What animal this?

Having children, especially little girls, has allowed me to revisit my love of toys. There are so many fantastic toys out there to love. Things like easy bake ovens and magnetic dress up dolls, stickers and moon sand.

This particular toy I do not not love. I bought him (and some of his similarily funny looking friends)because E. loves him. And because watching his show on youtube brings everyone joy: the children because they are mesmerized and the mummy because she can either clean or slack off in peace.

But this morning, before the coffee had even fully defogged my brain, my online toy shopping caught up with me:

"Mummy, what animal this?"


Hmm, good question.
"Iggle piggle isn't an animal sweetie, he's sort of like a dolly"
E. just gives me a Look: "Nooooo, he's NOT a dolly!"
No, I suppose he doesn't much resemble her flaxen haired dolly. Sort of a smushed, primordial dolly. Maybe.
She persisted: "What animal this?"
"Umm...a bear?"
"Nooooo mummy."

Who would have thought that a silly old toy would have led to this conundrum of classification.

In the end I told her he was a Piggle.

Caffeine and Kittens

I like this sign. It brings me joy so I thought I'd share it with you fair reader. It's what I dream of: being left to my own devices and then rewarded with espresso and kittens. Really, what could be more delightful?

The Second Child

 

I have been known to complain
that you are making me
old

Your presence
although delightful
means more
feeding, changing, lifting, consoling
more
unending tasks, dare we say...
drudgery
It's ok Mummy likes to clean up pee
less sleep
less...me

You wake at 2 a.m. and I
sigh
feed you
change you
give a quick, obligatory snuggle and
hope
to drift back to sleep

Your eyes open...
Oh, oh...what now?

The most bewitching, conspirational smile and
little legs wriggling
kicking with joy
a laugh
It's two in the morning and you want to play?

The middle of the night
and we are
up
having a splendid time
....as only the young can

Where does a life go?

I had intended my next post to be much more frivolous in nature but...meh, sometimes the id wants to come out and play.

Someday I shall be very old and very tired and possibly even content enough to move onto the next great adventure. But...I don't think I'll want to leave my life behind. I'm working hard to cultivate it, make it interesting, loving, fun, worthwhile. Can't I take it with me when I go? The descendants can have my stuff but I don't think I'll trust them with the life I worked so hard on.

When the owner of the life departs, who's left to steward said life? The knowledge, ideas, fun and LIFE of eighty or ninety years and the mind and soul in charge of them has just left. Where does that leave all the living that happened to that person between birth and death?

For example: I sometimes wonder where in space and time is my childhood. Although it is technically gone--dead I suppose. It often comes back to me quite vibrantly through memories, photographs, cherished toys, childish diary entries. It comes back even stronger when I encounter "friends of my youth" and we are able to layer and harmonize our individual memories into something richer, deeper, more alive. Because me, my memories, the photographs, and the memories of others still exist in the here and now my childhood does not seem lost. But in a hundred or a thousand years when everything remotely connected to that childhood is forgotten dust...then will it be gone? Will it be as if those sunshiney bicycle and Care bear filled days of the nineteen-eighties never were?

And this is only a small part of the greater question: When a life is gone where does it go? I don't mean where goes the soul of the departed I'm convinced that the soul at least will return to God it's home. But the life: from chubby beloved infant to beaming mischivous child to young adult full of plans and finally on to the man or woman fulfilling (or not) the early promise and plans and hopes. Where go the loves, the hates, the everyday mundane?

If every moment of the life was recorded: written down, video taped, put into oral history would that particular life somehow be less gone? If no one remembers is it the same as if it never was?

If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?

If you could download the passing person's memories and experiences into a database would the life at least live?

It just seems a waste to live and enjoy a lovely life and then for it just to vanish because no one's around to keep that life alive.

I don't know. I suppose I think the life lives on in God's memory. Much more secure than a database. Perhaps the life is attached to our souls and just moves into heaven with us. I suppose I'm just stuck between the very tangible NOW and the decidedly ephemreal PAST. But only a moment ago the PAST was NOW and solid.

But where does a life go?

Little(ish) Tree

It's that time of year again: Time to read poetry to the Christmas tree.

This time always comes just a little bit after Christmas: when I know the tree will be leaving soon and I want to cherish, hug, hold tight these last few days of having. A tree in my house garrishly decked out yet forest simple. I would snuggle the tree--were it snugglier. Better merely to pat it's branches and breath deeply of douglas fir. And then to sit back and admire the colour and sparkle of lights and glass.

It's harder this year to find time to ponder the little tree and read him his poem. I could do it now: the children are napping. However, the husband is in the living room watching star trek. With the tree. He doesn't know that he's watching with the tree, per se. But I can tell the tree is at least a little bit interested. Anyway, tv spoils the tree poetry mood so it'll have to wait.

Instead I'll share the poem with you. You know. In case you want to read it to your tree too.




little tree

by: e.e. cummings (1894-1962)

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower
who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid
look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,
put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy
then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud
and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"

Done

I had been thinking about blogging for a while. Seemed like an amusing pursuit; a noble hobby. But...I couldn't decide where to start: I didn't have anything terribly exciting to share. I was waiting. Waiting for the perfect blogger inspiration. Waiting...

While I was waiting my husband went and started a blog. My.husband.has.a.blog. I don't think he's ever even read a blog. Blast. He sits behind me now. Chuckling that he has beat me to beginning this much pondered pursuit.

Now the words of someone else's wise old English teacher play over and over in my mind: "Done is better than perfect." Damn right.

It's not perfect. But the first post is done. Take that procrastination.

Now to redeem the aforementioned imperfections I will post charming pictures of the children.