Conversations with Jewel: The Coffee Bean

This is our morning ritual. As I put my medium roast beans into the grinder and get my machine ready to brew my morning cup of sugary wakefulness, I hear, “Smell, smell!” Every morning, Jewel loves for me to walk over to her, canister outstretched, and let her take in eau de caffé. The smell is usually succeeded by, “Mmm,” or “That smells good,” or something similar. This morning, however, my rather strong-willed little urchin said, “Can I have one? I want to try it.”

I was now faced with two options. I could have told her no because I know it’s disgusting, and then I would have spent the next umpteen mornings being hounded for a coffee bean (Did I mention she was strong-willed?). Or... I could let her have one, warn her that it’s gross, and let her learn a little something about the world. I might even be a little bit entertained by her response. Hmm... which one, which one. Of course I chose the second option.

So, I hand over a bean with, “Now Jewel, sweetie, coffee beans don’t taste very good by themselves. I don’t know if you really want to eat it.” She returned with, “I just want to try it.” And so she did. And she loved it! No, not really. She sputtered and spewed and made horrible faces to my heart’s content. And, of course, she learned something. Two somethings, in fact. One, when Mom says something is gross, she’s right. And two, coffee beans don’t taste very good.

Now, I’m not totally heartless. I helped her get her milk and clean the coffee bean out of her mouth and off her hands (and off the couch... mental note... don’t let her eat yucky stuff on upholstery). We talked about the experience, and I made sure she wasn’t traumatized. All in all, it was a very entertaining and educational morning. I wonder what will happen tomorrow.

The First Annual Vanderburg Thanksgiving Extravaganza

Well, Thanksgiving is coming up next week, and this year, for the first time, we are hosting the meal. Wait, we’re hosting?! AAAARGGHHHH! <------ That was my panic about the impending invasion of my family and my realization that I have done pretty much nothing to prepare for it. I mean, sure, in theory I know what all needs to be done and when to do it. In theory.

Traditionally, Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. It was the only time all year that my dad’s entire side of the family would get together. We’re a bit stereotypical on Turkey Day in that the ladies spend the day cooking and the guys watch football, and our meal time is worked around whatever time the Cowboys game starts. We must all be stuffed to the gills before the game starts so that we can lounge around, semi-conscious, snoring, burping, and... well... you get the picture.

The past several years, since my nearest and dearest and I have lived up here, Thanksgiving has been here in Arlington, at my aunt’s house. However, she is getting too old to work so hard every year (she is a well-preserved seventy-one), and my cousin, who also lives in town, hates Thanksgiving. No, really, she hates it. She hates turkey, and she hates the smell and taste of sage. Care to take a guess what the main seasoning in the dressing is? So, she’s a no go. That leaves my dearest and I with the responsibility of maintaining my most beloved tradition. What were we thinking?!

Well, time to go do something Thanksgiving-related. Perhaps a grocery list. Of course, I’ll have to leave a couple things off so that we can send at least one male to the store, maybe even repeatedly, for the things we run out of or forget. Usually eggs. Pardon me while I add eggs to the grocery list.

Oh, and have a happy, Happy, HAPPY Thanksgiving!

P.S. AAAARGGHHHH!!!

The Gall of It, Part 2

So, after seven months of pain and pie-lessness, I finally had my gall bladder removed. It went pretty well, I can say. The only hiccup was my blood pressure. The lovely nurse had to stand me on my head for a little while as the anesthesia was wearing off because my blood pressure was too low. If I remember correctly, and I might not since I was in a drug-induced stupor, it was down to 76/38. I also remember being just freezing when I woke up. The nurse saw my eyes opening, and she asked how I was, and the only word I managed to eke out between my full body violent shivers and my very heavy, woolly feeling tongue was c-c-cooold. She wrapped me up, head and all, in blankets straight from the warmer, and I was a happy camper in my toasty flannel pseudo-womb. I don’t remember much after that until a couple hours later when they sent me home.

I found it interesting that I didn’t make it to the operating room awake. I should have known, when the anesthesiologist was one of the folks wheeling me away, that there would be little chance of remaining conscious for long. He said, “Are you ready?” and I guess he meant it more immediately than I realized. I was out before I hit the hallway.

It’s now been four days since the surgery, and I’m feeling good. I’m still sore, of course, but I now only require ibuprofen instead of pain medication, and apart from the fact that it looks like somebody played “Where’s the gall bladder?” with my incision points (there are four, but there are supposed to be four anyway), I’m none the worse for wear.

I will be glad when I’m no longer sore, though, because it hurts to laugh. With my dearest husband, and my little three year old comedian, it’s a real challenge to remain pain free. On the other hand, I actually got to butter my bread yesterday morning, and that was exciting. It may seem trivial to you that butter is exciting, but when you’re deprived of something so simple for so long, it becomes a monumental event to revel again in glorious butteriness (yes, that’s a word).

Futility Is In the Eye of the Beholder

I usually try and refrain from serious and/or depressing subjects when writing here, but in this case I felt that the importance of the subject warranted further examination. A couple days ago, a dear friend of ours attempted suicide by shooting herself in the head. We have yet to hear whether or not she has survived, and if she has, what sort of damage has resulted.

I know I just delivered this news in a rather detached and clinical way. Is this because I don’t care? Quite the opposite, in fact. The situation is so horrifying and heart-wrenching that I find myself quite unable to deal with it. This friend of ours is a total delight. Her energy and spirit always fill up any room she enters, and her empathy and sense of humor are remarkably uplifting. In short, she is adored. Not to trivialize her circumstances, but I feel as if I have undergone some sort of trauma myself, to have the memory of this lovely woman forcefully ripped from my mind and replaced with the intruding knowledge of what has befallen her.

In our country, suicide is the eleventh leading cause of death, ahead of liver disease and Parkinson’s. It outnumbers homicides two to one. Worldwide, a full one million people die at their own hands every year. I can’t decide what I think of these statistics. Is life so seemingly futile for so many people that they feel they must end it? As one who has suffered from depression in the past, I can understand some of what it feels like, though I was never in the pit of despair that others sometimes experience. So, what does it feel like? I describe it as being inside with sunglasses on. Everything you see is dim, and even the bright spots in your life are considerably dulled. If you have ever accidentally worn your sunglasses inside, you know that it can be challenging to see things clearly.

I thought about this friend just the other day, only a few short days before it happened. I thought, “I need to call her, see what she’s up to.” If I had followed through on that thought, what would I have heard on the other end of the phone? Would I have heard her pain, or would I have continued on, unaware, wrapped in my own self-serving pursuits as I am most days? It’s hard to say.

Is there a lesson in all this? I hope so. I hope that somewhere in this seeming black hole, there is some small ray of light trying to escape. I don’t yet know what it might be, but I still hold out hope that it’s there. God would not let such a tragedy occur without at least some small gain for His glory.

Please pray for her and her family.

Reading Between the Lines

I love listening to Jewel as she reads. No, she doesn’t really read. We’re still reviewing her letters and their sounds, just to make sure she knows them all before we start really reading. But Jewel really loves to read. When she’s not demanding that we read her books to her over and over, she will read them back to us. Often, when she can’t remember the words on the page, she’ll make up a story by looking at the pictures. And the funny thing is, they’re pretty close to the actual story.

Then there are the books she remembers. Who knew that she could recall whole paragraphs at a time about the doings of Mama Bear, Papa Bear, and Brother and Sister Bear. There’s just nothing else around that beats listening to her sweet little (loud) voice saying “The Berenstain Bears and Too Much Junk Food, by Stan and Jan Berenstain.” Priceless. I look forward to the day when she will actually read the words on the page, but until then, I’m pretty content with listening to her version. It’s usually more interesting anyway.

Don't Bother with Curiosity. I'll Do it Myself.

You know, I’ve met a lot of cats in my life. I’m an animal person, and while I’m really a dog person at heart, I love cats too. We have two cats, Cleo and Itty Bitty (not her real name, but it might as well be). Our cats are stupid. I’m not saying it just to be mean, either. I’ve met other people’s cats, and they seem perfectly smart. Sometimes I’m even impressed with what they figure out, and then I go home and there are my two dimwit feline furballs staring up at me.

What do your cats do, you ask? Well, for starters, Cleo licks. She licks us, sure, but she also licks everything else. Upholstery, windows, carpet, random children’s toys, fireplace bricks. Yes, I said bricks. In addition to her licking, she also howls. Constantly. She howls when she’s happy. She howls when she’s hungry. She howls when she’s scared. She howls when she wants to play. She howls whenever any mood of any sort strikes her. And she doesn’t have one of those cute little “mew” sounds. Nope. She has a full-blown, hear-it-around-the-world RROWWW which resounds through the house and lodges itself in my spinal cord. Lovely creature.

Now, Itty Bitty is a little smarter. She’s got the cute factor going for her since she’s so little and has a rather dainty meow. However, her main foolishness is that she lets Jewel catch her. She knows Jewel will chase her and pick her up, and that it will be highly unpleasant for her. Yet, almost every time, she will allow it. I used to wonder how many times she would allow herself to be hanged from her middle and toted around like a poor, hapless stuffed animal, but I stopped asking myself when no change seemed forthcoming.

I love our cats; I really do. They’re soft and sweet, and they’re nice and warm during the winter. They also seem genuinely pleased to spend time with us, which seems to be a hit-or-miss quality in cats. And, of course, they are endlessly entertaining. I just figured our two fancy felines could stand to gain a few brain cells. I think I’ll go listen to their conversation and give them a little attention. They probably deserve it, since they have to live with such a grumpy gus as me.

Fuddrucker Stew

Wow, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything here. Oh well! =)

Okay, most of you know now that I’m in the last month of pregnancy for kiddo number two, and I was thinking the other day about how much more annoying people are when you’re pregnant. Is most of it hormonal? Probably, but I still maintain that people find out you’re pregnant and lose their brains immediately. Oh, and if you have a newborn, you’ve also got a giant target painted on you.

For example, when Jewel came along and was about a month old, my dearest husband and I headed down with our brand new bundle of joy to visit our folks. We (my husband, myself, my child, and my parents) headed out to dinner as proud new parents and grandparents. We assumed we would have a normal, lovely family dinner. We all forgot about that giant NEW MOM target painted on my shirt. No sooner had we sat down with our food than a Fuddrucker’s employee came up to chat.

She cooed and oohed over Jewel adequately, and we swelled with pride. Then our food came. Did she leave? No. Instead, she began to tell us a story about how her child was crying inconsolably the first day home from the hospital and how she realized that all the baby wanted was some of the beef stew that had just been cooked. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, she fed her child beef stew at three days old.

So, between the stupid parenting stories, the unabashed belly touching (Hello, people, personal space!), and the repeated ridiculous comments like, “Wow, somebody pointed their finger at you, and now you’re pregnant,” (Really? What am I, five?) I could just do without this whole stage of pregnancy. Personally, I’m praying this kid comes just a little bit early. I know this whole irritation is probably my hormones having a field day, but hey... I’m entitled to my grumpiness at this uncomfortable stage.

Take this as a lesson. When you encounter an enormously pregnant woman, whatever foolishness pops into your head, please keep it there. Harsh? Maybe, but there’s another lesson here. Really pregnant women are grumpy.

Well, now that I’ve vented, I feel better. I think I’ll have some low fat ice cream. =)