Back to Social Stories

It's the second day T didn't want to go to school, and I think I now know why: it's the crying kids.

Because T's been in the Early Intervention program and has already been at this school for a year, I forgot that the other 15 kids in the classroom haven't. And for some it's their first time away from Mommy. I forget.

So we're back to social stories because crying kids really unnerve T. I doubt it's the noise issue (though sometimes that may be true); more likely it's because T's always had trouble with strong emotion--she simply doesn't know how to distinguish between her own emotions and those of others. (I realize some adults have this problem, too, but they have other labels for that sort of thing.)

I made one tonight, all about crying and why we cry and what to do if a school friend is crying. I'll tell you how it goes later.

Sigh. Yes, I am a writer...

Back off, or Mommy's gonna blow!

Around here, we've been talking a lot about what makes us tick.

Changes are coming (and not just with the weather), and inevitably change invites new conversations about old subjects: why do I always make these choices? how did end up in this situation? why do I always believe that about myself? I thought I'd gotten past that...

With T back in school (even if it's for only a couple of hours), I'm over-ready to get back into the writing groove, and I'm finding that any little set-back or distraction from that goal frustrates me to the point of snapping. I gotta chill.

Today T is home. She flipped when I told her we were going to preschool. Don't know what's going on, but she's usually happy to go once we get there, even if she does grumble a little on the way. But this morning we went up to Barnes and Noble to look at all the "colorful books" and she got mighty mad when we couldn't bring home a book about an orchestra dog. (We're deeply back into musical instruments right now.) Her attitude regressed from bad to worse by the time we got home for lunch, and then dived directly into a black pit of brattiness after that. So...

Note to self: make home so boring in the morning that she's desperate to go to school...(only partly kidding, there, folks).

This too shall pass, I know. But raising a child--or children--who is possibly more extrovert than introvert is hard on us introverted parents. Maybe I should have T read Caring for Your Introvert, as essential reading. We could make a social story out of it. Hm....

A Rockin' Good Morning To You!

As if this poor guy wasn't already in danger of overexposure on the web, I'm sticking him up here in case you missed the story. And yes, there's a backing track; and yes, he did the video and then dubbed the audio over it. For a little story and some commentary on the guitarist and his technique, check out this story NPR did yesterday. There's a cool link to a spoon slide-guitarist, too.

Have fun. T liked it so much, we watched it twice.

Huzzah! Shazam!

Seek and ye shall find...

Inspired by T's discovery of my lost wedding ring, Randy decided to dig into The Chair. A word of explaination here: The Chair sits in a corner of the kitchen where it has become my favorite roosting spot for writing and web surfing--mostly because I can see a fair portion of the lower floor from it's location, and because it's mighty comfy. Randy swears I sit in it so much that it's developed what Homer Simpson once called, an "a** groove." I disagree. Ahem.

So anyway, this afternoon I was typing away in the bedroom at Randy's desk when I began to hear my hubby laughing, and laughing...and laughing so hard that he'd reached that peak of suppressed mirthful hysteria that induces tears.

I ran to the kitchen thinking T was doing something obnoxiously cute and I'd missed it. "What? What?"

Randy's butt was halfway in the air, and one arm was jammed down into a crevice of The Chair. His face was bright red, and he could barely breathe. "You ever--" he gasped and then tried again, "you ever see those clown cars--" More laughter, more tears. He pulled his arm out. "You know, when they just keep coming out?" More wheezing.

I walked over and inspected the table next to the chair. An pair of dancing insects toy, one drumstick, a comb, a knitting needle and safety stop, one universal remote--and two sets of keys lay there. "Holy Toledo."

"Look, honey! It's the set of keys I lost about a month after we moved here!"

I had looked under the cushion of that chair a dozen times. "All that was down in that crack?" Everything was filthy with hair and lint and generally unidentifiable brown goo. "Yuck."

"And your keys!" My keys, my precious keys with the remote keyless entry that costs about a hundred bucks to replace...

I didn't know whether to dance a jig or throw up.

But I'm happy now. Those Clorox wipes are a real psychological assest when I'm faced with moments of abominable domestic ick.

Shazam, huzzah and hot dang for me. I'm back in the modern world.

Bone-headed

Folks, I'm not so smart sometimes.

We are still living on the surface of the sun, and for some reason I thought it'd be a br-i-ll-i-ant idea to walk T home from school today. Now you can tell me all about horsies and carriages, and how your grand-daddy walked 3 miles to school, uphill, etc. etc. That still doesn't diminish the fact that it's flippin' hot out there, and more importantly, my girl had different expectations about her return home.

Expectations and routine control our lives. It's much better than it used to be, but it's still difficult sometimes to know what is real petulance and what is perserverant/ritualistic behavior. Generally what distinguishes the two is the actual existence of a basic routine or expectation: if we usually do something a certain way, there will be hell to pay if we do it differently.

Well, I usually pick up the girl in the "blue car" but today I didn't. And about fifty yards into our walk home (with her hanging half-heartedly on my back), she began to scream for the "blue car." Like, right in my ear--it was handy. This continued all the way home, and the two of us--both sweating and sticky and angry--drew out a half dozen neighbors who happened to hear T's piercing screams. (Yeah, hi folks!) Nor did it stop when we made it safely into the air-conditioning. No. T spent the next hour being miserable and coming down from her fit. There was much throwing of tissues and demanding of wet washcloths. And as miserable and tired as we both were, I didn't fight it.

On the upside, T discovered my wedding ring at the bottom of the empty tissue box. Big smile.

skinny jeans!!

get your skinny jeans here, baby!!
be the first in line!
impress your friends!
get some friends!
...oooo, you're so hot in your skinny jeans!!!

(sorry. i was at the mall today.)

Prairie Baptism

Do you hear that thunder?

Look out the window: do you see the muted, black greens and greys of wet grass and stone?

Breathe in: do you smell the cool scent of rain drifting through my open window and taking up the space that was once dominated by the flat blasts of compressor charged air conditioning?

Hold lightly: do you feel the heat of my tea, smell the smokey invitation of my lapsang souchong?

Rest now: there is nothing to listen for but the sound of the refrigerator humming, no one to run to but your Lord.

Even if someone handed me a tax-free check for a million dollars, I don't think I could be happier than I am right now.

A New Start

School starts again tomorrow. New classroom, new teacher, new kids. Fortunately, not a new school though--and not a new curriculum.

We'll be doing preschool again. Academics will be a snap. In fact, they're already done. Well, maybe--T has yet to consistently get that left foot/right foot thing down. But we're working on it.

The real struggle, as always, will be to convince T that anything anyone else is doing is worthy of her attention. While this can pass with her peers, it won't with a teacher. I found a good, basic social story book for preschoolers, so I will copy some and we'll be working with those to remind T what's expected of her.

I've set some goals for myself, too. Here are three:

1. Get the book finished--at least the first draft.
2. Beat my wasteful Starbucks habit and build up enough savings to

• a) get to Lexington in October, and

• b) buy a decent espresso maker. Not the stovetop one we live with, but a nice, shiny number that puts out the coveted caramelly crema we coffee junkies so rarely get.

3. Finish the two quilts I've begun for T.

Note--I do not have any big bible study goals here. This is an omission I've yet to fret over. At a minimum I go to crosswalk and do a daily reading. (And no, you don't have to buy anything to do it.)

Is school back in session for you? Are your eyes bright and shiny with the possibilities of a new school year? What are they?

Missing

1. wedding ring
2. first set of car keys--with remote clicker
3. spare set of car keys--with Randy's remote clicker
4. two sets of blood test results for Tesla

We are hunting high and low. Tesla might be able to help us, as we know she is implicated in the loss of at least the wedding ring, but retaining memory about the placement of things in space and time is not her strength. (That's an understatement, folks.)

So if you see visions of lost things, or pray about such, please help us!

I'm back.

Gotta new blog. This one's all about books. Just books.

Here's what happened.

Before I left The Furnace State, I'd sent off for a book to preview and had signed up with a fiction blog ring for the sole purpose of doing some industry (CBA industry) research. No problem. A book here, a book there, and I'm getting a better picture of the CBA world.

Seven books arrived while I was gone. My husband is amused, and grateful. He thinks this means I'll spend less at the local Barnes and Noble now. Ha.

So I will keep my promise to talk about books soon, I just won't do it here. It's time I got back to my original intent for this blog--to talk about the life in "Schmolland" and my crazy self. Perhaps I won't post as often here, but just think of it this way: now you can have two of me! (I can hear the rapturous applause from here...)

For book talk and book reviews, try Intertextual Me.
For autism/mommy/crazy talk, stay here.

And yes, it's still hotter than the sun here. 104. Yipes.

Good-bye.

It is mercilessly, remorselessly, wickedly hot here--the weeds have consumed the garden, and only the peppers struggle on with any fight left in them. The asphalt asphixiates, the community pool is nothing but a tepid bathtub. The mall is packed, but my bank account is empty... And time moves as slowly as the lines on the thermometer decline.

It's the time of year where I once again wonder why, if they had a driver's license and $20 to get across the state line, anyone would choose to live here.

For this reason, I'm taking my own advice. This very afternoon I'm gonna pack the bare essentials, whatever I can fit in my overnighter, and toys for the girl, and tomorrow morning we're bustin' out of this dried-up, fried-out, wind-blown nightmare of a town--and I'm drivin' to...Kansas.

Ok. I'm going to visit my mommy. And if she's really nice, she'll take us to the mall and get T some new shoes for school, and then if she's really, really nice, she'll entertain my girl by paying our way to the zoo.

When I get back, I'll begin a series on books--CBA books, ABA books--books I read two years ago but I still think about regularly, books I read this summer and have already forgotten. With the kids back in school, and perhaps a few hours on your hands between now and the holiday mash, it's a good time to think about books again. In fact, you might find yourself reading something you never thought you'd love--all on the basis of my brilliant recommendation.

Until my return, you might enjoy a word or two from these folks:

Claudia Mair Burney is a loser. (That's my positive word for you today, Mair!) Her first book, Murder, Mayhem, and a Fine Man is out now, and Mair is again rethinking her life. Stop on by her blog to see what's going on--or rather what's comin' off!

Dave Long once again provides space for debate. This time it's on "Why Evangelicals Can't Write" or something like that. It's a good discussion and worth a bit of your time if you're invested in this argument or ever threw a CBA book across the room in annoyance. (Truthfully, back in college, we once burned a boxload of terrible ABA romance books, so the CBA has in no way monopolized this dreck.) Warning: a degree in religion/theology and/or English might be useful here--it turned into one of those discussions.

And eye-candy for quilters. No, not your grannie's kind of quilting! This is someone's Flickr file from the finest quilt show on the planet: The Houston International Quilt Show. I'm stunned by the variety and inventiveness of what's shown here. Truly, truly amazing! I have a friend who's mother used to edit a quilting mag back in Australia, and she's had the privilege to go to the quilt show several years ago with her mom. When we first started quilting together, she raved about the show to me. Now I know why. Sheesh!

That's all, folks. I'm off to a much-needed nap where I will dream of driving down Ward Parkway with a latte from Dean and Deluca, on a cool, overcast fall morning...

Ciao.

Wealth

Here I go, swinging from the ridiculous to the sublime--but I have to share this post from a group of writers at a blog called The Master's Artist.

One of the regular contributors, Jeanne Damoff, has a son who was left brain damaged from a boating accident in childhood. Jeanne doesn't speak of this often at the site, but today she left a story for us that resonated with me quite powerfully today.

Too often we find ourselves thinking the old lie, that what we give away will never be found again--that somehow we will be less whatever. But Jeanne's post reminded me that what we sacrifice for those who have not is a gift that multiplies, not divides us from, our wealth.

The Talladega jones, explained

A friend sent me an interesting review of Talladega Nights, which manages to both fill my month's quota for snarky and neatly encapsulates my attraction to the movie:

Indeed, I don’t like to think of Will Ferrell’s brand of comedy as a higher-brow Adam Sandler; I like to think of him as a low-brow Christopher Guest. He’s like the inebriated, macho-retard amalgamation of Eugene Levy, Fred Willard, and Michael McKean and, in that way, he appeals to the high-end of our lower brain functions, which (I think) makes it OK for the McSweeney’s crowd to get a guilt-free kick out of him.

That's it!

I know Talladega Nights will be no A Mighty Wind, but hey--if Ed Begley, Jr. can get me in tears, laughing at his Norweigan guy doing Yiddish schtick, then I'm willing to take a chance on Ferrell in a Wonderbread racing suit.

The Kind of Science I Like

Forget all that silly Dan Brown stuff; this is the real thing...ok, except it lacks any revisionist dreams of a world duped by a false history of its most famous religious figure. That, and all the fuss is over a 3rd century BC Greek mathematician.

But mystery? scholarship? hidden knowledge? lost texts? forgery? and high-tech revelation? Oh yes, it's all here, folks.

So toss that cheesey, water-stained mass-market paper aside and head here for some real-life drama...

The Archimedes Palimpsest Project.




This past week scientists at the Stanford Linear Accelerator Project began to reveal a 10th century script, the earliest known copy of a treatise by Archimedes, long obscured by the writings of a 12th century monk (the palimpsest-er), and early 20th century forgers.

Of course, much happened to the book between its accquisition by a private collector in 1998 and the eventual revelations it gave up to technicians, scientists and scholars before it landed in Stanford. And, according to the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore, there are several more 'books' to be plumbed. So, thankfully, the Stanford news is neither the beginning nor the end of this tale.

I love this kind of stuff. What a joy it must be to witness these words show themselves, legibly, for the first time in almost a thousand years! Thanks be to the great minds who allowed this to happen!

If you love this sort of thing, too, I highly recommend a visit to the Walters' site. Whether your interest is science, ancient texts, history or art, you'll find something inspiring in their well-designed site.

Go on, really. (And don't let my Talladega Nights interest dissuade you from my generally good taste.)

I always wondered...

what kind of Christian I am, and now I know.

If you think this sounds odd, you gotta understand that I grew up Club 700. That's Pat Robertson's denomination. Apart from a few early years in a glorified country club of a church, my spiritual development until the age of 17 came from the glowing tube.

Sorry Wayne. I guess I'm an Armenian, yet. (Did I spell that correctly?) Blame it on Emmaus.

Anyway, I can sleep at ease tonight...

You scored as Evangelical Holiness/Wesleyan. You are an evangelical in the Wesleyan tradition. You believe that God's grace enables you to choose to believe in him, even though you yourself are totally depraved. The gift of the Holy Spirit gives you assurance of your salvation, and he also enables you to live the life of obedience to which God has called us. You are influenced heavly by John Wesley and the Methodists. Evangelical Holiness/Wesleyan 75% Emergent/Postmodern 68% Neo orthodox 61% Charismatic/Pentecostal 50% Reformed Evangelical 46% Roman Catholic 46% Classical Liberal 36% Fundamentalist 29% Modern Liberal

A Purple Dilemma

Come on...you know you want to see it.

As a little girl you thought the General Lee was cool, but Daisey Duke was dumb. Then you grew up and fell in love with that hip little pink Carmengia Molly Ringwald drove, even if you thought ol' Molly was a complete dope, too. Now, well into your thirties, you look back and realise that even though you're deeply embedded in motherhood and all it's attendent responsibilities, your heart still yearns to be behind the wheel of something rowdy, yet refined. And obviously the sensible little CRV in your garage isn't gonna cut it.

This need for speed in a sartorially satisfying package presents another dilemma, though--a more fundamental dilemma: clearly that beating purple mass within your ribcage is really the comingling of red and blue state passions. The mid-westerner in you loves the wide-open interstate and longs for a sixth gear to speed along it, but the suburban, mildly overeducated (and definately underpaid) artist in you begs for a European edge to her fun. You get annoyed at bathroom humor, but you can't pass up a chance at a snarky social commentary. You hate fart jokes, but you'd still giggle if somebody farted in church.

So do you go cringe at a bunch of thirteen year old toilet humor for the chance to bust your gut on a very funny, funny premise that pokes fun at every red state stereotype?

It's a purple dilemma.

Come on...you know you wanna.

For Naila's baby

This is for a Russian woman in Kentucky who's having a baby boy. It was a simple project--and still not completed (what you see is only the quilt top)--but it took a bit longer than I had expected. A generous friend, who is also pregnant, offered to whip up a quick pattern for me. But being pregnant has done something to her ability to add, and instead of having one of her reliable plans, I had something of a small comedy on my hands.

In other words, there was much recutting of fabric, some ripping of thread, and not a little good-natured cursing before I was back on the proportionally correct path with all the right fabrics. (It was a little like chunking an entire chapter, knowing you just killed the better part of your week's free time.) But don't you just love those little bikes and cars? Everything you see has been lying in my stash bins for literally, years, so I'm feeling very virtuous about this creation. What fun to pull it all out and create this!


So. It'll be off to get sandwiched and stitched this next week. And oh yeah, it's getting a nice red flannel backing.

I love making gifts.

Construction Note:

This is based on an 8" finished block, with 1/4" seam allowances. The unfinished measurements are as follows:

The pieced block is a 4.5" square center with two borders 2.5" wide--

Top and bottom strips on the inner borders are 2.5"x 4.5"; the side strips are 2.5"x 6.5".

Top and bottom strips on the outer borders are 2.5"x 6.5"; the sides strips are 2.5" x 8.5".

The unpieced block measures 8.5"square.