I am sure it's not because I am her Aunt. No, this has got to be one of the cutest videos ever. The drama at the beginning, the mischief at the end...we laughed, we cried...well, we didn't cry. But we did laugh.
Chloe Crawling
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Interlude for the Boys
A bedtime prayer:
Dear Lord,
Thank you for, um, hotdogs...
And thank you for macaroni on top of the hotdogs...
And thank you for hotdogs.
Amen.
------------------------------
"Aw, don't discourage him, honey." My husband gently admonishes me for my loud and over-the-top girly disgust at the sight of a worm in freshly turned dirt. Still one of the many holdovers that I simply have not let go of yet- My name is Tracy and I'm creeped out by creepy-crawlies.
But I know that I shouldn't outwardly oppose such things of nature, lest my son become a ninny. And, growing up around other farm kids, a startled shriek and side-step away from the offending three-inch long earthworm would surely raise a few eyebrows. So, I let go of the theatrics for a moment.
"Oh, Ryan, that IS cool! Look at how he's squiggling around! What does a worm eat?"
"Um, grass."
"Hmm, I think he likes dirt."
"Um. No, I 'hink he likes GRASS."
Seeing that I am clearly outwitted, I let him have this one.
"Pretty neat, huh."
"Dad, can I touch him?"
His father lights up immediately. "Sure you can. Just pick him up...yup, like that. Ok, now put him back, he doesn't do well outside of the ground for very long."
*insert wild shriek of delight via three-year-old
"Ok, now put him back..."
"LOOKIT MOM! YOU SEE HOW HE'S A-WIGGILIN'?" Clearly ignoring his father's coaxing.
And thus began his delight with all things gross. At the tender age of three. And all I can think is, worms will be cool for awhile...then we'll move on...to watering plants or gathering eggs or something. Something that doesn't involve things I find slightly objectionable wriggling within inches of my nose.
Two days later:
"Mom. Look. Look, mom. Do you see it? A little baby frog!"
Intent on my weeding project, this comment barely registers with me. One of a thousand sentences throughout the day. I do a quick glance to his hand, seeing a worm dangling from two fingers.
"That's a worm, babe."
"No, look at it's EYES mom! It's a tiny frog!"
And then, then I see his other hand, wrapped tightly around a little toad. Only it's head is visible, eyes bulging from the sides, and I can hear his little toady voice pleading "he's suffocating me!"
I leap from my weeding job with a quick "stay there!" and run in to get Dad, who is decidedly not creeped out by amphibians.
"Um, can you come up here, please?"
He knows it's important because I am pulling him away from plumbing. And that doesn't happen on a whim these days.
"I just want you to know that this is your fault," I start before he's even up the stairs. "And the first time I pull a frog out of a pair of pants in the laundry..."
And the boys spent the next twenty minutes learning how to properly hold baby frogs without making their eyes bulge from their heads. And I sat, paralyzed with fear, thinking of squirming laundry piles, wishing I would have just kept up the grossed-out theatrics. Because now that insects and worms and frogs are COOL, I am sure to be seeing a lot more of them, close up and personal-like.
--------------------
And David! Nine-month old David has four upper teeth now, giving him a new total of six teeth. Also? He is crawling, which in the country and in the middle of an outdoor trenching job just means that he can make his way off the safe, clean blanket and into the black soil quickly enough to get a nice snack before mom catches him.
But truly, how neat it is to watch him roam around. He is pulling himself up now, so the morning squeals are accompanied by a delighted bouncing baby in the crib. He is quite pleased with himself.
--------------------
I love spring for the warmth. For the lack of frostbite. For running around in bare feet and hanging laundry on the line. The writers of that Christmas song had it all wrong. While winter can be nice, I can assure you that (cue mental tune) the Most Wonderful Tiiiiime of the Year is definitely spring. Spring with no heating bills. Spring with Asparagus. Spring with babies everywhere. Spring...oh delightful, non-horrible spring! We have waited for you for so, so long. 
And even through all of this daunting/tiring/exhausting/trying plumbing work, I can't help but wake up to sunshine-filled mornings, breathe in the sweet, warm air and be so, so thankful that I have these two kids. And the husband. He's pretty neat, too. Even if he does touch worms.
And even through all of this daunting/tiring/exhausting/trying plumbing work, I can't help but wake up to sunshine-filled mornings, breathe in the sweet, warm air and be so, so thankful that I have these two kids. And the husband. He's pretty neat, too. Even if he does touch worms.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Big Hank and Grit
I'm here.
But I'm weary.
And oh, the hill we have to climb this week!
-------------------------
Staying at our house was once likened to a camping trip. With a torn apart kitchen, an entirely un-usable second story, and water that was less than inviting, it was an understandable diagnosis.
Not exactly the relaxing getaway we had dreamed of for people.
-------------------------
For two and a half years we have been fighting our Water. So far, it has been "Grossmann's: 3, Water: 4". The gameplay has been fiesty, the Water throwing it's first pitch- a foul smell and taste. We fought back with a filter- point: Grossmann. Then! In a twist of events, Water burst pipes throughout the basement, requiring a complete re-plumbing of the first story. Point.
And so the battle began. Water is a dirty fighter, yes siree bob, it is. This last point was scored in the dead of winter, four months in, one and a half to go and BLAMMO! Water stopped dead in it's tracks. Burst and solid under three feet of frozen ground. Team Grossmann took a swing at the pitch, bringing in a Neighbor with a large backhoe.
Slick move, Team Grossmann.
Alas, Water's close friend Ice stood strong, making a mockery of the mammoth machine.
Grossmann waved the white flag, crying mercy for the remainder of winter. Using a hose above ground, they linked together the well and the house, allowing usable, unfiltered water for showers, dishes and laundry, allthewhile plotting their next move against Water.
And this weekend! This weekend Team Grossmann made their move. The family loaded in the New Old Red Truck, packed with sandwiches, cold lemonade and an ample supply of red vines, and pulled out of their driveway toward the nearest Big City.
Yes, they were headed out to rent a Ditch Witch. A trench machine capable of digging four feet into the black Iowan soil. "This," TG was overheard bragging pre-game, "will be our finest hour. Water will have a hard time winning after this move!"
Willfully ignoring the Universal Rules of Remodel (URR), (being 1. All projects must take at least twice as long as planned, and 2. Must cost at least three times as much.) the giddy family planned on trenching a line not only to the house, but also to their barn- working to avoid mid-winter chores carrying five-gallon buckets of water over frozen and snow-covered tundra.
But Water had big plans. Noting the strategy of the family, it devised a plan of resistance. No, Water was not going to go down without a fight.
More to come...
--------------------------
P:Ahh, now THAT looks useful! taking a long-handled tool from Mike
Neighbor Mike: This might have been used by Big Hank. he says, putting emphasis on the name, nearly begging for the question so he could tell the story.
T: Who's Big Hank?
M: Oh, he lived in town. He used to do tiling work by hand. Legend has it he would head out to a field, his 16 inch trenching shovel and a five gallon bucket of water. It would last him half the day.
T: Tiling by HAND? Don't they use huge machines for that now?
M: Yup. He would do three spade-depths. Two side-by side, then two right below that, then one last one beneath those. Half a mile into a field either direction.
T: What was the bucket for?
M: He would dig, lay a few tiles, take a few drops of water and put it on the tiles to make sure it would run the direction he wanted it to. Then, onto the next. He did it all his life.
-----------------------
Every time a trial like this hits us, and we are told of stories of those who have come before us, it reminds me of truly how easy we do have it now. Our nation was built on such grit, such hard work and honest ethic it's astounding. Our house is nothing to brag about, nothing to squeal over, surely not. But it is also no sod hut, no mud house, and we aren't farming 80 acres with a mule team. Or, trenching our entire water line by hand. Perspective can be some of the best medicine.
But I'm weary.
And oh, the hill we have to climb this week!
-------------------------
Staying at our house was once likened to a camping trip. With a torn apart kitchen, an entirely un-usable second story, and water that was less than inviting, it was an understandable diagnosis.
Not exactly the relaxing getaway we had dreamed of for people.
-------------------------
For two and a half years we have been fighting our Water. So far, it has been "Grossmann's: 3, Water: 4". The gameplay has been fiesty, the Water throwing it's first pitch- a foul smell and taste. We fought back with a filter- point: Grossmann. Then! In a twist of events, Water burst pipes throughout the basement, requiring a complete re-plumbing of the first story. Point.
And so the battle began. Water is a dirty fighter, yes siree bob, it is. This last point was scored in the dead of winter, four months in, one and a half to go and BLAMMO! Water stopped dead in it's tracks. Burst and solid under three feet of frozen ground. Team Grossmann took a swing at the pitch, bringing in a Neighbor with a large backhoe.
Slick move, Team Grossmann.
Alas, Water's close friend Ice stood strong, making a mockery of the mammoth machine.
Grossmann waved the white flag, crying mercy for the remainder of winter. Using a hose above ground, they linked together the well and the house, allowing usable, unfiltered water for showers, dishes and laundry, allthewhile plotting their next move against Water.
And this weekend! This weekend Team Grossmann made their move. The family loaded in the New Old Red Truck, packed with sandwiches, cold lemonade and an ample supply of red vines, and pulled out of their driveway toward the nearest Big City.
Yes, they were headed out to rent a Ditch Witch. A trench machine capable of digging four feet into the black Iowan soil. "This," TG was overheard bragging pre-game, "will be our finest hour. Water will have a hard time winning after this move!"
Willfully ignoring the Universal Rules of Remodel (URR), (being 1. All projects must take at least twice as long as planned, and 2. Must cost at least three times as much.) the giddy family planned on trenching a line not only to the house, but also to their barn- working to avoid mid-winter chores carrying five-gallon buckets of water over frozen and snow-covered tundra.
But Water had big plans. Noting the strategy of the family, it devised a plan of resistance. No, Water was not going to go down without a fight.
More to come...
--------------------------
P:Ahh, now THAT looks useful! taking a long-handled tool from Mike
Neighbor Mike: This might have been used by Big Hank. he says, putting emphasis on the name, nearly begging for the question so he could tell the story.
T: Who's Big Hank?
M: Oh, he lived in town. He used to do tiling work by hand. Legend has it he would head out to a field, his 16 inch trenching shovel and a five gallon bucket of water. It would last him half the day.
T: Tiling by HAND? Don't they use huge machines for that now?
M: Yup. He would do three spade-depths. Two side-by side, then two right below that, then one last one beneath those. Half a mile into a field either direction.
T: What was the bucket for?
M: He would dig, lay a few tiles, take a few drops of water and put it on the tiles to make sure it would run the direction he wanted it to. Then, onto the next. He did it all his life.
-----------------------
Every time a trial like this hits us, and we are told of stories of those who have come before us, it reminds me of truly how easy we do have it now. Our nation was built on such grit, such hard work and honest ethic it's astounding. Our house is nothing to brag about, nothing to squeal over, surely not. But it is also no sod hut, no mud house, and we aren't farming 80 acres with a mule team. Or, trenching our entire water line by hand. Perspective can be some of the best medicine.
PB&J
Do you remember doing the listening activity in school where you are supposed to explain to someone how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? And often, the activity started with a loaf of bread in a plastic sack, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jam?
The poor "direction giver" would start with "Open the bag of bread."
Appropriately prepared for this task, the "listener" would grab the bag in two hands and rip it down the middle.
Because the direction was "open" not "grasp the twist-tie with one hand, the bag with the other, maneuver the tie off the sack so you can open the bag."
And the exercise would continue, with peals of laughter from onlookers, conjured looks of confusion from the participant, and increasing frustration from the direction giver.
This, friends, this is what it is like to live with a three year old.
The poor "direction giver" would start with "Open the bag of bread."
Appropriately prepared for this task, the "listener" would grab the bag in two hands and rip it down the middle.
Because the direction was "open" not "grasp the twist-tie with one hand, the bag with the other, maneuver the tie off the sack so you can open the bag."
And the exercise would continue, with peals of laughter from onlookers, conjured looks of confusion from the participant, and increasing frustration from the direction giver.
This, friends, this is what it is like to live with a three year old.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
In the Market?
Real estate should be sold differently out here. Rather, I think it is sold differently out here, but that should have been stipulated on internet listings that can be viewed across the nation.
A house is just that. Four sides (or more, if you're a fancy house) a roof, water system (if you're lucky, apparently), floors, a kitchen. I'm sure you can see one in your head. A house is given its merit by the type of flooring, how many square feet lie between the walls, what type of curb appeal it has, its proximity to major highways, industry, grocery stores.
Before moving to this house, our understanding of "neighborhood" was someing completely different. Our neighbors were right next door. And my, did we have some wonderful neighbors. Sweet people who were encouraging and nice.
But the web of support that a neighborhood in Iowa provides is, well, quite remarkable. It should be listed as an asset on the sheet (or a liability, depending on your particular neighbors!). Beds:3, Bath:1.75, Sq.Feet: 2015, Neighbors:Excellent.
Sure, a safe neighborhood is nice. You don't want to worry about getting mugged on your way to the grocery store. But if that is not your immediate concern, then the type of people you will be surrounded with for the next number of years should be highly considered.
Because until we moved here, I had no idea the depth of support that a neighbor could provide.
This winter, one neighbor, on his birthday, brought over his grain wagon filled with 100 bushels of corn and parked it in our machine shed because we had run out of corn the day before. This same neighbor (without prompting) plowed our driveway after two notorious storms this winter.
Another neighbor hurried over when we had a feed truck stuck in our side-yard. Just, you know, dropped everything he was doing and spent a few hours helping me with a mid-day dilemma.
And who could forget Neighbor Mike, who did this, and this. And many more things that I have yet to list on this small internet space. Yesterday he drove his tractor over and ran a disc and a harrow over our "old" garden. Our HUGE garden that will now be made back into hay ground. I will explain that a bit more in later posts, but the important thing is that he spent the better part of an afternoon driving back and forth over this third of an acre, smoothing it out. Then, he and Phil spread pasture mix seed on the ground. When he was done, I brought him a few cookies and asked him what we could pay him for all of this work.
In his gruff manner he paused, tilted his head and said "Lady, you can't afford me." With that, he got back up on his tractor, waved goodbye to Ryan, gave Phil and I a nod, and headed back to his place, 4 miles West.
A friend recently asked me if we would consider moving to a different house in Iowa (like, one with fewer problems). When I thought about this later on, I realized how important this whole sense of community is to our survival out here. Our house is not just "4 bed, 1 bath, 1 torn up bath, one partially effective kitchen." It's also Within Tractor-Driving Distance of Farmer Mike. I've tried, but can't quite find a local house that stands up to that kind of competition.
Life With Three
Me: "Com'ere Ryan, let me do your hair."
Ryan: "I hink I already had a haircut at Gramma's house, hun."
(Reader's notes: we don't quite have the "th" sound down yet, so Think becomes Hink, Thank you is Hank you", also, we pick up on quite a few things, so I am often called "hun" or "honey" by my son. I'm glad we don't use more inappropriate nicknames for each other in this house...)
Me: "I'm just going to put water on it so it looks nice. Come on now."
Ryan, sidestepping quickly toward the stairs and responding in a singsong, yet firm voice: "NoooOOOooo, I don't need to be haaaandsome."
By the time I can dry my hands hastily on a towel and head down after him he is reaching the last step of the stairs.
He looks back at me with a smirk and says quietly "No hanks, hun, I don't hink I need to be handsome anymore."
Ryan: "I hink I already had a haircut at Gramma's house, hun."
(Reader's notes: we don't quite have the "th" sound down yet, so Think becomes Hink, Thank you is Hank you", also, we pick up on quite a few things, so I am often called "hun" or "honey" by my son. I'm glad we don't use more inappropriate nicknames for each other in this house...)
Me: "I'm just going to put water on it so it looks nice. Come on now."
Ryan, sidestepping quickly toward the stairs and responding in a singsong, yet firm voice: "NoooOOOooo, I don't need to be haaaandsome."
By the time I can dry my hands hastily on a towel and head down after him he is reaching the last step of the stairs.
He looks back at me with a smirk and says quietly "No hanks, hun, I don't hink I need to be handsome anymore."
Overprotective or a bit of Sibling Rivalry
Sitting and playing a game of patty-cake, coming to the end of the song:
Me (moving David's hands in a swirl to make something resembling air-letters): "And mark it with an R and a D"
Me: "And put it in the oven for David and Ryan!"
Ryan: "No. Not for David. He could choke on it!"
Me (moving David's hands in a swirl to make something resembling air-letters): "And mark it with an R and a D"
Me: "And put it in the oven for David and Ryan!"
Ryan: "No. Not for David. He could choke on it!"
Friday, May 02, 2008
I'm probably made of a bit more water than the rest of you
We walked along the shoreline, naked three-year-old feet and my own, sinking into cool sand, light waves rushing over our toes now and then. To look out at the vastness of the sea allowed me a serenity I had not felt for two weeks. Truly, a comfort that I had not felt for three years. There is something about the moist sea air, the endless waves and the distant horizon where they meet that draws me in, calms my soul. Nothing is perfect at the seashore. It never is. Broken shells, seaweed on logs- all so imperfectly natural and yet calming because it doesn't try to be anything else.
That water- that crisp, endless water calls to me like few other things do. When I was in college, I nannied for a family who lived right on the waterfront. My favorite time of day was the evening, when the girls were near sleeping and they would curl up on my lap and we would rock, rock, rock. I would look out over the ocean and the cares of this temporary world would pass away- and soon the baby would be heavy and warm, fast asleep. I would continue rocking, enveloped in the silence, watching that perfect child sleep so soundly. The feeling of that place, that time in my life is so real to me I can still feel it, because it was my refuge through the chaos that was my last year of college. I would leave refreshed, only to plunge myself squarely back into the hectic pace that was college, jobs, apartment, dishes, homework.
The week I spent in Washington was wonderful. I saw friends and family and new babies. I accidentally bumped into an old friend and had an amazing talk with my sister. It was a week filled with visits and the luxury of endless hot showers. I ate Thai food. Never do these times seem long enough. I look back and with such warm longing - remembering the laughs, the baby giggles, and the talks long into the night. I am amazingly blessed to have the people I do surrounding me.
But amidst it all, I had no idea the noise was effecting me so. Not until I walked along that shoreline did I realize what was missing- the quiet, the peaceful silence that allows my mind to recharge.
It has taken me days to quiet my brain down from the constancy of the city- like a young child giddy with excitement plays a party game by spinning head-down on a bat. Round and round they go, excited but a bit disoriented until they reach the magic number, let go, and stagger about, searching for solid footing. I came home to a quiet house, filled it up with lists and busy-ness, still reeling from my jaunt into modern society.
And finally, today, I found my solid footing. The skies opened up and poured water on that black, black ground, soaking the thirsty roots of new spring plants. The clouds made the earth that pale-grey hue every Northwesterner knows. If I close my eyes, the wind is that same wind that travels over miles and miles of ocean waves to brush up next to me. The world outside my front door now consists of endless rows of corn and beans that stop only at the horizon. Tractors drive slowly back and forth over the fields and birds fill the air with their songs.
Though quite imperfect, it is serene and un-complex. Though lacking the sea-salty air, it is my ocean in the middle of nowhere. Simple. Quiet. To some it may seem lonely, forbidding with it's lack of noise and entertainment. But it grounds me, allows me to think, to breathe. Finally, God reminds me that home truly is where you make it and what you make it. He has given me an ocean in the middle of a continent.
That water- that crisp, endless water calls to me like few other things do. When I was in college, I nannied for a family who lived right on the waterfront. My favorite time of day was the evening, when the girls were near sleeping and they would curl up on my lap and we would rock, rock, rock. I would look out over the ocean and the cares of this temporary world would pass away- and soon the baby would be heavy and warm, fast asleep. I would continue rocking, enveloped in the silence, watching that perfect child sleep so soundly. The feeling of that place, that time in my life is so real to me I can still feel it, because it was my refuge through the chaos that was my last year of college. I would leave refreshed, only to plunge myself squarely back into the hectic pace that was college, jobs, apartment, dishes, homework.
The week I spent in Washington was wonderful. I saw friends and family and new babies. I accidentally bumped into an old friend and had an amazing talk with my sister. It was a week filled with visits and the luxury of endless hot showers. I ate Thai food. Never do these times seem long enough. I look back and with such warm longing - remembering the laughs, the baby giggles, and the talks long into the night. I am amazingly blessed to have the people I do surrounding me.
But amidst it all, I had no idea the noise was effecting me so. Not until I walked along that shoreline did I realize what was missing- the quiet, the peaceful silence that allows my mind to recharge.
It has taken me days to quiet my brain down from the constancy of the city- like a young child giddy with excitement plays a party game by spinning head-down on a bat. Round and round they go, excited but a bit disoriented until they reach the magic number, let go, and stagger about, searching for solid footing. I came home to a quiet house, filled it up with lists and busy-ness, still reeling from my jaunt into modern society.
And finally, today, I found my solid footing. The skies opened up and poured water on that black, black ground, soaking the thirsty roots of new spring plants. The clouds made the earth that pale-grey hue every Northwesterner knows. If I close my eyes, the wind is that same wind that travels over miles and miles of ocean waves to brush up next to me. The world outside my front door now consists of endless rows of corn and beans that stop only at the horizon. Tractors drive slowly back and forth over the fields and birds fill the air with their songs.
Though quite imperfect, it is serene and un-complex. Though lacking the sea-salty air, it is my ocean in the middle of nowhere. Simple. Quiet. To some it may seem lonely, forbidding with it's lack of noise and entertainment. But it grounds me, allows me to think, to breathe. Finally, God reminds me that home truly is where you make it and what you make it. He has given me an ocean in the middle of a continent.
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