a communicator's revenge

I have banned the word 'sorry' from our house.

This is a new edict, as of this morning, when for the umpteenth time the Eldest hollered, "sorry!" and sped away at top speed from the scene of his crime. Looking at his blithely retreating figure, it occurred to me that "sorry" meant anything but.

There is no get-out-of-jail card here, you young scoundrel. This is language, and thou shalt use it in a thoughtful, aware fashion. Sadly for you, I am a vengeful Mama, and I will hatch a plan to educate you, willy nilly. Probably more nilly than willy, but I can deal with that.

To fully grasp the challenge I was taking on, I began compiling a short list of other such place-holders. Here's what I came up with:

• No, I won't play squshy-mushy. [a.k.a. dog-pile, translated as 'I know you don't approve, but other grown-ups don't mind, so I won't do it if you are watching.']
• Food is not ever yucky. [translated as 'This food suits my fancy. For now.']
• I am being gentle with our baby. [Translated as, 'I know you are watching and saw me transgress and are about to ask me what I'm doing...']
• I love you. [variously translated as 'I love you,' 'please don't be mad at me' and in some rare situations as a precursor to 'can I have that?']

Bereft of 'sorry,' the Eldest floundered. I invited him to use other words, a tactic we use when we don't understand his meaning in other circumstances. He looked horrified. I enjoyed his horror for a little while, then relented, and discussed with him the various puzzle pieces that made up a simple 'sorry.' He looked skeptical. Over lunch, I was relentless on the subject (heh). 'O baby,' I said, 'I'm regretful about sticking the spoon of bananas in your eyebrow. I myself would not enjoy an bananaed eyebrow, and I will try to be more careful during the rest of your meal.'

Needless to say, there is now banana puree in some rather creative spots on the infant, and as for the Eldest, well, time will tell. But he's just knocked his bowl of rhubarb-strawberry compote off the table, and here's his effort:

I won't say I'm sorry, but I won't do it again (and that's an apology), and I know I shouldn't have done it.

Not bad, kid. Not bad a'tall.

the reward of the overly energetic

Today was a long-awaited day, a day full of 'someday when I have time, I'll...' A chronic list-maker, my list of DIYs had reached alarming proportions - almost the length where any sane person would throw it out and start over. Most days are full of lists: imagined, instinctive, reflexive. We go through the day, doing the various things that need doing, many so often repeated that they sit, liquid, in some part of the fore-brain which instructs the hands and feet to do the dishes, the laundry, change the diaper - all without fully involving the active consciousness.

So, today. We started with my partner perforating the eldest under a nurse's watchful eye. I didn't dare inquire how it went: success is paired with a triumphant declaration, failure comes with small person sized howls and a grumpy adult. And then it began.

The eldest and I went off to the local and thus overpriced nursery. We bought an array of plants: ferns, bug-biter-something, coneflower, spider plants, fuscia and a delicious smelling honeysuckle. We then fortified ourselves with juice from Dunkin Donuts, and proudly bore our booty home. There, we dug up an enormous hosta from the (sunny) front yard, and split it into five pieces. These, we transplanted into the (shady) back yard. We then put most of the shade plants into the back yard, and filthy, had to stop so that the eldest could be cleaned up and sent off to a birthday party.

While he was gone, the baby and I stared at each other, marvelling in the quiet of our home. We played our newest game: toss the ball. This was oodles of fun, especially as the babes tends to gurgle and bounce with pleasure, but eventually he tired of the game and crawled off in search of something interesting. I also wandered off, scooped him up and went up to the study, where I filled a happy hour disentangling him from the computer wires and child-proofing them in these little plastic sleeves that snap shut. I've been meaning to put those in place for months! and the presence of the sleeves and their box has been a mocking reminder of my failure to get the job done. Take that, o box.

But then, glory! the eldest came home and we went straight out and finished the planting. We planted the last of the ferns, the fuscia, the coneflower and ah me, the honeysuckle. Then I experimentally spread some mulch, and was delighted to see how nice it looked.
Note to self: buy lots more dark mulch.

We sat and rested a moment, and cast our gaze upon the work we'd done. It was a wee bit like being in a Matt James show, in which the garden starts off straggling and sad, and ends up being lush and lovely. Except that we have mud where we ought to have grass. And the planted beds look lush where we have mulch and a bit straggly where we don't. Okay, so maybe like there's still fifteen minutes to go on the program... Anyway, we cast our eyes on our work and saw that it was good. kudos to those who identify the quote...

And here is where the overly-energetic thing kicks in. As my aching back bears witness, we then went on to the adjoining garden (there's no fence between them and yes, we had permission), and weeded their garden. The child and I yanked out swathes of weeds, discovering an ancient flower bed, some coneflowers that had long since naturalized, and some kind of groundcover (stonecrop?) and could it be?? aged lilies of the valley, all buried under weeds. At some point I looked up to find three full bags of yard waste, and the child resting comfortably in the neighbor's recliner. Clearly, we were done for the day.

And now, yes, we rest. But all hail the hidden hero of this piece: my partner, who managed the babes, napping and walking him while the child and I committed feats of cultivational folly.

Tomorrow: Ben Gay for my back and we spend the neighbor's money on some few hardy perennials. I'm thinking some thyme and maybe something else perennial and somewhat drought-resistant. The other guy is an absentee owner, and never puts in any upkeep, so his plants must be pretty tough to survive. Any suggestions?

reading matter

Today I swore off a much appreciated blog, Habeas Brulee. For those of you not trying to subsist on rice and corn, I recommend the blog as a haven for those who truly love food. Perhaps a bit too much, but who's measuring? Instead, allow me to tell you about what I have been reading:

With (sort of) the Partner:
at the recommendation of my therapist, Elizabeth Pantley's No-Cry Sleep Solution. My dear LB was shocked when she heard that the baby is sleeping in 30 minute to 3 hr chunks, and recommended immediate effort to aid the situation. And, she pointed out, to relieve some stress. Unable to argue, I agreed - but secretly wondered if the partner and I could stay awake long enough to actually have any effect. Still, it's an easy assessment: a tired Mama is a scary Mama...

With the Eldest:
Mr. Bear's New Baby, by Debi Gliori. It's a book made for the co-sleeping, pile into loving heaps kind of family that we are. It is also, alas, a library book - and I'm sternly resisting peeking at half.com to see if I can buy it. This week, my bibliomania must take back seat to my desire to have overhead lighting some day. It's been a great book for a four year old, wondering if parents truly know everything - and what happens when the parents are at a loss?

Does God Have A Big Toe? by Marc Gellman. I especially liked the first story, about being a partner with God to "finish the world." And the second story, about Adam naming the animals struck a familiar chord.

Just For Me:
I'm wading through Neal Stephenson's The Confusion. And yes, I am a bit. I've enjoyed a lot of Stephenson, but I'm starting to feel like he's become caught up in his own gift for detail. It's really unfortunate, as the detail is now clogging up the plot. So, slow going, but lacking anything else interesting (no, Pantley doesn't quite qualify), onwards I go. Although I'm tempted to take a short detour to the now out of print wet-your-pants Sleeping Through the Night...and other lies, by Sandi Kahn Shelton. She speaketh to me.

Been peeking at other blogs, like the currently silent Rabot Machshavot, who temporarily is not so? Orthomom, on the other hand, had something rather gripping to report, while the Soferet combined chemistry and Judaism. At the beach, no less! Meanwhile, the RenReb is battling an overinvolvement with Harry Potter (I'd totally forgotten that #7 is coming!) and a fetish for extremely odd shoes, which I trust she won't actually wear. Melinda is burgeoning with plans to direct her child's neural growth away from Smashmouth (I assume) and towards the Dixie Chicks (yay!)....and as always, Jennifer Mattern makes me wish that I had written that.

So with all of this to read, perhaps that's why the book is unread and the baby not so happily sleeping?