Learning to Read

I remember when reading first clicked for me. Perhaps a lot of teaching came before and I actually LEARNED to read, but it felt to me like a switch just flipped one day. That day was a Sunday and Dad and I were sitting on the couch reading the Sunday comics. Well, HE was reading, I usually just looked at the pictures. But this day, I looked at the page and the letters made sense! I read the comics to Dad for the first time. I was so proud that I began driving my sisters crazy as I read everything out loud (not always pronouncing words correctly). I remember surprising my sister Sarah when I read "Objects in mirror are closer than they appear". She shouted "Mom! Laura read those words backwards" and mom nearly drove off the road "Sarah, don't shout in the car!"

Luke is learning to read as I read out loud to him. With Derek as a father you could have guessed he would have very intellectual taste. I love to read Dr. Seuss to him, but he won't have it! He thinks all that chatter is nonsense, "From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere." Yesterday he accused me of making up "one fish two fish" saying that nobody would bother writing such silly rhyme in a book! No, he much prefers the thick, much more scholarly language of Jacques Ellul, "It is not technique per se, that I despise, but the authoritarian power that the 'technicists' seek to exercise, as well as the fact that technique determines our lives without our being able to intervene or, as yet, to control it."

Today he dressed like a scholar in his penny loafers and striped polo shirt. He told me he figured Ellul didn't wear onesies so why should he? He wanted pants and shoes! I wiped the drool off his face, changed his diaper and acquiesced.

Leftovers Left Behind

BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND:

A tragic event occurred this evening right after dinner. As I stood up to leave, my mother-in-law reminded me not to forget my leftover Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo (my mouth is watering as I write it). I laughed and reminded her of the last time we were at Olive Garden and she forgot her leftovers. We laughed through tears because I am poor, I value my leftovers; we both understood that leftovers are no joking matter. I put on my jacket and chatted with a few people before waving to my husband that we really should go. He slowly made his way to my side of the room, and we walked out together.
But Derek needed to use the washroom. So, I waited outside the restaurant and when he came out we walked to the car and planned out the rest of the evening with the in-laws. We would meet at the pool at their hotel and play cards.
So off we went--home to pick up cards and Derek's swim trunks. Just as we got onto the highway I realized that I had committed the eighth deadly sin: I forgot my leftover Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo. Quick! I said, We must turn around and retrieve my Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo before they clear the table! How could I have forgotten my Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo?! Turn around turn around!
Derek looked at me with horror and dismay and nearly shouted, You forgot your leftovers?! Yes! I said. Steak! I moaned. My leftover Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo! Tears started welling up in the empty spaces in my eyes, where tasty memories of my Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo flashed across my mind. Sadly Derek reported that "We took so long getting out of there that I'm sure they've already thrown it away". I stared straight ahead and gripped the seat until my knuckles turned white as I realized with shock that that is probably what waiters and waitresses do when they find left behind leftovers. I could hardly breathe as I imagined my beautiful Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo getting chucked, heartlessly, into the garbage can with all the other scraps of uneaten food. How could I have done such a thing? It was utterly unredeemable. A little piece of me died as I salivated over the taste like no other and then imagined the Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo among the rubbish .
I sighed as I realized that turning around and racing through the restaurant, sniffing out my Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo, would probably yield little more than the added blow to my already suffering heart when I found it among the litter of such a bustling restaurant. At this point, I actually considered what it might be like--eating my Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo out of the trash. I would lean over and reach my fork past the limp salad and soggy sugar wrappers, and perhaps I would snag some of my Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo that hadn’t touched the raw chicken remains there on the left. If I could get just one more bite perhaps I would feel redeemed. The smell of garbage doesn’t even phase me. I bend farther over and soon my head is entirely inside the garbage can; I’ve almost got it! I’m…I’m, slipping on garbage that missed the pail and going in head-first to be re-united with my Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo!…
I realized at this point that my desperation was leading me to unrealistic fantasies and I may have shed an actual tear. But what I certainly did do was earnestly confess my sin and pray forgiveness for this cruel, maniacal desertion of the wonderful Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo.

Baby Girlfriend

Jennifer and Dan had their baby this weekend and yesterday we got to see her! Her name is Mara, and she is soo tiny. But I'm sure part of that perception is due to the fact that Luke is nearly 3 times her size. She and Luke got along quite well considering neither of their pairs of eyes can quite focus on one another yet. See how red her hair is? We love her. She wasn't expected for another two weeks and her grandparents just happened to be out for a short visit and got to see her the day she was born!

We also had a sad visit yesterday. We said good-bye to Carl, Kathy, Joel, Kezia and Asha. It was wonderful to sit and talk and drink tea for a few hours, but I felt like the most miserable marmot in the world when I had to say, "It's time to go". It was the last thing I wanted to do, but we had dinner plans in Niverville, and they had dinner plans with Kathy's family. Their kids have grown so much this summer, I will be sad to miss their growth over the next three years. Kathy has been a wonderful friend throughout my pregnancy, many tuesdays, and our husband's theses. And although her leaving does not mean the end of our friendship, she has to leave all the same. MCC in Bolivia awaits. If you are interested in watching their progress, click on Kathy's name on the top right.

Several people have requested more videos of Luke. But Luke does not do many things worth video-taping these days. He mostly stares at things that I see absolutely nothing interesting in, like the wall for example. If he's not staring at random objects he's screaming, smiling, or working on some very personal projects of his (ie filling his diaper). The screaming and personal projects are not really enjoyable to watch on video. But I've tried to capture some other daily emotions and activities that you might find amusing. Today it's a sneeze:

Good morning Baby

Pictures: Luke having a bath, Luke and Derek sitting in the living room with our new tables (notice the lamp is no longer on a rubbermaid and the cardboard box is gone!).

When I was younger I had a cockatiel in a cage in my bedroom. The cage hung from the ceiling in the corner and every night I would cover the cage with a sheet. Bisou, my cockatiel, was quite good at imitating speech. He knew several things that I had repeated over and over to him, and a few things that he just picked up on his own. He knew “Hi pretty bird, how are you?”, “Here kitty kitty kitty”(which could go on indefinitely kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty…), a wolf whistle and the charge whistle. He also knew the answering machine message, would garble some message being left and then go “Beep!”.

Whenever I entered a room, or saw Bisou for the first time in a while I would say, “hi pretty bird, how are you?” and he would squawk back a greeting. In the morning when I took the sheet of his cage we would also greet eachother. If I happened to sleep too long, though, Bisou would take the initiative, peek out from under the sheet between the bars and whisper at me, “hi pretty biiiird. Hi pretty biiird. Hi pretty bird how are you?”

The other morning as I watched Luke sleeping in his cage-I mean crib, I wondered what his first word would be. I wondered if he would say whatever I say the most to him. I realized I probably say “Good morning Baby” the most and began imagining Luke peeking through the slats of his crib, peering into my room whispering questioningly “Good mooorning. Good mooorning. Good morning baby”.

Luke's blanket

is trailing in the wind as the swing floats back and forth, back and forth. Luke's eyelids slowly droop, sleepily hypnotized by the smooth rocking motion. It would all be very serene and pleasant if the swing didn't randomly let out a schizophrenic "sqUEAK...SQueak...sQUEak". Every now and then Luke twitches in response to it, but doesn't open his eyes. I think I'm in the market for some WD40.

This morning we had a photo shoot, as you can see. We needed some good pictures to give to the church, and to the grandparents to frame. I'll send you yours, Mom. I put more of these pictures in the photo album, if you'd like to see more.

Last night was an amazing sleep. I blame it on the needles. They say it can make the baby sleepy. Luke fell asleep at 7:15pm. He woke up at 10pm ate, and got a diaper change. Then he woke up at midnight, ate, got a diaper change (now I was beginning to wonder if I'd made a huge mistake by letting him sleep at 7:15). The next time I woke up was 6am! He ate, got a diaper change, and went back to sleep until 9. That was sure a lot of sleep.

Tonight Derek and his brother are going into Winnipeg to pick up the furniture that we left at our house on Mulvey. I can't seem to get excited about spending anymore time in the car with Luke, so we may just stay home and let the guys do their thing alone.

A few days ago I roasted a chicken so that I would have leftover chicken to use on pizza, chicken pot pie, enchiladas. But last night I wasn't going to use the chicken. I was going to make Derek's favorite meal: warenika and farmer sausage. I wanted to have leftover sausage for Derek to take sandwiches to work today. Luke and I took a little nap and for some reason these naps just totally derail me. When I woke up I started making chicken pot pie. By the time I realized I was making the wrong meal it was too late to stop. I had the pie crust all rolled out already. Derek was disappointed, but pot pie is also a favorite so no big deal. As we sat at the dinner table digesting our pot pie I was brainstorming ways to make it better. I said to Derek, "Now that I know I can make this crust I can get creative. I could make apple pie, or pizza pie!" I looked at the pot pie and thought to myself, "This pie wasn't quite right. It needed salt or something. You know, it would be really good with meat in it." It would be really good with meat in it. I said it again to myself. It would be really good with meat in it.

I had forgotten to put the CHICKEN in the chicken pot pie. I blame it on the needles.

Here's the video I promised. It's titled: Baby has left the building!

Vaccination Day

Pictures: I had too many cute pictures today, so I started a picasa album titled "Luke". Take a look under "Laura's Photo Albums" on the right if you're interested, or click here:


Welcome to Vaccination Day. To prepare for takeoff, please insert your earplugs, gear up your sympathy tears, and peel off the tiny plastic cover on your miniscule circular band-aids.

Note: at today's appointment Luke weighed a staggering 14lb, 13oz (I'm the one staggering).

Yes, today was the dreaded vaccination day. Luke got his first two shots. And it's true, he was more brave than I was. He was asleep when the nurse jabbed the first needle in and it looked to me like she was trying to hit his femur with a needle that was bigger than my pinkie finger!

Luke voted that waking up from a cozy nap with a needle stuck deep in the flesh of his thigh is his least favorite way to wake up.

And that wasn't the end. We had to have matching band-aids, don't you know. Both thighs had to be poked. Although I think "poked" is not a violent enough word. I use that word when referring to a slight nudge from the soft end of my finger. Gouge, jab, stick, probe, stab, thrust, dig...these are all words that I would think appropriate when referring to the abnormal entrance of a sharp object into soft, innocent flesh. Derek says I better be careful not to pass my fear of needles onto our son. I don't need to pass MY fear onto him. He'll figure it out himself soon enough.

Luckily, his bravery wasn't required for long. It was over in less than three and a half minutes (yes I watched the clock). And ten minutes after that he was asleep again. Thank goodness. The nurse asked us to stay in the waiting room for twenty more minutes just to make sure he didn't have an allergic reaction. So what's with stabbing a baby and then waiting around to see if they break out in hives? Does this seem cruel to anyone else? I was so petrified, we stayed for thirty-five minutes just to be sure we were near a doctor if anything more horrible than what we had already experienced happened. In ten minutes I stuck my finger under his nose five times to make sure he was breathing.

Now I'm afraid to take off the band-aid. There's going to be blood on the other side of it, you know. And what if it's not stopped bleeding yet? What if the sticky part pulls his teeny baby leg hairs? His leg is probably sore from the needle.

Too bad I put him in his cutest outfit to psyche him up for the needle. (Do you think he's thanked me yet?) I just happened to buy the cherry flavored tylenol syrup; I tried to give him some and he spit it out. Now it looks like there's blood all down his shirt, and he keeps spitting out red bubbles like he's bleeding from the mouth. Not only do I have the trauma of watching my baby spit up red saliva, I have to put on yet another load of laundry.

I'm a basket case!

And Luke is napping...again. Don't worry Derek. He's taking it better than me.

Warenika: a second attempt

This post is a supplement to today's post titled: Pizza Crust

(Just to give you some history: there's "Warenika: a first attempt" which details my first time eating warenika. Do not be confused by the title, this was my first time making warenika by myself, second documented story of encounters with warenika)

As a devoted newlywed, I decided to attempt to make my husband’s favorite meal for his birthday. Unfortunately for me, it happens to be the most tricky meal to make in the history of civilization on earth. I think those Germans knew what they were doing, and schemingly planned a meal so delicious your mouth could water just seeing the name, and so confoundedly hard to make you will want to yank your own eyeballs out just to keep from crying in frustration. That should give you some idea of what’s coming.
Attempt. That’s the key word here. I attempted. I did not succeed. So if you enjoy a story where everything works out happily in the end and success and delicious warenika are on the menu for dinner…you’re looking for a different story. This is a tragedy. And not just any tragedy. A warenika tragedy. The worst kind.
It started out as a normal Summer day in Winnipeg. We were living in our own home on Mulvey Avenue! The heat was actually quite unbearable and we had no airconditioner. Actually, it wasn’t the heat, it was the humidity. And that’s humidity with a capital H. We both went to work in the cool of the morning. He, to continue construction on a house, and I, to mow lawns and lug heavy furniture around the university I was attending. Needless to say we both expected the worst out of a humid day in July. But it was Derek’s birthday and we both left the house in high spirits.
I had a particularly good reason for being in high spirits. I had a surprise for my adorable husband on his birthday! I was taking off from work early to come home and make his favorite meal before some of our friends showed up to share a birthday meal with us! I was so excited that I expended a great deal of energy doing the normal work around school, skipping out to the garage instead of walking, taking the lower end of the book case as we hauled it down the stairs. When I got off work at two in the afternoon I was as tired as I would have been had I worked the full nine-hour day. But I got on my bike and pedalled home in joyful anticipation of the party I was hostessing tonight.
When I got home I busied myself with putting up streamers and starting to mix the dough for warenika. The windows were open and the fan was on full blast, along with the music…and Ifailed to notice the vacant street in front of my house. Normally Mulvey is full of cars. People park several blocks away from Corydon and walk to work in the morning. But I rode my bike up to the back of the house and never even looked out front. This was my first dire mistake.
Green and blue streamers waved in the fan’s blast and I stirred the dough until I knew I’d have to take another shower before guests arrived. Dancing around with a wooden spoon between the counter and the refrigerator didn’t help. I continued to add flour, but that dough just wouldn’t clump together. So I left it to dry a little in front of the fan and I finished the cake and put it in the hot oven. I laughed as I thought, “I could just leave it on the counter and it might actually bake faster”. I returned to the dough and it was still too sticky. So I added more flour and left it in front of the fan again. As I worked on the cottage cheese filling I wondered what I might be doing wrong. My mother-in-law uses an electric mixer…was that the only way to get it right? Did I copy the recipe wrong? Did I forget something?
Soon everything was ready except for the silly dough. I was really starting to get miffed about the situation. I was certain I had the filling done correctly and it was resting in the fridge. The cake was in the oven, which was heating up the house; the frosting for the cake was made and sitting on the counter. The sausage was thawing in the sink. The canned corn was sitting in its can in the pot waiting until closer to dinner. What could I have done wrong? Aha! I had not mixed it by hand yet. That would be easier than stirring it with a wooden spoon anyway since it’s so thick.
So I shove my hands into the warm moist dough and knead it and knead it and knead it. I put more and more flour on the table top and knead and knead and knead. I’m drenched by now, and exhausted, and starving, and much more frustrated than before I stuck my hands into this goopy mess, not to mention the fact that I’m all out of flour.
I decide to call my mother-in-law. She’s made these hundreds of times! She’ll tell me what to do! But first I have to get this dough off my hands. I take the sausage out of the sink and push the faucet up. No water comes out. There’s nothing. Not even a tiny drip. Not even a spit of mist. Nothing. I go check the bathroom sink…and shower…and the hose outside. No water. And as I’m standing over the long hose in the front yard I notice that there are no cars on the street. There are barricades at the end of the street. With signs.
Covered in crusty dough and sweat I march to the end of the street and read the sign: “No parking Street Renewal Project Water will be shut off between the hours of 12 PM and 8PM 7/7”. Just then a truck pulls up with a cartoon picture of a water droplet the size of my torso, smiling with a great big blue smile out from the side of the truck. A man gets out and starts pulling hoses and tools out of the back of his truck. “What’s the deal?” I ask him. “Well, we’re repairing some broken pipes and have to shut off the water to this block”. “Had to” I say. “What?” “Had to, it’s already shut off. And I can’t wash my hands!” “Sorry”, he says, and he smiles like that big dopey water droplet on the side of his truck. Sorry…
I turn around and storm back to the house with my hands well away from my pants. I’m supposed to host a party tonight! I’m supposed to serve warenika…Derek’s favorite meal! As I return to my kitchen I notice the pan I used to make bacon the night before soaking on the counter by the sink. Desperately I stick my crunchy hands into the greasy, tepid water. I rub as much of the slime off as I can and dry my hands on a towel. I grab the phone with dough still under my fingernails and dial my mother-in-law.
Nobody answers. I dial again. Nobody answers. I dial my sister. Nobody answers. I dial my best friend. Nobody answers. I dial the couple coming over for dinner. Nobody answers. I dial my mom. By the time she picks up the phone after the fourth ring I’m sobbing. She can’t recognize the voice of the person who has called her crying and sobbing. I’m sure all she could understand was “Water—.” Mumble mumble Sob. “Dinner—.” Unintelligible cry. “Derek--.” Hiccup, hiccup, cry. It’s hot as Hades, my hands are crusty and smell like bacon, there’s no water, I took off work early, people are coming over in half an hour, all I wanted was to make a special dinner, I’m a bad cook, I’m a bad wife, I’m a bad homeowner, and my own mother doesn’t know my voice on the telephone!
At last she recognizes my voice and says “Laura! I’m so glad you called!” Just for that, I stop crying. Can she not understand my crisis?! Well, apparently not, with all my sniffling. I finally explain the situation to her and she laughs and says, “I saw your weather report online today. You’ll never get that dough to dry in such humid weather without an air conditioner.” My own mother laughed at me. Boy, do I feel like an idiot. She suggests going over to a friend’s house, taking a shower, and going out to an air conditioned restaurant for dinner.
I leave the broken egg shells on the counter. I leave the greasy frying pan of precious water. I leave my flour-y apron. I leave the wooden spoon on the stove. I leave the melty frosting in the bowl. I leave the hot cake in its pan. I leave the steamy upstairs apartment. I leave the fan blowing the blue streamers. I leave the cottage cheese filling. I leave the sticky dough smudged across the kitchen table.

And when I get home…it’s dried on.

The end