Dad vs. the Boys

It was 6:25, time for the Big Game to start, and I gave a start as I looked at the time.

The game was Dad vs. James and Owen, and we play on Wednesday and Thursday nights. J is off at work, and I need to put them to bed myself. I don't exactly how you're supposed to score the Big Game, but I think the Boys are winning.

I gave a start because J needed to be out the door at 6:30, and I had told her at 6:00 that I would only practice for 15 minutes. Despite putting in 40 minutes with a soft mute before anyone got up this morning and going to a BPO rehearsal, I still hadn't even come close to getting through all the rep I was supposed to be looking at. Audition materials for Jacksonville, drone exercises with headphones in, the Broadway book with all the high register playing (where'd my tiny mouthpiece get to?) in two weeks, the BPO brass ensemble concert in a week and a half, let alone the folder for the education rehearsal tomorrow morning.

I lost track of the time. J was rushing out the door with James perched on the potty and Owen lying on the floor. I apologized as best I could and pulled James' diaper back up. We're in the midst of an intense week of potty-training efforts with him. At the risk of compromising this blog's tasteful restraint, here are the details--he'll do a certain act which for the sake of delicacy we'll call "number one" anytime we sit him on his little blue potty. He knows that we don't want him to go in his pull-up, and if we remind him every half-hour, on the half-hour, and set a timer to go off (so that he knows it's official) we can get him through most of the day with a dry diaper.

The other part of potty training, the bit we'd call "number two" isn't coming so easily. We know when he needs to go. He knows when he needs to go. And he refuses to do that in the little blue potty. He still wants to do that in his diaper. And even if we hang over his shoulder all evening asking him whether he needs to go or not, at the first minute someone leaves him alone he'll duck into the corner of the kitchen behind the microwave or behind the couch or into the powder room and take care of "number two" in his own way.

But as I said, I don't like to spell out the gruesome details.

I put James back together, and rescued a whimpering Owen from his spot on the floor. One of the neat things about this stage in Owen's development is that he definitely can recognize Mommy and Daddy individually. One of the not-so-neat things about this stage in Owen's development is that he has a serious preference for Mommy, and is not so thrilled about just Daddy being around. I'm kind of like the optional entertainment that he'll tolerate if J is holding him, but is just a nuisance if she isn't around.

He whined and cranked in my arms as I rooted through the cabinets for some candles to put on the table. Earlier in the day I'd bought a nice bottle of wine and some flowers, and I had a fancy dessert from Wegmans in the fridge. If I could get both kids down to bed by 8 and the house straightened up, all signs pointed towards a good evening with J.

Owen had other plans. He whined louder and louder, and then I smelled him. He had done some "number two" in his diaper. I was actually thrilled about this (and maybe this is why James is confused) because Owen seems to have problems making "number two" happen on a regular basis, and he gets pretty cranky when his plumbing isn't working right. I left James downstairs and took Owen up to get changed, thinking to myself "He'll probably be really relaxed and happy for the rest of the evening, right?"

Not so. He screamed louder than ever as I changed his diaper. I tried to soothe him as I wrapped him back up and took him downstairs, but nothing was working. As soon as I was back down, the timer went off for another James potty-turn.

I should've smelled it before I started to pull down the diaper. James had seized the moment I was gone to change Owen and done in his pants what he so desperately didn't want to do on his little blue potty. I laid Owen down on the floor again, now thoroughly shrieking, put James on the potty and gave him dire warnings not to move at all or to touch his diaper, and ran back upstairs for the wipes and the changing mat.

It was a mess. It was the sort of mess that you want a Haz-Mat suit to work with. Especially if the Haz-Mat suit came with earplugs, because Owen was FREAKING out. James was pretty nonchalant, though. He looked as though he felt a lot more comfortable. I gave him a Fatherly Talking To about Responsibility and Being a Big Boy and how much he would enjoy all the Bribes we promised him if he would please do that in the potty from now on. And Owen screamed on.

Once I washed up I went to work on Owen, but he was already past the point of no return. He could not be calmed, and he certainly would not tolerate me reading a book to James while I jiggled him on my lap or walked him around the living room. I took him upstairs to try to rock him for a bit in his chair, but he screamed even harder once we were up in his room. James also came upstairs to get some of his stuffed friends, and promptly fell down the stairs on his way back down.

By now Owen was producing level 11 noises, and being a 10 volume baby I was worrying for his safety. I decided to bust out the nuclear option--a premature feeding. He'd eaten a little less than two hours ago, so I was pretty sure he wasn't hungry. The frozen breast milk, or as J calls it "liquid gold" is my only safety line on the long Thursdays I have the boys alone. But I needed to calm him down, and he was either hungry, tired, or constipated. I figured a bottle would help him in any of those situations.

It didn't. I got it all warmed up and set James on the task of picking up his toys, but Owen just screamed through the bottle attempt, and also choked on some milk that accidentally ended up in his mouth.

In the end, I think he was just tired. I put him in his swing and let him scream it out, and he fell asleep within five minutes. He isn't supposed to go to bed that early, so I suspect we'll see him again tonight much earlier than his usual 2 AM appointment with J. I also suspect that I might be in a bit of trouble for wasting 3.5 oz of breast milk and guaranteeing that she'll need to get up one more time in the night. Perhaps that dessert will keep in the fridge until Friday or something.

Recently Reading

The Well and the Shallows
One of Chesterton's last books, this collection of essays is 80% vintage Chesterton and 20% old and slightly overripe Chesterton growing cranky in his final years. The best essays are An Apology for Buffoons (about humor in writing) and a few notes about the British press. The least appealing are about Birth Control, Spain, and Luther.

Slaughterhouse Five
I read this in college over ten years ago and wasn't particularly interested. This time around I found the humor humorous (and tragic, of course) and appreciated it much better. I might be due to read Catch-22 again soon, and perhaps try to find a copy of Cat's Cradle? This was the first book I excavated from the two boxes of Old Crow plunder we came back with after Christmas

Music in Medieval Europe
Disappointingly bad historical, religious, and Latin scholarship, but a good musical treatment of the fascinating and variegated corpus of musical manuscripts and traditions from Gregorian chant through the birth of polyphony, none of which is as interesting as Bach or Beethoven.

Pensees
It is certain that if a Christian reads Pascal, some questions will be evident. Will he stay alert enough to remember what Pascal was rambling about between readings? Will he ever finish the book?

Emma
The least heroic of Austen's heroines, and probably my favorite of her novels after Pride and Prejudice.

Noise Pollution

I am currently sitting in an empty, dark, completely quiet sanctuary. I have eleven minutes left.

The day started at 5:30 with an alarm clock ringer. Then a recording of my trumpet practicing from the previous day as I went for my morning run.

Then some upcoming orchestra music in the car as I drove into Lima for a teaching day. Once there I practiced for about 40 minutes, loud long tones and lip trills as I prepped for a big broadway show with lots of big-band style playing.

Then the kids started coming. A saxophone lesson. A bassoon lesson.

Elementary band. Twenty three 4-6 graders who can't wait to squeak and squawk and honk on their instruments. An hour of nonstop noise. Banging and shuffling of drums even when they did cut off quietly. But most of the time they just keep on playing, or start playing music from last semester. One of the kids tipped over a snare drum.

And then the bell rings, and it's straight from elementary band into trumpet lessons, six kids blatting and trying to lunge into the high register by sheer force of will, each one practicing their own assignment as I go down the line kneeling in front of whoever is playing their lesson for me. And then straight from there into High School band.

More kids clomping in, banging on percussion instruments, playing their doodles on the piano, trying to decipher fast licks and big jumps and high notes as they warm up.

It's been non-step cacophony for the last five and a half hours. And now I have four more minutes until the next lesson group comes in.

Then there will be a quiet drive to Houghton. I think I'll pass on listening to the radio today.

Guest post: The Humility of Wisdom

R asks me periodically if I want to guest-post on this most auspicious of blogs. I've turned him down thus far, largely because I'm not nearly as witty and clever. But this blog serves another purpose that goes beyond entertaining the masses. It really has become our family history, an online journal of our family and story. So when I thought of wanting to preserve a devotional I was privileged to share at a close friend's bridal shower, I thought this would be the right place. R, graciously, gave his wholehearted blessing...

The Humility of Wisdom

We’re here today to celebrate the upcoming union of L and N. I’ve had the privilege of knowing L for 12 years now. When I first met her she was quite a young girl, with braces and big glasses. And she was a complete sweetheart, even then. She has grown into an incredibly beautiful, intelligent woman, with a work ethic and talent to take on just about anything. How many people do YOU know who sweep every music award in college while graduating from the honors program, and then decide to go into medicine?

I don’t know N nearly as well, I’m afraid. But I have had opportunities to see his own high level of intelligence, enthusiasm, and love for children. I taught one of his fifth graders last year at RCS on the flute. She was a bouncy, distracted little thing who would do ANYTHING to get out of actually having to demonstrate how little she had practiced over the past week. I have to give N major kudos for putting up with her antics all day, every day! And I know that she loved having him as a teacher.

So these two kind, intelligent people have decided to get married, and commit to spending their lives together. And it’s the kind of match we can celebrate, right? This isn’t a wedding that I’ll attend with a knot in my stomach, a situation that seems to be more common than I’d like to admit. To be able to go and ENJOY and CELEBRATE is exciting! We are EXCITED for you L!

So…I’m pretty sure that the bridesmaids looked through their guest list for the shower today and I was the only one who fit the “not 25 years older than the bride but married” mold. Therefore, I was asked to share a little bit with you all, and with you specifically L. And I want to speak briefly about wisdom. Let me share with you a brief passage from the book of James. James is a man of action—he writes of love and wisdom and faith, but these words aren’t to be interpreted as warm and fuzzy feelings. And that’s why it’s one of my favorite books of the Bible.

James 3:13-18

Wisdom from Above

13 Who is wise and understanding among you? By his good conduct let him show his works in the humility of wisdom. 14 But if you have bitter jealousy and selfish ambition in your hearts, do not boast and be false to the truth. 15 This is not the wisdom that comes down from above, but is earthly, unspiritual, pagan. 16 For where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice. 17 But the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, impartial and sincere. 18 And a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace by those who make peace.

It’s one thing to be intelligent. To be able to succeed academically and spout off the right answers and know all of the Bible stories. I know lots of people who are smart, but who are not wise. To truly succeed in life, to live as Christ, to flourish in one’s marriage, requires wisdom.

I foolishly, unwisely, googled “best advice for newlyweds” as I was mulling over what to share with you this morning. And, to be honest, most of it was way too common-sensical, or just plain rubbish. So I decided to try a little harder, and think about the things that have ended up mattering the most in MY marriage. Here they are, in no particular order:

• Take 100% responsibility for making your marriage successful. A marriage won’t flourish if you expect everything to be a 50-50 split.

• Always respect and honor your spouse in public.

• Find some people in your life who are really smart with finances.

• Don’t withhold sex when you’re in conflict/challenging circumstances.

• Find a ministry to be involved in together.

• Communicate and listen. Don’t assume.

As I look over this list, it becomes pretty apparent that these are good examples of what James is talking about when he refers to the “humility of wisdom.” Wisdom, according to James, is good conduct, and described as pure, peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, impartial and sincere. It’s way too easy for me to think of wisdom as “having the correct answers” or “being the one who’s right” or “if he would just understand what I’m saying I would totally win this argument.”

Life isn’t that easy, it’s not that simple. I think I used to subconsciously think that it was. But the reality is that you will face challenges in your marriage where there aren’t any right or wrong answers per say, or the grief that surrounds you is so thick that you can’t think straight, or the initial excitement of a new opportunity clouds your judgment. Smarts don’t always cut it. And it’s in these times especially that we need the humility of wisdom. To stop, breathe, think, pray, and listen. To each other, and to those you deem to be wise outside of your marriage.

Let me give you a brief example. My husband and I have been married for seven years now. He is extremely intelligent, and I did OK in college myself. We are probably in the category of “smart” according to most of the world. Three years ago my husband was presented with a job opportunity that he had been diligently pursuing for five or six years. It gave him the chance to perform on his trumpet full-time, with a professional orchestra, and play under the best conductors in the world. It would open up more opportunities for networking and bigger and better jobs. He breathlessly called me one day at work with this completely unexpected news.

The problem was: the job was in Miami Beach, where we would have been forced to live in a tiny studio apartment surrounded by young, single musicians who would have practiced, and partied, at all hours. The job was really more of an apprenticeship, which would have made our finances next to impossible to maintain a balanced budget. The job would require us to move almost immediately. And, oh yes, I was seven months pregnant with our first child.

Instantly we were forced to examine a situation that was outside of anything we had encountered. My husband CLEARLY saw it as the answer to all of his hard work—the big step in the right direction as far as his career went and how he was going to provide for his family. The obvious choice was to move and make it work somehow. I CLEARLY saw it as the wrong job at the wrong time in the wrong place. I wasn’t necessarily opposed to moving for some kind of orchestral post, but in my rather fragile state, I couldn’t begin to fathom moving to Miami Beach (crime capital of the country) with a newborn, leaving our family, leaving our connections in Rochester, etc, etc, etc.

Our intelligence didn’t cut it. There was no clear right answer. And, let me tell you, it was probably the most challenging two weeks of my life, as we debated and examined and prayed and pleaded and, quite honestly, grieved that we were forced into making a decision that neither of us were expecting and that kind of seemed like a lose-lose situation.

We needed wisdom. We pleaded for wisdom. We met with our pastor, we met with people we trusted, we prayed unceasingly, we communicated and listened. Ultimately we decided to stay. A decision that grieved us, even though we trusted that it was the best thing. And, looking back, those prayers for wisdom and the support of those wise people around us continues to be a comfort in the wake of that extremely challenging time. It’s not the kind of thing we look back on and laugh about yet. There are still “what if” moments.

I hope you never have to deal with something like that. But, you’re young, and you’ll probably be married for a long time. Chances are you’re going to bump into something that goes beyond the black and white. Resist the temptation to “be right.” Keep honoring, keep listening, keep giving diligently. Wisdom isn’t just necessary in the heat of the moment—it helps ease the slow climb out of the valley, and makes the high, celebratory moments in life all the sweeter.

L, our desire for you is that you and N both would be full of the wisdom that is from above. And that your marriage would yield, as James says, a “harvest of righteousness” because of your deliberate efforts to live wisely. Let’s take a moment to pray to that end.

In Praise of J

I've written about my wife several times before on this blog in decorative and flattering language. I've mentioned her hundreds of times anecdotally, usually at the expense of her dignity. I've written about how well I understand her and how little I understand her, about our joys and our griefs. And having written about her hundreds of times, I find I still have more to say in her praise, and not just a little more.

She is a person of almost endless patience. I can't ever remember her losing her temper with one of the boys. She understands how to wait for something good and how to wait through a bad situation without listing out an even, moderate spirit.

She's never known a violent or a cruel instinct. She'd always prefer to head off an argument or a conflict before it begins.

She knows what she doesn't know. If she needs help picking out clothes or curtains, she'll ask. She won't pretend to know what she's doing out of some silly sense of pride.

She's happy to give credit away to other people as a musician, a teacher, and a homemaker.

She is loyal and faithful to the marrow of her soul. Once she's entered into a friendship she'll never cast the other off. She has the same fierce fidelity as a wife to her husband that she gives to her sons as a mother.

She has a sense of reverence and respect. She would never provoke an old codger in church for the game of it, she would never flirt with the boundary of what might not be respectable to wear, and she's always circumspect around people with whom she might disagree.

But she isn't a pushover. She weighs her words very carefully before she says them, and then she'll say the truth, even if it's hard to say or won't be taken well. When she does speak her voice in an argument, she doesn't stake out a piece of rhetorical property and entrench, she looks for reconciliation.

She possesses genuine physical and mental fortitude. She'll hold a writhing and screaming infant until her back and her feet ache, and once the child is in bed she'll bend over for another half hour picking up toys from the toddler.

But she also knows how to look after her own body. She knows when she needs to rest, and when resting for an hour is more important to everyone's well-being than having a perfectly manicured house.

She has a healthy fear of sloth. She'll enjoy keeping up with facebook or with a tv show for a half hour, but then she'll make herself do something else, and she'll enjoy whatever project she starts.

She exemplifies restraint. She never pours the extra glass of wine, eats the unnecessary extra portion, stays up the extra hour, or spends the extra $20.

She is profoundly empathetic to those she loves. If you've ever told her about some grief or joy of your own, she has genuinely felt it with you.

She is wise. In a world of fools and fool's traps, I can't ever remember her being ensnared by an advertisement, an idle dream, a fad diet, a gadget, a piece of quack preaching, or any other such nonsense.

She takes care of her body. She wants to move and to exercise and to eat real nourishment.

In many ways, she realized comparatively late that she was beautiful. She didn't spend the hours of her girlhood preening in front of a mirror, but as an adult woman discovered herself in dresses and boots and beauty. I think because of this she enjoys being beautiful with an almost thankful spirit, and is humble about it.

From seemingly out of nowhere, she is astonishingly graceful. She never took dance, and she grew up among Mennonites in Southern Pennsylvania. When she does yoga it looks like ballet. She plies her body like someone expertly playing a string instrument--it just looks natural.

She gives grace freely. If she has to discipline James she gets him up afterwards and starts him over again with complete forgiveness. If we've disagreed about something, she won't hold it against me once we've worked it out.

She wants to do more than the least amount in every part of our marriage. With our home, at our table, in our bed, in our conversation it is unlikely on any given day that she'll have put in the lowest required fare and gone on once she's finished to something else more interesting.

She listens when her parents speak. She listens when I speak, although I wouldn't put myself in any kind of patriarchal authority over her. The issue of power and gender has never come up with us because she's always done the "submitting to one another" part before it could be an issue.

She's really good at what she does professionally. And the part that she hadn't ever prepared before a few years ago--public singing--has become a real strength for her after work and study at it.

She makes good money at what she does. We couldn't balance the household budget without her portion.

She's beautiful in a dress going to a wedding, she's beautiful in a nice top and jeans and boots going out to work, and she's beautiful coming down the stairs in the morning in my old sweater and a pair of vivid orange pajama pants and slippers. I still can't wait to hear the creak of the steps, to turn around, and to see her for the first time this morning. Seven years into marriage, I still think she's extraordinary in most every way.

Thanks, Uncle Tim (and Uncle Dan and Aunt Emmy)

It would be almost impossible to single out everyone who gave us great Christmas gifts this year and to thank them for their thought and generosity.

But I think we need to make an effort for Uncle Tim today.

Yesterday was all about his gifts. He gave James a set of Black and Decker play tools, and they were the toy du jour. Most especially because of the snow-ices.

To explain, James likes to help me shovel the driveway. We get him dressed in his snowpants, his coat, his mittens, his hat and his boots. We got outside, me with my big shovel and he with his little one, and we start in on the task of clearing away the latest snowfall. He usually lasts about three minutes before he's on to bigger and better things.

Like finding snow-ices.

"Daddy, Daddy, I found a snow-ice!"
"A snow ice? Yay! What is it?"
"It's this. It is a snow ice. I found it."

It is a piece of...snowy ice...that broke free as I shoveled the driveway. And for James, it might as well be a solid gold nugget. He collects them and makes neatly organized snow-ice piles next to the garage. Occasionally I'll hand him a piece of actual ice, from a frozen puddle. We do not use ice to make sculptures. It is hurled unceremoniously back into the driveway. We also do not use snowballs. Snowballs we throw at the garage door. Then we declare "What a good noise!"

So anyway, it got harder over the later part of the week to find enough snow-ices for all of James' needs. A good bit of the snow melted outside, and there wasn't as much junk in the driveway. In order to find enough, I had to go into the partially melted and refrozen mound of snow that I'd shoveled up beside the driveway. And to break it free, I had to get out my hammer.

James thought that was great. I even let him take a couple of swings, until this conversation happened.

"James, listen very carefully. We will NOT do that. It is never okay to swing the hammer at Mommy or Daddy's car. Or anyone else's. Cars are not for hammering. Do you understand? Nope, I'm going to take it if you don't listen. Cars are NOT for hammering."

Because of the danger to the car, and the driveway, and my own person, and James' own fingers, I decided maybe I shouldn't let him play with my hammer anymore. And that's when I reminded him about the toolset he got from Uncle Tim.

On Christmas morning, James was thrilled to open a set of 36 play tools from Black and Decker. The hammer, naturally, was the first one he went for. I grinned up at J as he brandished it, and then noticed the crestfallen expression on Daniel and Emily's faces.

"How did we get him the EXACT same present?"

It turns out they hadn't. They got him the 24 pack of play tools from Black and Decker, and although there were a few duplicates (like screwdrivers) the two sets actually complement each other quite nicely. In addition to play screws, nuts, bolts, and saws, James also now owns a pair of safety goggles, hard hat, and tool bag. It's Owen's job to wear the tool bag.

Anyhow, we ended up mining for snow ices with our hammers for a good part of yesterday, not to mention using some of the indoor play tools to "fix the floor" inside.

But that was not our only debt to Uncle Time yesterday...since it was a day off we decided to use the Olive Garden gift certificate he gave to J and I for a nice lunch out. That's right--we had a fancy lunch out at a nicely presented table eating good Italian food with bottles of wine beside us and light jazz playing and our two children with us.

The kids actually did great. James had chocolate milk (which made him very happy) and pizza. He thought the breadsticks were great but didn't care for the risotto bites. I had tortelloni and soup. J had ravioli. The waitress admired how well our little boys were behaving and how polite James was. ("Remember to say thank you.")

We didn't actually get any wine, but if we had we'd have raised a glass to you, Uncle Tim. Thanks for a great meal and a great morning quarrying snow-ices.

Morning Time

James is up.

It's 6:30 in the morning, and I can hear him chatting away up in his bed.

These are the few hours that I'm supposed to get to myself before the day starts in earnest. My alarm went off at 5:30, and I found my running jacket over on J's side of the bed, then the laptop on my own, before I made my way down the creaky stairs.

I hope it wasn't the stairs that woke him up. Owen, at this point, will never have known anything in his life besides loud creaky stairs and floors. I've been working for the past three months on the art of stepping with the arch of my foot on the very outside eastern side of each step, where there is the least creak. Except for the second stair from the top. That one just sags and groans no matter where you step on it. I try to just avoid that step altogether, but it's hard to do when you're carrying an armload of child or guerdon, as I was this morning.

You notice, by the way, if you live with a creaky staircase, when other people have silent, well-maintained wooden staircases. When we were at J's parents house for Christmas break there wasn't a single time that I went down their front staircase without a habitual tentative first step becoming a delighted heavy bound down the rest of the well-joined stairs.

Once I make it down the stairs, I turn the thermostat up. I listened this morning to make sure that everyone was still asleep, plugged my headphones into my phone, found the morning news podcast, pulled my hat over my head, and stepped outside.

The first 90 seconds is always the worst. The initial step out the front door is like getting slapped in the face, but once I get moving I warm up pretty quickly. I ran down two blocks this morning to Culver Parkway before turning West towards Culver Road. It isn't the best plowed stretch to run, but it is the best lit, and I don't trust anyone out driving at 5:30 in the morning to see me particularly well. The snow was particularly nice this morning, doing the shimmery diamond reflection everywhere I looked, although all the wet slush from yesterday had refrozen and was particularly slippery.

Half an hour later, I'm back in the house and making coffee. I don't think it was the coffee grinder that woke James up. It sounds terribly loud in the kitchen, but it used to be a lot closer to his room at our old apartment and it never disturbed him then.

As my coffee brews I dig out Henle's Latin Composition, or a similar Greek or Hebrew text depending on the day. For 20 minutes this morning I practiced putting tenses in the right order. We do not know what he is doing. Non scimus quid agat. Et cetera. By now the coffee is on and I can either read Homer and Ovid and a bit of the Bible for 45 minutes or I can try to write a blog. But this morning, James is up.

I probably should go practice in the basement before I try to read. My reasons for practicing last are twofold. First, I like to have my coffee at my desk. It's cold in the basement, and the coffee cools off too fast to enjoy when I'm down there. Second, I know that enough sound bleeds upstairs (even with the practice mute) that one of the boys is likely to hear it before I finish. Most mornings when I try to do my morning practicing in the basement I end up holding Owen before I wanted to be done.

These couple of hours that I have in the morning before they get up...it's a vital, sacred time. I'm always a little sad to give up the solitude and the stillness of the empty downstairs. But once I make my way up to James' bedroom he'll be so happy to get up and start "playin' marbles wiv Daddy" that I'll forget all about how I wanted to practice this or read that right away.

Of course, now he's fallen back asleep.

But I'm excited for him to get up.

Luxuries

In case I haven't mentioned yet, we really like Amazon Prime. It fills our house with little luxuries.

Some luxuries we take for granted, like a steaming hot shower. After seeing our first RGE bill of the winter, I decided to take some cost cutting measures and started turning down the thermostat lower at night and setting the hot water heater to a slightly lower temperature. J has gone along with this just fine, except that she may need to sacrifice her tauntaun to survive sleeping through the night.

But yes, a scalding hot shower is a luxury. And so is one-click ordering. All of a sudden the little things that we don't really NEED but would be nice to have, and yet we don't want to drive out to Wegmans to go and get (we're out of tauntauns, after all) are just one keystroke away. This way too, there's a steady stream of brown boxes arriving at our doorstep. The doorbell will ring while we're at dinner, and then it's exciting to see what came in the mail that day.

"And we didn't spend any money on gas driving out to Wegmans to buy these batteries!"

We need AAA batteries because of James. He needs my little miniature mag-lite to go down to the basement, and also to play in his box upstairs. (The box came from Amazon. It had a carseat in it, which was really more of a necessity than a luxury.) I used to carry the mag-lite around in my coat pocket so I could read in the backseat while in my carpool after it got dark. It ended up on my desk, and James has burned through nearly all the batteries in our fridge.

"Daddy, I need my flashlight!"
"Is that how you ask?"
"Please!"
"Put it all in a sentence for me, then."
"Daddy, give me it."
"I don't know Huckle, you sound an awful lot like Bop and Bonk."
"No, no, no, I'm not Huckle, I'm JAMES!"
He makes an excellent point. And he's using a great arguing tactic, because I really enjoy hearing him say his own name out loud. Huckle is a member of the cat family, from the Richard Scarry books. Bop and Bonk are two rude pigs whose mother is ashamed of their bad manners. In the Richard Scarry books the Mother Pig is ridiculed for having such ill-behaved sons. It was a different era back then.

"Please ask me for the flashlight with your best manners, James."
"Daddy, can I please have my flashlight?"
"You should say 'Daddy, MAY I please have the flashlight.'"
"Yeah. Can you give it to me?"
"Yes, you may borrow the flashlight. But it's Daddy's flashlight. And I want you to remember to turn it off this time, right?"
"Yup."

But AAA batteries aren't the only luxuries we've been ordering. A few days ago J got a big box of nursing pads, which gives her the luxury of not leaking through multiple shirts a day. Later this week we're expecting a curtain rod, which might provide us with the luxury of closing off of the direct sight lines into our living room. What with the nursing pads, you can imagine why J might be keen to do this. Earlier this week we did an exchange and acquired a luxurious new pair of slippers for her so that, in her own words, "at least her feet would be warm." (I'm not sure how long this lower-thermostat experiment is going to last.) I even ordered light bulbs on Amazon the other day. It turns out, when you're a homeowner, that no one replaces your old burnt-out light bulbs for you. But at least I didn't need to venture out into the cold to buy new ones. I only had to walk through the cold inside our house.

Thank You

Thank you to everyone who came out yesterday to Owen's baptism.

I'm not quite sure where to begin with the whole thing. We have the best family. We have wonderful parents who drove in with food and open arms, wonderful brothers and sisters who brought their squirmy babies and their musical instruments, wonderful grandparents who dropped everything to come at the last minute, and wonderful friends who we've known and loved for so long that they're practically family at this point anyway.

Owen came back last night howling, ready to fall asleep in his own quiet room.

James will probably stay home from church today. As much fun as it was to see him with Alexa, I'd hate to give him the impression that it's okay for his antics to be mentioned by two lay-readers and the pastor on anything other than a very special occasion. That's a funny place to be as a parent. On the one hand, he and Alexa were being completely adorable. On the other hand, they were distracting everyone who could see them, and he's really getting old enough to have some idea of how to behave in church.

J collapsed, got into her pajamas, and was on the couch when I came home. She, like me, was eager to see if anyone had any photos, but repeatedly denied offers to listen to the video of her singing the lullaby to Owen. I don't know how she made it through without bawling. Then again, I don't know how Owen made it through that service without bawling.

I ran out to my car at 7:15, switched ties, and drove downtown to RPO. I think that the concert went well. There were a lot of tacet sheets and I was fighting to stay awake. But I carried around a glow all last evening. It's humbling and gladdening and disconcerting all at the same time to have so many people who mean so much to you gathered for your family.

When Pastor Wally asked what we had named our child and I said "Owen Nicholas Smith" aloud last night, our youngest became even a little more real, a little more part of our family, and a little bit more of our new reality. And then (pace if you disagree, but these things seem to matter least when you're in the middle of them) he became a part of the Christian family. And I am SO glad that you were all there to see it.

Bureaucracy

"I do not see your counsel in insisting that we must 'call' these doctors. They are neither friends of yours nor do you speak of them as if they are of any great use. Wherefore, then, must we spend our day in such tiresome toil."
"I told you, they aren't doctors. They're...they're like merchants who work with the doctors."
"Ha! Mere merchants? I would beat them with the flat of my sword and send them weeping back to their own squalid houses. But yes, you have told me that you are too peaceable for my warlike deeds."
"Yes, Caesar, we don't really do that anymore."
"Now, you have said that these merchants are distressed about your accounts?"
"Um, sort of. Their last letter was confusing."
"These merchants must be foolish folk indeed, to waste the strength of the messenger and the price of parchment by sending you an unintelligible epistle."
"I agree, Caesar."
"Please select 1 for English, II for Spanish."
"Those are the languages of Britain and Hispania, by the way. Or at least, eventually."
"Ah, I conquered both of those barbaric lands and made them provinces of almighty Rome."
"Yes, we know. You wrote all about it. In third person."
"Caesar DID make many great victories in the name of the Roman people and their senate."
"Yes."
"If you are an employer calling about the small business marketplace, press I. If you have an existing account or wish to file an appeal, press II. If you are a navigator, press III."
"Why then are ship's captains so singularly recognized?"
"If you are a broker, please press IV."
"We want to press II."
"Must we file an appeal? Need we to call Marcus Tullius?"
"If you are calling to begin an application, press I. If you are calling about an application in progress, press II."
"Methinks that word has changed its sense since my days."
"You're right, Caesar."
"I grow weary of this tedium. Slave-woman! Desist your questions and fetch your master, for this man is a friend of the Caesar and Imperator of Rome!"
"Please enter your date of birth, using a II digit day, II digit month, and IV digit year."
"Could she not hear me?"
"No, she can't."
"By the gods, it surely has been more than two milennia and a score since the founding of the city. Why, it is nearly five hundred years past that mark!"
"Umm...we compute that a little differently now."
"And what, may I ask, was wrong with the old way of reckoning?"
"Please enter your nine digit social security number."
"Why yes, we also were each born with a number in Rome."
"I know. And yours make more sense than ours."
"Please hold for the next available agent."
"Are you certain they cannot hear me? For surely, I would threaten them with disembowelment."
"Your wait time may exceed XV minutes..."
"By the gods...I'm going to go lay siege to a town."

Things I Don't Know

If you have any answers, leave them in the comments. I'd appreciate it.

1) How to put the front license plate back on my car even though there is no license plate mounter-holder-thingy.
2) The actual name of the license plate mounter-holder-thingy
3) Whether it is legal in NY to drive around with your front license plate resting on the front dashboard
4) How to turn the water off in the basement so that I can check the anode rod in our hot water heater
5) What to do if there's actually any damage to the anode rod
6) What the anode rod would like if it was actually damaged
7) Whether or not I need to "make a plan" selection for Owen's health insurance
8) How many weeks it's been since I switched contact lenses
9) If there are any three-pronged outlets in the basement
10) If "three-prongers" is the actual name of that sort of outlet
11) If I'm imposing on family members or not by asking them to watch my toddler and infant while I gig
12) If I ought to be gigging the day my infant gets baptized
13) Whether I flat on Sunday afternoon because my trumpet was cold, or because I actually wasn't pushed in far enough
14) Whether I ought to tongue the triplets in the second movement of Scheherazade ttk-tt or tkt-tt
15) Whether I will take the St. Louis audition or not
16) The amount of my next Houghton paycheck now that I've lost a student
17) When I'll get reimbursed for my deductible and rental car
18) What percentage I'll get on the reimbursement
19) When I'll get the rebate back on the case of wine we bought
20) If I ought to have a serious sit down and think about tithing practices
21) If I ought to play a shallower cup mouthpiece and keep my slide out further
22) What the "sequence" in a mass is
23) If I ought to actually finish this Medieval music book
24) What the actual differences are between the different types of poetic meter
25) If ROC-JFK flights will actually get below $150 this winter
26) Most of the vocabulary necessary for understanding Old Testament Hebrew
27) Most of the verb tables for Old Testament Hebrews
28) Which diphthongs count as short vowels in Greek
29) All the correct uses of the ablative
30) How to put up drywall
31) How to paint a wall evenly
32) How to play piano with both hands at once
33) What Kant and Hume were actually saying
34) How to dance
35) If I ought to be doing anything different to potty-train James
36) If I'm going to be in way over my head when we start homeschooling
37) How the water gets into the one corner of the basement
38) If I'm doing any of the yoga poses correctly
39) Any of my neighbor's names (Except for Nicole)
40) The tables for mi verbs
41) If I do annoying conductor things when I'm directing that drive people nuts
42) How to explain how it is that you play really fast to a trumpet player
43) Any fingerings at all for the oboe
44) If my dress jackets are too big in the shoulders and chest
45) If I'm raising my cholesterol by drinking so much press coffee
46) If I would get my butt kicked in an actual competitive 5k
47) If it sounds better to put additional stress on stressed beats or to phrase away from them
48) What our current total of library fines is
49) Why Owen spits up so much more on me than anyone else
50) What I'll eat for dinner tonight

5 Happy Things

It's the middle of January, so between the cold and dark you have to make sure that you're remembering all the good going on around you.

1. Late dinners with J
We've gotten into the habit of feeding the kids dinner around 5:30 or 6 but waiting to eat ourselves until 8 or so when they're in bed. My Mom used to do this for my Dad on Monday nights (and other nights when he used to work late) and I'm beginning to see the appeal. This way James can eat something that we know he'll eat (like carrots and hummus or pb&j) and we can eat something nice and fancy later on, like a good soup or something exotic. We get out the nice silverware and plates, light candles (can't do that with the boys at the table) and pour a little wine. Then we can talk without checking to remind anyone that eating peas with your fingers is bad manners and remember to swallow before you put the whole sandwich in your mouth.

2. Playing principal trumpet in the orchestra this week
I enjoy playing 2nd, of course. It's a very different set of challenges, mostly making sure that I'm supporting and blending into what's going into the top voice, trying to read their mind about pitch and style. When I play first, I feel graceful and powerful and noble. (Especially when it's going well.) It's a little bit, I think, what it must be like to be a horse running freely on some Mediterranean plain. And, more than, anything else, playing trumpet feels like my own voice. If I hear my own speaking voice played back on a recording it sounds familiar but also jarringly odd...is that what I really sound like? Playing trumpet feels more like my own voice than speaking or writing, and when I play principal I'm freed up from blending into someone else's voice.

3. Great coffee
J's Mom is one of the most conscientious gift-givers I know. In years past she's had J sneak through my closet to get my sizes for dress shirts and sneak through my library to find out about books I don't have. She found a reading lamp for a study, a brown betty teapot for my coffee drawer, and this past year a box of Zabar's coffee. Zabar's is amazing New York City coffee that I got turned onto when our friend Janette brought some back after living there for a summer. I've worked my way through one bag already and just finished a press pot of the Ethiopian bag this morning. At 5:30 in January with the thermostat turned all the way down, it's sometimes hard to force yourself out of bed. Knowing that there's amazing coffee downstairs makes it easier.

4. Uncles and Aunts
We had two spontaneous visits last week, one from O&K and the other from L&his girlfriend Melissa. (Melissa can't be abbreviated to a single letter, otherwise she looks like Martha!) O&K got snowed in with us for the night, which turned out to be great fun for the four (plus three) of us. L&Melissa came over on the night that I had James and Owen to myself the whole day, and I don't know how I could've gotten through everything without their help. Melissa held Owen while I gave James a bath. (Traumatic, as always) L played with James while I tried to give Owen another bottle. (Also traumatic) They both went along with James' "fwiends" and played marble run while Owen was cranking and I was putting away dinner. J is a saint for doing this every day.

5. Two cars
The Corolla is back. Speaking of being at home with two kids, it's really nice to be a two car family again. It appears to be running fine, per my rigorous inspection. (It turns on fine and doesn't sound any different than before the accident.) I paid the deductible, for which I ought to be reimbursed, and drove it back from Syracuse two days ago. The only fault I could find so far is that the windshield wiper fluid appears to be empty. I think I have some in the garage and should probably get outside and refill the reservoir. But right now it's mid-January in Rochester and I have a press pot of really good coffee on my desk, so that will probably need to wait until later.

Quick Hitters

I.
It takes a while to get to know a little baby. J gets a chance to acquaint herself with Owen about every three hours, because he needs to nurse. She gets to look at him and talk to him, and give him another chance to memorize her face and voice. She talks about his personality and some of his mannerisms which I haven't noticed.

I was sort of excited when he woke up early yesterday. It was about 6:30, and I was just going down to the basement to practice (muted, of course) when I heard him squawk on the baby monitor. I made my upstairs, stepped carefully across his dark room, and reached into the bassinet. He was whimpering, and his arms were out of his swaddle. I picked him up, cradled him, and brought him downstairs to my desk.

As soon as I sat down in the chair he sneezed violently once, twice, three, four, five, six times. Then he looked up at me, saw my face, and gave me a grin that took up his entire little face. I smiled back, overjoyed. He wiggled in my lap, eyes bright and fat cheeks dimpling.

And then he started shrieking and crying inconsolably, and couldn't be calmed down until J came downstairs. He's getting to know me too, and yesterday he might have figured out that I can't feed him.

II.
James is into the Little Critter books, by Mercer Mayer. Only, since he can't say his "L" or "R" particularly clearly, we hear a lot of this: "Daddy, you wanna wead Widdew Qwiddew?" They are short and cute, and he likes to find all the little hidden treasures in the illustrations, like the mouse or the spider. And, they aren't G-E-O-R-G-E, which is a nice break for us.

The first one he got into was Just Go To Bed, down at the Davis house. Then we brought him back a copy of The New Baby, right around when Owen was born. We read those a lot, because whenever James adopts a book we read it until he has it memorized. And then we read it some more, so that he can recite along with us and correct any mistakes we might make.

It turns out we have a Widdew Qwiddew collection. There are SEVEN stories in that book, as James will happily tell you. The first morning James found it he cajoled J into reading it 4 times. That's a lot of Little Critter stories. I congratulated her on reading to James for 2 hours instead of giving him the 2 hours of TV time that so many three year olds get, but I'm not sure that Little Critter is that much deeper than a half hour of PBS. Anyhow, if you're over visiting and James asks you to read the "Big Widdew Qwiddew" you might want to head for the hills.

III.
We took down all the Christmas stuff. As I drove away this morning I saw the tree sitting out on the curb with the rest of our trash, which is always a sad sight. The living room looks a little bare, to be honest. I got used to seeing the stockings hung up, and there's a little less color in the downstairs. On the other hand, I was SO excited to have appropriate storage space for our Christmas boxes. (Between the tree stand, the small fake tree, the ornaments, and the nativity set, there are now several.) At any other living situation the Christmas boxes were the most buried an inaccessible. In North Carolina they behind several other boxes above a shelf. At St. Vivian's they were in a cramped basement storage room, which was probably the best arrangement for them. On Washington Street they were at the very bottom of the small closet area of our laundry room, which meant that I had to unpack every other box in the closet and crouch down under the stairs to excavate them and then put them away. (The putting away is the tiresome part...at least you're excited for Christmas when you get them out.) At Clover Park we had then buried somewhere deep in the storage unit, down two flights of stairs and padlocked. This year I climbed my ugly aluminum ladder and put the boxes in the overhead storage in the garage, stowed away safely and neatly, but easily accessible if I needed to get to them and with no extra lifting or stacking.

Of course, as soon as I put them away we find two other ornaments and the leftover wrapping paper. But it was easy to set up the ladder again and go get the box.

But when we found another lost ornament I decided it was too cold to go out in the garage again. We'll see how long that red bulb sits on my desk.

IV.
There are several things that are lost at our house. We bought a stud finder when we moved, and that was an important purchase. For two people whose livelihood depends on analyzing minute variations in pitch, J and I had absolutely no luck locating studs in the walls by the tap and listen method. But that wasn't a problem for us at the old apartments. If the walls aren't yours, you don't feel bad about drilling another hole and just covering up the bad one with the other side of the shelf.

When it's your own house you want to find the stud on the first try. Our stud finder, however, seems to have walked off. I can't remember whether we put up the big mirror in the bedroom or the dining room shelf last. Either way, it didn't end up back in either of my toolboxes or J's. I have a vague image in the back of my memory of James holding the stud finder and using it as a train. I think I was holding Owen at the time. I asked him whether he knew where it was, and he told me he wanted to read a Widdew Qwiddew. He isn't very helpful sometimes. I looked in closets, drawers, and cupboards. No luck. But it has to be somewhere in our house. At any rate, now we'll have two.

J and I both feel like we've looked at it. We've seen it SOMEWHERE. We've also seen the spare exterior light cover SOMEWHERE. We know we've both looked at it. The front facade of our house doesn't look great anyway, and the bare light bulb beside the door was starting to bug me. I remember seeing the cover in a closet, or maybe in the basement, and thinking "you need to go mount that." We think maybe it ran away with the stud finder, though, because three days of looking has produced neither.

James added his own lost item to the list. The sixth (of the seven, not that I'm counting) Little Critter book is about how the Critter can't find his baseball mitt, and he ends up getting it back in the end once he cleans his room.

"James, do you have a messy room?"
"Nope."
(He does)
"Do you think you might find some good things if you cleaned in your room."
"I wanna read more Widdew Qwiddew."

After we read the Baseball Mitt story, James wanted to find his own.

"Daddy, where my baseball glove?"
"I don't know. Is it in your wagon?"
"Nope, it's not in my wagon."

We looked all over his room, without success.

"Do you think your baseball mitt might be behind your bed, just like Little Critter's?"
James rolled his eyes.
"It's not a baseball mitt, it's a baseball GLOVE."

Oh, I stand corrected.

We found it eventually, in his closet. And then he wanted to read more Little Critter. I started to read:

"I couldn't find my baseball glove anywhere--"
"No, no, he doesn't have a baseball glove, he has a baseball MITT!"

Cafe; a Fable

"How Coffee is so well-reputed, how it enervates with its heat and richness all the men which drink thereof, I will now tell. The cause is hidden, but its divine power is well known.

A little daughter of Hermes and the goddess of Cythera the naiads nursed within Ida's caves. In her fair face the mother and fair father could be both clearly seen. When fifteen years had passed she left her native mountains and abandoned her foster-mother, Ida, delighting to wander in unknown lands and to see strange rivers, her eagerness making light of the toil. She came even to the Arabian cities and to the Arabs, who dwell in the sandy southern climes. Here she saw a pool of water crystal clear to the very bottom. No marshy reeds grew there, no unfruitful swamp-grass, nor spiky rushes; it is clear water.

But the edges of the pool are bordered with fresh grass, and herbage ever green. A turbaned shepherd dwelt by the pool, one who loved not hunting, nor was wont to bend the bow or strive with the Arabian camels. Often his brothers would say to him "Kareem, take now they scimitar or thy bow and vary your ease with the hardships of the hunt or raid." But he takes no hunting-spear nor sword, but at times he bathes his shapely limbs in his pool and combs his hair with a boxwood comb, often looking in the mirror like water to see what best becomes him. Now, wrapped in a soft robe, he lies down to rest on the soft grass before the waters. Often he gathers garlands, and on this occasion too he chanced to be gathering flowers when he saw the maiden and longed to possess what he saw.

Not yet, however, did he approach her, though he was eager to do so, until he had calmed himself, until he had arranged all his robes and composed his countenance, and taken all pains to appear beautiful. Then did he speak: "O maiden, most worthy to be believed a goddess, if you are indeed a goddess, you must be Venus; or if you are mortal, happy are those who gave you birth, blest is your brother, fortunate indeed any sister, and thy nurse who gave thee suck. But far, oh, far happier than they is he, if there be any promised husband, if you will deem any worthy to be your spouse. If there be such, let mine be stolen joy; if not, may I be thine, thy husband, and may we be joined in wedlock.

The youth said no more, but the maiden blushed red, for she knew not what love is. But still the blush became her well. Such color have apples hanging in sunny orchards, or ripe coffee berries.When the youth begged and prayed at least for a brother's kiss, and was in the act to throw his arms around her snowy neck, she cried: "Have done, or I must flee and leave this spot--and you." He trembles at this threat and says, "I yield the place to you, fair stranger," and turning away pretended to depart. But even so often he looked back, and deep in a neighboring thicket he hid himself, crouching on bended knees. But the maiden, freely as if unwatched and alone, walks up and down the grass, dips her toes in the water and her feet. Then quickly, charmed by the warmth of the sun warmed stream, she threw aside her thin garments from her slender form.

Then did the hidden youth truly burn. His eyes shone bright as when the sun's dazzling face is reflected from the surface of a glass opposite his rays. Scarce can he endure delay, scarce bear his joy postponed, so eager to hold her in his arms, so madly incontinent. She dives into the pool and swimming with alternate strokes flashes with gleaming body through the transparent flood, as if one should encase ivory figures or white lilies in translucent glass. "She is mine," cries Kareem, and casting off all his garments dives also into the waters. He holds her fast though she strives against him, steals reluctant kisses, clings to her.

The daughter of Hermes denies her as best she may the joy he craves, but still he holds on and clings as if grown fast to her. "Strive as you may, wicked girl," he cries "still you shall not escape me. She calls aloud to the gods "Better to die than be thus violated! Save me father, or make me strong to overcome this youth. Or if I am to die, may he and all others who taste this water forever be changed who taste it. Let them rise early in the morning to come to my streams, and may they fall sluggardly asleep lest they make journey to it each day."

Even as she speaks Cafe is dissolved into the warm water. The waters which had been clear are turned a rich brown. The youth weeps alone, denied his joy. He kisses the waters, and the life-nourishing warmth commands him at once. Her parents had heard the prayer of their daughter, and changed her in the waters with their uncanny power.

Closet Dig

J and I had a date in her closet last night.

Seven and a half years ago when we unwrapped all our wedding gifts at her parent's house a few days after the ceremony, we sorted our new treasures into a "take" pile and a "leave behind" pile. All her other worldly goods had come to our new apartment in New York a few weeks before in her grandparent's box truck, so we only had room to bring what we could fit in the backseat and trunk of our little Neon.

We sorted out some necessities that we still were missing, like silverware and bathroom towels. The rest was left in a heap downstairs for her parents to pack away. (We had a plane to catch at BWI.) They threw away all the wrapping paper, repacked the boxes, and stowed everything away in her closet. Every once in awhile when we were down for a visit we'd open the closet door and look at the piles of unmarked cardboard boxes. This summer we even did a bit of digging, looking for a beautiful clock that her grandparents had given us, a copy of the clock that hangs in their own living room. We found the clock without too much trouble, and it was one of the first items we put up in our new house.

I remember stepping back and looking at the gorgeous timepiece, thinking "Now that we are homeowners we can have nice things. Now we can live like adults and put up actual furniture and decor." I brought James into the living room to show him some of the chime music that the clock sounded, along with the little figures of smiths striking bells and anvils in the base of the clock. As soon as the music started his eyes bulged, and then he hid behind my leg and begged me to take the clock off and put it away. I'll still threaten to turn the clock on sometimes if he's especially out of control, and that will settle him right down. We waited seven years to put up that clock, and we basically use it as a time-out threat.

Speaking of that clock, the Weitzel copy sounded when we were visiting them for Christmas, and James reacted the same way. He hid behind the rocking chair until it stopped and then repeatedly asked if anyone would go upstairs with him until Pop-Pop assured him that the clock was now "turned off." The Weitzel house, as it turns out, is quite full of terrors. When Great-Grandma saw how much James loves his friend George, she brought down a very large (two foot tall?) monkey doll that she used to show her kindergartners. James wasn't a fan of the monkey either...in fact, he just about jumped out of his skin whenever he looked at it. Naturally, I buckled it into his carseat before we went outside to leave. "OH NO....a monkey!!!"

But anyway, we hadn't been into J's closet since our brief excavation of the clock, and we were curious to see what seven year old treasures lurked within the boxes and blankets stored therein. More importantly, our window of opportunity was running out. Her parents had graciously agreed to store the gifts we couldn't take back all those years ago, but they gave us a ten year limit. We talked about retrieving gifts every time we moved to a new apartment, but we inevitably stuffed our closets (and pantries and bookshelves) to the gills and couldn't imagine bringing up a whole closet worth of extra stuff, however fantastic the treasure might be.

But now, we are homeowners. And not only do we have room for the rest of our wedding presents, we have a hitherto unknown appreciation for homey sorts of gifts. This year, for example, we received a centerpiece for Christmas. In years past I would have said a polite thank you but secretly been thinking of pinecone jokes. This year, I thought about how nice it would look in the dining room. This year we also received some bathroom towels. In years past I would have thought about how the closet already didn't shut all the way because it was so full of towels, but this year I thought about how well the colors matched the powder room. I don't know whether it's homeownership, the steady approach of our 30th birthdays, or oxygen deprivation due to the two small boys, but we are certainly developing an appreciation for the home-some.

The actual dig was fun. We found a few boxes of kitchen-type items that duplicate what we already have. If you are a friend of ours and you get married some time in the next year you might just get a lovely set of pots and pans from us. We found candlesticks and picture frames, some bowls and pitchers, and a few photo albums. It's good to know about these sorts of things, but they might not come up with us. We found a beautiful set of silverware that's going to come up and replace our current set. (And I hereby swear and make public attestation that I will not pack the nice silverware in my lunchbox and then leave it in places like Syracuse, Buffalo, Houghton, or Lima.) We found a food processor which will be exceedingly useful with another infant to nourish. We found lots of journals and old homework projects of J's, and even a bag full of her old dolls and friends. I'm not sure I could appreciate until James just how hard it would be to throw out or give away all of a child's "friends." I thought about finding George or Steven in a big black bag some day as I looked at her old Teddy Bears and Bunnies, and decided maybe James ought to pick out one of her old friends to bring back with us to New York. There was only one perishable item that hadn't survived the seven year wait--some nice looking bottle of moisturizer/lotion had curdled, but was contained within a bathroom pouch that will get thrown out.

There were some other fun items too, and hopefully everything fits in the Yaris for the return trip. We also have to get two boys packed in, along with the blocks, trolley, play tools, clothes, tractors, and helicopter they received.

Chances are, if you're reading this blog, that you were at our wedding seven and a half years ago. We might have written you a little note saying thank-you then, but it's worth repeating once more. Thank you, thank you from the bottom of our hearts, thank you for your kindness and generosity. When we were newlywed kids just starting out in a little tree-house apartment you all gave us marvelous gifts. Some of them we've used for years now, and some of them, as we settle into our first house, we're excited to use for the first time. We really were touched again as we surveyed our treasures.