bocka bocka

There are three recent additions to our family, and George and I are whole-heartedly obsessed with them. These days, if you'd like to have intelligent conversations about worldly matters, we maybe could but probably wouldn't have much to offer (except for Nathan, who gives a bang-up verbal treatise on the latest issue of the Economist). On the subject of cutie little feathery buddies, however, we are rather stunning conversationalists. You know, if I do say so myself. 

Three pretty ladies to chase around the yard in mostly futile attempts at chicken petting. Three funny, chickeny friends to hang out with in the garden. They're thoroughly lovable, and so, tonight, when, during fake-chicken-taco dinner, Nathan said, "Hey George, do you want some more chicken?" we should've seen it coming. 

He looked around in utter horror and started clucking. 

Oh no, we assured him: we are not eating the chickens! "Papa meant tacos. Do you want more tacos? More fake chicken? Err... no, that doesn't work. More meat? Fake meat? Taco filling? WHAT THE HELL DO WE CALL IT?"

Precise language -- well thought-out, accurate and succinct -- is something I value so deeply, and I believe equally deeply in the power of words to do both significant harm and good. If you're feeling up to a losing fight, try arguing with me about how it's totally okay to say "you're retarded" or "that's so gay" because, like, language is a living thing, man, and besides, you're too sensitive, and you know who really has it bad? Black lesbians in wheelchairs and anyway, I was just kidding. 

Until now, I'd been confident in my word choices with George. I am purposeful, inclusive; I don't dumb things down, and when prompted he can point to his scrotum just as quickly as he can his ears. Victory, right? Well, as with most best laid plans, something was forgotten and it caused a minor conniption fit brought on by the fear that we'd just had our pets for supper. OOPS.

It wasn't easily solved, though, either. Usually, I can correct and move on, but I'm at a loss. What do I call the fake meat that we eat? If it's seitan, I guess that's easy and I'm not counting tempeh or tofu -- also clearly identifiable -- but the fake bacon and ground "beef"? The "sausage" (is 'sausage' just any old thing in a casing?)? I'm sure to some this is an odd (stupid?) quandary, but it intersects at intentional eating and intentional communicating: two things I'd always hoped to instill in my child(ren). I will not be thwarted by Morningstar breakfast links and my abiding love of taco night. 

So, dear readers, friends: what do you suggest? The first person to say "start eating meat" gets a punch in the nose. 

hideout

Our house is small. It's cute, and I like it, and I don't even keep the space I have tidy, so I can't justifiably wish for more. But having a toddling baby doesn't always jibe with also having such a tiny home. We have a lot of stuff, some of which is valuable -- both sentimentally and otherwise -- and while I respect the methods of child rearing that dictate we must create an entirely child-friendly space, it's just not realistic for my family. Plus, I want my records out and accessible. I want George to grow up with a respect for the delicacy of certain things, looking forward to the special occasions when he is allowed to handle our treasures. After all, there are lots of no-touches in the world, for kids and adults alike. 

This is not to say that our house is one big barrister bookcase of Hummel figurines. Nevertheless, I still feel bad sometimes that George has such a limited play area. That, unless a door is shut, he can never escape my eyeshot. He needed a hideout: a cozy little retreat all his own for looking at books, for talking to his cow and baby about what a jerk mama is when she won't let him pick at the electrical outlet covers. I'd been looking at teepee instructions and tutorials online and in pattern books for awhile before I finally decided to just wing it. (This is by no means a tutorial, but if you're similarly inclined to fly by the seat of your pants, maybe this will give you an idea or two.)

I used:

• four 4-foot-long dowels
• some white twill that I already had
• some ikea fabric that I'd been saving for something special
• some hot pink suede cord leftover from moccasin making
• a scrap of yellow broadcloth.

I made pretty haphazard triangles that measured three feet on the bottom edge, just folded them in half and used a yard stick to cut a relatively straight diagonal line that would create a triangle when the fabric opened back up. The triangles are 3 and a half feet tall. 

For the dowel casings, I cut 3 inch wide strips the same length as the triangles' diagonal edge. As I sewed the triangles together at the long sides, I folded the casings in half (wrong sides together) and sandwiched them between the teepee side pieces. To make an opening, I cut the front piece in half lengthwise, then sewed partway down. I made some bias tape and bound the unfinished edges of the flap. For a little extra stability, I reinforced the top of the flap with a triangle of scrap fabric. I didn't want to get out the iron, so the triangle is uneven, but oh well. 

I looped a piece of suede cord around the tops of the dowels, and tied them up tight. I made the whole thing after George went to bed last night (in about 2.5 hours), so it was set up for him this morning. 

He was freaking STOKED. As soon as the next Joann circular comes in the mail, I'll get some shredded foam to make a big matching pillowy cushion to lounge on. 

For now, though, he's perfectly content crawling in, sitting for awhile, then crawling back out to check on Rody. 

daytrippers

It's "midwinter break," which means, when your partner is a part-time teacher, you get this weird bonus vacation that, to other (better paid, more gainfully employed) teachers is merely a long weekend. In your face, full-time teachers! With all that extra money you're making, you could go to Mexico or something! Too bad you don't have the time!

To celebrate, we decided to take a little day trip to Seattle, to visit my favorite within-driving-distance art museum: The Frye. In my opinion, SAM  is great and all, but it's so expansive, expensive and a little sterile. I like my museums with worn-in rugs and crazy amazing conversation couches. Oh, and free. The Frye is free to anyone and everyone, all the time, as stipulated by the Fryes who so graciously left their art collection to the public of Seattle. The paintings in the permanent collection are hung salon style: beautiful and cluttery and almost encroaching on one another, but not quite. I love it there.

We're all sick (again) and a little crabby, but it was nice to be out in the world, showing George some of my favorite paintings and watching him relate to the art in his own way. The Frye family were in the cattle ranching business, so they had a lot of cow paintings in their collection. This worked out beautifully for the boy who loves to moo (or, brroo, as the case may be). I hope as he gets older he finds different pieces interesting and beautiful, scary, sad, and that I encourage him to discuss them without getting in the way of his thoughts. As we left, I regretted a little being so persistent in pointing out every. single. cow. But I look forward to the time when he can steer us in and out of the galleries, pausing where his eye catches -- that is, if anything catches his eye.

It's the good thing about free museums, after all. You can walk in,

And right back out, if you want.  

(No, George is not walking. He took one step and gingerly lowered himself to the floor, as he, like his mother, enjoys being an expert at things before he tries them.)

nooks and crannies

For Christmas, Nathan's parents got me a bias tape maker. Forever, I've had one of those fiddly ones you use with an iron and I never make any bias tape because I wind up with burned fingers and a wonky finished product. Well, not any more. Sort of. I used my present for the first time last night, to finish a little quilt, and I definitely need some practice but it worked much better than the old method, plus it took about a millionth of the time.

Using this sweet book, Scandinavian Needlecraft, for inspiration (I wasn't up to copying the embroidery pattern and using carbon paper or whatever), I made a little light blanket to fuel my dreams of moving into a house that has nooks and crannies in which to snuggle and sleep. Just look at this picture and see if you can imagine a nicer spot to wake up in the morning:

Of course you cannot.

The green and blue pictured is lovely, but I had some peach gingham in the garage.

And some blue pique shirting, and some dark, sagey green flowers.

See, I told you I needed some practice. But, infinitely better than storebought.

Already used for snuggling.

And abandoned for play.