Orianna and the school bus

Orianna is at school now. It doesn't feel particularly weird, but it is different. If that makes sense.

Three weeks ago we got a letter from her kindergarten teacher about supplies and welcoming Orianna to school. She sent  a picture of a t-shirt for Orianna to decorate, since their theme this year is going to be baseball. Orianna's response to this was "what is baseball?" Obviously, we have failed her as an American family. But over the last weekend, Orianna got to watch a couple games of baseball, even if they weren't according to major league standards.

As soon as I saw the shirt that had to be decorated I started to feel inadequate. "I am going to ruin Orianna's chances in school because I will decorate this shirt all wrong!" Owen told me this quote from Peanuts yesterday, which pretty much sums up my fears and worries for Oiranna.

I can’t go to school tomorrow! I have the flu! I’ll miss the first 

day! Years from now, do you know what people will say about me? 

“He’s one day dumber than he should be!

BASEBALL SHIRTS ARE IMPORTANT!!!! They signify our philosophy as parents (do we decorate it nicely and attractively or let the little imp scribble all over it?),  our committedness to her school experience (do we have Orianna take a day to think it over, letting the true importance of this sink in or do we just let her have a whack at it within 20 minutes of receiving said shirt picture?), our socioeconomic status by what we let her decorate it with (crayons, for a classic, understated middle class All-American look?  markers for a typical middle class look? paint for an avant garde, bohemian, our-daughter-will-be-more-artistic-than-yours look? or sparkley glue for a middle class trying to be cool and actually just making the paper all wrinkly look?).

It was too much for me. I made Justin do it. I traded him one baseball shirt picture for a kindergarten passport, which involved writing, cutting, and pictures. In case you missed it, we got this THREE weeks ago. Last night, as I am getting Orianna's backpack all ready while the kids were overrunning the bathroom with bubbles (bubble bath in a jacuzzi tub is trouble) I suddenly realized that I hadn't bought her the two glue sticks OR the animal crackers for snack. And then I turned the page and saw her completely blank and untouched passport to kindergarten. AHH! Now I have really and truly ruined my daughter's first day. She will fail her preparedness test and be sent home with a mother detention. I managed to restrain myself from driving to the store, 12 miles away for animal crackers and glue sticks (I don't think they are used together...) and decided to give her an old fat glue stick and tell her teacher I am an idiot for not getting animal crackers after doing her passport to kindergarten. 

The passport to kindergarten went well. Hopefully she will be able to cross the border between the front office and classroom. 

And..... tada! I cried when she got on the bus. I sobbed the night after getting her kindergarten letters (this could be attributed to performance stress on the baseball t-shirt picture... ) and then decided it wasn't about me and my lonesome and bereft emotions, so I was NOT going to cry or hug her too tight or generally act like I was sending her to outer space. Justin is a very understanding husband and good daddy, so he stayed home a little late to put Orianna on the school bus so I wouldn't have to embarrass myself or my daughter by sobbing. It was just Orianna being timid that made me cry! Those unsure, hesitant steps to the bus that got me. She had been scared and excited, but this morning, she was mostly excited. Until the bus came. And then she was mostly nervous. And now I am crying again.  Pay no mind. I am just the mother of a kindergartener.  I can cry like no one's business.

The bubbly bubble bath.

See the bubbles washed over the side? Yeah... they were all over the floor because I was so busy worrying about Orianna's passport to kindergarten.

Passports are important.

Little miss trembly lip. She wasn't excited by all this talk of Orianna going to school. Partially because she wanted to go to.

Orianna laid her outfit out carefully.

Her passport

This is Orianna with a cat (because she can draw cats). And Orianna is not a princess, but she put a crown there because she wanted her hair to be pretty. And those are high heels, not peg legs. 

The top half of the baseball t-shirt (Justin went for the let Orianna scribble on it within 10 minutes, with paper wrinkling sparkly glue and markers) AND my I-am-an-idiot note. I figure it is better to just get that out there at the beginning of the school year, rather than making pretenses. 

All ready.

Cry. Cry. Cry.

And this is the current situation. They are good pals too. Lily has asked a couple times when Orianna will be home, but seems pretty okay with things. 

Bel Canto by Ann Patchett

A few weeks ago, I was wandering around Mom and Dad's house, looking for a good book to read. Mom threw this across the living room to me and told me to read it because it was one of the best books of the last 10 years. Or so she had heard. She hadn't read it, since it came out during her college phase, when life was too full of work, housework, and a full time college load to read books. 

There is some sort of character flaw in me that I become prejudiced against things I hear too much praise about. I don't dislike it, but I typically refuse to gush praise even if I feel it is warranted. Yankee contrariness or something. So hearing that it is one of the best books of the last ten years gets my guard up. Over-hyped starts flashing in my brain. Then I open the book and there are two and a half pages of praise for this book. I mean GUSHING praise. Just for example

"The story is riveting, the participants breathe and feel and are alive, and throughout this elegantly told novel, music pours forth so splendidly that the reader hears it and is overwhelmed by its beauty. " Lloyd Moss WXQR

I mean really. And then, hidden amongst this gushing is 

"Bel Canto is certainly pleasurable to read." Newsday

Obviously that reviewer wasn't into gushing or was taking a vacation and didn't actually read the book, but wanted to go along with everyone else's favorable opinions. 

So I read it. But cautiously. 

It takes place in Central/South America in the "host" country. The country is never given a name, probably for logical reasons. An extravagant party has been planned for a Japanese business man's birthday to try and persuade him to invest in the host country's economy. The only reason he came is because they made a point of having his favorite opera singer, Roxanne Coss, there. Into this party come tromping a band of terrorists who are dead set on kidnapping the president of the country and being headed into the jungle in 7 minutes. Except the president, who is a devoted fan of soap opera, decided to cancel at the last minute to watch his favorite soap star escape from her week long situation of being tied up. The terrorists don't really know what to do and decide to improvise by holding the entire household of party goers (190 people, plus servants) hostage. Eventually the terrorists make everyone lie down, so it is easier to keep track of them. Love these quotes.

"Scattered across the floor like area rugs lay some important men and women and a few extremely important men and women....The women who believed this would all be over shortly and they would be home in their own beds by two A.M. were careful to adjust their full skirts beneath them in a way that would minimize wrinkling." 

The women (except the opera singer) and servants were released the next morning to uncomplicate things a little for the terrorists, who viewed the hostages as annoying children, wanting to go the bathroom, needing a drink, feeling hungry. Due to the government refusing to compromise with them, the situation drags on for more than three months. Only one man dies, from a diabetic coma. Otherwise they live together for three months with the opera singer practicing and entertaining them everyday. Over the course of the three months, the terrorists become lax, allowing the hostages a great deal of freedom. The vice president becomes housekeeper extraordinaire, a Japanese businessman becomes an  accompanist for the opera singer, men declare their love for the opera singer, and one man falls in love with one of the terrorists, who happens to be a girl. People get to know each other through the mix of different languages and cultures and the terrorists become human, even likable. 

At the end, when the government storms the house and chaos ensues, your heart is with some of the terrorists. Obviously there was no way the book could end perfectly, when you pity and like the terrorists. There was talent and kindness and hopelessness in the terrorists that surprised me. In a different situation, these terrorists (mostly teenagers from deep in the jungle) could have done so much with their lives. As it was, they were fascinated by this luxurious house they were now living in. Telephones, televisions, food, bathrooms, beds..... things they had heard of, but never experienced. 

This book is lyrical. And that reviewer was right. Music does pour forth. Another reviewed said

"The author has taken what could have been a variation on The Lord of the Flies scenario and fashions instead a Lord of the butterflies, a dreamlike fable in which the impulses toward beauty and love are shown to be as irrepressible as the instincts for violence and destruction." New York Magazine

And that was the most accurately descriptive review. Everyone in this book, including the terrorists, became a little better, kinder, more gentle, more patient, and more open to beauty during this experience

The ending is bittersweet. I left this book with an overwhelming feeling of the futility and stupidity of most human plans. There was so much potential in the lives of the terrorists that was wasted. However, it was potential they wouldn't have understood or known they had if they had not gone through this experience. 

I was left wondering what happened to the other hostages. People who had changed their lives in this house--what did they do when they left? I feel like the author could have gone into that a bit more, but it may have detracted from the poignancy I felt as I shut the book. 

There was also one part that seemed discordant. I only noticed swearing once in this book. And it jarred me. It just didn't seem necessary or to further the plot in anyway. But maybe that is just my prudish self saying that. 

All in all, you should read this book if you haven't read it already. I refuse to gush, but I enjoyed reading this book. It is a gentle, tender, and quietly funny book. 

In my own backyard

It is September. September 2011. I think it should be about June of 2008. Obviously my mind is a lot behind times. I will just say, cliche or not. Time flies! Summer is almost over....  I am not completely sad about this, as I am looking forward to having a bit more of a schedule. Not having to mow the lawn.. Weed the garden, think about what to do with 30 lbs of tomatoes, whether to feel guilty about crab grass in my flower beds or not, as well as my poor woebegotten window boxes. And these are all things that I will pine for in February. There is a reason seasons change. I am almost always looking forward to the next one. And then missing the seasons that aren't now. 

Here are a lot of end of summer pictures from our backyard. 

Indian paintbrush

Purple loosestrife. This is an invasive species, so I am not supposed to love it. But I do. And I figure if it is this beautiful, do I really mind if it taking a few square feet from the cattails? I don't. I am contemplating planting some in my flower bed. They bloom for almost a month. 

I forget what the name of this plant is, but I know we used to rub it on cuts and bruises while running around the farm with the Douglas kids. Whether this was because it actually helped or we just liked the idea of being like Indians and rubbing plants on us is up for debate. 

Isn't it odd? Fabulously odd.

 Milkweed pods. 

Changing color.

Roses are still blooming

This was a wonderfully yummy lunch. 

Our corn.

I cut it off the cob before I blanched it. It seemed easier. I can't imagine it could make a difference. Mom and Dad told me there is a REASON people do the things they do. Andrea C told Justin that that is NOT the way Ralph did it. But she looked it up in her garden encyclopedia and apparently you can do it either way. And this way is easier I think. No hot cobs or 15 pots of boiling water. We will have to see if it keeps as well in the freezer.