I have to remember to take more picture of what we do during the week but I often get so swept up in what we’re doing that I forget. I managed to remember for a couple of our activities.
This awesome wooden cup thing was a thrift store find. My husband said he could see the Montessori light flashing on and off on the top of my head the moment I found it.
Counting and number writing practice.
Cutting practice.
We read Princess and the Pea, then decided to try to see how many pieces of fabric we could feel a dried pea through.
It took quite a few folds. Those little suckers are hard!
Sticking with the Princess and the Pea theme, we glued dried peas to a capital P on a pink piece of paper. I’m all about alliteration.
Let’s ignore the raging mess behind him and look at how cool his P is!
With some assistance, he wrote his name. Some assistance being that I placed his hand in the right place and he did the shapes entirely himself.
We have recently come across a treasure trove of children’s classic books, which has also lead me back to a dear pastime which my husband would probably be completely content with me not reconnecting with – buying rare, old and ridiculously expensive books so they can sit on a shelf for their yellowing pages to be admired from afar. And because my husband is just not willing to enable my addiction by spending $180 on a 15 page book that’s over 100 years old and is awesome, The Boy and I have spent much more time on the internet reading books. (Just saying that made me feel like I’m on the Jetson’s.)
The treasure trove of which I speak is The Children’s Library. It has books that are no longer under copyright and/or that they have obtained permission to print…er…post? One of our current favorites is the one above called, “The Children’s Object Book” and while I would much prefer to have that book in hand, this is absolutely the next best thing. Not only does the boy get to work with the mouse a bit more (by clicking to get to the next page), but he also gets to learn what a “poultry yard” is without having to sacrifice his parents’ marriage because mommy spent $70 on a well used, antique, hardcover version of the book. It’s a win-win for everyone.
My husband claims to despise the television. He’ll stare at it with vitriol in his eyes and profess his hatred for the “blaring commercials” and “stupid plot lines”. He’ll screech about how much it rots his brain and steals his soul. However, turn on Fringe, or Dexter, or Curb Your Enthusiasm, or House, or any Rick Steves Goes to Some Random Place in Eastern Europe and Acts Like a Raging Dweebazoid, and he is glued. I mean GLUED. Try to talk to my husband while he’s watching TV and you may as well be talking to a fence post. Double concentration just doesn’t work for him, nor for my son. They’re brains become little lasers in front of the boob tube. Unlike me who was raised with a TV in her room and had never slept with one off until I met my husband, when I was 23. This is the first time in my life I haven’t had more than 1 TV in the house, nevertheless not had one in my bedroom. (Oh, the horror! Oh, the agony! Oh, the really good night’s sleep!)
On any given day, you could walk into our living room and have no idea a TV exists. Well, unless you know that TVs often exist hidden in armoires, in which case I expect you to pretend like you have no idea one exists. Preferably with an exclamation of, “WOW! I had NO IDEA that was back there! You are a GENIUS!” (Ego stroking will often get you carnitas, or cookies, or both. Just a heads up.)
I say “could” because, as of late, I’ve been turning on the TV way too much. In fact, every opportunity I get I’m turning it on. I’ve begun to judge when it’s time for The Boy’s nap, when it’s time to start dinner, when it’s time to inhale, by what time Curious George, or Word World, or God Forbid, Street Court comes on. TV is no longer an occasional fun thing for either myself or The Boy. It’s become an everyday, Good Morning, pee, breakfast, TV sort of thing. I’ve watched our days go from fun little crafts and ridiculously annoying repetitive storytimes to “Mommy, what’s going to come on next?!” It is sucking my time away with my son and it’s pissing me off. I am pissing me off.
I can always explain it away with the fact that, in winter, I am in pain. A lot of it. I start to move like the tin man before he was oiled. I’ve had arthritis in my joints since about 16. Bad weather brings on bad aches, and bad aches bring on the urge to hang out under a blanket and veg. I should be cleaning, but I can’t stand for long. I can’t do dishes because the water sends needles shooting up to my shoulders. The basement is where all my crafty mess stash is, but it’s also the most freezing part of the house. It’s easy to get complacent and not want to do crap but find out why that lady slapped that man with a knife on Judge Judy (really, though, how does one slap someone with a knife?).
But, if I’m honest with myself, there’s really no excuse for not taking an Advil and chugging along. Or, better yet, curling up under a blanket with the boy and reading all day. Or doing Starfall. Or writing. There are a million things I could be doing that don’t include turning that thing on, they just take a bit more work than pointing a remote. Bastards.
So, I’m setting a goal for the week. No TV. I want my family to talk to each other again. I want to eat dinner at the table, and not on our couch. I want our lives to be more about each other than what snarky comment Greg House is making to the newest dying patient in his ever so capable care. (FYI, if I’m ever dying of some unknown illness, take me to him. Yes, I know he’s not real. Can’t a girl dream?)
Please don’t get me wrong, if you’re a regular TV watching family and love it, that’s great. It works for you. Unfortunately, when the TV is on in our house, no one interacts. We don’t talk, we don’t laugh, we don’t learn, we don’t connect. It just doesn’t work for us.
Last year, my mom gave me a Ped Egg and something else in similar boxes. I didn’t know what a Ped Egg was at the time and I didn’t look in the other box. She kept asking if I’d used it. I kept saying no but I would soon. Finally, I yanked the sucker out of it’s box and used it the day before she was coming over. I thought it was pretty awesome, it even caught my skin sloughs in it’s little catcher egg. Cool!
I left it on the telephone counter so she could see that I’d used it. This may sound strange, but the phone nook is right outside the bathroom. Plus, my bathroom is a mess. She wouldn’t notice it in there if it had a bright orange sign on it.
When she came in and saw it, she said, “Why is the cheese grater I gave you sitting here?”
To which my husband yelled, “SHE WAS USING IT ON HER FEET!”
I wish I could say I pay attention to what boxes say now, but I don’t. Expect something similar to happen again.
When we first moved to this neighborhood, 3 years ago, we decided to be civically minded and join the neighborhood association. 4 months later, we went to our first meeting in the dining hall of the Russian Orthodox Catholic Church. I remember sitting in the meeting, doodling because I am completely incapable of paying attention to anything, when I heard a booming voice come from the other side of the room. A larger than life man, who greatly resembled Santa Claus dressed entirely in black, had begun to talk about one of the many times the city had tried to run rough shot over our little neighborhood. One of the many times he and his amazing wife, president of the neighborhood association, had stomped their feet, written letters and showed up to every meeting they could to get it turned around. And they did. They usually did. He loved this neighborhood completely and tirelessly, along with everyone in it.
After the meeting, he was introduced to us as Father Joe. He was the priest at the little Catholic Orthodox Church and the king of all Eastern European jokes you could possibly think of. The man had impeccable humor, and an even greater laugh. The kind of laugh that was positively infectious. Of course, most of the time, I wasn’t sure whether or not to feel bad for laughing at jokes that began with, “There was this Polack…”. And, really, pretty much all of his jokes did.
When I received the email earlier this week saying that he had passed, my stomach flipped. It just didn’t seem possible. I mean, he’s Father Joe, for goodness sake. He’s not the kind of guy that just gets sick and then that’s it. He’s the kind of guy that’s supposed to live until he’s 120, telling hilariously horrifying jokes and blessing babies the whole way. He’s the kind of guy that makes the world spin for everyone and everything around him. His passing was not one that fit him. Although, I don’t know what would have, short of a gigantic earthquake at the exact moment it happened. It seems as thought we should have felt his passing, not heard about it.
I don’t know what the church, this neighborhood, this whole city is going to do without such a great man. He loved this community more than one could imagine, and he loved everyone in it. He was sincere. He was heartfelt. He was everything you’d expect a good Father to be and we were so, so very lucky to have known him.
Tomorrow we attend his funeral and, while it’s extremely hard for me to ever think of it as a joyous occasion, I know that for him it is. He is with his Father, the God he dedicated his life to. And I’m hoping, because I know he is, that at least one person, at some point, says, “So, there was this Polack…” Because I picture him, at that moment, smiling at God and saying, “I have an even better one…”
We’ll miss you Father Joe. This neighborhood is going to be missing a giant piece of it’s heart, and so is everyone who knew you.
