The Difference Between My Sons

Taking James to choir rehearsal:
James sticks close by my side and avoids any unnecessary contact with strangers. If someone enters the room he doesn't make eye contact until he's checked in with me, and is usually shy about saying hello and explaining who his stuffed animal friends are.

Taking Owen to choir rehearsal:
Owen attempts to crawl out of the choir room and explore the church whenever I set him down. If he does get out the door and sees someone in the hall he rocks back onto his knees, grins, and waves madly at them, then gestures to be picked up.

Giving James my baton while I rehearse the choir:
James exactly mimics the motions that I was making with a look of intense concentration on his face. He attempts to match his movements to the texture of the music and to maintain a proper grip on the base of the baton.

Giving Owen my baton while I rehearse the choir:
Owen holds it like a club and repeatedly hits me over the head with it, smiles delightedly at the choir's reaction, and then continues to take swipes at me with a big grin on his face.

James interrupting the choir:
James waves his hands and stands up next to me, then says in a "rehearsal voice:" "Everybody, that was TOO loud. The music needs to be more quiet after rehearsal J--J is for James. That's what Mater says."

Owen interrupting the choir:
Owen blows raspberries and looks expectantly for a reaction.

Taking James into the Christmas Eve service:
James sits quietly by my side on the pew with George, Steven, and a stack of books. He thumbs through his books as the readings go by, and when we stand to sing a hymn he peers over at my hymnal and sings along if he knows the hymn.

Taking Owen into the Christmas Eve service:
Owen wiggles on my lap and applauds for any and everything that happens in the service--scripture readings, unison confessions, moments of silence, etc. He pretends to conduct during congregational singing, bounces in my arms, pretends to sneeze and bless himself if there is a quiet moment, and eventually wriggles down from my lap. He attempts to play my trumpet, then to get into the box of auxiliary percussion instruments by the organ. He almost knocks over a microphone, and then gets into James' stack of books. He loudly rips one of the pages, then holds it upside down and "reads to himself" out loud during the passage about the baby Jesus.

Conducting the anthem with James in the service:
James sits quietly and looks at his books while I conduct the choir. When I come back to my seat I find that James has shifted into it, He tells me that I need to find a new place to sit.

Conducting the anthem with Owen in the service:
I hand Owen to a responsible adult to be taken out of the service temporarily. He screams bloody murder from outside the sanctuary door in the silence before the music starts. When I cut off the final cadence, he is still audible, screaming bloody murder, albeit from further away. The pastor makes a comment about the line "no crying he makes" being rather unlikely.

The Altogether

I'm done.
Altogether done.

Well, not quite altogether done. The altogether done will be shortly after midnight on Christmas.

This morning I played the last big choir hurrah. There were instruments in the service, descants, and carols.

Then there was the last big drive to Syracuse--a brass quintet gig at a library. The place was packed, and I sort of limped through it.

And then I was home.

"Daddy, when you come upstairs you should find me in my room and give me a big hug!"

I still haven't really seen J yet--the boys needed almost constant chasing around and tickling, even when they were supposed to be eating dinner. They're in bed now. Coffee is roasted for tomorrow morning, I went for a long run, and I have nothing to do until the Christmas Eve sprint on Thursday.

It feels amazing. I have no idea how we did this sort of thing when I was teaching during the days as well.

But we're done.
Altogether done.

Or, at least, almost.

Gilderoy Lockhart

If you're going to have a business meeting at a Wegmans in Syracuse, NY in the middle of a Thursday afternoon, the table of musicians next to you might make some assumptions about your grandiose claims. For example, we don't really believe that you are personally responsible for investing "billions" in your product, whatever it is. For as long as you talked--and you talked for a REALLY long time--you never actually mentioned what it was that you were hoping to sell. (Although kudos for talking a lot about your "audience" though, and for your sophisticated understanding of the difference between Twitter and Facebook.) Yes, we don't really think that you are in charge of billions of anything. We think you probably have a nice car and a nice job and work hard, but he fact that you're here in the Fairmont Wegmans eating from the food court means that you aren't really a big Wall Street player. Although, seriously, it is very impressive that your football team was the best in the state. It sounds like you had a big hand in that, and that you've enjoyed the glory of that mountaintop experience for many years since. One more thing--if you say nasty things about Rochester, people from Rochester might make fun of your big shiny bald spot on their blogs. Good luck selling billions of whatever it is that you're selling. 

James Gets "What-For"

"First we will go to our repointment, then we'll get a treat, then we'll go to the library?"
"Well, first we'll get gas, since Daddy's car is just about out of gas, and then we'll go to the doctor's, and then we'll get a treat, and then the library. I think."
"Why is your car out of gas?"
"Because I drove it a long time, and all the gas got used up."
"Oh, you should turn the GPS on."
"That will help with the gas, you think?"
"No, I just want to watch the picture of the car."
"Sure. I'm turning the GPS on. Tell you what, I'll even put in the address so that it takes us there."
"Okay. The roads are purple on the GPS."
...
"You know James, I thought we needed to take 390 North to get there...I wonder why the GPS thinks we should go 390 South?"
"Are you gonna make a wrong turn, Daddy?"
"I hope not."
"recalculating route"
"Oh, come on now, you can't tell me to go the wrong way and then recalculate as soon as I follow your advice!"
"Did you take a wrong turn, Daddy?"
...
"Are you gonna take the wrong turn this time, Daddy?"
"I hope not. Let's see, now it wants us to use the service road...that's closed for construction."
"recalculating route"
"Did you take the wrong turn, Daddy?"
"...James, I think we're going to turn the GPS off for a bit."
...
"Hey, is this the hospital where we got Owen?"
"This isn't where we GOT Owen, but do you remember coming here with Mommy a few times so that we could look at pictures of Owen while he was still in Mommy's tummy?"
"I do. We took the elevator up."
"That's right. I think we're going to take the elevator down today though."
"If we get a new baby, we would need to take the elevator up."
"James, we aren't having a new baby anytime soon...but do you think that maybe we should sometime?"
"Would we ride the elevator up again if we had another new baby like Owen?"
"Yes, we would need to ride the elevator up to go see Mommy's doctor."
"I like to ride the elevator up."
"Do you think, if we had a new baby some time, that maybe we should have another boy baby or a girl baby."
"Hey, if we have a girl baby we should name it Alexa."
"Maybe. Yeah, we could talk about that."
"Hey, Owen is a boy baby, right?"
"Yes, Owen is a boy."
...
"Hi James, my name is Christine. It's nice to meet you! I'm going to see how tall you are and how much you weigh. Can you follow me? And can you tell me who your friends are?"
"My name is George, and this is Steven Bear."
"James, please talk to Ms. Christine in James' voice, not in George's voice."
"My friends are George and Steven."
"Oh, I see that they must go with you everywhere. They look very well...loved. How long have you had them?"
"James says he doesn't remember."
"He hasn't set the bear down since he was six months old."
"James doesn't like shots."
"Don't worry James, you aren't going to get any shots today."
"Oh, okay. Hey, do you know, we have an Owen at home."
...
"That was it James...do you think we should go get our treat?"
"Yeah, are we going to get a milkshake?"
"Yes, we will go to Wegmans and get a milkshake for you."
"You know, we should use the GPS to get there."
...
"So what do you think of that milkshake?"
"It's pretty good. Hey, can I have some more of your ice cream?"
"Yeah, one more bite. Do you want to look for a pastry brush for Mommy once we're done here?"
"Okay. We should get something nice for Mommy."
"I think that's a great idea. What's something nice that you think Mommy might like?"
"Do you think she might like some Cinnamon Crunch Toast?"
"Ummm...I don't think that's her favorite cereal. Should we get her favorite cereal, though?"
"Yeah, we should get Mommy her favorite cereal that she likes best."
"James, I think that's a great idea."

Dobby's Warning

Every year the Buffalo guys warn me about GCC--"I don't think I can stand another one of those." "This year I'm just going to call in sick." "Hey, just be ready in case we bail."

I always though, great, it's way less driving time for me. 

Of course it's only less driving time if you know ahead of time some key information about the gig. Like what music you'll be playing, and what equipment you need to bring. Or, what to wear. Or where to park, or which building you'll be in. Or whether the performance is open to the public. Here's all the info I had to go on for tonight:

GCC-8 pm 12/15

So I got here early. Very early. There isn't any music out yet, but I did find a bathroom.

He wastebasket was full of blood soaked paper towels.

SOAKED with blood.

Once Hermione gets here I'm hoping she'll help me figure out what it might mean.

The Mark Falls

The Flagellants were a 13th century sect of extreme Catholic ascetics (eventually declared a heresy) that practiced extreme mortification of the flesh by repeatedly whipping themselves until they bled. Reveling in pain, self-torture, and the macabre, historians believe that these troubled fanatics injured themselves as part of a longer pagan tradition believed to bring about hope for fertility or harvest in troubled times. Today their descendants of this pointless self-torture are known as "Buffalo Bills fans."

Yesterday the Bills were all but eliminated from playoff contention, marking the 16th consecutive year the team has missed the playoffs. And yes, that is the longest playoff drought in the NFL. Despite the perception that the Bills had assembled a formidably talented roster for this season, they are now sitting at 6-7. I read, with appropriate wincing and cringing, that the team "outgained their opponents in six of the seven losses, but turnovers, penalties, and bad luck have all led to losses."

Appropriately, a 30 for 30 documentary on the 90s era Bills, losers of four straight Super Bowls, premiered on ESPN this week. It was met with rave reviews and tears in the Buffalo era. We just can't get enough losing, apparently.

On the other hand, everyone knows that we'll all be coming back for more next year.

After all, next year could be our year.

The Writing on the Wall

Actually, the writing is on the sidewalk, and the stickers are on the wall.

We're having a bit of an outside-play reawakening with the weather so nice, and it's going to be a rude awakening for the kids once the temperature dips and the snow starts to fall. Actually, they'll probably just want to go out and play in the snow. I know James will.

When we got back from running yesterday James asked if we could color with chalk on the sidewalk for a bit. My first instinct was "No, it's December," but I'm glad we gave it a chance. He had a great time helping us color a giant Christmas tree in the driveway, complete with lights and ornaments. This must be what people do in Arizona or New Mexico to decorate for Christmas.

Owen liked being outside too, but he didn't really do anything he would have done differently than his inside play. Basically he crawled everywhere he could and got into things that he wasn't supposed to. The difference with doing that outside is that there's no baby-gate keeping him out of the road. He attempted to cross the street and get to the school next door, he tried to go up the sidewalk of the vacant house on the corner, and he tried to cross the road, although we don't know why. (Ba-dum)

They both poked around the backyard (and got muddy) and fussed mightily when we brought them inside. The problem with living in Rochester is that by the time they wake up from their naps it's almost completely dark outside. (James and I actually did get a round of hockey in across the street, but he pitched a fit when I told him that pretty soon it would be too dark to see the puck.)

They both were all about going outside again this morning. We went for a run up to the bakery (which is basically just undoing all the work that we got done on the run) and when we arrived back I was on a clock to get showered, get J a turn in the shower, and get out the door in time to make it to Syracuse for a brass quintet service. The boys were having none of that.

"We wanna play outside!"
"WAHHH!!!"

I just got a text from J with a picture of Owen on her shoulders out in front of the house. Looks like the single stroller came in my car to Syracuse. (James was riding his trike, of course.)

I'll be sad when we can't take them outside to draw on the sidewalk and tromp through the backyard anymore.

But I'm glad we have a sled.

Quittance

"Let's delete Facebook from our phones for a week and see if it makes any difference."

This was a great idea. This was one of the greatest ideas J has ever proposed.

I was in rehearsal when the Paris shooting happened a few weeks ago, and J texted me about it.
Have you seen what's going on in Paris?
I logged onto the BBC, saw all the horrible details. I put my phone back in my pocket and sat dumbstruck for a few moments. I pulled my phone back out and opened Facebook.
And then I started hating almost everyone who said anything about the attacks.

I would have been completely happy to never hear another political Facebook opinion again...but now that Donald Trump is sounding increasingly fascist I almost wonder if I ought to be back on just to safeguard rational discourse. 

On the other hand, it's been a really nice break...

Young Smith and Young Smith

We were kids out on a date last night.

Most of the folks at Next Door were post-work lawyerly looking types, at least fifty years old. The couple in the booth across from us were probably out on a date (he had his arm around her, anyway) but they were a good bit older. So we were the young, hip ones. And we ate young, hip food.

Calamari Salad-arugula, frisee, watercress, Port Judith hand-trapped calamari, herbal ocean broth
Pork Belly Kimchi-soy marinated pork belly, sweet miso and cucumber inside, kimchi on top
Lava Roll-tuna, cucumber, tobiko, toasted almond, spicy mayo, wasabi sauce
Filet of Beef-potato mousseline, confit carrots, pearl onion, crispy brussel sprouts, Madeira jus
Bordeaux (Chateau Prieure Canteloup)

We're so experimental.

It was great, actually, to try a bunch of new tastes. Whatever the bitter greens were in the salad made a great cut through the salt of the broth and the sweet of the calamari. The kimchi was probably my favorite item of the night, and I'm starting to get really into the miso flavor. I liked my sushi, but still can't quite get into the wasabi. It must be the horseradish. J's filet was great, and the potato was out-of-this world good.

But maybe the best part of the night?

Driving over to Mt. Wegman's afterwards and getting a gallon of milk. We didn't have to stop by the cookie station. We didn't have to get a steering wheel cart. We didn't have to stop and gape at the train.

We looked through fun exotic fruits and breads, and browsed coffee mugs. We checked out of the 10 items or less line with 11 items. We were feeling really rebellious.

Both kids were asleep when we got back. (We had fixed odds on whether one of them would be awake, both of them would be awake, or both of them would be awake digging into the ice-cream with the baby-sitter.)

Oh, you who don't have little kids, go out and enjoy your freedom now!

Sleuth

Practicing the trumpet is kind of like detective work.

Well, first it's like getting rid of a dog in footie pajamas, because James followed me down into the basement and laid in my lap while I warmed up, begging me to come upstairs and play hockey and/or color pictures for him.

"Later. I need to practice for a bit and THEN we can play hockey."
"I wanna play hockey now."

After setting James up with something to do on his own for a bit, it's kind of like detective work. It's a matter of finding, through careful analysis, exactly what needs to be improved in your playing, and then working out tricks and solutions for how to get the "fix" in place.

I made a long (almost 40 minute) recording of myself working on some materials last Friday morning then another recording (in three chunks) over the course of Sunday of the exact same stuff, except in reverse order. (So that I was fresh on what I was fatigued on during the previous session, and vice versa) Today was about listening to both versions of the material and figuring out what needed working on.

I started out by listening to the Ballerina dance.
Everyone hates the Ballerina dance. Or at least, everyone in my family hates the Ballerina Dance.

Familiarity breeds contempt

I actually don't mind it so much. It's a nasty little excerpt, but I usually play it pretty well without too much work, so if I'm getting it back up to shipshape condition I shouldn't have much trouble. But it didn't sound great on either recording. On the Friday recording the tempo was too quick, and the internal rhythm ended up being uneven. Plus, the high note was present but a little weak and wobbly sounding. The Sunday recording was also too fast, and the last two measures ended up sounding like I was playing them in a different tempo.

My solution was NOT to put on a metronome. I've put in the requisite metronome work on this piece many years ago. I figured that if I put the metronome on I would just play with the metronome and it would be okay, but since you can't actually play with a metronome (you play with a snare drum, which can be either very steady or wildly inconsistent) it would be better to practice a stronger internal "click" by slowing the tempo down slightly and evening out the internal subdivision. I reconfigured where I putting the emphasis measure to measure (the big arc starting 3 after 136 is a pick-up, not a downbeat) and put in an alternate fingering.

Run it again. Yes, it sounds better.

The hardest part is just counting the rests correctly. Seriously.

Next up was the waltz.

On the Friday recording I was trying to "finesse" the first note too much and it didn't speak very well. On Sunday it was plenty loud but I didn't get my embouchure set right for the first big slur and there were a couple of missed connections. In both recordings the inner time from note to note was kind of okay, but not quite SOLID like you'd want it to sound. Solution: click off the piece in my head by hearing the triplet rhythms that start 3 before 151. It evens out the time, makes you set your chops right from the beginning, and somehow gives you an easier beginning to the first note. Rhythmic stability helps a lot with soft entrances. I listened to a couple of different recordings and there was a huge range of tempi and dynamic interpretations. (It doesn't help that there are two different editions of this piece.) My goal? Prepare all the extremes, but offer up something as in-the-middle as possible unless I have a compelling reason otherwise.

When I turned off the recording I heard sounds of distress from upstairs. James had...well, James had gone to the potty and ended up getting stuck. I rescued him and agreed to a break from practicing long enough for some hockey. We turned over two storage ottomans for goals and hit a tennis ball around the library. Apparently he'd also been sticking stickers all over the downstairs wall when he got tired of coloring. When hockey time was over ("the first period is finished, the zambonis need to clean the ice") I was a little more specific about what he could and could not do while alone upstairs.

Back to the basement. Tchaik 4.

The correct sound color for this guy is "paint-removing bright."

Tchaik 4 can trick you. On the one hand, the high A-flat is the worst, most frackable note on the C trumpet. You could view this as just a test of how many A-flats you're going to crack. On the other hand, there's the whole question of demonstrating the difference between the duple and triple subdivisions, and whether or not you should stylize the 16th note of the triplet. And, if you're hearing the low brass part as you play, there should be some extra weight on the note of the downbeat of A and 3 before A. 

On the Friday recording it was the final bit of material I played after going for about an hour and a half straight. So I was kind of pleased that everything came out--but I kind of sounded like I'd been going for an hour an a half. (If you're playing the whole symphony you have to do this exact same fanfare towards the end of the fourth movement, so it's good to practice it gassed.) The Sunday recording sounded bold and fresh, but I split the entrance one before A all over place (missed high) and then must have been too flustered to shape the rest of the measure the way that I wanted it.

For this kind of playing, the solution is all about building confidence. So, I listened to a couple different recordings, made sure I had it in my head exactly the way that I wanted to, and then rolled tape. Played it once, yes, got it. Waited. Played it a second time, yes, got it. Changed up the tempo and played it a third time, yes, still got it. Played it way slower and played it again, got it again. Theoretically I should be way more confident when I do it for "real" because I can remember all those perfect reps in the basement. But really what I should be doing with this piece is finding ways to play it front of other people. (Preferably people who want to hear it.)

Last up for this morning was the end of Petrushka, the "ghost scene."

Technically it's Petrushka's ghost, but it can kill the two trumpet players

I only had one recording of this, from Friday, and I wasn't super pleased with it. The top Cs (Eb on a piccolo trumpet) all sounded way flat compared to the rest of the arpeggio, and the rhythm one before 107 (eighth note pulse stays consistent, quintuplets over four) was just outright wrong. I listened to a bunch of different recordings and felt a little bit better about the pitch issues--no one really plays this one pristinely in tune. (That is what muted piccolo trumpet means.) I looked for a solution. I tried switching the picc over to the B-flat side and the pitch got worse. I tried an alternate fingering for the high note, and it ended up sounding out-of-tune sharp (and more frackable). I tried to reconfigure where I have my slides, but the third valve slide on my picc is apparently frozen in place. I re-recorded myself and got a better take, but I'm still not sure exactly what to do for this passage. (It's a good thing that it's supposed to sound horrifying.) 

Probably the only solution is to buy more gear.

TWO WEEKS AGO:

J: What do you think we should get Daddy for Christmas?

James: I don't know. What do you think we should get him?
J: Well, what does Daddy like?

James: He likes to play the trumpet.

J: Yeah, he does. Should we get him another trumpet.

James: No, he doesn't need any more trumpets.

Incentives

Walking downstairs as soon as the boys are in bed and loading the dishwasher with the contents of the sink:
Ensuring that neither J or I have to come down to a dirty kitchen tomorrow morning, taking a piece of the domestic duties she was working on all day while I was gone. Also, making sure that there is no possible impediment to her making another batch of Christmas cookies. Also, reminding her that I am a great husband/human being and that she should be highly eager to sleep with me.

Going for a run as soon as the dishes are done:
Staying in shape and taking care of my heart as I get older. Also, not getting fat from all of the Christmas cookies that J keeps making.

Packing up the gig bag and walking in the cold down to practice for an hour and a half after getting in from the run:
The possibility of a great paying principal job down in Texas, satisfying the insatiable desire to prove myself and compete professionally, or at the very least staying in decent enough trumpet shape that the next time I pull the horn out of the case all my highs/lows/softs/louds/articulations can come out without too much coaxing. Also, a grudging but deep-seated love of the craft.

Turning down the thermostat to 63 degrees even though I'm really cold from practicing in an empty church and then walking back in the cold:
Saving money at the end of the month when the first winter RG&E bill comes.

Pulling out the laptop and trying to come up with some sort of blog idea while attempting to thaw upstairs in the unheated bedroom:
Keeping my dear and much-missed extended family in the loop about my little family and also the sort of things that I'm up to. Also, because I promised to blog every day this month and it would be really lame if I gave up six days in.

Going to bed promptly at 11 instead of staying up to watch the end of Sunday Night Football:
The knowledge that at any moment a certain 20 lb blonde baby in the next room is going to wake up screaming (probably because he's cold) and that someone is going to need to roll out of bed to go rock the little bugger back to sleep...

Dining

J and I make a great culinary team. She's the "head chef" of our kitchen, and takes care of most of the "skilled labor" food preparation. My role is to do some more basic low-skill jobs to make her life easier. She knows exactly how to delegate certain tasks to me so that she can make sure that she's freed up to flip something into the skillet at exactly the right moment, or to add an extra layer of glaze at exactly the right moment in the mixing process, or to taste for an elusive and subtle texture. I do my part proudly, though. For instance, I can....well, I'm able to...okay, so I'm not actually good for much of anything in the kitchen except for carrying the groceries in from the car (but not putting them away, because I don't know where the correct spots are) or maybe taking out the trash once the bag gets full.

This is why cooking for the boys on Saturday evenings is so stressful. They usually don't look forward to it any more than I do.

Sometimes J is able to get something in the crock-pot earlier in the day, and that's a nearly foolproof method of ensuring that we'll all get a hot and delicious dinner in her absence. I say "nearly" foolproof, because someone might have endangered their family and home by turning the crockpot to "Low" instead of "Off" when they took the chicken out last week and then left a quarter-inch layer of sauce that gradually turned to charcoal in the bottom of the pan until the next morning. Someone might have scrubbed hard to get the crock clean that afternoon.

But on days like today, there just wasn't time to get something prepared beforehand.

"Wait," I called to her as she headed out the door "what am I going to give the kids for dinner?"
"Uhh...bacon and eggs. But don't give Owen eggs. Check James' Berenstein Bears cookbook for a breakfast toboggan recipe that he wanted. He'll eat that."

The kids looked as concerned as I did.

We rammed around the downstairs for a bit and penned Owen into corners while we built tall block towers before turning on the soundtrack to Jaws and letting him loose. When they started to show signs of being hungry (screaming, whining, and crying) I decided that I couldn't put off dinner prep any longer and went into the kitchen to start working.

I was already too late, and I knew it. J doesn't dread cooking like I do, so she starts doing food prep BEFORE the kids are melting down from hunger. My work becomes exponentially harder when I put off food prep until they're screaming and tugging at my leg. I went into the kitchen and reviewed my plan:

For Me:
A rasher of bacon and an omelette. I love omelettes, and they always turn into a heap of nasty looking egg mush when I try to make them. I knew we had all sorts of delicious things to put in an omelette (sun dried tomatoes and gruyere cheese) so I was up for risking failure again to get my omelette. I looked up instructions for omelette making on incredibleegg.org and read the directions carefully several times. Yes, I was sure I had it this time. This was going to be fine.

For James:
From page 14 of "The Berenstain Bears Country Cookbook--Cub-Friendly Cooking with an Adult" I found the recipe for a Tasty Toboggan. I wondered as I looked at it whether I counted as "an adult" that was qualified to help a bear cup with this recipe. It basically looked like a piece of french toast on two pieces of bacon. I decided not to get over-ambitious and to just do a piece of regular toast instead of French toast. After all, I know my limitations. James thought it was very important that I make sure that there was a visible pat of butter on the toast. He's really big into making the final result look just like the picture. I also decided he needed to eat a sunny-side up egg.

For Owen:
A clementine, cut up and seeded. A piece of toast with jam, cut up into small bites. Maybe a couple bites of bacon.

This wouldn't be too hard, right?

I started with the bacon, and that went okay, except for Owen continually pulling at my leg. Bacon is one of those things I'm actually okay at. I can usually guess when it needs to be flipped in the pan and when it needs to come out. So that went fine.

Then I got out the eggs. One egg for James. I put that in the pan while Owen tugged at my leg and screamed. "Yes, I know you're hungry. Let Daddy work."

I got two eggs out for my omelette and attemped to whisk them up in a bowl while James' egg was frying. "Owen, no, stay out of the trash can." <set down the eggs on the counter> "Owen, what do you have in your mouth" <set down flipper> "Did you fish that out of the trash?" <go to pick up egg, knock one onto the floor which breaks> "AH, no stay out of that. James, come in here and sit on Owen until I get this picked up." "Hey Daddy, why are you cooking the flipper?" "AHH!" <pulls flipper out of pan> "Gah!" <pulls Owen out of egg mess on floor>

By the time I got back to James' egg it was burnt on the bottom, and then it broke when I tried to flip it. The toast popped as I was attempting to deseed the clementine, and I gave up on letting Owen roam free and let him scream out his hangriness in the high chair while I attempted my omelette. I shredded the cheese, cut up the tomato, and made sure that the pan was greased and hot.

I poured my egg mixture into the pan and made sure that I gently pushed the uncooked portions towards the heat in the center, then continued cooking, gently tilting the pan and moving the cooked portions as needed.

I ended up with a heap of nasty looking egg mush.

Owen ate his clementine in about eight seconds and then refused to eat anything else, pointing instead at the big plate of monkey bread that J had made earlier in the day.

James was thrilled that I put a pat of butter on his piece of toast so that it looked like the picture, but then tried to eat a spoonful of just butter and almost threw up. He ate some of his bacon, but then just begged for the monkey bread that J had made earlier in the day.

I ate a few bites of my egg mush and decided that monkey bread would probably be better.

We're all really glad that I only cook once a week. The kitchen works way better when I'm just helping the master.

Afternoon of a Dryad

Although I am a young spirit, the roots of my tree are firm in the soil here. My name is Rosaceae, although in your tongue I'm known by the ugly name of "crabapple." I've been fortunate enough to come into the land of some good folk, and I was well-watered and looked after in my early weeks. Now the weather is cold and I'm preparing to sleep, but something one of the little ones said today gave me a fright. The father ordered new rubber tires for his automobile, and they were delivered to their door. He brought them inside, and I watched him show them to his little ones. The little ones played in them, and I was happy in their delight, looking in through the front window as I do and smiling on the hearth. Did you know they've brought one of my cousins into their home? One of the Abien family, a tall and prickly nymph by the name of Balsamea. She's all covered in lights and glass baubles, but she leans awfully and I suspect she'll drop her needles all over their carpet just to spite those little boys. (The small one grabs at her lower boughs incessantly.) But as I was saying, it was the older boy that gave me the scare. When the father drove his automobile back today with the new tires on it, the little one yelled at the top of his lungs to the mother: "Daddy saved me a tire and now we can have a TIRE SWING!" I hope that the father has more sense than that, but he appears to do whatever the little ones want most of the time. My arms hurt just thinking about a swing--even in adulthood we Rosaceae aren't particularly given to swings and treehouses and all those boyish constructions. He ought to see about a nice sturdy Quercus or Acer in the backyard for that sort of job. But then again, at least I have a family. My friend Cornus from next door has been sitting by an empty house for the better part of three months, and today when a woman stopped by to look at it with the realtor I overheard them talking about the "trumpet playing next door." Poor Cornus. But then again, she doesn't have to worry about tire swings.

Game Theory

We all do things for our spouses that we'd rather not, but we go along with it just because we love them and want them to be happy. Okay, everyone say what that is right now without thinking one two GO:

And now you know what to talk about in marital counseling.

I said "playing games."

We used to play Phase 10 all the time when we were dating. It was important for us to spend lots of times playing games, because we were college kids and we couldn't cook or drink wine. Also, J LOVED (and still loves) playing games and I liked getting to see her.

She won all the time. Maybe not every single time, but a ridiculously high percentage of the time. Her game-playing dominance was kind of like watching the Bills and Patriots over the past fifteen years, even down to her propensity to wear hoodies. (She didn't cheat to my knowledge...) I'll let her speak to whether or not she was a gracious winner and a good sport. (If you want to ask her about it, start by asking her what "the doggy" is.)

Anyhow, she agreed to marry me, and then I didn't have to pretend to enjoy playing games anymore.

Okay, it wasn't quite like that, but we definitely stopped playing games nearly as often as we did when we were dating. And I can't say that I really missed it.

Every once in awhile we'd get into something, like with the Wii. We've been through Wii sports phases, Mario Party, and even Monopoly. We play poker with great enjoyment when we visit Pennsylvania with J's brothers. But we've never picked up the regular habit of card games between the two of us again like when we were dating.

But now there's a twist: James likes games.

We were visiting PA last week and we played Battleship with James. He loved it. He was completely into it, and he played the game all the way to the end. He's always been fascinated with playing cards (and poker chips) and I think that he has the disposition to love card playing.

There may be a renaissance of game-playing at the Smith house. This is probably just--in many ways I took advantage of J's good faith when she walked down the aisle.

I just hope James doesn't get into Phase 10.

James Takes the Matter Up

James still regards his room as a structure separate from the rest of the house. Well, not HIS room. Technically it's a house he shares with George.

But that being the case, he needs Christmas decorations for him and George that are different than the ones downstairs. (In OUR house.)

So once we finished setting up the Christmas tree yesterday and strung up all the lights and stockings, we proceeded upstairs to set up James' Christmas tree (the tiny fake one that we bought in North Carolina) complete with three decorations, a bow, and a window candle.

He even remembered which decorations he had from last year. An clay star with the letter R on it, a Winnie-the-Pooh ornament, and an "apple." (Really an old red bulb that used to have an R on it, but was long ago rubbed off.) "R stands for Christmas" he told me.

We didn't get around to setting up the odd strand of colored lights yesterday before we gassed out on finishing the decorating. James had requisitioned them by that point for his tree. (Me and George need some lights for our tree up in our house.) He went to sleep last night reminding me that we needed to set up his lights in the morning time. And also to have some Cinnamon Crunch Toast cereal.

The first thing he asked for this morning when his eyes opened were to have the Cinnamon Crunch Toast cereal, and then to decorate his tree. I'm not entirely sure that he slept.

He hasn't been holed up in his room (house) all day, though. He's set up a juice stand underneath our Christmas tree and is taking orders for juice and selling them to me, J, and Owen.

J is currently re-reading the Harry Potter books, and we were jokingly going through what we thought we might see in the mirror of Erised the other night. I asked "What do you think James would see in the mirror of Erised?"

We just sort of looked at each other for a long time. As someone who knows him well recently said "Isn't he just a psychological treasure trove?"

I don't claim to know what he wants at his deepest, most subconscious level. (And I'm not sure he knows either.)

But he definitely loves Christmas.

Cocked Hat

We were all hatted this morning. It was because we were all going outside for a run. In December, of course, in upstate New York.

I saw that the weather for the next few days was supposed to be gray and constantly rainy. My reaction to this was, as always, "thank goodness it isn't going to be snow." But my second reaction was "we ought to go for a run all together if we're going to get one in this week." I'll probably get up and run a few times in the early morning, even if it is rainy out. J might head out during the afternoons if there's hot coffee waiting when she gets back and/or the boys have been steadily driving her insane all morning. But this was our last chance to go out as a family.

So we put on our hats.

The boys look SO cute in their hats, which means that they don't want to wear them at all. James wore his James D. Bear hat, which is one of my favorite hats ever. It used to look huge on him, but now it's starting to look a little stretched on his bulbous head.

THE James D. Bear hat

Owen has a nice hood on his fluffy winter jacket, but J put a hat on him anyway. Owen does not appreciate hats. He doesn't appreciate his fluffy winter jacket, either. He can't move his arms in it, which means he can't suck on his fingers. And if he can't suck on his fingers, he can't cope with the world when he feels sleepy/cranky/happy. Even when he isn't sucking on his fingers, he thinks they should be in someone's mouth. This morning when he woke up at 6:45 am and I brought him downstairs to read with me on the couch he kept on trying to shove them into my mouth. Then he smacked the lampshade repeatedly with James' Greek flag. Kids are weird.

Anyway, neither kid was particularly happy about wearing their hats. James thinks that his bear hat is for "babies," but of course he doesn't want Owen to wear it and he refuses to wear any other hat. (Aside from his blue San Francisco cap, which is also super cute but not nearly warm enough for a two mile run in December in upstate New York.) Owen was distressed about being in his jacket, and about having his hood up, and about having a wool cap on under his hood.

We bribed them with cookies. There's a delightful Italian pastry shop up the road from us past Culver on Empire. It used to be the case that if we were feeling particularly indulgent I'd stop in at the donut shop and get a treat. After all, I'd reason, we just got some exercise and it's nice to have something sweet and well-made. Now we go running as an excuse to get up to the pastry shop. The donuts, while quite for being donuts, are long forgotten. Today we brought back some biscotti and a chocolate-almond torte.

My hat, for the record, is a black wool cap that smells rather awful. I don't really have a good winter hat. Somewhere down in the basement there's a black Carhartt hat that I've also been running in, and neither one looks particularly elegant with a peacoat and tails.

J, on the other hand, has a cool pink runner's hat. It's warm, reflective, and looks pretty stylish. I would say that it's the nicest hat in the family, but it doesn't have ears. So James' hat still wins.