Video of Isaac in Swing

I uploaded pictures of Parker, but then I remembered that Anna Grace recently took a couple of videos of Isaac using my camera. I don't have time to review these before posting, but those of you who have a vested interest in my children will probably enjoy them anyway.


Well, I only had time to upload one of them, because my internet connection is slow, and by the time the upload had gotten started good, everyone was up, with Michael and Parker wanting to use the computer. The other video may be better, but I'll have to work on that one later.

As it turns out, I only had about an hour and fifteen minutes to myself before everyone (and I mean everyone) woke up. Parker didn't get enough sleep, Isaac didn't get enough sleep, and I didn't get enough sleep. I don't know yet about Michael. So we're looking forward to a fun filled day.

Pictures of Parker. I Think My Camara is Getting Old.

Michael recently had to do a wipe and reload of my laptop, so while all of my photos have been backed up and saved, I don't have access to them at the moment, except for the ones I've most recently taken. Therefore, I have pictures of Parker, but not Isaac, to post this morning.

A couple of times recently Parker and I have had stretches of time where we've been able to go outside just the two of us. It's a lot easier to take pictures of him when I'm free to follow him around (and even do a little bit of raking!)

Earlier and Earlier Each Morning

I made the mistake of talking about Isaac's sleeping habits not once, not even twice maybe, but I think it was actually three times over the weekend. This I blame on the fact that he has woken up crying progressively earlier each night for the past three nights. Michael says it's Murphy's Law, and I'm not sure that anyone other than he and I could believe this, but ever since he was born, when I talk about it, the pattern gets broken. Isaac doesn't know I've talked about it, unless he senses it five miles away, but it always happens.

I'm getting that quiet and alone time to read and write, and so far I've been keeping a generally positive attitude, using the time I have, but we can't go on this way. He doesn't go to sleep immediately if I nurse him when he starts crying. I have to rock him after. And I suppose I've finally accepted that there's no point in my trying to go back to sleep. (I wish I'd slept well last night. I tried to go to bed really early, and partially succeeded, but still didn't actually go to sleep until Michael came to bed too. The storm didn't help, so even though I slept, I'm afraid I didn't sleep well.) We can't go on like this because as long as I'm getting up at 4:30 in the morning or earlier with Isaac, Michael and I won't be spending any time together after the children are in bed. That means no dates, no tv, no nothing. As much as I love my babies, I know that they need their parents to maintain their own relationship to really feel secure, and that requires time together without the children.

I'd go somewhere and walk at 5:00 if I knew there were someplace safe I could go, and if my shoes weren't locked up in a room with sleeping husband and infant. (I couldn't put Isaac back in with Parker for fear Parker will wake him up when he starts yelling for his Daddy later.) I'd go out and watch the sunrise except that I need plenty of light to read, and again because of the shoes. Yup. I don't really know what I'm going to do except drink more coffee than I usually do. At least I'm not lying in bed angry that I can't go back to sleep.

Something More

I really just discovered the book section at what used to be called The Alabama Books Store, and is now referred to as I recall not what. I went there one day last week to look for Absalom Absalom! and instead I found Teaching a Stone to Talk by Annie Dillard, The Thanotos Syndrome in hardback by Walker Percy, and Dante's The Divine Comedy in full, in the Everyman's Library Edition, also in hardback, among others. There were others I would have liked very much to bring home with me, but shelf space, as I always say, is limited. I came home to find that my copy of The Merry Heart: Reflections on Reading and Writing and the World of Books, by Robertson Davies, had arrived from one of the independent book sellers on Amazon, and I almost immediately ordered his book of essays on the theater, A Happy Alchemy. I've just about gone crazy ordering books these last two months.

Experiencing a Lauded Southern Author for the very first time

I'm reading William Faulkner for the first time ever. I made it this far (thirty-two years) having read nothing that was actually written in that style known as "stream of consciousness." I wonder if Annie Dillard's novels, which I haven't read, would somehow have qualified? So now I'm reading Faulkner and I wonder, could a non-intuitive person ever even read such a book? According to Myers-Briggs at least, the opposite of intuitive is sensing. The sensing person is very linearly and detail oriented. They think in terms of specifics. The intuitive person, on the other hand, is interested in connections between ideas. They may start with one idea, and range very far afield before they are finished thinking of even that one idea. I find that this is how Faulkner writes, in *Absalom Absalom!* at least, and again I wonder, could a sensing person even begin to read such a book? I don't mean to make a value judgment here; it is simply a matter of curiosity. I find I like this style of writing, though I think I would have expected otherwise. Clarity is usually my goal in writing anything because I see writing as a certain type of communication with another person. Clarity isn't, evidently, Faulkner's goal at all. He means to present a puzzle for his reader to solve.

This piece was not carefully read or edited before publication, as only a few of my publications ever are.

Miscellania

Karen was talking about finding joy in the Lord in the midst of suffering this evening and I started thinking about how angry I was about having ordered an mp3 player that didn't work, and a manufacturer that wasn't willing to replace it. Sort of puts things into perspective.

Isaac turned seven months last week and I didn't even realize it until late this morning. A fixed milestone came and went this month and I missed it. I realize as I type this right now that Parker's three year birthday is coming in just two months, and that the likelihood that it will come and go with only last minute fanfare is quite good. At least I have the opportunity now to do something about it before it does. But will I remember this tomorrow, after several hours sleep and a yearning to read three pages of William Faulkner without interruption? I surely hope so, but again, the likliehood is slim.

Parker will be three next month. That's right. Three. I am thirty-two years old and I have two children. Two! It truly is amazing. Dr. O'Dair once said that everyone winds up thinking they're a fraud at one time or another. "I shouldn't be allowed to teach this class, or present this paper, or attend this conference. If I do someone will realize I have no idea what I am doing." Sometimes I feel that way about motherhood as well. And writing. And music. Whatever.

As I drove to my friend's house this evening I realized there were no children in the car. I didn't have to listen to Charlie Bird "Count' to the Beat," as good as that particular CD is, and so I listened to cheesie Christian ska instead. Michael would have hated it, except perhaps for the fact that they play brass instruments; but it was fun. Five Iron Frenzy, live. The OC Supertones are my ska band of choice, but my friend Jesse didn't give me one of their CDs six or seven years ago.

They Tell You To Sort, But They Don't Tell You What to Look For

I just got back from Wal-mart about 20 minutes ago, and as much as I hate to start reading recipes right at this moment, it's something I must do. Otherwise I'll start wondering what we'll have for dinner around 4:00 tomorrow afternoon, at which point I'll realize I don't have time to start anything, and Michael will wind up getting pizza again. One of the items that made my list last night was Red Beans and Rice. The dry red beans are soaking in the kitchen even now, as are a pound of black beans I'll be using in Taco Soup sometime in the next six to eight days.

When I was a kid I had no interest in learning how to cook. I always preferred to read a book and usually I did. In college I was always in class during "family" meals at the Chi Alpha Girl's House, and when I was home I was never REALLY home, so I never learned how to do all these basic things that I've had to figure out over the past nine years. My mom has been a tremendous help, but it has only been in recent years that I've started asking her questions. My friend Melanie has been a tremendous help as well, and Anne Miller has shown me a few tricks here and there that have made a big difference. Did I forget to mention my mother-in-law, Carol, or my friend Heather. Have I mentioned lately that I just adore Heather?

I've only been soaking dry beans for about the past nine months, and that only occasionally, so I haven't yet figured out all the ins and outs. The package says to rinse and sort, which I attempt to do, but I'm not quite sure what I'm meant to be sorting out. Sometimes I wonder why it's taken nine years for me to figure out how to prepare sides to go with a meal. Other times I realize that in some areas you need a lot of experience with the simple things before the more complicated become graspable. There's got to be a life-lesson in there somewhere.

Anyway, the red beans are for dinner tomorrow night, and the black beans are for later. I figured that since I had four bags of dry beans to cook I might as well do two a day for the next couple of days so that I don't get stuck trying to find three large bowls to fill with beans and water at once. As usual, I don't know whether or not the recipe will be any good because I've never made it before. But hey, it'll have red bell pepper in it, so it can't be too bad.

By the way, I bought a belt for Parker at the thrift store this morning. Didn't bother to try it on him because I didn't want to have to get him in and out of the stroller an extra time. I was more concerned that it was going to be to large than anything else. I got it home and it was too small.

While I was at Wal-mart this evening two nice day brightening things happened. First, I got to stop and talk to my Dad's student and his wife who have been visiting our church recently. They are a stunning couple, and extremely friendly. Second, the lady who checked me out at Sam's Club pointed out that my lettuce was already wilty. She rang the bag up, and then let me go back and pick out another one. I never would have noticed, would have gotten home and realized tomorrow that my lettuce was already going bad. I appreciate it when someone does me a favor out of no where, with no expectation of receiving anything in return. I think I experienced this in both instances while I was shopping tonight. I consider these small kindnesses little gifts God gives us, reminders that we are loved. Then I see the man in the rain with a sign that says "I am homeless, and hungry" and I have nothing to give him. In my spare moments I think that I should pack sandwiches before ever going to the store, but it never happens. And then I purchase only the things I need to carry out a specific plan for me and my family so that I have nothing in the car that I can spontaneously offer that will meet a stranger's need. Why am I imagining the Facts of Life Theme Song?

Which Universe Did I Wake Up in THIS Morning?

Sunday afternoon Parker and Isaac and I drove out to a friend's house on Lake Tuscaloosa. It was not the first time I had driven out there, and it likely won't be the last. As I was driving, Parker said "Ooh, it's really pretty out here," and I agreed.

More than three years ago, when Parker came into this world, but before he was born, the world changed. I was driving out to the same house on Lake Tuscaloosa for the third of a set of meetings being held at the house (in other words I had driven out there before, and recently), but I got lost. I called ahead to tell them I was running late, and Susan told me I had missed a turn. But I didn't remember any turn. As far as I could remember there had never been another turn to miss out there before, but Susan assured me that it was true. To this day I still do not know how I could have forgotten a turn that had always been there. As far as I was concerned the route to my friend's house had changed, even though it couldn't have.

That was strange. It was as though I had passed over into a different universe with the conception of my child.

I used to imagine sometimes when I was a teenager that at some point I would wake up and discover that my life was really a dream. I guess the world seemed very unreal in comparison with the things I read in books, and the social isolation I often felt must have been oppressive to me. As I sat down to write this just now I experienced a brief shiver of horror to think of my life having never had Parker in it. It's odd where the imagination can go, and what can spark it.

Another weird sort of thing happened on Sunday that made me think of alternate realities. I was going to someone else's house later in the evening, and as I had never been there before, I wrote the house number down along with the driving directions in my little green notebook. As I drove to the house on Lake Tuscaloosa, I noticed the house number on the mailbox. The house on Lake Tuscaloosa was numbered 10885. The house I would be going to later in the afternoon is practically at the other end of the county, but it's number is 10889. I checked those numbers just now to make sure I hadn't transposed one of them in my head, but they are accurate. How odd.

Writing

When I hear or see the word "writing," my mind immediately goes to the smell of ink flowing from a ball point pen. The ink is always blue.

Improved Reading Skills (the opposite of Speed Reading, or is it?)

I've been speaking with my husband this morning about reading. I was complaining to him, as I sometimes feel I complain all the time, that my reading isn't productive in that I can't seem to absorb it so as to do anything with it. Some of this I blame on defects in my memory, but I think the cause has more to do with my inability to argue with a text before staking out my own opinion in relation to it. I read and read and read, but in the end I hardly know what I have read, and in the end this seems to mean that my reading is altogether unproductive, and therefore a waste of time.

I have to read something in order to go to sleep at night, although having replaced our mattress in the last week with a sleep number bed from Select Comfort (so far I've been amazed at how low my number is), I haven't tested to see if reading is still necessary. Right now my book of choice for bedtime reading is On the Road by Jack Kerouac. My best reading? My best reading would come early in the morning as I sit at the table situated on a concrete slab in the backyard. This has happened exactly once since we moved into this house two years ago. There is no ideal reading time for me now, and that's okay, but it does mean that I rarely get the opportunity to focus solely on any one particular text. Beverly described it this morning as a particularly intensive time in the life of my family.

Books can, and often do, represent a certain level of escapism for me, but I have expressed before that I can feel the difference between the experience of reading junk and reading quality literature. I prefer the quality material because even the escapism of a Wilkie Collins novel, like The Law and the Lady has a certain positive value to it, which I cannot unfortunately identify. Though escapist it is still productive. Productivity is not limited to the nonfiction genre

Michael hates to read, yet he reads all the time, and his reading is always productive. He spends his days reading and writing from and on a computer screen, and he uses every bit of information he obtains in one way or another. But for him, reading requires a focused effort. He has to string every word together in his mind, so every text he chooses to read has to somehow show it's worth right up front. The ease with which I have so long experienced reading thereby becomes an impediment to me. It's too easy to gloss over a sentence without taking the time to get even the gist of it before moving on to the next.

This leaves me at a standstill. What must I do now? Because I have this book, this book by Walker Percy, that I expect to discuss tonight, but as it stands now I will only be able to ask questions. I know what he writes about to some extent, but I don't remember what he actually says. And I'm not quite sure where to go from here.

It certainly isn't a hopeless matter, but it is one I need a community to maneuver.

More excuses, books, and the reason why I don't have any readers anymore

I just noticed the total number of posts I have published to this blog. Just over three hundred in almost two years, and that's including posts that were comprised of pictures only, or excuses about why I wasn't posting. I guess you could say (and I probably have already) that it is emblematic of my stage in life. Parker is almost three. Isaac is a week away from turning seven months old. It's a good stage, but it keeps me from writing--almost anything.

I finished Walker Percy's Signposts in a Strange Land two or three days ago. It's a collection of his essays on numerous topics, and it was great. I have to comment that I probably wouldn't have gotten through the entire thing if it weren't for an obligation to certain friends who were reading it too--but I think that's the neat thing about reading in community: exposure to books you might not choose to read on your own, the opportunity to ask questions and discuss matters of interest with others who share a similar (though never identical) reading experience, and the chance to push forward with something you know is worthwhile even when the reading isn't clearly motivating in and of itself. I remember our friend John K. saying that you have to read things you don't understand before you can begin to understand them. The Walker Percy wasn't the easiest reading, and I probably understood maybe 30% of it, but I'm already planning for the time when I can read it again, knowing that next time I will understand more of it.

Right now I am working my way through Paul Elie's The Life you Save May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage. I'm having a rough time with it. He is writing the stories of four people: Dorothy Day, Thomas Merton, Flannery O'Connor, and Walker Percy. It's been hard for me so far because I have only been able to read it in snatches, he intertwines these four histories according to a pattern that hasn't emerged for me, and because so far he has focused mainly on Day and Merton, while O'Connor and Percy are the ones I really care about. I suppose that Elie's emphasis is less literary than I had expected. I'm also uncomfortable with the socialism/communism that was so important to Day, so that has presented some difficulty too. It is also true that my memory has become so bad that I have difficulty picking up Merton's story in the midst of Day's.

The most recent item that has interested me about Percy is his connection with Mark van Doren. It's silly that, having read nothing by van Doren, my interest is engaged because of the portrayal of his character in a movie, Quiz Show.

I'm also reading, at last, and absolutely, On the Road by Jack Kerouac. It seems particularly appropriate now because my brother, Andrew, is currently on the road. Not like Kerouac, but still, he is out there. Other more compelling reasons to read it: a passing interest in the beat poets that I never pursued, the recent Mark Helprin nove (Freddy and Fredericka) evoking Kerouac in passages, and more importantly, the recommendation of a cousin, who once described his religion on Facebook as Christian Buddhism.

After writing all of the preceding this morning, I also picked up The Rise and Fall of English: Reconstructing English as a Discipline, by Robert Scholes, while feeding the baby. I couldn't help myself. There it has sat on my bedstand for a couple of months, and Facebook says that I am reading it. I wanted to pick it up and see which essay I was on. Unfortunately I've only barely made it to the second, and of that I hardly remember what I have read. I do remember one thing however. I remember Scholes contention that professors should still be intensely concerned with truth, and yet according to my memory I don't know what he means by that. I don't remember his discussion of truth comporting with my own understanding of it.

Parker loves to jump on the bed

Yesterday Parker held Isaac for the very first time. Maybe now that he's six months old it's a little less scary for Parker. Isaac has also been practicing rolling over as you will see below.




Monday morning, as we were driving to the church to deliver something, we came to our turn onto Hargrove Road. Parker pointed to the left and said, "That way to the church." Then he pointed to the right and said, "That way to Granna's house, and to the Gleasons." Parker has such a great memory. We haven't even been to the Gleason's house in months and months.

I wish he didn't love jumping on the bed quite so much though.