Modernity

My grandmother had this funny dishwasher that she would roll over to the sink every night and plug in to the faucet. Weird. Finally, she remodeled her kitchen and had a real dishwasher built in.

Funny thing is that here I am, 20 years later, in search of a "portable dishwasher" to roll over and plug in to my sink. Did you know that the portable version is generally at least 2 times the cost of its immobile counterpart. Weird.

Portable: Easily carried or conveyed by hand: a portable typewriter.

In Italian the verb "portare" means "to carry". I heard many an American in Italy ask another American in Italy to "port me that chair (or book, or whatever)".

Funny, I never thought of a dishwasher, in any form being "easily carried". Yet, here I am, every night, gratefully porting my dishwasher over to the sink to plug it in to the faucet.

There are many modern conveniences I am happy to do without. When we moved to Fairyland, I'd thought perhaps a washer/dryer and dishwasher in the home were among them. I have since decided they are not. I have a lovely stacking washer/dryer unit sitting in my Everything Room. And a wonderful, if a bit silly, affordable (thanks craigslist),portable dishwasher sitting by the fridge--just waiting for me to port it on over to the sink.

Hanging Out at the Mall - again

For someone who dislikes the mall as much as I do, I unfortunately found myself there again. This time my mission: pictures of my boys. My firstborn son is not known for his cooperative nature. He has been known to enter a photo studio, begin crying at the threshold, and continue until we leave and everyone else is crying.

Since he's gotten a bit older, it has gotten a bit better. A bit. I had high hopes for the baby. He's very photogenic, and somewhat cooperative. He was. But you see, Ethan hit his bad streak at about 1 year old. And now Elliot is one.

Things were going well. Ethan had put on the clothing I'd picked for the photo. Under the heavy weight of multiple bribes he'd been very cooperative and both of them were playing happily in the studio waiting area. Then, it was our turn.

The moment we stepped through the door, the cooperation drained from Ethan's little body. You could just see it. Sensing this, and not willing to be outdone, Elliot began crying. We cajoled, we baited, I threatened. The photographer giggled, and tickled, and earned her pay. I think she snapped the camera all of about 10 times. I had very little hope of anything worthwhile coming from the session.

We returned an hour later to view our prints. I was amazed! She managed to capture the beauty inherent in Ethan's stubbornness. I know that sounds weird, but see for yourself:


He was refusing to cooperate, or even look at the camera, and she snapped this picture anyway.
I liked it so much I bought an 8x10. And how about this one of Elliot:



There were several more and I'll spare you the bombardment of pics of my kids. Suffice it to say that despite a difficult photo trip, I was duly impressed.

Heat

I've lived in various climates in my life. My favorites have been Seattle and England. I seem to thrive at about 65 degrees in the rain. I find myself once again however in a rather hot and humid environment. I've lived in greater heat and humidity, so I cannot complain, but I would like to comment on humidity. I once visited a friend in D.C. in July and we discussed humidity. He seemed to enjoy it. He even described it as a "warm, all over body hug." I closed my eyes and tried and embrace the humidity and welcome it as a warm hug. But all that came to mind was being groped by a strange man on an extremely crowded subway.

So now that I live in it once again, I am trying to resist the urge to stay in bed all day, or stand in front of my little window AC unit. Today I hiked down to the falls again (baby on the back, 4-year-old leading the way) and tried to embrace the sweat beading on my forehead and arms. I have to say, it's getting better (granted, it's not as bad up here in the mountains), and knowing I can swim in the lake later helps. And I've discovered the benefits of a cold late-afternoon shower.

Water

I've been taking the opportunity the past few days, of spending some of the hot afternoon in the lake. Being accustomed to a highly-chlorinated, heated pool, jumping into the cold murky water has taken some adjustment. But, oh, is it nice . . . The interesting thing about lake water is the temperature differentiation. You swim through pockets of rather warm water, and then pockets of very cold water. The lake is fed primarily from underground springs. Whether that affects the temperature variations, or it's just a product of water rising to the surface and falling, I don't know. What I do know is that there is something magical about floating in a spring-fed mountain lake in the summer as I am bombarded by the varying sensations and shrouded by trees. What was at first a bit shocking to the system, now heals my spirit.

The other night, my kind husband could see I needed some me-time, and since he was miraculously home before dark, I took him up on his offer of heading out on my own whilst he was home with the boys. I hiked down to showerbath falls. By myself. In the cool evening. You see, I've done this short hike before, but usually with a child on my back and one traipsing ahead and behind and all around. In the heat of the afternoon. So, I took my time. I stopped at the pools on the way down. I smelled the air. I listened to the water. I sat on the bank of the pool and felt the spray of the falls. I even climbed up behind the water. It cleared my head. And my soul. Did I mention I live in Fairyland?

Last night the thunder began about 9:00. Just in time to wake Ethan from his tenuous state of sleep. I laid by him to calm his thunder-fear. And I listened to the rain fall. Pounding. Cleaning. God bathing the earth.

Poop

There are some things one shouldn't count. Like poop. The other morning it occurred to me that in my present career as a mother, I dealt with poop in four formats before eight o'clock in the morning. I changed a diaper, wiped 4-year-old, scooped the litter box, and well, took care of my own business.

This was just a few weeks after I realized, in the middle of a diaper change, that I have changed many diapers pretty much every day for over four years. I know I've got nothing on my mother (every day I wonder how she managed with five children), but four years of diapers is still rather significant. If you're counting.

Fairlyland

I live in Fairyland. They didn’t mention that in the job description my husband applied for. But, I suppose you can’t blame people who live in Fairyland for not recognizing it. Perhaps they just don’t want the secret to get out.

A few weeks ago I took a walk down a rhododendron shrouded path, late at night. In my pajamas. And they were everywhere—hundreds of ‘em. I mentioned it to someone and they said--"oh, yeah . . . you've never seen that before?" I'm from the west. We have a different variety of fairies out there.

The other day I even encountered Oberon. It was early morning, out near the chapel. He ran right across the road in front of me, stopped, looked at me for a few seconds. I stopped and met his gaze. He may not have looked like himself that day, but I saw him, and he knows.

I even ran into Puck yesterday. Scared me. I squealed. He popped right out of the trash compactor--I wasn't expecting that--winked at me and scampered off.

I'm hoping to catch a glimpse of Queen Mab at some point. I hear she keeps pretty much to herself though.

Let's go hang out at the mall

I’d begun to believe that I’d always hated shopping, but I’m not sure that is the case. I’ve never been an aficionado, that’s for sure. I’ve always considered “shopping as entertainment” a bit weird--sad really. My shopping trip yesterday gave rise to two new possibilities for me:

1) Hating shopping may just be a relatively recent thing in my life.
2) As much as I despise shopping, it can still be rather entertaining—in a sad sort of way.

Let me recount yesterday’s trip. I need summer clothes. This is something I’ve been putting off and attempting to do online (I do not like to pay shipping in order to try something on and have to ship it back). So, my new van needed a license plate (DMV—another blog) and I figured as long as I was driving an hour into town, I would hit the mall.

I dislike malls perhaps more than I dislike shopping. I lived in Colorado an entire year before I ever felt the need to go to the mall—to get my children photographed (I returned a mere two weeks later to return the tie my son stole, but that is another blog entirely). But, 80% humidity will drive any mall-hater to the mall in search of shorts.

Before I got to the mall, I decided to stop at a discount clothing store, in hopes of avoiding the mall altogether. Now mind you, my children at this point have been harnessed into the car for over an hour, most of which is narrow switchbacks down the mountain from camp (another reason I avoid shopping). So, getting Elliot out of his carseat and strapped into a stroller is hopeless. So, I let him walk. Bad idea.

I grabbed a couple of things to try on. My attendants and I ventured into the fitting room. The one large enough to accommodate my stroller did not lock. I went in anyway. As soon as my pants were down, Elliot swings the door open wide and run out. I pull my pants up and grab him. I park the stroller in front of the door and try again. I have a pair of shorts half way on and Elliot has crawled under the stroller and door. I grab him again and strap him in the stroller. He begins to scream. I try on one more pair. He is still screaming as he begins to throw his body violently against the strap holding him in and nearly topples the stroller.

I grab the items, throw on my clothing and head out of the fitting room. After some more struggles while trying to check-out, we leave.

By now it is lunchtime and we stop at a restaurant. They tell me they can’t put the high chair up to a booth, but Ethan REALLY wants to sit in a booth, so I figure I’ll block the baby in and it’ll be fine. Then Ethan decides he REALLY wants to sit next to me, but there’s no room with the baby blocked in. Whilst I’m arguing with Ethan, I turn to see Elliot, crawling on top of the table, heading for the salt and pepper. I grab Elliot, ask for a table with a high chair. Ethan begins to pitch a fit because he REALLY wants a booth. I threaten to leave. Eventually everyone calms down and we have a relatively nice lunch . . . until Elliot begins screaming because he is finished.

On to the mall. I attempt to make a bee-line for the store I want, but in a new mall, I’m lucky to find the directory. In fact, on the way to the directory, we pass the play land (bad) and a nice young man who wants to moisturize and buff my nails and obviously has no idea what it’s like to shop with two small boys. I’m way too polite and end up spending several minutes trying to tell him no thank you while Ethan begs me to go back to the play land. I make it to the store. I grabbed a few pair of crops and head for a fitting room. Why they don’t make the doors and walls go to the floor is beyond me. Ethan promptly sticks his head under the sides to see if the other two rooms are occupied. I instruct him on etiquette and he decides to just lay on the floor and look out under the door, watching traffic. Elliot thinks that’s a great idea, but carries it further and crawls out under the door. I again pull my pants back on, run out, grab him and strap him into the stroller, screaming. I’m sure all the other customers were grateful to hear us finally leave. I end the day with two pair crops, and three tee-shirts. I hope I like them, because I don’t really recall what they looked like on me.

Later, as I sat in the play area letting them run, I called my mother and arrived at the conclusion that although shopping is still not what I’d call fun, it is definitely entertaining. And, many years from now, I may just enjoy it.