.  Megan adored it so much that we promised her a return trip in May for her birthday. 

Noah, not Megan, she was exploring
the wonderful world of pulleys with her father

All you really need to know is that they have a water table... room, really.  With balls.  And ramps.  And a screw.  Where you can build damns.  And!  Send Balls Down Ramps via (loud) PNEUMATIC TUBES!

The next day, we set off for the Giant's Causeway...

The Giant's Causeway is an odd confluence of the wonders of geology.  (I bet you don't get to read that often!)  Because I ran directly into the comforting bosom of the Social Sciences as soon as Vanderbilt would let me, I quote directly from wikipedia...

Some 50 to 60 million years ago,^[5] during the Paleogene period, Antrim was subject to intense volcanic activity, when highly fluid molten basalt intruded through chalk beds to form an extensive lava plateau. As the lava cooled rapidly, contraction occurred. Horizontal contraction fractured in a similar way to drying mud, with the cracks propagating down as the mass cooled, leaving pillarlike structures, which are also fractured horizontally into "biscuits". In many cases the horizontal fracture has resulted in a bottom face that is convex while the upper face of the lower segment is concave, producing what are called "ball and socket" joints. The size of the columns is primarily determined by the speed at which lava from a volcanic eruption cools.^[6] The extensive fracture network produced the distinctive columns seen today. The basalts were originally part of a great volcanic plateau called the Thulean Plateau which formed during the Paleogene period.^[7]

 The Irish, being The Irish, came up with their own interesting legend behind the rocks involving giants and outwitting rather than out fighting.  In a nutshell, Finn MacCool, who is a hero with supernatural abilities who wears a size 26 shoe (he left one on the beach) but who isn't a giant, needs to battle a Scot who is a giant.  Giants apparently don't like to get their feet wet so Finn builds a causeway for him to come over.  When Finn realizes the size of the giant, he pretends to be a baby (at his wife's suggestion) and when the giant sees the size of the "baby" he makes the logical deductions about the size of the father and runs away.  As I have said, the Irish don't win by having the biggest muscles...

I told Allen that I knew had been in Ireland for a sufficient amount of time when I looked at the cliffs and thought, "Why isn't there a castle?"  The Irish coast is a defensive marvel.  It's full of straight drops, hidden hazards, and rocky shores.  I can understand why the Vikings finally really got a toehold in Dublin.  It contains the most invasion friendly beach I have yet seen in Ireland.  Of course, I guess the difficulty lies in the fact that once you have finally managed to land, you are presented with lovely rolling hills that rather lend themselves more to agriculture than defense.  But, I'm not much of a student of military history.  I can say with some confidence, that I totally would have built a castle on the cliffs of the Giant's Causeway.  Building next to sheer cliffs, abutting some nice pasture land seems like the way to go.  To give credit, we did see quite an extensive castle ruin a little further down the coast.  Plus, The Windy Gap which comes between the two sides of the cove (?) (I'm also not a geographer) has the highest wind speeds of all of Ireland.

My mother tells me that I used to be completely transfixed by watching smoke come out of chimneys.  I feel the same way about waves now.  Given an opportunity and reasonably pleasant weather and no children needing minding, I could sit and watch them break on rocky coasts for ages.  I don't feel quite the same way about sandy beaches.  There just aren't as many possibilities on a nice, flat, stretch.  Luckily, Ireland has my back.

There is a long history of locals providing guided tours of the area and you can still get them from National Trust employees.  But, they also offer wearable audio guides.  It's pretty much an ultra-sturdy iPod.  The really handy thing is that they have a tour especially made for children walking on the path where they do learn about the geology but there is also a stronger focus on the legends related to what the children are seeing.  Megan and Charlie both really enjoyed getting to be in change of their Very Own Tour.  Noah also listened to the audio much better than I was expecting but also found it to be an excellent camera phone.  He took pictures of whales, sharks, sea lions, and star fish.  Sadly, he was the only one to spot any of them.  I take pictures with my phone but Allen uses a proper camera.  It takes him a while to post his pictures because he tends to be quite picky about what he will post.  But, the picky pays off.  You can see his pics on his flickr stream under the username mackenab.

The National Trust has also put together an app where you can pretend to be Finn building the causeway.  I wasn't blown away but if you have kids and you want to teach them a little about Irish culture with a touch of geology thrown in, it's worth a look.

Autumn in Late April

It's been sunny and breezy, if not precisely warm the last couple of days.  So, being the good Irish housewife I'm becoming, I have been spending quite a bit of time at the clothesline.  Every time I go out, I am struck afresh by how much it feels like a mid-Atlantic autumn.

Late April in Dublin reminds me of nothing quite so much as football weather.  It's that crisp feel of those late September night games.  Those evenings when you begin to eye the boys, trying to decide which one might be coaxed out of his jacket.  Somehow that sweater that seemed so more than adequate, really, at 3, is obviously lacking at 7.  In Ireland, it's always that 7:00 chill.  It's that undercurrent of cool that seems to herald more on the way even though you know it's nearly May, for pity's sake.  It's the subliminal message to put up your stores and start a fire.  I keep expecting to smell woodsmoke and hear the distant cadence of the percussion warm-up.  It's not exactly cold.  It doesn't quite cross the line.  But, the sun can never quite keep up with the cool of the air and the persistent effort of the sea winds.  The delight of visiting with Sol makes brief forays enjoyable; your cheeks will be rosy; you will offer the clouds a pleasant moment of contemplation.  But, as you approach 10 or maybe 15 minutes, you will vaguely wish you had gloves and burrow your hands slightly deeper into your pockets.  You will think longingly of warm cups of tea.  You will wonder when, exactly, might you expect to feel Warm.  I keep being slightly startled by the way the days continue to get longer.

There is nothing of the experience of a spring I am used to.  It seems that in the US, there is more of an up and down nature to things.  While there might be some days like those I described, they are quickly interspersed with the days that herald the warmth of a somewhat southern summer.  There is the smell of wet earth, freshly turned; hay just starting to peek out it's green; the early daffodils and tulips and hyacinths with a wild hair are unabashedly offering their come hither blooms.  While the late afternoon might call for a jacket, if not a coat, there is almost always the glory of the mid-afternoon when you set the children loose on the pre-school playground at noon, packing lunches and disrupting naps with wild abandon.  There are baby ducks to feed and the promise of warm to come whispering through the cool breezes.  You mind turns to the promise of watermelon and cherries and you hastily shove away thoughts of sprinklers and fireworks as too much, too soon... just enjoy the glory of the spring.

Of course, it does make sense.  My friends report highs in the low 70s (f) for today.  Dublin won't see that until July and then it will be called High Summer and be cause for swimming in the sea to escape the glorious heat.  The plants bloom in a stately manner, none stepping on the toes of another.  The hydrangea are only now conducting feasibility studies to decide if they might want to add on foliage.  The lilacs are starting to bud.  The daffodils have been in their glory for months and are only now giving way to the pansies. The Irish spring will last through next October so it must pace itself.

Yes, if you come to Ireland, be sure to pack an extra cardigan and maybe a Letterman jacket if you can scrounge one.

Raising Cheerful Eyes

Because there are Princess parties.  Because there are "girl colors and boy colors."  Because I'll be watching that paean to innocuous television, the Food Network, and suddenly find myself discussing calories and diets and why some people decide to eat chemicals instead of food.  And, finally, because we find ourselves weeping over an ad telling us we're "more beautiful than we think" at the same time they are telling us that we should be suffering from some major armpit insecurity.

The thing is that I struggle.  I know I want Megan to be confident in herself.  I know that I don't want her to spend lots of energy worrying about her looks.  I know that focusing on what a body does rather than what it looks like helps and I know that bodies of all shapes and sizes can do some really awesome stuff.  I know I need to watch how I talk about myself in front of her.  I know I need to focus on "healthy" rather than a magic number.

But, still...  It's fun to wear a twirly skirt.  Sometimes you do just want to look "pretty."  A good hair day really can make you happy.  And, it's something of a teenage rite of passage to make it a mission to reduce at least 1 boy to a slavering mess and that's fun, too.

Somewhere deep inside is a little voice saying that if I mess this up Megan will change her name to Mystic Starfall,  claim her pole, and starve herself to "beautiful."

I knew that there was something about the ad that bugged me and I couldn't put a finger on it until Suzannah posted about it.  The thing is that it's still all about conventional beauty standards.  Yes, others might think we're more beautiful than we do but it's still all about the length of your nose and the height of your cheekbones and I'm not sure any of that adds up to "real beauty."  I thought about what ad I would have wanted to see and I think I would like to hear how blind children describe their mothers.  But, that's not the world most of us live in and it's not what will help me figure out how to raise Megan.

There is a reality that we are visual creatures.  We are tactile creatures.  Most discouragingly, some of this "beautiful" and "pretty" stuff is hardwired into our genes to help us find mates.

Long ago and far away and once upon a time, I got a Master's degree in Special Education.  I spent a great deal of time learning about behavior- how to shape it, change it, the source of it, and, most pertinent to this discussion, what to do about behaviors you can't just make go away because they are fulfilling some sort of vital need.  For those behaviors, you have to find a replacement behavior that fills that need in a more appropriate way.  I sort of think the beauty thing is one that won't go away.  

I need to find some replacement behaviors...

I can change my lexicon.

Megan can learn to create a smoky eye but consider if it frames a kind one.  She can decide if she wants pink lips or red ones to form a friendly smile.  She can pluck her eyebrows into any shape she wants but I'm likely to still classify them as inquisitive.  And, no, I'm not sure that would work for a sketch artist but I do think it will work for her and I'm more worried about raising a little girl than creating a mug shot.

I can pass along an attitude toward the bit and bobs that defines them as the fripperies they are.  Just like I enjoy my daffodils in the kitchen and the scent of cookies baking in the oven, I can enjoy a color on my nails or the momentary decadence of swiping on some "pretty" in the school parking lot.  We can face, head on, the fact that sometimes everyone needs some protective coloring and stop trying to put lipstick on a pig.

Words are a powerful thing and a mother's words hold a special magic.

Yesterday, I complimented Megan on her cheerful eyes.

Pretty, Funny, Happy, Real

Apparently, when we don't have house guests and no one is actively throwing up or variations thereof and we aren't gallivanting about the countryside, I have no idea what to do with myself other than write blogposts... Enjoy!  ;-)

Pretty

There is this wonderful thing at the grocery store where you can get a bunch of daffodils (or daffodiddles, ala Charlie) for about 1.25 Euros.  You buy them at that stage where they look like nothing quite so much as rather odd asparagus and then the magic happens.  The children have the most fun coming down every morning to see how they have changed.  We have all sorts of discussions about how some are different colors, the stamens, how they turned the paper yellow, how they have to drink the water and some speculation about what they might get up to while we're asleep.  I sort of want to try an experiment where we add some food coloring to the water to see what happens but I'm hesitant to mess with my "pretty."  Oh, woe, for my children lack a sacrificial mother!

Happy

Earlier this week we had spring.  I'm unclear if it will return or if we'll be back to late winter until we hit summer for 3 days sometime between June and August (finger's crossed that it will fall on a weekend!) In a clear indicator of my assimilation, as soon as I read the weather report calling for highs of 15-16 (around 60' F) and brisk-fresh breezes, I thought "I must get the sheets into the washer!"  And, of course, once we hit a balmy 13 (55' F), I chased the children outside to frolic and threw open the windows.  I'm thinking the transition to 90' F with 80% humidity which is the joy of a southern american summer will be a touch rocky...

Happily, there is perhaps no better place for a little boy than Ireland in (the proverbial) spring...  SO MANY PUDDLES!!!!

And, of course, we all had to examine the HUGE snail!  Luckily, it's hanging out in one of Mommy's flower pots so it should be around for a while.  And, to think I claimed I wasn't sacrificial!

Real

So, this little girl, who was once regularly mistaken for a boy because she wanted nothing more than to exclusively wear her brother's hand-me-downs has finally arrived at the princess stage.  We had sidestepped it, mostly by completely ignoring the existence of princesses.  This is slightly easier in the US.  Once you come to Europe, even if you leapfrog all of the Disney business you still have actual princesses wandering about at every historic landmark (as well as actual knights, kings, princes, queens, and castles which I now firmly understand are NOT the same as palaces).  While I don't see anything inherently wrong with wanting to pretend to be a princess (I certainly have my moments of wishing to be whisked away...) I did hope we could sidestep some of the more insipid elements.  So, I told her she had to be the princess of something and offered up the choice of literature or engineering.  She initially went with engineering for obvious reasons.  At bathtime that evening, Allen came upon her carefully counting.  When he asked her what she was doing she said "I'm figuring out how many rolls of toilet paper we would have if we cut them all in half."  You know, as you do...

But, I've been fairly certain that Megan will be our flashlight reader.  Her first word was "apple" but her  second was "book."  And, she is currently working her way through Little Bear with great determination even though it is a smidge too hard for her to the extent that I have to hound her about brushing her teeth, etc.  So, I asked her if she really wanted to be Princess of Engineering or if she perhaps would rather be Princess of Literature.  Once she found out that Literature is another word for books, she quickly changed her mind and has been periodically skipping about announcing "Princess of Books, Princess of Books, I'm the Princess of Books."  I think this is a princess phase I can get behind.