Bullet points of doom
(If you can get through the MUSH stuff, it gets less geeky)
- Helped run a Hatching on Friday for the first time since um - well ‘98, personally, I think.
- the dragon-making code blew up ’cause the builder was out of marks and the person who wrote the code never thought of that possibility (not me, however, I never thought of it either, so there you go)
- however I do blame the late dragon-creation moment on the code, since it locks the dragons to the people running them, so it’s a good idea to ensure those people are like, showing up.
- hand-coded the dragons just before & during the Hatching; fortuately I screwed up enough of them in 94-98 that apparently, I can do that (with the help of @decompile and a few other tricks)
- 2/3 through the Hatching, from the bedroom: Mummy, I NEED A BOWL
- 3 hours of vomiting every 20 min ensued. While Carl was in the middle of an upgrade at work. So we, TERRIBLE PARENTS, passed him back and forth IN FRONT OF OUR KEYBOARDS. With a bowl in between.
- All dragons were Hatched and Impressed with few incidents. Whee! However, was easier pre-child.
- Noah has now officially attended his first Hatching. he can apparently read the word “green”
- Noah got to sleep around 2; up at 6
- 2.5 more hrs of vomiting
- red rash came Sat afternoon. Fever and itchy throughout weekend. Thank god for DVDs. and Play-dough.
- two more nights of little sleep ensued. Upgrade at Carl’s work continued. BTW Carl’s team had layoffs last week and we’ll see if he makes it through the post-upgrade period
- Monday, rash was fading. Stayed home, took day off work. Monday night, well, 2:30 am Tues: Mummy, my ear hurts. Carl worked from home today.
- First appointment available today: 7:45 pm
- 1 hr ago: first dose of antibiotics. Will work from home tomorrow. Am experiencing job angst as a result.
- Hope do not experience layoffs in either job
- going to bed now
So, the trip
The trip was all kinds of sad, and all kinds of wonderful. It was so mixed up I think my head is still spinning.
So, the sad: going to the cemetary with Noah was hard. He was asking the really tough questions of how this place, the gravesite, relates at all to Emily. Where is she? Why is this her place? Why is she not at our house? Neither Carl nor I really wanted to take that one but I think I muttered something about when you die you leave your body behind. It was entirely predictable, since I haven’t taken Noah there over the winter; when we were going more often I think it didn’t raise as many flags.
Anyways, that set off the usual nightmares: left the baby behind, etc. It’s small wonder I have no tolerance for horror movies any more - and I mean none. Sweeney Todd doesn’t count.
The inn itself was as usual lovely: we were in a different wing and room which at first disturbed the system, because there is nothing that we like more than little traditions. But the new room had an even better view of the grounds and lake, and a king sized bed which, if one co-sleeps as we did, is - amaaaaaazing.
I didn’t swim because, of course, I was sick. But Carl and Noah did, and Noah and I settled for rambling about the grounds. One day we all went over to the lake and found a little creek and Noah threw rocks and poked with a stick for like, an hour. We played ball hockey (they had a defunct tennis court set up for it) and jumped in puddles. We played knights with sticks. We explored all the statuary. We climbed the hill. It was incredibly right, those things.
Noah shocked Carl and I with his grown up ness. He made some friends, esp. a little boy named P. He made friends by taking a toy and walking over and saying, “Hello, my name is Noah. Would you like to play with me?” (I credit Montessori; this is a skill I still find difficult at times.) He was generally speaking polite and helpful and well-mannered, except after about the 45-min mark of any meal. All breakfasts and half the lunches were buffets, so that helped.
On the wagon ride he insisted on sitting with P., who was 6. The two of them discussed various characters and merchandise from the movie Cars, horse farts, horse poo, and horse hair. They also commented on the cars that went by (some of it was along a road) and Noah informed P. when one was a convertible, and that convertibles don’t have tops.
P. came with some older siblings, and one night as Carl and I were still eating dinner (three course meals are still a bit of a struggle), those boys crossed from the dining room to the ballroom where they had set up a ping-pong table and some round tables with games. Noah asked if he could go and since we could see him, we said sure. He never looked back. By the time we were finished, he’d learned to serve, and he valiantly attempted several games of ping-pong with us. He serves better than I do. Which is more a statement about me, but still.
He did one of the kids’ meals (they run a March Break kids programme) and seemed to do fine; ate and did crafts, but the next day he said he’d been lonely so he ate with us that night. Still, we got one lengthy gourmet meal with free babysitting… not bad. Also the hostess gave us the little glassed-in room of our own, so he could play on the floor when it got to be too much. 1.5-2 hrs is just too much, even with table games and pens and so on. It was fine.
Carl and I did our things: I read a fair amount, and watched HGTV; Noah watched some Treehouse; we rambled about by various fires in various rooms, and ate too much.
It occured to me, again, that somehow we’ve managed to replicate all the good things about my grandfather’s house & property, which was 17 acres of woodland with a creek, pond, and waterfall, and a larger home with lots of nooks and crannies and yes, a fireplace and a woodstove (separate rooms) by which we used to read. There too meals were very regular. And time poking about with sticks was de rigeur.
For all the bad things my grandfather did, those other parts were still very calm and good and the nature parts often healing, which is what I kind of get up at the inn. But also, I think the Lynns find the whole place familiar enough — right down to the vintage of the furniture in specific rooms - and so it is somewhere they can actually be, too.
And watching Noah in that creek - brought up some bad stuff, brought up a lot of regret that Emily never got that, but also felt very right.
So all in all it was a very good trip for what it was. As usual, I cried. As usual, I felt blinding rage. And as usual, here we are on the other side and it is okay.
I also still am not quite over how grownup Noah can be.
Happiness veined with sorrow
More later on the trip but it was as usual: the softest place to fall. Bonus: Noah-friendly activities.
Right now at this moment I still have that grief right at the front that this is the date of Emily’s death. And yet, home: late afternoon sun streaming in the front window over the sprouting seeds for the small surburban garden; Noah playing with his toys on the floor; Carl and I both languid from our holiday, with no agenda yet opened before us, and love almost palpable in the room — this is happiness. Pure and true.
Happy birthday, baby girl
Emily’s birthday today, and so we are packing for the trip up to our soft landing pad, The Briars, and Noah is babbling about his hotel! That has TREEHOUSE! How he remembers that it has Treehouse (24/7 advertising-free kids’ programming), I’m not sure. He told my parents that at his hotel he gets up in the morning and watches tv! Which is true. One of us staggers out of bed and turns it on. But I’m still amazed he remembers this.
Oh and of course, there is a pool.
5 years ago, life was very different. At this time, I was convinced that I was in labour; Carl was emailing his work and I was dropping red-coloured stew on the kitchen floor, which Carl would hear, come down, and have a panic-inducing moment about. Then we cleaned it up together and I emailed my work. By 8:15 Carl was talking me into the car. I was hesitant to leave by that time, even though my contractions were about 7 minutes apart. I was a little in denial.
5 years and really, the pain isn’t much better. I feel like it is the same gaping hole, it’s just that there is more ground build up beyond it. It is so impossible to imagine a life without Noah, but it is possible to imagine a life with Emily. Even if the timelines are split over what happened at 5:30 pm that March 12th.
5 year old girls are amazing creatures; there are several at Noah’s school, one of whom takes Noah under her wing. She’s got dark hard and I think she’s Philipina; she’s sassy and imaginative and talkative. She calls me Noahsmom, like “Noahsmom, can Noah play on the Fafa hill?”
(We’re not quite sure why fafa, but there’s a mound of snow all the kids at Noah’s school call the fafa hill and they all play on there gleefully while we parents stand around. Even with the recent warm weather it’s not entirely gone: it’s just filthy and icey, which bothers the kids not at all.)
Anyways, I know that had Emily lived we wouldn’t live in this neighbourhood, wouldn’t go to this school. And yet I can picture her playing with Noah on the fafa hill, and it is still brutally gut wrenching that she did not get to do that. I am still angry. Some people have mildly implied that one needs to get over it, but I don’t see how that could be.
Better // Wagon wheels
[Written Sunday] Although there was more work this morning, I left at 11:30 and went to the mall and got waxed, dyed, and cut. And a kickass pair of pants to go with my fabulous shoes for my presentation. So, mission accomplished and I feel better.
Meanwhile, Carl took Noah swimming - even better. For both of them.
On my way back I stopped at the store to get a few necessities (we leave for the Briars on Thursday, what would be Emily’s 5th (!) birthday, so didn’t need a full week of stuff). And right in front of the cash registers they had a massive pile of Wagon Wheels, on sale. In case you don’t know what these are they are probably the most artificial “cookie” you can possibly purchase like, in the entire world. I only peered at the ingredient list with my eyes shut but I’m pretty sure it goes: HFCS, red dye, artificial everthing, artery clogging goop, and cancer-causing tastee.
But you know, they were 99 cents and I was feeling weak. My inner children managed to convince me that since Noah is alive he should live! And have a Wagon Wheel! The fact that there would then be some left in the box for MY body is just an unpleasant side effect.
Generally with food we have at home we have a 95/5 rule. 95 per cent of what I purchase at the store is wholesome, whole food. It’s not all lentils and barley, but I do my best. But then there’s the 5% which is how we have occasionally stocked the odd can of Zoodles, box of Goldfish, and pack of flavoured yoghurt. (Ice cream, if the good stuff, counts as wholesome. Shut up.)
Anyways, so we did buy the Wagon Wheels and bring them back. After some rolling of eyes (Lyria, Carl) and some guilt (me/the system) and such, Carl and I did say in our own ways some variation on “and for dessert, you can have a Wagon Wheel!”
So Noah got all excited and we brought out the individually wrapped treats and opened his and he bit into it and…
… spit it out.
And asked for more cauliflower to get the taste out of his mouth.
I’m reminded that sometimes, even if you are kind of in that dark zone where you pass on your family’s (mild) dysfunctionality… your kids end up having more innate sense than that.
No more Wagon Wheels.
Primal scream
So.
Today I had sort of three missions. 1. Play Playmobil, or whatever else Noah wanted to play. 2. Clean up, but not for the whole day (lately, I am sad to say, one could spend a whole day… but that’s another post). 3. Go and get eyebrow waxing done and my hair cut and if the day was going especially well, coloured.
This last in part because I am doing a presentation on Tuesday. To three hundred people. In a theatre. But I digress.
The playing, we did. The cleaning, did more of than I’d actually planned.
But the whole day, beginning before 6 am, was “just one more hour” of work on Carl’s part. And yes. Noah can, sort of, be left with Carl while he’s working, but I kept waiting because I was stupid.
(And yes I know I’ve just revealed that I was going to get my hair cut by just anyone on a walk-in appointment. I’ve learned. Do not schedule things.)
Anyways. Frustration. Actually I had a half hour of rage at about 4 pm when I realized that it had been left too late. I put Noah downstairs in front of the TV and I just went upstairs and mopped a little too enthusiastically.
I don’t know. I really don’t. I think of the time and energy in my life that I have spent waiting, trying to figure out how to proceed without Carl, making excuses, and the way I have for all intents and purposes stopped trying to entertain because it is too embarassing. And I get really upset.
Good news, and showing up
Yay, got news a friend is expecting. Two bundles of joy in one year (my sister is also). Whee.
~~
For some reason this is on my mind today. I bet I’ve told this story before, but here it is again. I think it’s the layoff atmosphere (business: dismal) that brings it up.
In second year university I got really, really sick. But I also never really recovered my academic game even when my body recovered. I had taken attendence with a bit of a grain of a salt prior to getting sick, but after I got back to university I really became That Student. I pulled things off in most of my classes but only because I could structure an essay with decent ideas and because I tend to get good ideas under pressure (i.e., exams). But had I been in say, biology, where a spark of an idea combined with a good memory of text and a persuasive manner won’t get you bupkiss, I would have been sunk.
Anyways, one of my classes that year was an advanced creative writing seminar, into which I had talked my way. The class mark was simple: 50 per cent participation, 50 per cent based on one’s portfolio at the end. This was not a semester system school so this went from Sept-April.
The first month or two were spent reading and analysing actual good literature, so by the time I got sick at the end of October I had only turned in two things. One has been lost, probably luckily, to memory. But the other one was a poem. The first assignment for this class was this poem and it was “write a poem about a dead bird.” So of course we got a lot of lost innocence on the beach poems and a phoenix rising environmental fable poem. And a couple of other ones. Mine though (hello Lynn) was a former boyfriend walking past his former girlfriend’s house on garbage day and seeing the stiff body of the parakeet he had given her in a plastic bag out on the curb.
Anyways, I never went back to the class after Christmas, which is a pretty damn bad idea.
So I got a B-, or a C. I forget; let’s call it a C+ then. So I went in to tell the prof that he had gotten it wrong. He was retiring and packing up his office. He gave me a two-volume Norton Anthology of Literature and said I was the only writer in the class, but since I had only handed in one poem the mark couldn’t be any higher.
Today I kind of have that feeling; I am not showing up for class.
Going too fast, you stumble
This weekend was a surprising whirlwind of activity, especially compared to recent lying-about-groaning type weekends. I did find a shower venue, visit with family, and attend events and Noah squeezed in (without me! But with male relatives) a trip to a model railroad open house.
Good times had by all.
But then I got a really bad idea. Carl had let Noah watch a bit of the animated Clone Wars series, since Noah’s all hooked on lightsabers etc. Somehow I managed to talk myself into the idea that Star Wars: A New Hope would be okay to watch. I’m not sure why I overrode my better judgement (I’d previously thought the 7-9 range would be good) except maybe that I was getting worried that the ambient information was going to ruin it, or something.
Or maybe I just wanted to do something Special but was too lazy to really think things through.
Anyways, we popped popcorn and watched it. And Noah kind of hated it. He didn’t want to stop watching it, but the sandpeople scared him; we fast forwarded through the garbage compactor scene, and we spent a lot of time trying to reassure him.
You know? Star Wars IV is actually kind of violent and dark. I didn’t remember it that way, of course, especially in comparison to all the rest. But it is. And I’m really sorry I did that. Noah does not seem to have suffered ill effects except that he “doesn’t like the Star Wars with the PEOPLE in it.”
Oops. These calls are hard. Or maybe it’s more straight-up than that: I wish I hadn’t screwed up. The truth is I wanted to watch something I wanted to watch. Sigh.