Take the time to read this article. It made me heartsick.
h/t Mary Poppins Not…thank you for reminding me to stop and listen to the violin.
Author Archives: michellereitemeyer
Guns, wrenches and spatulas
I think sexism comes naturally to boys. I have one (a sexist boy), but he didn’t get that from me. I can’t really blame Bill either. I can accuse my husband of many things, but not sexism.
A few days ago, he (the sexist boy) casually remarked about women and guns not mixing. Something about how women don’t shoot them. My husband, in shock, informed him that his Nana (my husband’s mother) owned several handguns and was a better shot than he was. This boy of mine thought that it was illegal for women to shoot guns, or at least that it had been at some point in the past!
I reminded him of the female soldiers he’s seen. Asked him if didn’t he think they knew how to use a gun. The problem with logic is that it ruins one’s misperceptions!
Today I bought one of these (but I didn’t pay nearly that much!). The boys had one last year and used it a lot, but it didn’t survive the winter. My boys and two friends set out to put it together, but quickly decided the directions were too complicated. Sexist boy of mine wanted his dad to help. Bill was working on stuff for school, so I dropped all of my womanly work, you know, cooking, cleaning, and baby-tending, to see if my pretty little head could make heads or tails of the instructions. We did a few steps easily, but when I stopped to carefully read the next step, this kid sighed a heavy sigh and said, “Shouldn’t I just go get Dad?”
I was a little annoyed.
Just as we were finishing putting the net on, Bill came down to get more beer (it helps him write better) and stepped out back to see how we were doing. I informed him of his son’s comments, and my hero leaped to defend my honor by reminding the boy, “Your mother is an engineer!”
I don’t know what I’m going to do with this kid.
Balmy weather
Today’s high temperature was in the lower 50s. Depending on the wind or sun conditions at any given moment, my kids varied their dress from a t-shirt to a winter coat. Jenny, mainly favoring a winter coat, even came in at one point for mittens. I had to help her put them on. Later, she came through on some errand which required her to remove her mittens, so I had to help her put them on again. She stopped to chat.
“It’s very warm outside, Mommy.”
“Is that why you’re wearing gloves?”
“Well, my hands are cold!”
“Mmmm.”
“But the rest of me’s not cold. {pause} In the sun, it’s maybe even…hot.”
“Mmmm.” I’m wondering where this is going.
“Mommy, do you think we could get out the kiddie pool?”
“Uh, NO.”
I know, I know. I’m such a party pooper.
Running in place
My number one thought while up from 230 to 330 AM with a gassy baby was, “Yippee! Now I have an excuse to not get on the treadmill in the morning!”
I hate the treadmill.
Recently I read an article that said one should always set the elevation to at least 1.0 on a treadmill, because they tend to have a reverse slope, so running on a treadmill is actually easier than running on the street. Well, my treadmill is kicking my rear end more than street running ever did. I can’t believe it’s easier.
Currently, I can run 2 miles at a 12 minute per mile pace. That’s pretty pathetic. 18 months ago, I was doing 3 miles at a 9.5 – 10 mpm pace, which is not exactly speedy, but at least I didn’t feel like a total slug. I was ready to convict myself of delusional timing and wishful thinking, but my official time on the Army Ten Miler in 2006 put me at a 10.5 mpm pace, so I know I was doing better than I am today. I have to keep reminding myself that I do weigh 20 pounds more than I did then, and surely it is harder to propel that extra weight around, right?
Besides the extra weight and the limited running due to pregnancy and newborn care, the treadmill, I think, contributes to a more laborious run. There are no birds chirping or other animal wildlife scampering about and teasing my dog, no smell of honeysuckles or cherry blossoms, no cars to evade or other runners to impress with my sleek, regular strides and excellent form (ha!), no sun barely peeking out over the horizon or late moon lingering in the lightening sky.
Instead, it’s the whirr of the machine and the nagging beeps that remind me I’ve done another lap of the 1/8 mile loop in the computer’s mind, it’s the bleak walls of an unfinished basement and the sight of toys jumbled on the floor or in mixed up bins, it’s the sound of the washing machine and the buzz of the dryer reminding me that I have stuff to do.
Today’s morning temperature was barely above freezing. In fact, they’re calling for snow today and tomorrow. But as next week progresses, the temperatures are expected to go up and the morning air might not be as frigid. I am going to try to go outside for a change. Even if I still plod along slowly, at least I’ll enjoy the run.
And since we’re moving back to the area, I’ve already registered for this fall’s Army Ten Miler. It’s not as ambitious as Laura doing a half-marathon four months after having a baby, but it’s motivation nonetheless. Perhaps this summer, I will do some 5k races just so I have experience racing a more manageable distance.
Birthday cards
It would be silly to purchase birthday cards when I have a whole bevy of artists right here. And if the recipient is a neighborhood kid, it’s really a waste of money to get a store-bought card. If I spend $3 on a card for my mother, I know it will spend at least a few days (weeks?) on display in her home. She will look at it at least twice (once when she gets it and once when she gets rid of it), and likely think some pleasant thoughts about me. Children only look at cards because their parents make them look at cards to see from whom the gift is.
At least I appreciate my children’s efforts.
Although the artwork is cute, what I really love about these cards is the generosity. Here, Fritz includes Peter in the “from.” We all know Peter can’t make a birthday card (at least not one that does the job of wishing a happy birthday and identifying the giver of the gift).
And this one says it’s from Katie. Billy drew the pictures and Katie colored them. What team work!Last I saw, Billy’s card wasn’t done. He’ll spend days working on a “masterpiece.”
Jenny drew her own card, but somebody, probably Fritz, wrote the words. Can you identify Princess Leia with her blaster?It’s evidence such as this that makes me feel like I’m doing something right.
High-fiber dessert
Would you like to add some fiber to your diet? Years ago, when I was pregnant with Fritz (and therefore, being my first child, had the leisure to stand around the cereal aisle at the grocery store comparing labels for a half hour) I found myself in desperate need of, ahem, regularity. I scoped out every single cereal on the market and discovered that Fiber One was, by far, the most fiber-laden of all. Ten years later, there is some competition, but from what I’ve seen (sorry, I no longer have hours to spend looking at labels), Fiber One is still top dog.
The downside is that it looks like gerbil-food.
Fortunately, I don’t have a desperate need to eat the stuff. Bill had been eating it, and I stocked up the last time it went on sale. But then Bill tasted their Honey Clusters version. The Honey Clusters tastes infinitely better than the Original flavor and has almost as much fiber. Unfortunately, it also has high fructose corn syrup and other junk. Bill doesn’t care, but some people do. Me? I eat oatmeal now.
In any event, Bill’s been eating the Clusters and ignoring the two boxes of Original on the shelf. What to do?
Well, Fiber One helped me out by putting a Crunchy Fudge Cookie recipe on the box using two whole cups per batch! And you know what? Add enough sugar to something and it really isn’t tough to eat it. I only had one kid turn her dainty nose up at them. The rest begged for just one more (again and again and again). I don’t think I’ll have any trouble using the rest of the box. I mean, if health food tastes this good, how can I not make more?
In fact, when I started this post, there were four lonely cookies left. I wondered what I should do with four cookies. Six of us like them. They couldn’t be saved for another evening’s dessert – heavens! the squabbles. No, somebody must finish off those cookies to keep the peace. As I wrote this post, deeply considering how very little my family would appreciate the sacrifice should I choose to eat them all, but how, in the long run, it would perhaps be the right thing to do, Bill and then Peter wandered into the kitchen and noticed the cookies. Apparently, they had the same thoughts about how the cookies simply could not be left and that somebody needed to just eat them to save us all.
And so they did. My hips thank you, dearies.
Six months old today
HELLO, WORLD!
If I pinch you really hard will you quit with that flash already?
Yes, he does hold babies every now and then.
If I don’t look at him, he’ll go away, right?
She told you to stay, and if you don’t, my head is gonna hit that hard floor. So you better, or I’ll chase you mercilessly in about 4 or 5 months. Oh, who am I foolin’? I’ll chase you mercilessly in 4 or 5 months anyway. The French Connection
Last week’s illness has reminded me of my worst vacation ever, since I was similarly afflicted during that trip.
It was November of 1990. I was spending that semester of my “college experience” in Brussels, Belgium. Included in the tuition costs were several long weekend trips to various places, and the weekend before Thanksgiving our group headed to Paris.
Now things do not have to go perfectly for me to have a good time. I am very flexible and can make the best of most situations. But in Paris, I was sick, and so even the finest of luxuries would have left me grumpy. The fact that there were no luxuries only made things pure misery. The youth hostel was the worst I’d ever experienced in Europe: no seats on the toilets, no hot water (not even tepid), dubiously clean linens, obviously unclean floors. I had forgotten my blow dryer, so after a frigid shower, I went sightseeing in the gray November chill with a damp head. It is small wonder that after this weekend, I ended up with a double ear infection.
I did have some good moments on this trip. Mass at Notre Dame was lovely, except that I had no idea what they were saying, and I was a bit distracted by all the people. They don’t close down the cathedrals for Mass in Europe (not in any that I was in). So the priest might be consecrating the host while half the nation of Japan filters around the altar taking flash photos.
The view from the Eiffel Tower was fantastic, especially at night. But even more impressive was the wind. Buried in an album somewhere are photos of my friends acting like they’re about to be blown off the side.
I went to see Huis Clos performed just to say I saw Huis Clos performed. It’s a good thing I had read the play, because I don’t speak much French. In fact, I really only practiced two sentences much to my French teacher’s annoyance: Je ne parle pas français and Avez vous un briquet?
I remember purchasing some trinket from a street vendor. He “didn’t have any change”, though, so he suggested I select another item (I was 19, okay? One is permitted to be gullible when one is that young). I picked a black, leather whip, because I thought it was funny.
We went to the Louvre, but all I really remember is running running running. We must not have had much time. I remember seeing how small the Mona Lisa is, and I think I found the Venus de Milo, but everything else is a blur. Can you really appreciate art while dashing by?
We returned to Brussels a few days before Thanksgiving and the one American professor invited us all to his home for Thanksgiving dinner. I was still plodding through my illness, thinking any day I would start to feel better. Somehow I found enough energy to participate in a game of touch football that afternoon, but by the time I got to the professor’s house for dinner, my head was throbbing, and then my ear drums burst. Both of them.
I left before the turkey was carved and stood in the rain waiting for a tram. An elderly woman stood with me complaining about the weather and for once I wished I could do more than nod my head and say, “mais oui.” The next day I went to the doctor, but the recovery was long. I was completely deaf in one ear and mostly deaf in the other. Instead, I heard a high-pitched ringing that nearly drove me mad. I remember wishing I had a gun, so I could blow my brains out. I didn’t want to die, I just wanted the ringing to stop.
So, while Paris cultivates an image of romance and urban chicdom, all I think about is it being cold, wet and dirty and making me so sick I was suicidal. I had another ear infection in my early twenties, but not again until this past week. I don’t know why I didn’t “tough it out” as I usually do with illnesses, but I’m happy for the instincts that had me calling the doctor for an appointment last week. I can’t imagine re-living the agony of burst eardrums while trying to take care of my family. As it is, they suffered tremendously without homemade waffles and pancakes, clean laundry and hot lunches. Had Bill not been able to go to the grocery store or fetch take-out pizza, the world might have come to an end, I tell you.
Sartre should have known. Hell isn’t other people. Hell is a sick mommy.
Reit This Way 
