My Level of Awareness

I swear I am not materialistic.  Really.   After losing practically everything I own that didn’t fit in the trunk of a Chrysler Concorde, I think I can speak with some moral authority on that subject.  Truth be told, aside from a brief pang now and then over the books (ouch, there it goes, the pang) and my grandmother’s hope chest, I miss almost none of it.  I miss the sense of personal space, of tangible history, but that is a deep subject for another post.

This is not a deep post, unless you want to see it a brief exploration of my shallower nature.

I am rather ashamed to say that I am capable of developing fond feelings for certain electronic devices.  And having read many blog entries testifying to the passionate feelings of women for their TIVOs, I was a teensy bit relieved to find I was not alone in this capacity.  I didn’t have a TIVO before Katrina.  And now, all I can say is “Oh, my god, why didn’t I meet you sooner?”  For the first time in, well, in probably my entire adult life, I am able to watch an entire television show from beginning to end, on my own time.  Okay, this probably isn’t necessarily the greatest thing to happen to my character, but in the years pre-TIVO I was usually gone at the first or second commercial break.  I simply cannot sit still through a commercial.  I won’t watch them, and I can think of a thousand things I could do during a commercial break that invariably take far more than the elapsed three minute interlude.

Now that I can fast-forward through them, stop, start and rewind?  Now that I can program an entire season of episodes without changing a single tape, or taking eighty thousand steps to do it?  AND automatically not record the reruns?  Even better - that I can save all this up for an afternoon when I am sick or otherwise mindlessly confined to the house? I am in brain-cell-sucking heaven.  So, when Jodi asks whats on our TIVO Season Passes?  Can’t resist.  Just can’t.

For Harry:

Backyardigans (Yep, Jodi, I TIVO for my kid, too)

For Kris:

American Yankee Workshop

The Woodwrights Shop

Jericho

For Me:

Law and Order: Criminal Intent

CSI - NY (because the accents make me homesick)

Without a Trace

For Both of Us:

Heroes

The Dresden Files

Cold Case

Criminal Minds

House

Eureka

Monk

Psych

We also add season passes for my favorite Brit Mysteries (Wire in the Blood, Waking the Dead, etc.) when they roll around on BBC America. 

I would love to admit something far more educational is on my regular viewing list, but, in all honesty, I have gotten to the point where I have abandoned any pretense that my TV viewing is more than an occasional indulgence of mindless escapism.  Contrary to the sheer numbers of the above, I actually watch very little TV.  Usually only when I am a captive audience on the stationary bike every night - in fact, I wanted to move the bike upstairs, but my husband protested because then we would NEVER watch TV together.

He says it like it’s a bad thing.

And I am guilty to admit, that it just might be.

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Our son has a Jack Russell Terrier.  Brownie.

There is no more stereotypical “boy’s dog” than a Jack.  Think “My Dog Skip”.  They have boundless energy for “boy things” like playing catch, tag and back yard exploration.

Jack Russell Terriers are also, if nobody has explained this to you yet, congenitally insane.

 Here is a short list of things that Brownie has deemed dire hazards to Harry’s health and welfare:

Squirrels

Water pistols

Playground balls

The mailman

Strange dogs

All cats

Moving leaves

Sticks

Dirt

Rocks

And her method of defense, which consists of barking hysterically and pouncing repeatedly is absolutely hilarious to a two-year old. 

At least I always know where he is. 

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There are so few no-brainer decisions in this life.

Throw maternal angst in the mix and it is quite shocking that we don’t turn into gibbering idiots every time we have to choose between diaper brands.  Then make it about a residual-guilt-issue like daycare, and boy, howdy.

There is very little chance that I can be a stay-at-home Mom.  I make far, far too much money.  Twice my husband’s salary, in fact.  If a stay-at-home decision has to be made, it’s Kris’s career that takes the bullet.  We did that until Harry was over 18 months old, and we were both very happy with that decision.  But some economic realities started to creep in.  When you have kids at my age you get both retirement and college savings warring for the same dwindling pool of expendable cash.  Folks, if I have serious security issues, they are financial.  There are some pretty good reasons for this.  I grew up poor, and through a series of bad financial decisions, my parents are likely to be dependent on one of their offspring (likely THIS particular offspring), in their old age.  I alternately help support my parents and one of my siblings.  What can you do?  It’s family.

The unfortunate tradeoff for the financial security is that my son is in daycare five days a week since Kris started full-time employment.  Interviewing daycare centers is an agonizing process.  You feel like you are choosing surrogate mommies, and then there’s curriculum.  CURRICULUM.  At TWO YEARS OLD.  My curriculum at two rarely proceeded beyond blocks and playdough and I turned out okay.  But preschool training is becoming an almost integral part of the American educational reality. 

When we first interviewed daycare centers, our first choice was the Church-based child development center at what is now our current Church.  It was no surprise that there was a waiting list that stretched into years.  We signed Harry onto the waiting list and immediately put it aside and proceeded on with reality.  After touring one completely unacceptable facility (I swear they had children hanging out of closets and off of ceiling fans, and every single child was POURING snot), we settled on our current daycare.  It was a respected national chain, the standards were good, but the facilities were a bit worn, and the staff was in transition (which accounted for the lack of a waiting list).  Harry was one of the first kids to start under the new management.  But it had the advantage of being two blocks from my work - maximum oversight on my part, and, well, it was available.

It has turned out to be a pretty good choice.  The teachers have been quite nice, and they have allowed flexibility to my occasionally erratic schedule.  There have been increasing improvements to the facility and stability in the staff.  Harry’s adjustment was not seamless, but he is generally cheerful at dropoff and at pickup.  We have settled into a workable rhythm of life.

And then God said “Hah!”

The Church called.  They have an opening, have we made other arrangements or are we still interested?

Uh. Um. Oh, boy. 

I have to let them know by tomorrow.  They have a waiting list.  I understand. 

So, now I am in the conundrum I avoided in the beginning.  Harry’s current daycare is:

1. Familiar
2. Convenient
3. Flexible

But expensive, and still a bit worn and crowded.

The Church center is:

1. Cheaper
2. Newer
3. Has a better curriculum and a little bit of morality wouldn’t hurt him.

But it is also a few miles across town from our house - 20 miles from where I work.  Which means more actual time in daycare for Harry, putting him further away from me if there is an emergency.  It will require a shift in our schedules and I will have to actually become a (gasp!) morning person.  No more early morning Harry-sessions, but more time in the evening together.

They never said parenthood would be easy.  But I don’t think there was full disclosure on the hard parts.

This is a surprisingly hard part.

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Okay, GAMBLE readers, I know at least SOME of you bought the book (and subsequently sold it). 

 Who wants to start?

 Or shall I?

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Been a long day.

Need a trip to the happy place.

Touch-me-nots. 

Just one of those late summer pleasures of a New England childhood.

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… and not for business this time! 

My husband and I have been together for nine years next month.  And not once in those nine years have we taken a vacation that did not involve dressing up in armor or a medieval dress.  We got married during our first Crown reign and our honeymoon was the Crown Tournament to select our successors.  For the uninitiated, the SCA chooses its Crowns every six months by combat, and being Crown usually results in a subsequent six months filled with a lot of travel and a lot of paperwork, but empty of pocketbook.  We have done this three times, and have spent most of our wedded days either being on an SCA throne or recovering from one.

We have been holding our breath and crossing our fingers, but now it looks like my husband’s new job is going to give him the time off for our long planned REAL VACATION!  To a REAL VACATION SPOT!  I actually have paid plane tickets, and reserved lodging (courtesy of my friends, Valerie and Jon, who have a time-share).  This coming September, we are going to another kind of Magic Kingdom - the one in DISNEYWORLD!

I have been to 49 of the 50 US states (I will make it to Alaska some day), Canada (frequently, grew up on the border), and Mexico.  I went to school in Spain and backpacked across Europe.  I stayed for a few weeks in a holiday flat two blocks from the Thames in London.  But I have never, ever been to Disneyworld.  So, as cheesy and humdrum as Orlando may seem as a vacation destination, I am really, really excited.  Plus I get to take my son, who will be just old enough to enjoy himself, and just young enough that I still don’t have to pay admission.

I am already teaching Harry to say “Mickey Mouse”.

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Goodbye my dear laptop.  You survived Katrina.  You survived my son ripping off all of your keys and two resultant keyboard changes.  You survived many field inspections and trips through checked-luggage.

But you simply could not survive being turned off and back on again within a 30 minute timespan. Just at the moment when I desperately needed to print a very long ceremony at 2 am the Friday night before Crown list, one of the four most important SCA events of the year.

I don’t know whether to weep over your dead carcass or smash you against a wall.  There may be a little of both.

(PS - congratulations to Robert, the subject of said ceremony, who was given the Bird this weekend - my first minion to be thrown out of the nest.  Welcome to the Flock.)

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Or maybe growing up in a heavily Mediterranean-influenced part of the country.  But I kind of lean toward the Spanish views on childrearing.

Let me make one thing very clear.  I am in no way blaming Madeleine McCann’s parents for the abduction of their child.  My heart goes out to them and I pray that she is returned to them safely.  I cannot even contemplate that nightmare.

But, I did have a teensy WTF moment.  Despite the fact the my mother left us alone in the car all the time while she went into the grocery store (hey, it was Rochester, no chance of heat stroke there), I could never, ever, under ANY circumstances, leave my two-year-old son alone in a hotel room.  Ever.  Even with a four-year-old present.  In fact, especially with a four-year-old present.  I can’t even imagine a situation where it would sound like a good idea. 

As a general rule - if it is a place I wouldn’t take my son, it isn’t somewhere I generally want to be anyway. 

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Over a thousand dollars in digital camera and lenses sitting right on my dresser.

Paid hosting at a dedicated photo site with hundreds of uploaded photos and professional finishing capabilities.

And I am still a sucker for school pictures.

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I got this for Mother’s Day:

I have this irrational urge to hide it from my dying iPOD.  I feel like the cad that replaced his first love with a younger sexier model.

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