The Re-Visitor

It's a raccoon in case you couldn't tell. :) Drew woke me up early this morning, about 4am, whispering, "Do you want to see the raccoon? He's outside." No mistaking the big lumbering hulk standing on our railing trying to break into the bird feeder from the top. Then as Drew fumbled in the dark for the camera, I could swear I saw the visitor lifting his leg to our feeder. This time, turning the camera flash off, I flipped the porch light right before Drew snapped the two pictures above. Can you see the visitor making a run for it?

Kah

After opening the same baggie several times for Z, she caught on to the word "kai", which means "open" – she pronounces it "kah". I continued to open the baggie several more times, with "kah" hounding me every few seconds, before Z took it and disappeared, apparently tired of the lesson. When she reappeared, however, she had with her a box of the mini Cadbury eggs that I'd bought that morning for Easter baskets. She handed it to me and said, "kah".

The Visitor

Two nights ago, as Drew and I were settling to a quiet evening after putting the kids to bed, I heard some isolated commotion on the back deck. Drew chased the visitor off before I could get a look at him. When Drew heard the noise again v. early this morning, mid-sleep, and got up to investigate, he remembered to the grab the camera (for my sake), but was thwarted by the flash (above). So he quickly opened the sliding door and managed to catch three more shots:

One of the visitor's backside as he's making his getaway...

and two of the visitor himself. (It's a raccoon in case you couldn't tell.) In Drew's words, the visitor was "lounging on the railing, looking up at the stars, occasionally treating himself to a handful of seeds from the feeder". Though we have the feeder arm tightened down as far as it'll go, it can still be swiveled with, apparently, not much effort for easy access. Thankfully stealing from the bird feeder is not so big a nuisance as scattered trash all over the driveway, which has been happening quite frequently to the next door neighbors. (You'd be amazed at how much trash their family of six can produce in one week.)

It's On

Our landlord and their realtor came by the house on Sunday to give the place a once over for putting it on the market (tentatively starting this coming Saturday). The idea of having to keep the place up and absent ourselves for showings without any benefit or incentive, i.e. all the inconvenience and nothing to show for it, doesn't sit very well with us, and having to put up with an uppity realtor whose attitude gives you the feeling she wants you to bend over backwards for her makes it worse. I'm willing to make certain sacrifices in order to help the landlord (not the realtor) out, but if there's a line to be drawn, Drew's going to do it (because I'm the non-confrontational sort). He's been over our lease contract and we don't have to consent to letting realtors and potential home buyers through, and even the landlord is required to give us a certain amount of notice (24 hours?) before stopping by. Like this Friday, when they plan a marathon fix-it job, painting walls (in the living room and kitchen), hanging new blinds, polishing wood, disposing of all those branches, maybe some yard work in the front. Drew had offered to help out, but it might be better if we practice absenting ourselves – we're busy enough as it is with further de-cluttering and orchestrating our own move.

The Birthday Boy

Simple Addition

G has a strong inclination towards her math lessons, prefers them over the other subjects, can spend a full hour doing the unit activities. After breakfast on Saturday, she pulled out her workbooks and got Drew involved in showing her simple addition problems. Overheard:

Drew: So let's add two numbers together. Pick two numbers.
G: Five and six.
Drew (holding up five fingers): Here's five, and (holding up six fingers) here's six. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Wait, that's not right.

At this point, I burst out laughing, to the point of tears, from where I was in another room changing Z's diaper. Drew, in the meantime, realizing his mistake, came to the correct answer. (Explanation: Thinking of "six", he added six more, instead of five.) We went to penny representations after that.

TOPh: Date That Picture

My mom found these and brought them on her recent trip – she went home on Thursday. She can't remember what year they were taken, maybe 1986 or 1987, or where (in Taiwan) for that matter. There's no time stamp on the back – woe to the pre-digi cam age –, and it's hard to gauge how old I or my cousins are.

But the adults are Shiao YeePoh, the boys' mom, San YeePoh, and AhTai, my AhPoh (from L to R).

And this is me with San YeePoh's husband. Before my own kids, I was pretty familiar with the terms "YeePoh", "grandma's sister", and "AhTai", "grandma's mother", because women tend to outlive men? But now that my own kids stand a pretty good chance of meeting the YeePohs' respective other halves, I'm at a loss as to what their title is. I threw out "YeeGong" once in desperation, which was hilariously seconded by Shiao YeePoh's husband over Skype, but apparently, my mom tells me, it doesn't sound what you might call proper. So until the actual meeting(s) when someone can settle this for us, we'll just call them "Yie-Yie", which is just another term for "grandfather".

"Bah-Bah"

Z heeded the call of the outdoors, ventured onto the back porch to feel the sun on her back and the wind in her hair. Her new word: bah-bah.



p.s. I despise pollinating trees.

Upside Down

A Little Bob

We had a mini girls' day at the salon: AhPoh made appts to have both her and G's hair done by the Korean lady I go to, and next thing you know she's trimming up BB and Z's hair too.

G's is layered and wispy with bangs: the picture doesn't do it justice; Sue evened out BB's bangs, fixed the sides: Daddy's "special";

and Z, who's never had a haircut, got the front and sides trimmed to even.

Sopping Wet

A beautiful day yesterday, positively spring-like with near-60s and not a cloud in the sky, perfect for melting snow. The girls went out once in the morning before the melt really began, and then again in the afternoon when it was good and messy out. I warned them about playing in the sand table, a ready-made mud puddle, but that turned out to be the most fun.

Both their gloves were soaked through entirely, and their snow pants weren't much better in places not covered by their coats, which were caked in wet sand; and G even dipped her head in the water at one point. Probably their only dry parts were their feet.

Happy Toes

I got a much needed pedicure over the weekend – during a mixed-up first-day-of-spring snow storm. (You should have seen the action at our bird feeder!!!) Earlier in the day, my mom and I met Elizabeth and a mutual friend Meredith, visiting from DC, for lunch at this hip new crepe place in Kansas City. I had their creamy roasted potato soup – kind of spicy: yum – and the #6, which had Brie, bacon, pesto and creme fraiche in it. Delish! Afterward we wandered around the Nelson-Atkins museum: saw their Venice glass (modern art) exhibit (bah); and admired the Renaissance pieces. Another satisfying girls' day – I know a girl can get spoiled with too many of these outings, but I'm going to be single-mom-ing it this week.

Whack a Cyst

Drew developed what he thought to be a ganglion cyst on his wrist some weeks ago. After reading more on the alternatives for treatment, he ultimately decided to smack it with a very heavy book – I retreated to the other side of the house, which wasn't far enough for the sound. The home treatment was mostly successful: the cyst is less than half its original size. But what gets me is what the doc said at Drew's yearly checkup on Wednesday. "Yup, that's how they used to do it." No remonstrance, no future discouragement. So Drew just might whack his cyst again, since it's not completely gone.

Under Contract

St Joseph came through for us yesterday! Our agent called us first thing yesterday morning, which in real estate terms is after 9am, to say that the sellers were counter-offering once again – and we accepted. After eight years "on the road", we have the beginning of roots. Incidentally, there was no second bid. When our agent became suspicious of the other realtor's procedural protocol, that is, trying to work a second offer before completing negotiations with the first, the other realtor claimed that she was misunderstood, that there was only the possibility of a second offer but that it didn't come to fruition. I say "boo" to her underhanded tactics.

So after Drew set his name to the contract papers – the loan is in his name only because he's got better credit than I do –, we set up an inspector for Monday afternoon. Our main concern is some cracks in the foundation, which could simply be a drainage problem not a bigger structural one, that the seller disclosed. There's also a question of wood rot that a number of houses in the neighborhood have had to deal with – Drew talked with two of the neighbors before we bid –, so our agent got them to agree to fix it as part of the contract. And because Drew's interested in using the fireplaces to help heat the house in winter, maybe get a stove insert for efficiency, we're keen to know their condition.

Sneak peak: This is the entryway with the front door behind. Immediately to the right is the master bedroom; the door on the middle right is stairs to the basement; to the immediate left, kind of over the left shoulder if you will, is the door to the garage; and in a short hallway next to that is the laundry closet and half bathroom to the kitchen.

The living room, which was a big selling point for Drew. You can just see the stairs to the second floor in the above picture.

Standing at the (living room) fireplace, there's the dining room. The second doorway in the background leads to the kitchen, and next to that is a hearth room (with another fireplace) and a door leading to the backyard.

A view of the living room from the top of the stairs, i.e. the second floor.

St Joseph! Pray for Us!

House buying sucks. It's a buyer's market, but we buyers are all vying for the same good deals – two others disappeared right from under our noses earlier in the week – and trying to make the tax incentive deadline. This is a horrible time to learn the process: we're first-time buyers. After the hundreds of man-hours spent combing through the listings – I'm uber picky – and touring just about a dozen homes, we decided to bid on a house Wednesday evening. I tell you, the suspense of waiting to hear back from the sellers was intense, who knew it could be so excruciating? The sellers pretty much waited until the last possible moment – we set a deadline on our offer – to reply. Not thirty minutes after our new offer, which didn't quite meet them halfway, their agent deigned to tell us that they have another bid, are we sure about our counter-offer? Of course, we'd already been at the shady deals and shady real estate agents and horror stories talk for hours, when we didn't hear back right away, so we're thinking they're trying to scare us into going higher by using a possibly-phantom second bidder, or the agent stalled for so long because the agent is representing both the seller and this second bidder; the conspiracy theories could go on ad infinitum. The whole process – and we're only at the v. beginning! – has really turned me off from the idea of home buying, not that I was so enthusiastic about it in the first place, as a means of satisfying some American dream. Anyway today being St Joseph's feast day, we're confident that he will intercede on our behalf to give us an answer, to close this thing up, to our benefit, whether that means the house will be ours or not.

The Bottom Line

As humans I think we tend to think the worst when we hear the term "specialist". They're the ones you go to when your regular doc gets that concerned look on their face, and maybe says, "Hmmm...". That's where our saga with Z has ended: Dr Edward Hoffman, specializing in developmental and behavioral pediatrics.

On our pediatrician's recommendation, to make sure she didn't miss anything, I called Dr H's office a month ago, and passing his initial screening process, we got in on a cancellation yesterday (rather than the first available opening in mid-May). Though I'm not sure I was ever what you might call "concerned", I think seeing a specialist was the big step towards putting our minds at ease about Z's delay(s), that is, being able to definitively rule things out *now*. After doing a full eval, Dr H concluded Z is without a doubt not autistic and only about 1-3 months delayed overall, taking into consideration that she could be under-performing due to unfamiliar surroundings and partial language barrier. To be sure, however, we have a follow-up appt in six months.

In the meantime, Dr H's Rx: continue with First Steps physical therapy, maybe once a month, only if we feel it's a help to her rather than one big anxiety attack; and meet with a FS speech therapist, also once a month, to get tips on improving her vocabulary (in a hands-off capacity), again only if we feel the need.

It Happened One Day

My baby went and turned five over the weekend. I slaved over cinnamon-nut buns (minus the glaze) for breakfast.

And in the evening, we had Elizabeth to dinner. While awaiting AhPoh's arrival, we opened E's present: fingernail embellishments, gardening tools, and a Fancy Nancy sticker book.

We had Swedish meatballs over noodles,

and a chocolate-almond-instead-of-pistachio torte.

Our present to G: pop beads, which we played with until my thumbs were sore. (Drew pronounced them to be "Legos for girls".)

A Child's Heart

G was flipping through the latest issue of Reader's Digest when she came upon a full-size picture of a little boy with a cleft lip. Naturally, she wants to know what's wrong with him, so I tell her that he was born that way and that a simple surgery will correct his lip so he can eat normally – except his parents probably don't have the money to pay for the procedure. As it happens, the day's pile of mail also contained a birthday card (from Uncle Mark and his family), which included some spending cash, for her. She immediately took her money to Drew and said, "Can we send some of this to him?"

Letting It All Hang Out

I don't know how her shirt got like that, but we're certainly not letting her out of the house looking like that!

Good Godmother

Yesterday I was notified by BB's godmother Elizabeth that it was the anniversary of BB's baptism day. (What else would you call it?) I'm bad, I admit it: I had to look it up! I guess I didn't remember that it was so close to G's birthday – I probably won't remember next year.

But Elizabeth came through with the presents: a picture book of saints...

and charm bracelets, Catholic-style, all around. (Kindly disregard the clean laundry *neatly folded* on the back of the couch.) For my part, I pulled together breakfast for dinner to celebrate. Banana walnut buttermilk waffles and sweet potatoes, steamed, with a maple sour cream dressing (tastes like a really thick vanilla yogurt), which was overshadowed by the homemade whipped-cream-bordering-on-butter.

One of Its Kind

For such a little thing, this project gave me a lot of grief. I'm not a very exact crafter to begin with, I depend on those fudge factors, so having a not-really-square square caused me problems, among them, having to hand sew the sides to minimize bulk and improve the look of the corners of the bag.

Needless to say, I won't be making another one of these, pretty as it is, anytime soon.

Seek for Your Welcome

It used to be when Drew would come home from work, the girls would race to the door to greet him with "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" These days, however, as soon as they hear the garage door going up, the two older ones race into their usual hiding place, the closet in their room, and yell, "Daddy, come find me!" as soon as he's within earshot. At least he's still got Z, who will stand at the stairway gate, sometimes rattling it in her excitement, with a surprised look on her face, like "Who's that coming up the stairs?" Maybe one day when she starts talking, we'll get her to take up the "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" scream.

Lillian Too

In college, I worked for two summers at the nearby air force base as an administrative assistant, taking calls and messages for the multitude of pilots in the squadron, making copies, sending faxes, running errands, that kind of thing. Since the pilots were always in and out, or gone for long stretches at a time, it was hard for me to learn their various ranks and names – and sometimes it was questionable whether or not they knew mine. One LtCol in particular called me "Lillian" for the entire summer before he was most embarrassingly, that is, publicly, corrected. We had all been sitting around at one of the semi-regular Friday "top secret" meetings with the purpose of giving call signs to the newest members of the squadron. Call signs are funny little nicknames that they assign more often than not according to an embarrassing story that's followed you throughout your career, e.g. the captain called "Stinky", or sometimes as a play on one's name. When the subject of my call sign came up and the ideas started flying, the LtCol in question asked, rather loudly, "Who's Vivian?" Anyway so I had myself a private laugh this morning when one of the preschool teachers for the other class called me "Lillian".

Invasion of the Bathroom Snatchers

I once joked with a single friend (no kids) of mine that when you have kids, you'll never go to the bathroom alone again. I don't know about other people's kids, but if I'm in there, they always find some excuse to be in there, whether someone hit someone and they've come to tattle, or someone has to use the potty. Maybe it's not so bad for me because we're all girls, but poor Daddy, I don't know how many times he's literally been run out of the place. And locking the door doesn't help because they'll either pound on the door until he relents, or it's an "emergency" for which you can't deny little bladders (or colons). It's gotten so that sometimes he has to retreat to the guest bathroom downstairs in order to get anything done.

Maybe you remember this one: this was just after my first attempt at potty training G, back in the day, and she "trained" Pippi instead.

Bride and Groom

 

 

The Sun and Moon

G's learning about outer space at school, a big can of worms. The first day, she came home talking about the *nine* planets in our solar system – the only one she could remember was Pluto – and wanting to see pictures on the internet. We spent an hour that evening talking about and watching Space School videos on YouTube. The next day we looked through our recent library acquisitions: Earth, Our Planet in Space and The Moon, both by Seymour Simon. Of course, there's been a million questions I can't even recount them all. But on Thursday I got a kick out of the new song that Ms Stephanie taught them (set to the tune of Ten Little Indians).

G: One little, two little, three little planets
     four little, five little, six little planets,
     seven little, eight little, nine little planets,
     circling around the moon.
Me: Don't you mean "circling around the sun"?
G: No, the moon.
Me: Mmm, okay.

Later that evening, performing her song for Daddy...

G: One little, two little, three little planets
     four little, five little, six little planets,
     seven little, eight little, nine little planets,
     circling around the sun.

The Last Straw

Or last dead ladybug, as it were. Found another one lying flat on its back, so I decided to set them free. Today was 58 degrees and sunny. I figure they have a pretty good chance. Better than at our house anyway.

When Confronted with Abundance

What do you do when you're the youngest and you're given a whole plate of pears all to yourself? Why, take a bite off every single one (to establish "territory"?), of course.

I Was Inspired

by the spring-like weather – full sun and almost temperate temperatures, although I hear we're in for some unpleasantness within the next week – to "make" this maternity jeans skirt. (I think the toddler rather improves the picture, don't you?)

After swishing about in the skirt for a bit, I've decided I'm going to add some panels to the side (above, without said panels). :sigh: I wish that belly button meant that I was *done*.

It's been awhile since I felt like sewing, uncovering the ol' machine, but this weekend, while perusing my blog reader, I felt the inspiration breeze brush my cheek. First, with this origami drawstring bag and this car seat book holder, and then remembering how I've always wanted one of those refashioned jeans skirts. So I butchered this pair of hand-me-down maternity jeans that never fit: too tight in the butt and thighs or too loose in the waist, depending on the trimester, for practice. My one regret, which shall be remedied with my next skirt (non-maternity), is that I cut the leg pieces on the wrong side so that I have a visible third seam on the front and back of my skirt. Next on the chopping block (after the drawstring bag): Drew's almost-Salvation-Army t-shirts, which I'm going to size down for my own benefit. Unfortunately, it'll be some months before I can actually wear them.

[Update: Because I was short on fabric, I did side panels half the length of the front and back, and although they improve the overall shape of the skirt, I kind of wish I had tried for 3/4 length panels instead.]

French Kiss

Do you know that scene where Meg Ryan's just sampled a medley of local cheeses only to suffer from lactose intolerance? Drew and I used to think that was really funny – but maybe not so much anymore. Because of BB. It's official: after more than a week without milk and none of our usual problems, we deduce that she must be at least partially lactose intolerant. It seems she can still manage a few slices of cheese, and on Friday, we had yogurt milk shakes without any adverse effects. Now, I'm going to experiment with spreading her daily serving of milk throughout the day.