The Urbane Homestead

A match made in Bedlam

Some years ago, right around this time of year, Henry and I received a visit from a Kirby vacuum cleaner salesman. It was a learning experience. We consider ourselves to be reasonably savvy consumers, leaning more toward the suspicious than the gullible, and, moreover, frugal. And yet. In the course of the demonstration of the Kirby vacuum cleaner's virtues, we were enthralled by its high-tech Lexan parts, its versatile attachments, its sheer power. We were appalled by the exercise that proved beyond doubt the filthiness of our home. We were, in short, completely sucked in.

So did we sign on the dotted line? Indeed, we did. Did we write a check for a $1200 vacuum cleaner?  Yes, we did that, too. Did we sorely regret it not two minutes after the salesman left? Why, yes, how did you know?

In the end, we were able to return the vacuum cleaner, and got all our money back. What we learned from the experience was this:

1. We are not as smart as we think we are. We are just as likely to get caught up into the moment and to make bad purchasing decisions as your average consumer. As a result, we now make these decisions only with careful, private consultation with each other, with a sufficient time lag, so that starry-eyed feeling has been obscured somewhat.

2. We really needed a new vacuum cleaner. We ended up going out on Henry's birthday to buy a high-end Miele model from a local retailer, which pays its salespeople on salary rather than commission. We've been very happy with this vacuum cleaner; it picks up pet hair and all the minute detritus a home on a busy street collects.

The new vacuum cleaner is now six years old. So why do I bring all this up now? Because of the little warm dog that is snuggled up against me here on the sofa, and who is going back to her foster home this morning. Another lesson learned: do not go to an animal adoption event alone.

Bullwinkle

Oh, come on, what could be cuter than a puppy?

When in Rome

My nephew Sam caught a salmon with his bare hands while we were in Skagway, Alaska! Pictures at The Plot Thickens, my sister's blog.

Second grade!

The sidewalks in our neighborhood were crowded this morning with kids in brand new backpacks and parents in tow (or parents with kids in tow, in the case of the kindergarteners). Last Friday, the air felt heavy and languid, the streets were hot and still—today's weather is exactly the same, and yet the air was buzzing with anticipation, and the whole neighborhood seemed fresh and new. Kids were bouncing with excitement, despite the fact that every single child I've talked to in the last two weeks has said they were NOT looking forward to school.

Henry and Bruce and I walked Joe to his first day of second grade. He held our hands all the way there, and didn't object to my coming into the class with him to meet his teacher and see which of his friends are his classmates this year. Every time I hold his hand now, I hang on tight, knowing that these days are numbered; it can't be more than a matter of months until he refuses to let us walk around in public like that. And when I left his class, I gave him a big hug and many kisses, just in case he decides tomorrow that he's too old for that sort of thing.

Ahoy, mateys!

For years, my parents have planned to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary by taking the entire family, however many there were of us by then, on an Alaska cruise. That particular anniversary has not yet arrived, but all thirteen of us plus one will be leaving next Sunday. My parents were worried that disaster might strike before the actual fiftieth, so we're seizing the day and striking while the iron is hot.

(Family inventory: older adults (parents); self, adult siblings, and spouses for each (total: 6); girls aged 10, 5, and 1; boys ages 9 and 7; and young German woman, former au pair now part of family.)

Coincidentally, Vicki over at I Love Orange and her entire extended family have just gone on nearly the same cruise, on the occasion of her mother's 80th birthday. She's doing a very wonderful job of documenting the whole trip right now. It's been helpful for me, because I can show Joe a little of what to expect. This is good because we discovered some time ago that the boys were very concerned about the safety of the cruise. A little library research proved that nearly all media—books, films, video games—with any kind of nautical theme (all of which seem aimed at boys) are all about disaster: pirates, terrorists, shipwreck. Yikes! No wonder they were worried. We tried to reassure them that the ship was very large and not likely to sink. "The Titanic was a big ship," they said, stony-faced. I think they still don't quite believe our claims that the trip will be more about buffets and shuffleboard than cutlasses, pieces of eight, and being stranded on a desert island.

Speaking of the Titanic, there will be two formal nights that we will be required to dress for. This is not really a problem for Henry and me, since we do go to the opera regularly and  we have decent-looking sparkly clothes. (I did consider seeing if I could find matching powder blue outfits; a tuxedo with a ruffly shirt and patent leather shoes for him, a bride's maid nightmare for me.... but this seemed not sufficiently appreciative or respectful to the givers of the gift of the trip.) My sister, however, was anxious, so yesterday some of us did some Rodeo-Drive-style boutique shopping at Value World (formerly Value Village, but they expanded. Why think small? Think Napoleonic!) I went into thrift-shop mode, scanning each rack quickly for high-end fabrics  and cuts and pulling out everything that might be worth a second look. Emma, who's 10, greeted everything with, "That's sooo cute! I love it! Can I get it?" Nadin, who's six feet tall and slim, and would look fabulous in just about anything but would rather wear jeans and a t-shirt, looked through a few racks in a desultory way and rejected everything I suggested (including, sadly, a deep purple silk shirt with pin tucks and flowing sleeves). Karen found a velvet shirt and some embroidered silk pants almost immediately, and spent the rest of the time we were there saying "I'm done shopping! Let's go now!"

I left Value World empty-handed, but that's okay. I've already got my tiara all packed.

Patient update

Henry is recovering nicely. He's home today, working at his computer, resting, and snacking on some of the delicious food that our generous friends have brought to us.

Adventures in health care

Ack! We've had a bit more excitement than we might wish over the last couple of days. I'm writing this in the hospital while Henry sleeps off last night's emergency appendectomy.

He had a stomach ache and spent all day in bed on Sunday (conveniently, the very day after Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows arrived. Coincidence? Or not?). He felt much better on Monday, but I "encouraged" him to visit the doctor, citing the trauma that would be visited upon poor little Joe if Henry had to be whisked to the hospital in the middle of the night. And indeed, the doctor sent him directly to get a CT scan (which is apparently much like being drawn through a giant metal doughnut). And immediately when the scan results came through, they sent him directly to the ER. That was about 2:30 yesterday afternoon, and we sat in the ER waiting area while people with screwdrivers lodged in their skulls and dripping blood from various limbs and other traumas came and went. A short three hours later, they took Henry into a room, dressed him in one of those stylish but practical hospital gowns, and then let him relax for six or seven hours.

The surgery started at about midnight. After they doped Henry up and wheeled him away, I dashed home, let Bruce out, slipped into something more comfortable, and dashed back to the hospital. There's a special waiting area for families to sit while their loved one is in surgery; it's pretty nice, actually, very large, with comfortable seating and internet access, several televisions, lots of magazines (including, weirdly, Vogue, Opera News, and Nonprofit Quarterly). They even had special phones you could use to call back to the surgery desk to find out how things were going. I had the place entirely to myself, except for one woman who was tucked in on a little sofa, snoring.

The waiting was the worst part. Even knowing that appendectomies are a dime a dozen (health care cost issues aside), and that Henry's as healthy a patient as he could be, and that the chances of anything going wrong wae vanishingly small, it's still so disturbing to see a person you love unconscious. You don't have access to the cues you usually rely on to tell you that your darling's true self still inhabits their body. You have to take a lot more on faith than you are used to, and trust that things will be fine while you have no power at all to make them become so.

Finally, at about 2:30 am, the surgeon came out to tell me that it had all gone well (although apparently Henry's appendix was very comfortable where it was and they had to pry it out with a surgical crowbar).

I must say, every single person, and there were a lot of them, whom we encountered in this hospital adventure was helpful, informative, cheerful (but not overly so) and, well, patient. And I feel so lucky that it was something so routine, easily diagnosed and easily fixed. And covered by insurance.

Uh-oh

I had some bad news this morning.

One the way to work, listening to a lecture on Biological Anthropology, I learned that, as a woman without a daughter, my mitochondrial DNA is doomed to extinction. I'm joking about that being bad news, of course. But it was interesting that I did experience a moment of poignance, possibly because, while I adore every curly wild hair on Joe's head, sometimes I do wish for a daughter as well.

I'm not alone in this, I know: just yesterday Joe informed me, quite fiercely, that he wasn't going to speak to me again until I considered providing him with a sister. "Okay," I said immediately, "I've considered it." He said, "No, I mean you have to have one. Or I'm not going to talk." That lasted only a few minutes before he was off and running on some other topic.

Thinking about mitochondrial DNA reminded me of homeschooling. (Why?) I have a friend who homeschools her only child, a son. I've always thought that, in the postnuclear holocaust, Henry and I would be perfectly capable of tutoring a child through high school at least; our skills and interests are complementary and pretty much cover 100% of your average high school curriculum. On the other hand it would take a global disaster for us to be tempted to homeschool. Just the idea of spending all day, every day, all together gives us the guillermos.

It occurs to me, too, that sending Joe out in the world for education is a way of expanding our pie, as it were. We can all go about every day, gathering crumbs of knowledge and experience, and bringing them back to the nest to share. (Our knowledge accumulation pie is apparently a sort of mock apple pie with crumbs instead of Ritz crackers.) Whereas homeschooling would be a more effective way of passing on one's own accumulation of knowledge to the next generation. Knowledge as linear inheritance, vs. as tribal wealth.

In case you are wondering, the answer is yes, I have gone off the deep end here.

Mother's Day

A few days ago, Joe said, "Mama, did you know you are the luckiest woman in the world?" I've often thought that for a variety of reasons I am very lucky indeed, but not knowing specifically what he was referring to, I asked him why. "Because your birthday is only two days after Mother's Day," he answered. Hmm. The proximity of the celebrations of a lifetime commitment to anxiety and servitude and that of the swift passing of time and my impending mortality—not something that would have occurred to me....

But this morning when I woke up, I felt very lucky, because there were two beautiful cards waiting for me on my night table. One was big and pink and decorated with glitter glue, foam shapes, and cut-out hearts with vocabulary words on them. It's lovely and I'm thinking that every mother of Mrs. Callahan's first graders has something similar. The other card, however, was unique. It's a postcard with a photo of a dog; on the back Joe had written: "For a mom so swweat and nice, our little puppy is your present, for a happy Mother's Day and a sihn of love." My heart melted. What could be a better gift? He did it all by himself; Henry didn't even know he was planning it.

Actually, I did know Joe was going to make a card of some sort, because last week he left a note for his confidante and advisor, the tooth fairy, asking what he should give me for Mother's Day, and she recommended this plan. But I had no idea it would be so sweet.

Bruce!

Vicki came over this weekend and took some lovely pictures of our little Bruce-ells Sprout. Can you see how much he's grown already? Yikes!