Just like in my daydreams...

Toddleropera

I just had the most surreal experience. My pianist came over to rehearse for some upcoming gigs and of course, Toby refused to give up and succumb to his nap once he heard us. So I figure, I'll just let him play while we play, it'll expand his brain cells, I'll be mom of the year, right?

Yeah, you see where this is going, all you people with your overdeveloped senses of reason.

For the first few pieces he did alright, being generally cute and bopping from toy to toy on his own, scoping out the situation. Then he fell on a toy. Then he filled the room with such a stench I fully expected the air to turn shades of mustard. On our return from the diaper change he wanted an ice cube. And couldn't keep away from the piano. And was apparently starving right NOW. He was a tyrant, a cranky drooly tyrant with extra whining.

The only redeeming thing was that he was perfectly in sync with the music. Tragic opera aria? Yeah, mom, awwwawwwwwwww (cue nasal discharge) I feel that. Weltschmertz is the new baby blue.

Talking amongst ourselves

We're still pondering and considering the race aspect of our adoption decisions. So this morning it was nice to recognize that if we do adopt interracially, and we may well do, it would be in no way as confrontation-ful as I was imagining.

J drew an analogy to getting a neck tattoo: most people will have a strong opinion about that one way or another, but few will say anything to your face about it. With adoption, people who do have an opinion are probably even more loathe than the anti-tatty to push past all the civil boundaries: extremely personal topic, children involved, incomplete knowledge of the facts (although that's probably not as big a barrier as it should be for alotta folks), and unlikelihood of convincing anyone of anything.

I think of myself as a strong person, and most people seem to agree- I am no wallflower. At 34 I'm finally peachy with all that. So why is it hard to read those zany zealots without letting it sway my own compass? Why let those whose season tickets are so clearly stamped *Peanut Gallery* weigh in on such an important decision?

Anyway, it's been a great day at the Ward ward. I was jazzed this morning when J casually mentioned asking a co-worker about his two adopted Chinese children and the research his family did before bringing them home.
[unadulterated fawning] First, J is one of those complex people (commonly known as "men") who tend to be listening and processing things long before I even realize they're on his radar. I love when he brings home new info like this- and he had this conversation weeks ago. [/unadulterated fawning]
His friend hasn't had much comment from anywhere, and Owlhaven the blogger also says the folks in her (~5% African American) area are generally polite and friendly.

We are looking at Ukraine or Russia in this week's study: Neat!
People are better and worse than I imagine. It's just that when it comes to children, those extremes carry so much more import.

File under: Racially Skittish

For most men life is a search for the proper manila envelope in which to get themselves filed. ~Clifton Fadiman


One of the best things about the internet (besides the unlimited potential for feeling productive while wasting time) is that you can get a lot of first-hand, primary source information and opinions. The information is often surrounded by Miss Information- she's everywhere, man- but if you are willing to do some dusting off and ferreting out it can be great.

For about a year now I've been researching adoption. This is a touchy thing to look into on the web, because Miss Information's good buddy Screaming Zealot likes to hold forth about the whole complicated issue. I've been pretty fortunate, though, and have floated into some informative, honest sites.

I know I can gather and analyse all the facts and statistics in the world (and I will, Oh yes, I will) but what I need the most is to read and talk to the people who have been through the process. People who blog.

Yesterday one of my favorite blogging women, Mary of Owlhaven and the Ethiopia Blog put up this post, sparking a couple realizations on my part.

First, when I imagine my family including some Ethiopian kiddos, I get nervous. I'm not proud admitting this, but I realized over the past few months that I see the Miriam with an interracial family becoming defensive & shrill, maybe even bitter. I see myself worrying that I would have to justify my kids, my presumption. If the world was made up of me, Jonathan and Ethiopia, I would adopt from there because I see a great need there. How lame is it to care that much about what others might say, and how I might feel, and how I might be changed?

It's a dark kind of wierd to learn something disappointing about yourself. It's also liberating. To admit it, to hear Mary's thoughts (she has been wonderfully generous about responding to comments and email in addition to her well-written blogs), to talk to my friends and especially to spark conversations with J; all these things have brought my thoughts back around to the issue at hand. I didn't feel led toward the interracial thing, but the more I talk & learn, the less I think of it as a problem. The more I can loose my fears and feel like myself.

The loving service which God sends His people into the world to render includes both evangelism and social action, for each is in itself an authentic expression of love, and neither needs the other to justify it.
... John R. W. Stott (b.1921)

Oops, I to-ook a plant.

Here's my newest obsession. Sedum plants! Like hens and chicks. And stuff. I may or may not have committed a felony a couple weeks back in that national park we visited. It's fat and happy now in my front yard.



They're stubby, easy to care for and cheap: like ME like ME... my name Iiiisobel, married to mysellllf, myyyyy name... uh.. sorry, these little episodes of song-breaking-outage are easier to understand in person.

Speaking of just how easy it is for crap to get stuck in my grey and spongy matter, I have now heard Oops I did it Again in its entirety. It's a real red-letter day, thanks to whoever programs the aural environment at Washington Square Mall. Doesn't the video involve Ms. Spears in a child-porny school uniform with pigtails or something?

As only Toby's stunning vocabulary shockingly robust lexicon can put it: Ew.

Happy Wedding, B-man.

This is our friend Brent about six months ago up in the North Woods of Wisconsin. He is none other than J's best man from our very own wedding lo these many years ago. He and lovely Laura are having a ceremony this weekend on the coast near Olympia, so we'll be outta here for a few days.

Eww

I've been sick. Being sick is gross and depressing.

But hey- Toby's learned a new word, "Ewwwwwwwwww," which he enjoys saying rather a lot.

Market me with love.

We have fallen prey to the carseat conspiracy. In a big way.

See, a few months back I was researching what to put the little bugger in next. Up to now he's been in one of those sort of half-shell with a handle type dealies, which faces the back of the car and can be carried into stores provided your upper body looks something like the Governator's. Those suckers are heavy with a side of awkward. They always seem to situate the kid's weight just far enough from your body that all the load is on the weak flabby middle of your back where the love handles start. Toby's almost 17 months old and weighs about 24 pounds, so we pretty much never carry him around in that thing anymore.

He is ready to face forward in the car. And by that I mean, I am ready to have some respite from the "crackerrrr, crackerrrrr, uh-ohhhhhh, uh-ohhhhhh, crackerrrr, nononononononono" carsong. He is an easygoing guy, but the car seems to bring out the demanding in him this week. I am hopeful that facing me and being able to see more of the scenery will help him chilllllll.

So, I went for the only seat with Side Impact Protection (SIP) available and tested in the US of A. Am I the only person un-PC enough to say it's crazy that Europe has better child protection gear? Wouldn't you think the land of the personal injury attorney would want the best & safest stuff available? What exactly has Graco been developing for the last 10 years?

We spent two hundred and fifty dollars. I know. I know! But do you know how much guilt reduction we got with that? We are putting his butt in a seat made by a race car company! You can't beat that kind of smug snugness.

Unless of course you fall on your head and decide to buy a $52,000 pirate ship for the backyard. Prove to me that it will keep kids safer, maybe throw in a couple endorsements from actual pirates and hey- maybe we can split the shipping.

We've been busy!

The faaaaaahhhhhg.

Did you ever see that movie The Fog? If not, you are a) clearly not married to my husband and b) more likely to have accomplished things in your life other than watching b-movies. I myself have seen both versions (1980, 2005).

Here's a picture of what whispy horror we narrowly escaped in Hells Canyon. We got a flat tire in the rain and also managed to dig the Jeep out of snow with basically a crow bar and my bare widdle hands. J had the forethought to wear only Tevas and shorts, so it was up to me to get us out alive. I loved every single second.

Wallowa Lake, Oregon

Drop what you're doing, get in the car and drive RIGHT NOW to the Hells Canyon National Recreation Area.

Look at what you can do there! You should sooo click on that first one of the two of us because don't I look an awful lot like the bus driver from South Park? Sit dowwn and shuuut up, or Ahh will keeelll this bunnyyy!

There be stories to tell, aye... uh, sorry- we watched Pirates of the Johnny Depp last night. We'll post more about camping Jwards later. I have to go see if I remember which hand is for the bow and which is for the viola...

We're going CAMPING!

The location is J's surprise because this is an anniversary trip delayed a few weeks because I was working. I haven't really been camping in 4 years, and that makes me weep bitter tears of deprivation and longing.

When I was a kid we went for several weeks every summer, and it was so incredibly great. I have pictures of me practicing out in the woods along some Alaskan highway. The sheer 80's-ness of my permed hair and enormous tee roped in with a black patent leather belt buckle the size of a Buick is a sight to behold.

I used to think camping wasn't camping if there were parking lots and picnick tables involved. We did it old school: backwoods Montana & podunk arctic river access were our forte. Now we live where there are too many people and you need a reservation for a spot. A reservation!

While I really do look forward to taking him along, we are leaving the kidlet with his preferred caregivers for the weekend. Otherwise I know I'd be waking up in a sweat, convinced I'd rolled on top of him or that he'd been stolen by a pack of meth-heads from my sleeping hands. I know it makes no sense, but I can see the whole thing play out like a badly concieved episode of CSI.

Did I ever tell you about the time a bear stepped on my sister's head while she slept in a tent with my parents? (AHHHH! Do NOT google bear & tent: there are a LOT of bear attacks happening to folks with access to the internet. EWWWW!) She didn't even wake up, but I would bet Mom and Dad sustained grave injuries to their Holy Crap reflex nodules.

Merry Memorial Day! Happy Summer! See you on the flipside good buddy, 10-4.

Just in case.

We went to Salem yesterday, to play in a rad frog-shaped plastic sand box. Aren't you jealous?

We also went to Minto Brown park, which is, besides Central Park, probably my favorite urban place to walk/run in the United states. There's a river with nesting eagles, several ponds, and almost 900 acres with miles of sweet trails, both paved and left natural.

I wish my camera battery hadn't died. It would have been supercool to post a picture of Toby trying to manhandle a girl twice his age on the play structure steps. They played together nicely for nippers, actually. When we left I looked back and she was sitting forlornly on the hard-won stairs, watching us make our stumbly exhuberant way to the parking lot.

My grapes, they are not (too) sour.

The other screw-over-ee from that audition is talking about union action, an exercise in futility likely to make the complainer fairly unpopular in a short span of time in a town this small. I hope s/he reconsiders.

Either the committee didn't hear much difference between the candidates or they heard it but didn't have the moral fiber to do anything about it. Neither scenario makes me want to work there, so I'm mostly over it now.

It probably helps that I don't need that job right this second. There are some possible changes in the JWards future, up to and including moving aGAIN. (Just when I was thinking about changing the ol'blog name...)

I am supposed to know myself well enough to be clear about my abilities and shortcomings without need of approval. But I like to win, and I like having a job. It stings to work hard, improve, and still fall short.

One unfair audition is bad luck- but twice in one year? Blech, no point in thinking too hard about it unless it makes me want to work harder. If only I could get J to run a hot little orchestra for me and my lackeys friends.

I am 34,0000000000 years old.

Minus the zeros.

So you know what God did to make me feel better? He made it so our good friends from back in Madison who've also moved to PDX could come over at the last minute for bbq brats, beer, wine and an embarrassingly large and sugar-sludgy cake from Cosco.

And then he put American Gladiator on TV. It was just like high school in Fairbanks, where we had only three stations. Two shut down at midnight and the third played back to back episodes of Matlock, Dr. Who and American Gladiator. It's like the free beer they give out on airlines- you'll take anything when it's all you can get.

If you watch an episode of this now, be sure to watch carefully when they scan the crowd- the fashion and hair alone are wellll worth your time and concentration.

Totally kissing up to you.

I really am sorry about that blog blackout, and to prove it, I'm going to post more for a while and include a lot of pictures.
When Toby's sleepy he sucks his middle fingers and pulls on an ear. We've taught him a few baby signs because it's our duty as whatever yuppies of our generation are called. He signs milk, more, bird, no, plane and some mystery one that resembles the chopping motion fans of whatever baseball team that was with the un-PC Native American name used to do. Or else it looks obscene, a stunningly inappropriate (ergo pretty funny) possibility pointed out by everyone who has witnessed it. It even freaks me out when he delightedly grabs for the jewels during diaper changes, so I am hopefull we'll discover he's trying to imitate a conductor or perhaps a physicist writing formulae on some imaginary Nobel-winning chalk board.

Anyway, since we don't yet have a good pic of him demonstrating that mystery motion (just the SIGN, people) here he is requesting a nap.

CHeeese!

For my birthday I got a really great carpet, a bunch of beautiful plants & plantars and (drumroll..................................) an off-camera flash set from Midwest Photo so I can do some of the things taught at www.Strobist.com!

Here's the first fruit- I promise it will get better, but doesn't he look like thaaat kind of lawyer here? Have you been injured due to negligence or carelessness? Heh.

WhoooOOOPS!

And... we're back.

Sorry about that. I played a bunch of concerts here, then went to Montana for almost two weeks to visit relations. I thought I'd be posting on the road but just never got myself to a computer while one was available.

I will think of something to say soon.

Meanwhile, I played the strangest audition.

First, in the cramped loud communal warm-up room, a former member of a famous string quartet was recognized as one of the auditioners. That was kinda wild, especially because he sort of freaked and left before even hearing results for his group. Then, when they finally gave us our own little rooms just before playing, they came around and asked to take our solo piece so they could copy it for the committee.

Let me tell those of you not privy to the joys of auditioning that this is really freaking wierd. First of all, did they seriously not know the 2.5 pieces they would hear? Second, it was like five minutes to T-time, and what were they futzing with our minds for? Thirdimous, have you ever looked at the music people play from? I've played from the same three pages of the Bartok for about 5 years, spanning 3 teachers and one new instrument: there are all kinds of markings on it I would rather not show while being judged. Do I want them ogling my mess of bowings, fingerings, phrase reminders, pitch corrections, phone numbers from pianists in three states? I don't even need the sheets, but with the committee behind a screen there is NO point in even risking playing without them. Apparently when the committee's gopher finally made it back to the big room to collect everybody's solo parts (I was alone in a little one by then) the mighty violists gave them a big veetoe, and refused to provide parts to be copied.

Soooo, we played the first round. It went well for me, so I was really going to be pissed if I didn't advance- I can deal with screwing up and getting cut, but the constant re-evaluation of my entire life and perceptive capability gets a little old. This time I made it to the next round, so, yippee!

And the next round. With the same two other violists.

And the next round. With the same two other violists.

And the next round. With the same two other violists.

Funny thing about that. We played the same stuff repeatedly (there were only 5 excerpts) and we always played in the exact same order. And they never asked me to do anything differently. Usually in later rounds they have already determined you have the chops they require. So they see how flexible you are- what you'd really be capable of in a rehearsal when the maestro makes a request.

Apparently they had candidate 3 do lots of things. They told candidate 2 about a wrong pitch she had learned. They said nothing to me. Four times.

And then they picked the guy whose wife is on the committee.

Haha. Funny. Thing is, I didn't know that bit about the nepotism until hours after, and in the interim I had a key-throwing, sniveling fit involving seriously questioning what the point is in my continuing to play. I wasn't being dramatic- just practical. I would rather pack it in than be relegated to lame per-service ensembles. I whined about how I won stuff all through school, graduated and BAM. Haven't won crap (and I have really been auditioning for some serious crap) since.

Sorry for not blogging. And that this post is such an enjoyable romp through my insecurities, but I'm sure I'll get back into the swing of things soon.

Benched

When we own the amazing house with a stream running along the generous property line, I would like to buy these benches and arrange for a canopy overhead and play string quartets while sipping mint juleps and/or margaritas.

Amish parents have balls of steel.

We are watching this jawdropping documentary called Devil's Playground, about the tradition called Rumspringa within the Amish church. Literally translated as "running around", this is one frightening concept.

The Amish let their children go out and do whatever they want at 16 until they either decide to join the church or are found passed out, knocked up under a buggie somewhere with a bag of meth and a can of bud. Yet another reason I could not be Amish; Toby won't get out of our house until he's 28 and a half, and even then the microchip will help us monitor his activity. In case you were wondering what Jack Bauer's got on tap after saving Audrey Raines, he'll be serving at our pleasure keeping Tobias in line.

Frankly I feel bad for these kids, even though I can respect the spirit of the excercise. Committing to such a stringent life would have to be a choice, or most kids would rebel at some point anyway. But it's a little cruel to put all that temptation and opportunity in the hands of the ball of hormones that is a sixteen year-old boy.

One kid they focus on goes through the world's horrible things like the devil himself is holding his hand. Meth, narcing on murderous dealers, rehab, falling back into alcoholism and finally running off to Florida to follow a girl. Every parents' nightmare.

"It's like a vaccination. You get a little taste of the world... and you'll be a happier Amish person if you have a choice."

Except vaccines are safe. Balls of steel.