How you been?

My apologies for the lack of posts. Between the holiday toy brawls, my receipt of a shiny new wood chipper, illness, multiple computer and connection issues, out-of-town guests, and a quick preliminary read of Judith Levine's "Not Buying It: My Year Without Shopping," I've been a tad preoccupied.

I am pleased to see that toilet connoisseur Tom Craddick (R-Midland) could well be flushed out of his position as Texas Speaker.

And I'm about to download and read "Livestock's Long Shadow," a report by a UN agency about the environmental impact of livestock practices and how to fix it. A short NYT editorial on the report says livestock production contributes more to global warming that transportation does. I am loathe to give up meat entirely so I'm eager to see the report's recommendations for improving the situation.

Holiday greetings from Texas

My gift to y'all this season is a smattering of news stories about my home state:

"The wrong arm of the law," the story of a retired East-Texas drug cop and his new business, Never Get Busted Again

"Free gun with every house bought," courtesy of Robin

and finally, "Man fights to keep bullet in head."

Feliz Navidad!

Who's your granny?

In my family, people gather together the week before Christmas. We eat meat and desserts, pass around the baby du jour and watch the children OD on sugar and open gifts. This is considered a fine warm-up for the actual holiday.

My mom gave Rocketboy the Mousetrap game he's long coveted. He promptly opened it so he and my cousin's wife's nephew could give it a try. He even cleaned it up when it was time to head back to Austin -- all but one crucial piece that he realized was gone when we got home. I braced myself for tears, but he called his grandma to describe the part and politely ask her if she would mind having a look around for it.

Of course she wouldn't mind. I know my mother loves me -- she was a tough-but-fair mom -- but nothing compares to the indulgences a grandmother will allow a grandchild. This is a woman who once cooked a batch of bacon so Rocketboy could take it down the hall and eat it in her shower. Why? Because it made him happy.

Sure enough, about an hour later, Mom called back to report that three of the four large post-party garbage bags had been sifted with no luck. Number four was outside in the dark, but she promised to get into it at daybreak. She had recruited my dad, one of my brothers and two of her friends to help her and her arthritic knee check under all the furniture, just in case. It was looking bad.

"Tell you what," she said to me, "Why don't you just go get him another Mousetrap and I'll reimburse you for it."

"Oh, you don't have to do that, Mom."

"Well, I want to."

"Okay, thanks."

"You'll do it tonight?" she asked insistently.

"No," I said. "I just drove on the interstate for two hours."

"Well, I'll look in the other bag in the morning, but you go ahead and get him another one just in case."

"That," said Rocketboy, "is the best grandma in the world."

Mom told me not too long ago that I would understand if I have grandkids of my own someday.

"All of a sudden, you've got a grandchild, and the people in charge of your grandchild may not know a hill of beans yet."

I'm no longer her only daughter. I'm her grandsons' keeper.

Thirty-six hours later I got a follow-up message on the machine: "Just calling to make sure you got Rocketboy his new Mousetrap! Call me back!"

I hadn't got it. I couldn't call back. I finally did it this evening, three nights after the original mishap. Now I can call my mother, because my son is happy.

Lucky thirteen

This is as close as I get to hearts and flowers.


Hombre and I celebrate another year of wedded bliss today. Considering the way our marriage began, this is remarkable.

I saw a bunch of my relatives yesterday and was alarmed to learn that my ringbearer, who by rights should remain two years old forever, has a learner's permit and has started driving. My tiny flower girl, now a high-school senior, brought her boyfriend with her yesterday. The little cousin who hurried up the stairs on my wedding day to let me know that my dad had fallen? She was there yesterday with her four-month-old son.

Why are all of these people getting older so quickly while I remain ageless and spry? Must be the result of marrying a younger man. Happy anniversary, Hombre.

A visit from St. Knit

Only 500 million years in the making (I got sidetracked a few times), Nautie is finally ready for my friend Chelsea's baby. What is Nautie? Why, a knitted fossil, of course, and every child of a science teacher needs one of those.

The only real modification I made from Beth Skwarecki's pattern was to duplicate-stitch the eyes rather than applique them, as babies like to mouth things. Despite my laggardly performance, Nautie was easy to make and feels sturdy. And just look at that sweet little betentacled face. Rocketboy has requested the straight-shell version in bright orange. It should be ready soon, at least in geological time.
















I had leftover yarn after doing a Mason-Dixon Knitting-inspired Log Cabin baby blanket for my new nephew, and decided to try MDK's Heartbreakingly Cute Baby Kimono. I think it turned out Heartbreakingly '80s. The hat is a stripey version of Stitch N' Bitch's Umbilical Cord Hat. Now all he needs is a white onesie with an intarsia "RELAX" motif and some neon ankle-socks.

What are you working on for the holidays? Knitting? Baking? Novelty drinks? Escape plans?

'Tisn't really the season

Twelve days until Christmas and all I want is to move the whole shebang to the middle of August. "Christmas in July" is a tired old sale slogan, but a summer Christmas would be much more practical in Texas than the year-end version we inherited.

I know Christmas got tacked onto those old European winter festivals like Saturnalia and Yule, and that's great. Nothing better to do in the middle of a dark, cold season but have a party and light some stuff on fire. Takes the mind off the bleakness and such.

But here in Austin, I spent the afternoon in a tank top and sunglasses, shoveling fill dirt into dog-made holes and transplanting still-green tender perennials. I try not to resent Christmas -- although I heartily resent the accompanying mass-merch frenzy -- but it does gall me to spend time prepping for a dead-o'-winter pick-me-up during the perfect time of year to plant trees and prep garden beds for spring veggies. It would make so much more sense to have a big party in August, when the weather keeps everyone indoors and nature is more or less dormant. That's the time to distract the kids with decorations and presents and sweets.

Right now I'd rather be gardening. I wouldn't even let my poor family have a normal plastic or dying tree. Ours is a live blue spruce in a 15-gallon pot (cleverly and decoratively concealed by a bedsheet) that will, if the weather holds, go from the living room to the front yard on the morning of December 26. Maybe next year we won't have a tree at all but a cold frame full of cole-crop seedlings almost ready to transplant, and the weirdest August 25th on the block.

Drawl it with me: Zee-BEEL-chawl-tune

Ancient Mayan sundial/calendar crawling with modern-day homeschoolers (seen here outside the home), Dzibilchaltun, Mexico.

As promised, here's more dirt on our homeschooling to the extreeeme adventure. Binky will be pleased to know that the old Mayan city of Dzibilchaltun is a showplace of a ruin these days, with detailed tours, a museum of Mayan artifacts, a glass canopy to protect the outdoor sculpture garden from erosion by rain (many of the old Mayan carvings were done on limestone) and a restaurant, gift shop, bus parking, you name it.

Our group, five busloads of families put together and led by James Chandler of Teacher Educational Cruises, arrived on a hot, sunny morning and spent the next few hours exploring the central part of the site. The old city, a salt-trade center, covered about ten square miles and held an estimated 8,000 structures so we didn't see anything close to all of it.

Guadalupe, our main guide, explained how the sundial above was set up to mark not only the time of day but the time of year as well, right down to the equinoxes, solstices and the first day of the Mayan new year. She also did a nice job of explaining to the kids that while the peak of Mayan culture has passed, Mayan people -- like her -- are still around. Too often kids (and adults) come away from studying indigenous history with the idea that the people are long gone so I was glad she made that point.

Next we walked along the old road to the Temple of Seven Dolls (left). We sat near the ruins of the outdoor classrooms and learned about the rise and fall of Dzibilchaltun, its rediscovery and restoration, and the significance of the temple. The kids climbed all over the temple, checking out the windows and doorways and the old observatory tower, which has been roofed to stabilize it.

Another guide and a translator explained to the kids how the Seven Dolls temple/observatory marked the equinoxes and solstices as well as the movement of some planets and the moon. Rocketboy wanted to know how Mayan astronomers and builders were able to site the temple so precisely without lasers and got an excited explanation in two languages about the use of posts to triangulate a position -- a brief and practical introduction to trigonometry.

After a stroll to a long, newly restored public building -- they're not sure exactly what it was for, but it had about 30 doorways and took 600 years to build in the first place -- we got to sit in the shady grass and listen to a researcher talk about the social structure of old Dzibilchaltun. To me, the knowledge scholars have put together about this city is just as remarkable as the fact that we all sat in the grass for half an hour without fire ants attacking us. It really is a subtropical paradise.

I also got a kick out of hearing the fate of the Spanish missionaries who built the now weirdly out-of-place-looking church at the site. Guadalupe said there was a misunderstanding, and the missionaries were led to believe -- either accidentally or on purpose -- that the Maya were, as she put it, "demon worshippers." Scared, the missionaries fled.

The last place we got to sit and learn about before we hit the museum (no pics there due to a ban on flash photos) was the cenote Xlacah, a beautiful pool connected to an underground river. My boys introduced their tired piggies to the minnows of Xlacah, we spotted an iguana, and a few folks jumped right in -- the place is a popular swimming hole. I would have built a city there, too.

Want more? James the tour guru told us about NASA's site on ancient observatories, Traditions of the Sun. The Yucatan page has a Dzibilchaltun tab with lots of good stuff. Click on the map sites for photos, history and time-lapse movies of the movement of the sun through the windows of Seven Dolls. Not a bad way to pass the time, especially when it's cold and icky outside.

Feel like makin' glove

Actually, I don't. With Xmas looming, I'm crafted out. I like knitting, but knitting on deadline is something else. I don't know if I'll follow through on this brainstorm but I wanted to share it for those of you needing last-minute toddler-gift ideas.

You know how fingerless gloves make it easier to go about your cold-day business -- assuming your business includes things like opening doors and finding car keys -- and how some crafty designers have modified the fingerless idea for specific activities like cigar smoking?

Well. This week's cold snap showed that fingerless gloves are not so good for little Hurricanehead. This is a tot who turns blue when he gets out of the pool on a 100-degree day in mid-July. He needs gloves with fingers, and I had hell's own time finding a pair of real gloves (as opposed to mittens or thumbless bags) in his size last night. After I finally captured and bought some, it occurred to me that he'll never keep them on no matter how cold it is because they will prevent him from going about his business, which is picking his nose.

The idea for the Lil' Booger Toddler Glove was born. Imagine it: a toddler-sized glove with a thumb and three fingers -- but nothing on that all-important index finger. It's perfect. He gets to pursue his favorite hobby, his gloves stay as clean as they're going to, and most of his hand stays covered. (His index finger will be snug in a toasty nostril anyway.)

I was going to post a photo of Hurricanehead's new gloves with the index fingers folded down to illustrate the concept, but now I see he's already lost them. Maybe I'll make the Lil' Boogers after all.

Cue the chorus of "You Light up My Life"

I mentioned when I got back from Mexico that Rocketboy and I had a grand old chat about the patriarchy, didn't I? Yes. Our 'fun day at sea' last Friday was defunned by the same cold front that left you shivering and freezing, only we were in the Gulf so we were treated to choppy seas instead of snow.

Rboy spent the afternoon on some sleepymaking seasick pills from the infirmary and we watched a version of the Cartoon Network that seemed to originate from Venezuela. The shows were in English and the ads in Spanish, but everything -- shows and product -- seemed to be American in origin.*

While we watched the millionth commercial for a Bratz makeup-related toy, Rocketboy rolled his eyes and said, "stupid!"

"So do you think toys for girls are stupid or that girls are stupid for playing with those toys?" I asked.

"I'm not sure how to answer that," he said. "I mean, I know girls aren't stupid, but those are some stupid things."

"Sure," I said. "Have you noticed that all the ads for girl toys, unless they're for really young girls, have something to do with being pretty? That's the patriarchy at work."

"How?"

"The message that girls get from the time they're your age or younger is that no matter what else they're doing, they have to be nice and pretty while doing it." I pointed at the commercial for a Barbie veterinarian toy. "Even if they're smart, like a vet, they're still supposed to be pretty. Are any of the boy toys like that?"

"No."

"See, because it's about training girls to be decorations," I said.

He nodded. "It's papaganda."

"Propaganda, son."

Rboy rolled his eyes. "Mo-om. Papa? Patriarchy? Papaganda!"

"Oh, god, that's great. Can I use that on my blog?"

"Not until I make some money with it."

I love that boy.



*One exception seemed to be Pinguinos. But tonight I found them in the produce section (!?) of my supermarket.

Shockingly grave, awful deterioration

Duh. Maybe the Iraq Study Group report will make a difference. Or maybe James Baker will literally have to take Bush to the woodshed -- surely there's one at Camp David or something.

I just got the info on the Iraqi woman I'm sponsoring for the next year. She's the third woman I've sponsored (the other two are in Rwanda) and while I was able to correspond and share photos with the others, that won't be happening with Miss M for security reasons.

That's what grave and deteriorating means in Iraqi civilian terms. All I have is her first name and hometown and a few details. She has some education but can't find work. She shares a home with a dozen people; they get about six hours of electricity per day. She's lost people to the war.

That's probably all I'll ever know about Miss M, besides the fact that my country is largely responsible for the situation in which she finds herself. I can't write to tell her how sorry I am about the whole mess, because a letter from me could put her at risk. And what good would an apology do? "Sorry my country plunged yours into civil war. We didn't anticipate this" is lame on its face. I just hope that my sponsorship and the rights education she gets will mitigate the anger and resentment she and her family must feel as they watch their country fall apart.

Speaking of anger and resentment, I skimmed the new Time yesterday and noticed they were really tearing into Bush and I thought how nice it is that they've started calling it like they see it a mere six years after the fawning media helped saddle us with this dud. "Sorry our lame, superficial reportage led your country into two terms of domestic and foreign disaster. We didn't anticipate this" won't cut it.

What I did last week

I'm back from Mexico, in body if not in mind. I'll be sharing what we learned at Dzibilchaltun and Xcaret when I'm better-rested and sentient, but here's the general scoop:

I learned that my sons are much better travelers than I was as a child. This bodes well for future excursions. Hombre and I lunched on a warm Caribbean beach while the kids played in the waves a few steps away. I saw flying fish not flying. I saw a mushroom farm. I saw an amazing pre-Columbian example of Mayan astronomy/architecture:














Temple of Seven Dolls, Dzibilchaltun

and I saw cuteness in the extreme:


Baby sea turtles swimming, Xcaret

I was vomited on in two countries (by my own children, for which I guess I'm grateful) and I had a great discussion with Rocketboy about how toy advertising indoctrinates kids into the patriarchy. He coined a fantastic term which I will be at liberty to use on this blog once I cough up five dollars. I need to get some sleep and then find an ATM.