I live in Rochester, NY, and I've been to the beach twice in the past three days.
Well, it isn't really the beach. There's no white sand or ocean, and the sun doesn't blaze overhead with that baking brightness of the tropics. There are no waves or palm trees, and there isn't any boardwalk. There isn't even the smell of salt. But there is a lovely pebble and sand shore that goes up to the gray waters of Lake Ontario, and as the clouds roll on overhead you can enjoy the shrieks of little children splashing in the water.
J's parents took us to Hamlin Beach State Park on Tuesday, and it was James' first time "swimming" at the beach. We put him in swim trunks, sandals, and a swimmy diaper, and drove a half hour north up to the lake. As soon as I took him out of the car he pointed at the water in fascination. I walked him up to the edge of the shore, stripped my sneakers off, and put a toe in. It was very cold. I set him down in the wet sand to see what he'd do. He immediately ran into the water and began laughing uproariously. Then he attempted to run further out into the lake and immediately pitched headfirst into the water.
He cried for a bit, and then the water was funny again. He spent most of Tuesdays throwing all of the rocks he could get his little hands on into the water.
My Mom and Dad used to take us up to the lake quite regularly, and their fussing about "staying safe" on the big boulders beside the water always bothered me. All five boys would hop from rock to rock, scrambling up the steep boulder sized rocks and jumping over the cracks between them. We thought we were quite the nimble boulderers, and what was all the fuss about.
As I watched my own son climb the big lakeside rocks on Tuesday, I got a taste of what my parents saw. I saw little sandal-shod feet slipping off of steep edges, and I caught him mid-fall more than once. I saw crannies with sharp edges and caves where slithery things lie hidden. I saw jumps that were too big to be attempted and slippery angles with falls into deep water. In short, I saw all the things that made scrambling on the rocks so appealing to James.
Among his other dangerous moments:
Climbing up playground equipment intended for much bigger children.
Insisting on climbing up a nine foot slide ladder by himself
Almost pitching off the top of said slide when his foot got caught on the way down
Attempting cartwheels that he saw his friend doing in the grass
Trying to "swim" on his own
Picking up rubbish from the sand
We went back again today with Pax, Kylie, and their little friend Grace. He was completely uninterested in the water, but we spent several hours sliding, swinging (especially under-duckies), and playing with the Nerf football.
And as we shared a bowl of Abbott's on the way back home, I thought: Who needs Myrtle Beach?
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Monday, June 17, 2013
Questions I Was Asked Today
Q. How often do you practice with the orchestra?
A. It depends on what sort of concert we're rehearsing. For a big Philharmonics concert there are almost always 4 rehearsals. There are usually 2 rehearsals for a Pops concert, and most of the summer programs (or kids shows) are put together in just one rehearsal.
Q. Why are there holes in the valves of my trumpet?
A. Depressing a piston valve releases the flow of air into its corresponding slide, thereby lengthening the instrument and lowering it by a half-step (in the case of the second valve) a whole step (in the case of the first) or a minor third (in the case of the third valve) from the open partial that would otherwise be sounded.
Q. Did you know that I have a star on my shoe?
A. .....
Q. Have you ever seen the horn that's all curled up and they blow into it?
A. Do you mean the french horn?
Q. No, it's like in movies.
A. Maybe a shofar?
Q. Yeah, that's what it's called! But isn't it like a french horn?
A. Yes, they're shaped similarly.
Q. I think the french horn sounds kind of funny. It sounds melby.
A. That's actually a pretty good word for it.
Q. What's the shofar made from?
A. From a ram's horn originally.
Q. Really?! That's so gross.
A. Well, I think they clean it first.
Q. Isn't one kind made from a seashell or something?
A. Yes, you can make some trumpet sounds by blowing in a conch shell.
Q. Where do they come from?
A. I don't know. From the beach, I guess.
Q. So what was I supposed to practice this week?
A. The songs that I circled.
Q. Oh, okay. Here's one.
A. I see. Did you practice this one?
Q. Yes. I was supposed to practice this one.
A. The date on this assignment is 03/19/97.
Q. Oh. That's okay, I didn't practice that one anyway.
A. I was just about your age in 1997.
Q. Wow, you're old.
A. Thanks.
Q. How old is your son now?
A. He's 18 months old now.
Q. Oh. I don't get how baby's ages work. I thought he was two.
A. No, not until November.
Q. Okay. So wait, when will he turn one?
A. He's already one. He turned one at twelve months.
Q. That's confusing.
A. Hm.
Q. Is he still conducting?
A. Yup.
(shows video)
Another productive trumpet lesson...
A. It depends on what sort of concert we're rehearsing. For a big Philharmonics concert there are almost always 4 rehearsals. There are usually 2 rehearsals for a Pops concert, and most of the summer programs (or kids shows) are put together in just one rehearsal.
Q. Why are there holes in the valves of my trumpet?
A. Depressing a piston valve releases the flow of air into its corresponding slide, thereby lengthening the instrument and lowering it by a half-step (in the case of the second valve) a whole step (in the case of the first) or a minor third (in the case of the third valve) from the open partial that would otherwise be sounded.
Q. Did you know that I have a star on my shoe?
A. .....
Q. Have you ever seen the horn that's all curled up and they blow into it?
A. Do you mean the french horn?
Q. No, it's like in movies.
A. Maybe a shofar?
Q. Yeah, that's what it's called! But isn't it like a french horn?
A. Yes, they're shaped similarly.
Q. I think the french horn sounds kind of funny. It sounds melby.
A. That's actually a pretty good word for it.
Q. What's the shofar made from?
A. From a ram's horn originally.
Q. Really?! That's so gross.
A. Well, I think they clean it first.
Q. Isn't one kind made from a seashell or something?
A. Yes, you can make some trumpet sounds by blowing in a conch shell.
Q. Where do they come from?
A. I don't know. From the beach, I guess.
Q. So what was I supposed to practice this week?
A. The songs that I circled.
Q. Oh, okay. Here's one.
A. I see. Did you practice this one?
Q. Yes. I was supposed to practice this one.
A. The date on this assignment is 03/19/97.
Q. Oh. That's okay, I didn't practice that one anyway.
A. I was just about your age in 1997.
Q. Wow, you're old.
A. Thanks.
Q. How old is your son now?
A. He's 18 months old now.
Q. Oh. I don't get how baby's ages work. I thought he was two.
A. No, not until November.
Q. Okay. So wait, when will he turn one?
A. He's already one. He turned one at twelve months.
Q. That's confusing.
A. Hm.
Q. Is he still conducting?
A. Yup.
(shows video)
Another productive trumpet lesson...
Saturday, June 15, 2013
How to Practice and Make Dinner
It all started with the drumset.
We've known for awhile that James enjoys banging on drumsets, but we found out this last week that the drumset has become a point of obsession. J and I played a recital at my school last week, and James threw the worst tantrum of his little life when he was plucked away from the drumset in the sanctuary afterwards. He kicked and flailed and shrieked as we carried him outside, twisting violently and trying to climb down. He's done this sort of thing before when something really upsets him, but we could both tell that this fit was unusual.
"James, that's enough!" said J, setting him down on the pavement.
This is when he'd usually calm down and start to forget about whatever it was that was upsetting him, maybe even coming over for a contrite snuggle. But this time he kept flailing on the pavement, and even tried to make his way back into the school when another adult came out through the big glass doors. He HAD to get back to that drumset. It took him nearly 20 minutes to calm down.
Yesterday, we visited Pax and Kylie for a bonfire, and James found the drumset in their basement. He had the same ecstatic smile the entire time he was beating the dusty old floor tom, and pitched a fit nearly as bad as "the Lima incident" when we took him up to put him in his pack and play for bed. Fortunately the dark room and the presence of Steven Bear sedated him relatively quickly, but there was no doubt that the drumset was the cause of the fit again.
I had two things to do this afternoon
1) Practice for at least an hour
2) Make dinner
J was gone at church for the evening, and I knew that it wouldn't be easy to get these two things done. James knew it was glorious outside, and he was begging to go out within 15 minutes of consciousness in the morning. (We did go outside in the morning, and had a blast playing the back yard...but no practicing was logged.)
I had an idea. About a month ago we'd finally retrieved (after six years of marriage) some old boxes that we'd thrown in a friends attic when we were first married. I remembered seeing an old set of drumsticks and a practice pad from J's percussion methods class. When James got up from his nap, I gave him a bottle, then took him into the laundry room to dig for the sticks. I found them right away, and set him up out in the kitchen. He couldn't have been more pleased. He beat away on the practice pad vigorously, and I set up to practice trumpet. Unlike the cacophony he can raise on a drumset (it's the cymbals that make it unbearable, really) a practice pad merely makes dull "thwump" sounds, and for 20 glorious minutes all was well as James and I both practiced our instruments.
At 4:30, it was time to make the pizza dough. I knew that tonight was a pizza night, and J had left a recipe for easy pizza dough that I could make in the bread machine. There would be no kneading, no dirty dishes, and no complications. All I had to do was follow the recipe and I'd have a fluffy golden crust that she'd made several times already to the approval of all parties. I pulled out the recipe card. One and a quarter cups of water. I measured the water out from the tap, and poured it in. Check. 2 tablespoons of yeast. I pulled the bag of yeast out of the freezer, dug the tablespoon out of the silverware drawer, and dumped in two scoops.
It looked like an awful lot of yeast. I looked at the card again, and noticed that it read "2 t yeast" but 1 1/2 T sugar. Oh, bother. I probably should have taken this as an omen and resigned myself to ordering a pizza, but I decided to try again. I washed out the bread machine bucket, and then started again, this time making sure that I apportioned the ingredients exactly as they were written.
Once I had everything ready I latched the bucket in place, turned the machine to setting 6, and pressed the start button. It gave a loud whir and then began to knead the dough. James, who is terrified of the noises that the bread machine makes, ran into the other room. After a few minutes his face peeked around the doorpost, and I asked him if he wanted to look at the bread machine. He gave a shy nod, and I picked him up. We opened up the top, looked in, and he surveyed the mass of wet dough.
"It looks good, James. We'll keep on checking on it though." We did have one previous failure with this recipe, when the bread machine failed to mix all of the flour into the dough, leaving dry flour all over the side of the pan. I resolved to check every 10 minutes or so and make sure it was mixing properly.
James was very helpful in all of this, and we both went back to practicing. We would check every few minutes, and he even asked to taste the dough that was on the spoon. I obliged (there was no egg in the recipe) and he nodded in approval. I asked if he wanted supper, and he nodded again. His supper was a disaster.
He's getting more particular about what he eats, and how he eats. Tonight, he only wanted to eat the cookies that Great-Grandma Davis had brought up from Pennsylvania earlier that day. I told him he'd have to eat the rice and beans that Mom had left for him first, and he absolutely refused. We went through ten minutes of my trying to force a spoon (then airplane, then missile, then outright bribe) into his mouth before he finally accepted some grapes. After the grapes were consumed I put some green beans on his tray, and he promptly threw them on the floor. (I found one in the bell of my C trumpet.)
I decided we'd had enough dinner at that point, so I wiped off his face and took him out of the high chair. As soon as I'd put him down I remembered--J told me to give him an avocado.
"James, do you want some avocado?"
He gave an enthusiastic nod "yes" and some goofy giggles, and I went to cut one up. When I turned around, he had climbed into the adult chair next to the table. When I picked him up to put him in his booster seat, he began to shriek. I set him back down in the big chair and looked at him wearily.
"James, will you eat this avocado if you can sit in a big person chair?"
Another happy nod. He wants to do "big kid" things now, including eating with his own spoon and fork. This makes a mess of everything, but we're trying to let him do it whenever we can. I let him sit in the big chair, and gave him avocado. He gobbled it up, begged unsuccessfully for a cookie, and then just as I was wiping him off, the bread machine timer sounded.
"Okay James, time to make a pizza!"
I set him down on the kitchen floor, walked over to the machine, and looked in.
It was a disaster.
My dough was a soupy mess, and there was no way it was going to form into a pizza crust. Again, I probably should have just ordered a pizza right there. But I didn't. I thought to myself: "I can salvage this--it just needs to be thicker! If I knead in enough flour, it will thicken up." I grabbed a fistful of flour, spread it on the counter, and then started to pull the soupy dough out on top of it. I realized as soon as I touched it that I should have taken my wedding ring off. I was immediately a sticky mess, and I was probably going to need more flour than the initial fistful.
I heard a crash behind me, and turned around to see that James was knocking over a stack of expensive Oxford texts in Greek, including my very expensive Vulgate Bible. I rushed over, both hands completely covered in sticky dough, and used my elbows to push the books away from him towards the center of the table. Running back to the kitchen counter, I somehow managed to get the the top off of the flour canister by picking it up with my elbows, and I reached my doughy hands in for more.
There were loud shrieks behind me. I turned around, and James was stuck attempting to get down from the chair. He was half hanging off of it, and clearly about to fall. I ran back to the table, leaving a cloud of flour in my way, and sat down in the chair opposite him, then lifted up my feet (my hands were a complete disaster now) and pincered his midsection between my ankles, leaning back to guide him down to the floor. He laughed uproariously at this, and I noticed that I'd spilled flour all over the Vulgate Bible as I hurried back to the kitchen counter.
I used the top of my hand to pull the cooking spray down from the kitchen cabinet, and resigned myself to getting the cap dirty in order to spray the pizza pan. (I got the pizza pan entirely by pulling the stove drawer open with my feet)
As I was putting the doughy mess onto the pizza pan I heard the distinct sound of a brass-nickel alloy falling onto the floor, and whirled around to see that James was pulling my trumpet apart and dropping the pieces on the floor. I'd heard him drop the third valve slide, and I was again pulling the trumpet away from him with my knees. I sat down again with the trumpet between my knees, slid it down to my feet, and somehow (really, this must have looked very impressive) with my doughy hands held safely away maneuvered it onto the table and out of James' reach with my ankle and toes.
As I walked back to the kitchen counter, I beheld the final state of the dough. It had firmed up a little bit, but it was full of uneven wet patches, badly stretched, and it barely covered up half the pizza pan. My shoulders drooped as I looked at it, and then I felt a tug at my shorts. James was standing next to me, and pointing at my fingers, which were still plastered in the dough. I held out my hand, and he licked my the dough off my middle finger. Looking up, he smiled.
"Is that good?" I asked
He nodded, and I offered him my thumb. He promptly bit it as hard as he could.
I attempted to salvage the dough by turning it into a calzone, although I completely forgot to put cheese on it until I was already in the process of putting it in the oven door, and once the cheese was on I just barely caught myself from baking it with a metal knife left on the pan accidentally. I also forgot to set the timer until it had already been in the oven for five minutes, and as I began to pile the dirty dishes in the sink, I looked back at my darling son.
He was trying to drink my valve oil.
We've known for awhile that James enjoys banging on drumsets, but we found out this last week that the drumset has become a point of obsession. J and I played a recital at my school last week, and James threw the worst tantrum of his little life when he was plucked away from the drumset in the sanctuary afterwards. He kicked and flailed and shrieked as we carried him outside, twisting violently and trying to climb down. He's done this sort of thing before when something really upsets him, but we could both tell that this fit was unusual.
"James, that's enough!" said J, setting him down on the pavement.
This is when he'd usually calm down and start to forget about whatever it was that was upsetting him, maybe even coming over for a contrite snuggle. But this time he kept flailing on the pavement, and even tried to make his way back into the school when another adult came out through the big glass doors. He HAD to get back to that drumset. It took him nearly 20 minutes to calm down.
Yesterday, we visited Pax and Kylie for a bonfire, and James found the drumset in their basement. He had the same ecstatic smile the entire time he was beating the dusty old floor tom, and pitched a fit nearly as bad as "the Lima incident" when we took him up to put him in his pack and play for bed. Fortunately the dark room and the presence of Steven Bear sedated him relatively quickly, but there was no doubt that the drumset was the cause of the fit again.
I had two things to do this afternoon
1) Practice for at least an hour
2) Make dinner
J was gone at church for the evening, and I knew that it wouldn't be easy to get these two things done. James knew it was glorious outside, and he was begging to go out within 15 minutes of consciousness in the morning. (We did go outside in the morning, and had a blast playing the back yard...but no practicing was logged.)
I had an idea. About a month ago we'd finally retrieved (after six years of marriage) some old boxes that we'd thrown in a friends attic when we were first married. I remembered seeing an old set of drumsticks and a practice pad from J's percussion methods class. When James got up from his nap, I gave him a bottle, then took him into the laundry room to dig for the sticks. I found them right away, and set him up out in the kitchen. He couldn't have been more pleased. He beat away on the practice pad vigorously, and I set up to practice trumpet. Unlike the cacophony he can raise on a drumset (it's the cymbals that make it unbearable, really) a practice pad merely makes dull "thwump" sounds, and for 20 glorious minutes all was well as James and I both practiced our instruments.
At 4:30, it was time to make the pizza dough. I knew that tonight was a pizza night, and J had left a recipe for easy pizza dough that I could make in the bread machine. There would be no kneading, no dirty dishes, and no complications. All I had to do was follow the recipe and I'd have a fluffy golden crust that she'd made several times already to the approval of all parties. I pulled out the recipe card. One and a quarter cups of water. I measured the water out from the tap, and poured it in. Check. 2 tablespoons of yeast. I pulled the bag of yeast out of the freezer, dug the tablespoon out of the silverware drawer, and dumped in two scoops.
It looked like an awful lot of yeast. I looked at the card again, and noticed that it read "2 t yeast" but 1 1/2 T sugar. Oh, bother. I probably should have taken this as an omen and resigned myself to ordering a pizza, but I decided to try again. I washed out the bread machine bucket, and then started again, this time making sure that I apportioned the ingredients exactly as they were written.
Once I had everything ready I latched the bucket in place, turned the machine to setting 6, and pressed the start button. It gave a loud whir and then began to knead the dough. James, who is terrified of the noises that the bread machine makes, ran into the other room. After a few minutes his face peeked around the doorpost, and I asked him if he wanted to look at the bread machine. He gave a shy nod, and I picked him up. We opened up the top, looked in, and he surveyed the mass of wet dough.
"It looks good, James. We'll keep on checking on it though." We did have one previous failure with this recipe, when the bread machine failed to mix all of the flour into the dough, leaving dry flour all over the side of the pan. I resolved to check every 10 minutes or so and make sure it was mixing properly.
James was very helpful in all of this, and we both went back to practicing. We would check every few minutes, and he even asked to taste the dough that was on the spoon. I obliged (there was no egg in the recipe) and he nodded in approval. I asked if he wanted supper, and he nodded again. His supper was a disaster.
He's getting more particular about what he eats, and how he eats. Tonight, he only wanted to eat the cookies that Great-Grandma Davis had brought up from Pennsylvania earlier that day. I told him he'd have to eat the rice and beans that Mom had left for him first, and he absolutely refused. We went through ten minutes of my trying to force a spoon (then airplane, then missile, then outright bribe) into his mouth before he finally accepted some grapes. After the grapes were consumed I put some green beans on his tray, and he promptly threw them on the floor. (I found one in the bell of my C trumpet.)
I decided we'd had enough dinner at that point, so I wiped off his face and took him out of the high chair. As soon as I'd put him down I remembered--J told me to give him an avocado.
"James, do you want some avocado?"
He gave an enthusiastic nod "yes" and some goofy giggles, and I went to cut one up. When I turned around, he had climbed into the adult chair next to the table. When I picked him up to put him in his booster seat, he began to shriek. I set him back down in the big chair and looked at him wearily.
"James, will you eat this avocado if you can sit in a big person chair?"
Another happy nod. He wants to do "big kid" things now, including eating with his own spoon and fork. This makes a mess of everything, but we're trying to let him do it whenever we can. I let him sit in the big chair, and gave him avocado. He gobbled it up, begged unsuccessfully for a cookie, and then just as I was wiping him off, the bread machine timer sounded.
"Okay James, time to make a pizza!"
I set him down on the kitchen floor, walked over to the machine, and looked in.
It was a disaster.
My dough was a soupy mess, and there was no way it was going to form into a pizza crust. Again, I probably should have just ordered a pizza right there. But I didn't. I thought to myself: "I can salvage this--it just needs to be thicker! If I knead in enough flour, it will thicken up." I grabbed a fistful of flour, spread it on the counter, and then started to pull the soupy dough out on top of it. I realized as soon as I touched it that I should have taken my wedding ring off. I was immediately a sticky mess, and I was probably going to need more flour than the initial fistful.
I heard a crash behind me, and turned around to see that James was knocking over a stack of expensive Oxford texts in Greek, including my very expensive Vulgate Bible. I rushed over, both hands completely covered in sticky dough, and used my elbows to push the books away from him towards the center of the table. Running back to the kitchen counter, I somehow managed to get the the top off of the flour canister by picking it up with my elbows, and I reached my doughy hands in for more.
There were loud shrieks behind me. I turned around, and James was stuck attempting to get down from the chair. He was half hanging off of it, and clearly about to fall. I ran back to the table, leaving a cloud of flour in my way, and sat down in the chair opposite him, then lifted up my feet (my hands were a complete disaster now) and pincered his midsection between my ankles, leaning back to guide him down to the floor. He laughed uproariously at this, and I noticed that I'd spilled flour all over the Vulgate Bible as I hurried back to the kitchen counter.
I used the top of my hand to pull the cooking spray down from the kitchen cabinet, and resigned myself to getting the cap dirty in order to spray the pizza pan. (I got the pizza pan entirely by pulling the stove drawer open with my feet)
As I was putting the doughy mess onto the pizza pan I heard the distinct sound of a brass-nickel alloy falling onto the floor, and whirled around to see that James was pulling my trumpet apart and dropping the pieces on the floor. I'd heard him drop the third valve slide, and I was again pulling the trumpet away from him with my knees. I sat down again with the trumpet between my knees, slid it down to my feet, and somehow (really, this must have looked very impressive) with my doughy hands held safely away maneuvered it onto the table and out of James' reach with my ankle and toes.
As I walked back to the kitchen counter, I beheld the final state of the dough. It had firmed up a little bit, but it was full of uneven wet patches, badly stretched, and it barely covered up half the pizza pan. My shoulders drooped as I looked at it, and then I felt a tug at my shorts. James was standing next to me, and pointing at my fingers, which were still plastered in the dough. I held out my hand, and he licked my the dough off my middle finger. Looking up, he smiled.
"Is that good?" I asked
He nodded, and I offered him my thumb. He promptly bit it as hard as he could.
I attempted to salvage the dough by turning it into a calzone, although I completely forgot to put cheese on it until I was already in the process of putting it in the oven door, and once the cheese was on I just barely caught myself from baking it with a metal knife left on the pan accidentally. I also forgot to set the timer until it had already been in the oven for five minutes, and as I began to pile the dirty dishes in the sink, I looked back at my darling son.
He was trying to drink my valve oil.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Groceries
I'm soaked.
But I have an umbrella now. You see, I just got back from the grocery store. I have to go alone, in the middle of the workday, because it's getting too hard to take James by myself, and J won't have any chance to go today. She's watching Hayden and Liam today all day, then teaching pretty much straight through from 4-8:30. It's her busy day. It's her VERY busy day.
But I don't have a lot going on, because all the kids are gone from school, although I still have to be here. Ostensibly I'm here to correct finals and clean my room. I don't have any final exams to correct, so that leaves the cleaning, which is going slowly. So far I've unearthed most of my desk. I found six old tupperware containers, none of which I want to smell the inside of. I've also thrown away an entire wastebasket worth of old copies of music, and found about 25 lesson books that probably should have been home with students.
Mostly I've been practicing and catching up on reading. So when J told me that we needed some things from the grocery store, I told her I'd take my lunch break to run out and get what we needed.
"A lot of it will need to be refrigerated...do you have room for that?"
I do have room to refrigerate our cold items. Among the luxuries in my room are a Keurig coffeemaker (thanks, Pax), a hot pot (thanks, Calvus) and a mini-fridge. If I didn't have a mini-fridge three feet from my desk, I'd have to go down to the teacher's lounge to retrieve my food. I find my co-workers pleasant and engaging on a one-to-one basis, but when they sit together they tend to talk about menopause and dieting. So I'm thankful for the mini-fridge.
I went outside to my car, and the rain was coming down in sheets. I love rainy weather--especially the sound of a good heavy rain on the roof--but this sort of day is no fun to be driving around in. Once I got to the store, I parked far away. I would have parked closer and tried to stay dry, but I have to park remotely whenever I can. If I go anywhere with J, it's a point of honor to her to park as closely as possible. She'll insist that I pass by open parking spots that involve a moderate walk in order to risk multiple circles for a closer spot. Once we get parked, she'll be disappointed if we pass by an open spot that's closer to the store, and she'll often remind me that my choice in parking location is the distance of some Olympic events when we return to the car from the store. Needless to say, I park in comfortable isolation whenever I go to the store alone. But on days like today, I do get quite wet.
I don't have an umbrella, because my old one broke. It lasted almost a year, but it was manufactured in some place that wasn't Rochester, where "weather" is something that happens maybe two or three times a year. A few months ago I was walking downtown with it, and the wind completely ripped the plastic off the metal brackets. It went straight into the trash can after that.
Anyhow, I got a cart, and started going through the grocery aisle. Here's what I got and why:
12 Grain Bread-Mostly to be used for PB&Js
Yotoddler Yogurt-I was supposed to get two different varieties, but they only had strawberry/banana. I don't know if James will mind this or not, because I did manage to find cups with all different pictures on the front. (Each yogurt container has a picture of a mother and a baby, or just a baby, or two babies. All the babies are smiling and clean, and none of them has ever spit out a mouthful of yogurt down the front of its shirt.)
Bananas-Two bunches of bananas, many of which will go into smoothies, but most of which will be cut up into quarter sized pieces and slimed into James' hair
Avocado-I only bought three, because they pretty expensive today. Once James sees them, they will be all he wants to eat until they are gone. If you offer him anything else, he will shake his head no, point at the avocado, and rub his chest (please) until you give up trying to open his mouth up for banana.
Hummus and Salsa-This is a new favorite food, but it isn't the tidiest dish to serve or to clean up afterwards. James will eat it all day, but it gets everywhere.
Cheddar Cheese-To be cut into slices and put on his tray. He eats about every third piece, and then throws the rest on his floor. His arm is getting stronger...I regularly discover cubes under the refrigerator now
Sour Cream-The only item on the grocery list that isn't for the bear.
All this food is working, though. He's definitely getting bigger.
I also picked up a bicycle pump (to inflate the sad-looking tires on his jogging stroller), ant traps (for the kitchen counter), and a birthday present for J. What did I get her, you ask? I can't say, because she's a known reader of this blog. But I can say that I think she'll like it even more than a third-row parking spot.
And I bought an umbrella...because it was a long walk back to the car.
But I have an umbrella now. You see, I just got back from the grocery store. I have to go alone, in the middle of the workday, because it's getting too hard to take James by myself, and J won't have any chance to go today. She's watching Hayden and Liam today all day, then teaching pretty much straight through from 4-8:30. It's her busy day. It's her VERY busy day.
But I don't have a lot going on, because all the kids are gone from school, although I still have to be here. Ostensibly I'm here to correct finals and clean my room. I don't have any final exams to correct, so that leaves the cleaning, which is going slowly. So far I've unearthed most of my desk. I found six old tupperware containers, none of which I want to smell the inside of. I've also thrown away an entire wastebasket worth of old copies of music, and found about 25 lesson books that probably should have been home with students.
Mostly I've been practicing and catching up on reading. So when J told me that we needed some things from the grocery store, I told her I'd take my lunch break to run out and get what we needed.
"A lot of it will need to be refrigerated...do you have room for that?"
I do have room to refrigerate our cold items. Among the luxuries in my room are a Keurig coffeemaker (thanks, Pax), a hot pot (thanks, Calvus) and a mini-fridge. If I didn't have a mini-fridge three feet from my desk, I'd have to go down to the teacher's lounge to retrieve my food. I find my co-workers pleasant and engaging on a one-to-one basis, but when they sit together they tend to talk about menopause and dieting. So I'm thankful for the mini-fridge.
I went outside to my car, and the rain was coming down in sheets. I love rainy weather--especially the sound of a good heavy rain on the roof--but this sort of day is no fun to be driving around in. Once I got to the store, I parked far away. I would have parked closer and tried to stay dry, but I have to park remotely whenever I can. If I go anywhere with J, it's a point of honor to her to park as closely as possible. She'll insist that I pass by open parking spots that involve a moderate walk in order to risk multiple circles for a closer spot. Once we get parked, she'll be disappointed if we pass by an open spot that's closer to the store, and she'll often remind me that my choice in parking location is the distance of some Olympic events when we return to the car from the store. Needless to say, I park in comfortable isolation whenever I go to the store alone. But on days like today, I do get quite wet.
I don't have an umbrella, because my old one broke. It lasted almost a year, but it was manufactured in some place that wasn't Rochester, where "weather" is something that happens maybe two or three times a year. A few months ago I was walking downtown with it, and the wind completely ripped the plastic off the metal brackets. It went straight into the trash can after that.
Anyhow, I got a cart, and started going through the grocery aisle. Here's what I got and why:
12 Grain Bread-Mostly to be used for PB&Js
Yotoddler Yogurt-I was supposed to get two different varieties, but they only had strawberry/banana. I don't know if James will mind this or not, because I did manage to find cups with all different pictures on the front. (Each yogurt container has a picture of a mother and a baby, or just a baby, or two babies. All the babies are smiling and clean, and none of them has ever spit out a mouthful of yogurt down the front of its shirt.)
Bananas-Two bunches of bananas, many of which will go into smoothies, but most of which will be cut up into quarter sized pieces and slimed into James' hair
Avocado-I only bought three, because they pretty expensive today. Once James sees them, they will be all he wants to eat until they are gone. If you offer him anything else, he will shake his head no, point at the avocado, and rub his chest (please) until you give up trying to open his mouth up for banana.
Hummus and Salsa-This is a new favorite food, but it isn't the tidiest dish to serve or to clean up afterwards. James will eat it all day, but it gets everywhere.
Cheddar Cheese-To be cut into slices and put on his tray. He eats about every third piece, and then throws the rest on his floor. His arm is getting stronger...I regularly discover cubes under the refrigerator now
Sour Cream-The only item on the grocery list that isn't for the bear.
All this food is working, though. He's definitely getting bigger.
I also picked up a bicycle pump (to inflate the sad-looking tires on his jogging stroller), ant traps (for the kitchen counter), and a birthday present for J. What did I get her, you ask? I can't say, because she's a known reader of this blog. But I can say that I think she'll like it even more than a third-row parking spot.
And I bought an umbrella...because it was a long walk back to the car.
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