those boys

(there's a chicken post below this one, also posted on 8/11/07)

The other day, during the preparation of kale, refried bean, and tomato tostadas, I remember that the boys were giggling and saying something about "wopes". We read some stories while they baked, and then we sat down to eat. All of a sudden, No*ah yelled "my wopes!" and Oli*ver yelled, "wopes!". N pulled some twist ties out of his tostada, put there (and thus baked) by one of my little stinkers when they were messing around in the kitchen drawer at prep time. Wopes.

The boys seem to love anything between two tortillas. I hate to mention this to my mother, who hates beets, but the boys love those too.

The boys really enjoy a smörgåsbord of options, and eat all kinds of things, including spicy food. Their daddy cooks them giant breakfasts of pancakes, hot cereal, and eggs dishes, and they wolf it down. They also have their picky days about some foods, like most toddler do.

What's a little fingerpaint between brothers?

Speaking of painting, I think the difference in how they paint is kind of interesting. Here are two takes on the same art project:




It's kind of the opposite of how they eat, as No*ah is quite neat, and Oliv*er, well, not. This is what our kitchen wall looks like right now. I'm about to take it all down and put it up in the garage, since we start new classes and such in September. I know a lot of moms complain about the constant craft projects and how to know what to do with them, but I have to say, I so enjoy this. We'll see how I feel by the time they're in third grade.



The boys tried a bouncy house for the first time last week, and thought they'd gone to heaven.






Oliv*er is still gaily purposing to take anything he can find apart, sometimes using his teeth, and we're doing our best to keep him occupied and safe. It was actually No*ah who broke our front window last week, so our efforts may need to be more equitably divided. I'll consider it a successful summer if we can keep both boys out of the emergency department for the length of it... Such good intentions, but so many bad ideas.






We had a borrowed bike and Burley trailer to use for a few days, which the boys greatly enjoyed.

What, don't you play the kazoo in your underwear?

update on the "ladies"

Well, with all that seriousness lately, I thought I'd give an update on our chickens.



We have eggs! Small eggs, but the real thing. The eggs will get bigger as the chickens get older.

Mea*gan* found one in the next box yesterday, and then today, we found three more, so I think maybe two or three of the girls are laying now.



Marcy has been quite agitated lately, but she's been cool as a cucumber the last couple of days, so she must be please with herself.


All the ladies are doing well and they've grown a lot.



They spend a couple of hours or so a day hanging out in our fenced backyard. So far, nobody has tried to escape. Why would they, when they have such a lovely coop?



They often hang out under the spirea bushes, taking dust baths. I've not seen a slug this year that wasn't in a chicken's mouth.




This garden bed is fallow this year, as it was used pretty heavily for four years straight, and the chickens are doing a nice job of fertilizing it. I also take their bedding and spread it there when I clean the coop, tilling it in a little. This bed should be in great shape come spring, and perhaps by then, the boys will have enough self-control not to eat everything they have access to. The care an feeding take less than an hour a week, and we've had enough compost to give them that they don't need a whole lot of feed. Taking care of chickens is quite simple and easy compared to a dog, or even a cat. The litter sure doesn't smell as bad.


Every morning, the boys go out to the co*op with Jo*el before breakfast, usually in their underwear and pajama tops. If Mea*gan hasn't let them out yet, they open the door to the coop, and the boys give any extras like leftover salad or cereal to the hens. The also throw them some scratch grain to keep them busy and happy. The boys love it, crooning sweetly to them, "Good morning, girls! Here's some scratch!" If we're out and about for a long time, No*ah says we have to go home, because the chickens are lonely.





We still plan on getting a couple more hens next summer or spring, but for now, we're very happy taking care of our four hens.

Stage two: anger

The Kübler-Ross model of grief says that there are five stages for those grieving— denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I think, as a city, we are well into stage two, and that includes me. Frankly, I’m choking on outrage at the moment: when I think about the fallen bridge and how this possibly could have happened, bile rises to my throat like acid. This is a rich country. We spend hundreds of billions on this seemingly endless war, but fail to ensure that all Americans have access to health care and a decent education. We send our young men and women—especially low-income men and women with few other options— to war and fail to treat them fairly and decently when they finally come home. Freedom isn’t the only thing that isn’t free (not that freedom is gained by bombs and guns to begin with). Education isn’t free. Health care isn’t free. Treating veterans decently isn’t free. Infrastructure isn’t free.

My expectations are not all that high. I don’t expect affordable health care here; I don’t expect our inner city schools to be funded adequately. I really, really wish those things were different, but I don’t expect them to be. I did expect, however, that when my fellow Twin Citians and I drove over a bridge, that bridge would hold up every single time. The people that died or were injured didn’t willingly gamble their lives when they attempted to cross the Mississippi. That disbelief that echoed around the world this week? I share it entirely.

Certain politicians are claiming that it isn’t helpful to point fingers, but you know what? They don’t get to say that, in my book. They don’t have the right to be in charge of our resources and not have fingers pointed in their direction when things go horribly wrong under their leadership. The people of this fine city and state (and country) will darn well point fingers, loudly and insistently, until we have some decent answers and until we have a plan in place that will ensure that this never, ever happens again. It’s going to cost money, and for once it’s the politicians who will claim to want to save us a buck who are going to leave a bad taste in our mouths. I imagine that those who hail from New Orleans probably have a pretty good idea how we feel. It seems that the people and institutions who may turn out to have had a hand in failing to prevent this tragedy would like for us to move neatly past the anger and right onto acceptance, and in the process to accept their tidy spin on how this happened. No-one I know here is ready to do that.

Most of the victims went to the hospital where I work, and some are still there. We all did what we could to help this week, and the atmosphere was one of quiet resolution, working together to help people heal and get their lives back. There were blessedly few deaths in the end – far fewer than initially expected. There were many heroes that day, including our own Meag*an, who along with her boyfriend, knowingly put her life at risk to help rescue severely injured people just after the collapse. What people who don’t live here may not entirely understand is that the whole city pretty much feels like it’s cheated death. Almost all of us crossed that bridge regularly – 140,000 a day is almost half the population of Minneapolis, and everywhere I go I hear stories of those who were just ahead of or just behind the tragedy. It could have been almost any of us, and yet it wasn’t. For many of is, it will be a long time before we can drive across the Mississippi River without remembering what was and what could have been.

On Saturday, I drove the boys to the Children’s Muse*m in St. Paul. For a weekend morning, traffic was heavy on 94, mostly due to the reroute. As we slowly crossed the river on yet another highway bridge, my boys singing Old MacDonald in the back like any other day, I couldn’t help but imagine the accident, the horrible end to an ordinary stop-and-go commute, a bridge suddenly giving way underneath us.

It was the word accident that most stuck in my mind, though, even more than the terrible images. Bridges don’t just fall down, at least they didn't used to. Whatever the exact cause, this was almost certainly preventable. If we don’t take proper care of our basic infrastructure, if we don’t dare spend the money to do it properly and thoroughly, this will probably happen again. This was a horrible accident, but it was also an opportunity to get some very basic things right. If we don’t, then the now predictable result cannot fairly be called accidental.

wide as a river

This afternoon, Jennif*r and Zoe accompanied the boys and I on a walk to a campy neighborhood festival by the lake near our house. It was a time as lovely and bucolic as it gets in the city, first-time bouncy house for bouncing boys, giggling and spinning over blue and yellow vinyl, having a picnic of watermelon, corn and sandwiches next to the playground, going on a pony ride, led by another boy of perhaps eleven, sweet and kind. My cell phone rang, first during the pony ride, ignored while watching N’s impossibly giant smile, his whole body tense with the happiness of his body moving in rhythm with the pony, clip-clopping over the almost dead grass. It rang again as we were leaving; I made a move to answer it, or at least see who was calling, but I needed to hold my niece as we got our three children, two bags and two strollers going in one direction through a growing crowd of festival goers.

The ringing forgotten, we women with our strollers walked easily in the windy heat, the crispy leaves of drought blowing across our feet as if it was early Fall. We talked about sleep schedules, family news, the ordinary stuff of friendly conversations. When we got home, the phone was ringing, and finally realizing that there might be some urgent reason to answer it, I ran to pick it up. It was Meag*an, and she was breathless, crying, and could hardly get the words out. Horrible words.

We’re OK – I’m OK – I’m so relieved you’re OK! The bridge is down! The 35W bridge – it’s collapsed, into the Mississippi River . All the cars with it. I’m there – it was a block from Phi*l’s house. We’re trying to help - There’s smoke everywhere...

This city, this beautiful city, holding on one side, a brown-haired boy on a brown pony, smile as wide as a river, and at the same moment, three miles North, terror, horror, shock, trauma, death. A bridge, crossed countless times by most of the people I hold dear, crossing it, the most beautiful view of the city to be had, showing downtown’s skyscrapers, the old flour mills, industry, new modern buildings and green parkland, all in one sweeping vista seen best from the middle of its' eight-lane concrete span, right before choosing from one of three highways, all arteries into the heart of this city's Southside neighborhoods. An entire bridge, dropped unevenly into the Mississippi, all the cars with it, all the people whose loved ones fear that they might have been near or even on it calling each other at once, all the procedures and rescuers following plans no-one ever wants to have to put into place. Torn up, burned up and half-drowned people flooding the Emergency Room of the hospital where I work, Meag*an and Phi*l pulling a bloody man out of the wreckage and up the steep banks of the river. Sixty children on a school bus; sixty children still alive. Miracles and tragedies, large and small, everywhere. 7 confirmed dead, 35 injured, 20 missing, their loved ones waiting and hoping. May God be with them all.

After connecting with everyone I needed to, after Jennif*er left in her minivan with my almost sleeping niece, after my boys, thankfully oblivious, were tucked into bed, after J got home, and I tended to the ordinary tasks of dinner and cleanup, I walked outside. I came out the front door to a green sky, with no wind at all, the threat of bad weather that never did come, the flickering lights of televisions seen through all the front windows. There was not another soul on the street, almost dead silence, the air full and heavy, just a few drops of rain, fat tears on the pavement of our front walk.

Minneapolis , my beloved adopted hometown, city of lakes, and bridges, and one mighty green river, tonight I cry for you.

if wishes were babies

Sign in front of the tomatoes at the Farmer's Market today:

No spay, only fertle.

How fitting. N, in particular, has decided that Baby Zo*e and all the other babies we've been around lately are so great, we really ought to get one. He's asked for one many, many times over the last couple of days, and unfortunately for him, we have no plans to have another baby anytime soon, or perhaps ever. A sizable majority of my friends with kids are pregnant this summer, so Auntie Emi*ily is not the only person we see sporting a baby belly. Everywhere we go are pregnant women, and N loves babies. Here's a poolside conversation the three of us had today, in hearing distance of another couple of moms who got a good laugh out of it:

N: Mama to have a baby in her tummy?
Me: Mama already had two wonderful babies!
N: Eyes get really big, looks around. Where are the babies?
-I explain that N and O were my babies. N sighs, pats my tummy.
N: Mama is pretty!
O: Nooooo! Mama is a go-nup! She needs coffee!
N: No Ollie, mama is pretty! What's that, mama? He points to my leg.
Me: A spider vein, honey.
N: What's that?
Me: Another one. Let's focus on something else.
N: Mama to have a baby in her tummy?

It's been hot here, so we've been spending lots of time at the pool and lake. We miss Grandma and Grandpa, who are out in Oregon, but Opa comes for a quick visit next week, and then two weeks later we're off to New York to see my folks, plus my Uncle and his 2 boys.

Here are a few shots of the boys making food - a favorite pastime at the moment:

Making a breakfast frittatta
with Daddy:



N washing the "sah-wed" from the garden:



He put on all the basil leaves and most of the cheese himself, stealing only a taste or two before it was ready for the oven.





The final product, of which N was very proud, out-eating us all:

adventures with two-year olds

Greetings, all. We just had a week long "vacation at home" here. When we were trying to decide on our summer plans, the thought of taking a road trip or camping for several days seemed like a bit much at this stage. The boys are not in beds yet, so we need two pack-n-plays to go anywhere, plus the boys are into everything right now. I think we made the right decision. We did lots of fun things in town, and then came home to nap and sleep for the night. We spent a couple of lazy entire mornings in the park and kiddie pool with Grandma and Zo*e. We went out for breakfast a couple of times.



We went to Still*water's Tedd*y Bear Park.



















We did go on an overnight trip, to Family Camp with the church where Jo*el plays the piano. It was a lot of fun, but intense. The boys ran around full stop, played with people, and explored, and they were very happy.





They are very into everything right now, and need pretty close supervision in a new place. O has a tendency to want to take every single thing he finds apart, including his crib-tented Pack-N-Play, in which he’s supposed to be sleeping.



At the lodge, we had to pull him out from under the mat that serves as a bottom no less than five times in two hours. The next morning, he pulled the room thermometer off the wall and tried to pull out the inside of the baseboard heaters. He attempted to unscrew light bulbs. He tried to stick pens into outlets. With all his strength, and this boy is built like a brick and persistent as can be. I know that God made him this way for a reason, and I only hope to live long enough to find out what that is, because it's giving us some gray hairs! Omie and Opa - consider yourself warned!

Oliv*er, scanning his environment for something to "take it apaaaaart!"



Here is O trying to ring the church camp bell:








Ever since we've come back, the boys have been lining up couch pillows to make a "dock".





Try as he might, Oli*ver couldn't move this tree.



Pretending to be snakes.



No*ah was especially interested in the music playing outside, and has been talking about the banjo ever since.





The boys had their first canoe ride, but the canoe never actually left the shore.



Don't they look grown-up here, eating with everyone and not even using a booster chair?

We've decided that Oli*ver seems to need a bit less sleep than his brother, which would be fine, except they share a room, and No*ah never gets quite enough. That, and they feed off of each other so much at this age - they often start screaming and jumping in their cribs as soon as the door closes, and they get all worked up for no good purpose. They're keeping each other up later and later, and we think it's time that they be separated, at least for a while. We hope to have this accomplished within a few weeks. Olive*er will be in the the little room upstairs next to Meagan's space (we need to make a door for it), and No*ah will remain where he is. They'll have more plays space downstairs this way too. I will miss hearing their conversations on the monitor, but I worry more and more what they'll get into after bedtime, and I think making the transition to beds would be near impossible with the 2 of them in the same room, at least right now. They nap apart already, so I think they'll be OK.



Yesterday, N let out a blood-curdling scream at the table, then looked a me and said "Noa*h! We don't talk that way at the table!" To his credit, there was no repeat performance, so I suppose I ought to count that as an attempt to regulate his own behavior. That about describes life around here right now - they so want to listen most of the time, but they are also so very full of plans and ideas, and it's a little like they have an angel on each shoulder. Often our best bet is to get them out of the house and somewhere where there isn't quite so much trouble to get into, usually outdoors.



No*ah is going through another bunny obsession, and hops up there several times a day just to visit and stroke the "soft blue part". Some kids suck their thumbs or use pacifiers, but N makes the "bunny face" to fall asleep. He chews his lower lip like a bunny, something we accidentally taught him when he was less than a year old because we didn't know what sound a bunny makes.

Last Sunday we all got dressed up to go Je*n and Dav*e's church for the dedication of Zo*e. My camera battery died on the way over there, but I did get some very cute pictures first.