Honk if You Love Spring

So I was driving around the other day, heard Nina Simone’s version of Here Comes the Sun on the radio and almost started crying…PMS may have had something to do with it, but I really think it was mostly just a huge sense of relief that spring has finally arrived. (Have I mentioned that it was a looong winter?) There are leaves on the willow tree, and our tiny arugula leaves are looking pretty perky. Redbud and dogwood are in bloom and we’ll be heading into DC tomorrow to spend some quality time with the cherry blossoms. Coco is way into daffodils this year. She points them out while we’re driving and likes to stop and smell them. (I’ve never thought of daffodils as a particularly fragrant flower… According to her, they smell like Play Doh.) The garden (hallelujah!) is moving forward.

And our migratory birds are back from points south. Our Blue Heron (code name Ron) has made an appearance, and our pair of Canada Geese is settling in. They’re like our very own Mr. and Mrs. Mallard-- only not as nice. This will be their third spring nesting on the little island in the middle of our pond. In the past, we’d tiptoe around the pond for weeks to avoid disturbing them, only to have them head for the hills as soon as the goslings hatched. I can’t help feeling kinda used…In two years, we’ve had one measly gosling sighting, and the kids weren’t even awake for it. I know they’re just trying to do what’s right for their little fam, but come on guys, couldn’t you hang around and let us ogle your babes for a few days. What do you say?

Petit Pim, je t'aime

So I have recently launched a concerted (if somewhat overdue) effort to bring French into the lives of my children.

A little background for those who may not be in the know: I’m a passionate francophile who spent 2+ years in Paris and worked for the French government in the US for five. I used to speak French like, well, a French person, and I can still rock it pretty well although my vocabulary now has some holes in it (as we all know, if you don’t use it, you lose it). I’ve been asked why I didn’t just start speaking French with my kids all the time. I guess I don’t really have a good answer for that other than it just didn’t feel natural. I’ve always thrown in words and phrases, though, and done some reading when I could get my hands on a kids’ book in French.

Anyway, I recently discovered the Little Pim series (language dvds for toddlers and preschoolers) through my overachieving sister whose kids are learning Spanish. The best thing is that they have them at our local bibliothèque (little library, have I told you lately that I love you?). Pim is an animated panda who introduces basic vocabulary and useful phrases. The kids responded pretty well to those, and then I got the idea of using the French language option on some the other shows they watch. Coco (who has only been watching videos for a couple of months) is totally down with watching Bob the Builder en français. Hank…not so much.

I’m kicking himself for not starting this stuff earlier for him. I think I was overwhelmed by parenthood, and the brilliant ideas were just not forthcoming. When he started watching videos at like 3.5 (man, I was sooo proud of myself for holding out so long on screen time), I was still adjusting to having a second kid and felt like I was in a constant fog. I’m seeing things a little more clearly now, and I’m fairly sure it’s not too late for the boy. He’s into it as long as I don’t push too hard. Plus, being around Pim has encouraged me to use French with them a little more.

It seems to be working: they occasionally surprise me with random French phrases. Coco likes to go around saying “une pomme-c’est ca!” and “fais dodo”. Henry, out of the blue, came up with “il joue avec une cube” the other day.

The ever lovin’ and I had big plans to scoot down to Richmond for their world-famous (seriously) French Film Festival this weekend. But car troubles and the usual budgetary constraints are keeping us here. So I’ll be missing out on Le Hérisson, the screen version of Muriel Barbery’s Elegance of the Hedgehog, and the other cool stuff on the program. Might have to sign up for Netflix again to check some of it out. We did get to watch Jules and Jim on dvd again last night. That’ll have to do for now.

Process of Elimination

Coco’s on the potty. Lucinda’s on the radio. Life is good.

Ah, the joys of potty training. Still a drag, but I must admit, compared with my last experience, this has been a piece of cake. All it really took was a six pack of Hello Kitty underpants to get things rolling. Now she’s ditched the dipes and is not looking back.

With Hank, it was more of a long, hard slog. He got the concept, but just couldn’t be bothered. He was averse to anything that might get in the way of whatever activity he was engaged in. Playing with trucks with poop in his underwear was just not a problem. Anyway, we’ve been fine for some time now, thank goodness. And now I’m on to the second and final round.

I’m surprised at how effortless it’s been with the little girl. Not that the process is ever totally stress-free. One is constantly on the lookout for public toilets, and must be ready to drop everything when nature calls. There’s nothing like having your kid tell you he has to poop when there are no facilities in sight or when driving on an interstate. The other thing that gets me is that everything seems to take so long. Patience, unfortunately, is not a parenting virtue I’m blessed with. (Hmmm…I wonder what, if any, are my positive qualities as a parent? I have a pretty good grasp of the English language-does that count?). I’ve been spending a lot of time lately sitting on the tub while Coco does her thing, asking “Are you done sweetie?” every few minutes. The other day it was particularly excruciating because I really had to pee myself. I’ve long thought that being a parent of young kids is all about catering to their bodily functions while denying your own. Oh and Co, like her brother in the early days, was pretty quick to pick up on the trick of using bathroom stuff as a way to delay bedtime. I’m always a sucker for that one…I know exactly what she’s doing but don’t want her to feel pressured. Half and hour later….

Anyway, really, the hang-ups have been minimal, and the end is in sight. I’m looking forward to burning the diaper bag.

PS: Lucinda, I’m still a fan even though I haven’t been really crazy about anything since Essence. Whenever I listen to this stuff, I can’t help getting a little nostalgic for those freewheeling NYC days at the turn of the millennium when I got to go to the bathroom by myself every time. Good times, but plenty of heartache, too. Anyway, I’m (obviously) on another plane these days, but I’d still want Car Wheels on a desert island.

Literary Legumes

If I can’t have Paris, I’ll always have split pea soup.

I have been totally rockin’ the pois cassés this winter. Let me tell you, SPS is pretty much everything you want in a meal: hearty, nutritious, cheap. And my kids eat it without complaint. It’s been a favorite of mine since childhood when we called it robber soup. The name came from my favorite Richard Scarry storybook, which featured Pierre the Paris Detective who catches a crook hiding in a pot of soup in a Parisian bistro. It’s never explicitly indicated that the soup in question is in fact split pea. But it’s definitely green, and my family decided early on that it couldn’t be anything else. I should note that I find Richard Scarry and split pea soup incredibly comforting and evocative (my late father was a big fan of both). Then there’s the Paris thing. When I read the story as a kid, of course, I had no idea I’d wind up living in and falling in love with that city. My first encounter with destiny? Hmmm…Anyway, I recently rediscovered the book and am overjoyed to introduce Pierre and all the other wonderful characters to my people.

When I was growing up in the 70s, we always just heated up split pea soup from a can. Being a whole foods mama, I try to avoid canned soup with all the sodium and questionable ingredients. Plus they’re now telling us there’s BPA (the bane of 21st century parents) in the lining of aluminum cans. Anyway, it’s pretty easy to make--you just have to do a little chopping. The recipe I use happens to be vegan, and I think it’s delicious. (Although the Ever Lovin’ keeps telling me it’s crying out for some ham.) It has barley in it, which I love. I substitute veggie stock for half the water to make it a little richer. I also find that soaking the peas overnight makes them more tender.

I always though split peas were somehow special--you know, different from other peas. But it turns out they are just good old pisum sativum cut in half and dried. And why, you may ask, are they split. As it turns out, it simply makes them easier to cook.

While I’m on the subject, here’s a little nursery rhyme, another favorite of my dad’s:

Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold,
Pease porridge in the pot, nine days old;
Some like it hot, some like it cold,
Some like it in the pot, nine days old

Seeing Stars

My favorite thing about spending a lot of time with young children is their amazing ability to see the ethereal in the mundane.

For example, I had the two-year-old up on her changing table when a ray of sunlight illuminated some dust particles floating in the air. Just as I was beginning to make a mental note about scheduling some much needed spring cleaning, she looked over at the tiny specks and said, “Little stars! Little stars are falling on me.” I swear some of the stuff that comes out of her mouth is impossibly sweet.

A few days later, Hank had his own moment of wonder while pulling apart a piece of string cheese. Now really, in my world, there is pretty much nothing more mundane than string cheese. I have, by the way, mixed feelings about string cheese. It’s a little too processed for my taste and the only kind my kids will eat is made by Kraft, which is not a corporation I patronize willingly. But I buy it anyway because it’s a favorite of my anti-refined sugar guru and in line with my efforts to feed my kids high protein snacks. Plus, they’re now making it without growth hormones, which makes it a little more palatable. There is, however, not much that brings me down worse than finding a piece of forgotten, half eaten, congealed string cheese on the floor. But I was totally touched when my boy looked down at one of his shreds and said, “Look, it’s a baby comet.” The kid’s been copping an attitude big time lately, and it was a relief to get back to some unadulterated sweetness for a change.

Ever since we settled down out here in the wilderness, I spend a lot of time pining for city life. But one thing I always missed during my glorious stints in a few fabulous cities was being able to see the stars. There’s nothing like getting home on a clear winter evening and looking up at Orion hanging there over our heads. Like certain aspects of parenthood, it never fails to take my breath away.

Mud and Mouse Guts

A month later and (after a string of 60 degree days) the snow is (almost) gone. All we’re left with is a few patches of white and the mudslide that used to be our driveway. Ah yes, the spring mud-- I feel like I’m in a Tolstoy novel. Every day, there’s fresh mud all over the floor and mud-covered outerwear strewn all over the place.

I’ve been thinking (with envy) about a house I was in a couple of years ago when Henry was in a playgroup with some other local kids. It was a beautiful, architect-designed pad. Not huge and ostentatious, just spacious and lovely. Of course, the mom is a muuuuch better housekeeper than I am (but that’s another story). Anyway, fabulous kitchen and living area, but the best thing about it was the mudroom. It had, as I recall, lots of shoe storage (dirty shoes in my kitchen have become the bane of my existence) and a kickass utility sink. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that a good mudroom would solve, if not all, at least a great majority of my problems. Maybe a lobotomy would solve the rest…

In other spring thaw developments: the cats have resumed their daily practice of leaving rodent organs for us on the porch (I guess 4 feet of snow made mouse hunting a little tricky). So we’re once again experiencing the joys of walking out the door and stepping on a liver.

The birds are starting to sing in the mornings, and the last few days have been lovely. The kids and I took a walk through some of our (oh so muddy) fields to a wooded area on the farm with a nice little stream running through it. Henry bent down and fished out a creek stone for his sister. She was thrilled and named it Little Rock. She was pulling up the rear as we made out way back to the house and dropped it several times. Every time, my sweet boy would run back and find it for her. We finally made it to the pond in our yard, and Henry decided to throw in a few pebbles. Then Co decided that she wanted to throw in Little Rock. “If you throw it in, we won’t be able to get it back,” I warned her. She promptly chucked it in the water and was, of course, inconsolable when it was gone. A crash course (or maybe a splash course) in causality for the babe.

The (Other) C Word

One of my kids’ favorite pastimes is looking at pictures/videos of exotic wildlife on the web. Let’s see: there were the zebus, the bald eagles, the baby chicks that people have dyed various colors while still in the egg (the ethics of this are debatable but it looks cool) and so on. The latest fixation is the somewhat oddly named, rainforest dwelling Cock of the Rock (I’m guessing the Yanomamo didn’t come up with that one). They discovered this fascinating creature in a slightly crunchy children’s book about deforestation in the Amazon that our friends Amelia and Steve (do you guys still read this thing?) passed on.

Anyway, I didn’t really know anything about the bird in question so of course I googled the name. The third entry that came up was a gay porn site, but thanks to the wholesome intellectual nourishment that is Wiki, we got the scoop. The scientific name is Rupicola, and they do look kind of amazing. My people like to go around making up little songs about cock of the rocks (or would it be cocks of the rock?) while I’m laughing so hard my tea is coming out my nose. There are just some words that make you giggle. Oh and by the way, in case you were wondering, only the guys have the stunning red crests. The females, of course, are “far duller.” Isn’t that always the way?