Onward

It doesn't take much to fall out of the practice of full-time mothering. I'm OK with the I-feel-crummy-and-I-just-want-to-hang-out-on-the-couch-in-my-jammies-and-watch-some-of-my-programs-and-maybe-read-a-book-or-two stuff, but the subsequent days of I-feel-almost-my-usual-self-but-not-quite-so-don't-even-think-of-sending-me-to-daycare-cuz-we've-got-some-serious-nonsense-to-catch-up-on stuff is exhausting. Phew.

We saw the pediatrician this morning jsut to make sure (my other insisted), but we have a clean enough bill of health to be travelling. We leave in the morning.

There's not much else to report.

Helena and I lazed about in bed for a bit after waking. She was looking for something to read on my bedside shelf, which happens to include some childhood favourites in addition to a couple books I expect to hold a toddler's interest. Although I advised her against it, she brings me each of the Narnia chronicles, one after the other, and settles in under the covers, anticipating a great story — I barely finish the first sentence, she takes the book from my hands saying, "Pas ça," and tries another. No, now is not the time.

I was impressed with how interested she was in Winnie-the-Pooh; after a couple sentences she went looking for her cloth edition (abridged).

A couple things I found at Bookninja and got excited over the other day:

1. Bookmarks! I love bookmarks! I have bunches! I even have this one!

2. Jasper Fforde in The Globe and Mail. Coinciding with fianlly getting my hands of The Well of Lost Plots, which I'm saving for my return. And also coinciding with the recent intrigue concerning Humpty Dumpty. The fifth in the Thursday Next series is "a police procedural focusing on the case of Humpty Dumpty's great fall":

"I thought this was terribly amusing, the idea that he is a real character," Fforde says. "I always treat my nonsense and the humour in my books straight — comedy is best served absolutely straight. That's what I liked about the Humpty Dumpty concept. He's an egg and he's fallen and is broken, we all know that from our childhoods, but I was asking more pertinent questions. Why did he fall, was it suicide, or murder? What's going on?"

Also, remind me to tell you about Bulat Okudzawa someday. (Rather, note to self: try to articulate the mass of feelings and reminiscences associated with the phenomenon of Bulat Okudzawa, not because anybody else would care, but because it could prove to be a good writing exercise as well as preserving a somewhat intangible aspect of family history.) Languor Management has made mention of him in days past and inspired me. Some people call him the Russian Bob Dylan — that may be accurate as far as political sentiment goes, but on the level of musicality and power of the poetry, I'd have to say he's more Leonard Cohen (and I say that to mean "far superior": he's not nasal and can carry a tune; you can understand what he's saying and it might even make your heart pine with some universal sentiment).

OK. I'm really going this time.

Poor babies, all

Hah! Fooled you, didn't I? You thought I was long gone...

The daycare called yesterday afternoon — Helena was running a fever of 103.5 and vomiting, would we come collect her?

Trip cancelled. Penalty incurred. Alternate plans not yet settled. But the laundry's dry.

I've never seen Helena looking so sickly. She vomited once more when she got home, but still demanded milk and juice. And a cookie. One bite was enough, though, to convince her it wasn't such a great idea.

Fever came and went all day. We caught her singing and colouring between naps.

Late evening was another matter. Fever came, but it wasn't going anywhere but up. When it crossed 105 we headed to the hospital.

After a 4-hour wait, the doctor confirmed that it's not an ear infection. He reassured J-F that it's not meningitis (a huge fear of his, I've learned). We went home.

Apparently, a fever of over 105 is nothing to worry about, even though more than one book advises us 103 is the threshold to watch for, and the provincial hotline during an earlier episode of illness told us to go to the hospital at 104. Lower fevers that persist 48 hours are cause for concern according to the same books and medication labels; the doctor tells us to wait 72 hours.

(Hospitals are unpleasant places. This was my first time at children's hospital: decidely more unpleasant.)

Helena is fevered, but "fine." She's spent the better part of the last 24 hours, including hospital waiting-room time, sitting on my lap or sleeping across my chest. My very own personal quasi-portable furnace.

I'm still worried for her, but not panicked.

We watched The Aristocats this morning. In a playful moment Helena thought it'd be funny and clever to change the words of her favourite song — "Everybody Wants to Be a Cat" to "dog." It was funny and clever.

There's still the slight stench of vomit in her hair. We should be ready to tackle it properly shortly.

J-F meanwhile is writing an accounting exam this afternoon. Not fun on the best of days, less fun on only 4 hours sleep.

I'm faring pretty well through all this. I'd cleared my agenda of work, and we're packed and ready to go at a moment's notice. Not only is the forced cuddling of baby sleeping on chest in itself therapeutic, it prevents me from cleaning the kitchen and bathroom or picking up groceries. Looks like take-out tonight.

Checklist

Waiting for laundry to dry. Why is it taking so long? And why am I so hungry?

Helena was up most of the night. Teething? Hungry? As anxious as I am about our pending travel adventure? Simply feeding off her mommy's anxiety?

Reports have it that she fell asleep on the way to daycare this morning. I have a bad feeling about the way our day is going to turn out.

Needless to say, mommy didn't get much sleep last night either. Now I'm sitting here, waiting for laundry to dry, thinking "What the hell did I think I had to do that there wouldn't be enough time for?" Granted, I have yet to finish packing, but first the laundry must dry.

Diaper bag is packed. There's a couple diapers in there, but there's also 2 books for Helena, 2 juice boxes, 2 muffins, 2 fruit cups, and 2 spoons. Jacob is nowhere in sight. And a toothbrush. Also one colouring book and one box of dollar-store, likely non-washable (yikes), crayons. And a change of clothes.

And some Anbesol, just in case. I was strongly against its use when Helena was younger, but the thought of the pain of molars seemed to warrant it. We've used it a couple times in the last couple weeks, and I'm fairly convinced it does nothing.

Plus a book for mommy.

The small suitcase so far contains only pyjamas and a turtleneck for me, a sweater and socks for Helena, some framed artwork, and a pair of glittery ladybug wings.

Looks like we're all set.

The printer refuses to print my ticket confirmation. I have no idea where Helena's birth certificate is and suspect they won't believe me when I tell them how old she is, and then they'll make me cough up a few thousand dollars or something.

Oh, right, I promised to pay some bills before I go.

Back in 12 days. Miss me.

The gentle madness of the bibliophile

It's not so hard to spend more on books than on food:

There are at least 700 books in my English department office. There are another 200 stashed in filing cabinets in the hallway. In my home office I estimate there are more than 2,000 on the shelves and another 300 in a pile on the floor. There are about 400 books on cooking and gardening in the kitchen. And, finally, there are about 50 books on a shelf next to my bed.

Is that all?

The anxiety you feel before a trip

I'm a basketcase!

There are a million things to do before this time tomorrow. Thankfully, work is no longer one of them, though there's still invoicing, which could reasonably be considered part of work, and there's laundry and plant-watering, which could reasonably be considered a different kind of work. And packing!

Helena and I are embarking on another journey by train to see my mother. It's a visit long overdue. J-F can't get away, so it'll be just us girls.

We've made this journey before, but Helena was a little smaller and quieter, not so sure on her feet. What am I in for this time?

To compound our adventure, I thought travelling overnight would make things easier. What was I thinking? What if she won't sleep? What if I can't get any sleep? How am I supposed to install her on the train without waking her? What happens at 5 in the morning when she wakes up, and she wakes up the whole train, and people yell at me? What if it's not possible to warm up some milk for the little crybaby? What if I can't get a cappuccino? How come I never have time to read on the train anymore?

If she is in fact sound asleep, I'll have to lug around her dead weight instead of her walking about on her own two feet and maybe even helping me carry a bag or two. Now I have to bring her pillow! (Trust me, if there's any hope of sleeping, I have to bring her pillow.)

What was I thinking?

Blah blah blah

Why do I feel so bored? Bored I tell you! And uninspired! Which makes this a very boring post indeed.

You really should go read something delightful. If you continue reading here you will only hear about the very odd little meditation of a novel I finally finished reading. And I may further regale you with the boring details of our baby-less weekend. And look forward to a fuller exploration of this intense feeling of boredom.

You've been warned.

Cosmopolis, by Don DeLillo. I'm very glad I read it, maybe especially because I have yet to finish a book of his.

(Please don't tell anyone. I don't understand it actually. They all start off great, but then... But then. Yet, I rave about Underworld — the first 100 pages of which are among the finest ever written. In fact, I thoroughly enjoyed the first two-fifths of that book, but for some reason, that's where I left off. I don't get.)

It took me more than 2 weeks to read this book in an insane number of 2- to 10-minute sittings (bus, bathroom, and occasionally just waiting). Ironic, since the novel recounts the details of a single 24-hour period in the life of a billionaire, most of the action happening in and around his limousine (with a few stops for food and sex) as it makes its way across town to get a haircut.

Not a lot of reviewers liked it much.

Only, the review in the Washington Post points out that "a 'haircut' also happens to be a slang term for a major financial loss."

That tidbit helps make clear how some people find it philosophical while others think it comic.

He was watching the second ticker begin to operate, words racing north to south.

A RAT BECAME THE UNIT OF CURRENCY

. . . It was exhilarating, his head in the fumes to see the struggle and ruin around him, the gassed men and women in their defiance, waving looted Nasdaq T-shirts, and to realize they'd been reading the same poetry he'd been reading.

The line is from a poem by Zbigniew Herbert. (I really ought to brush up on the cultural legacy that is my heritage.)

Our hero does end up getting a haircut (well, half anyway), the barber (an old family friend) proclaiming, "I never seen such ratty hair on a human."

There's both a joke and a deep commentary in there somewhere.

The language is mostly wonderful:
He was hungry, he was half starved. There were days when he wanted to eat all the time, talk to people's faces, live in meat space.
(I thought that was pretty interesting.)

But I was intensely bothered by the use of the word "what" — the way you say "what" to fill in the blank at the end of a sentence, or in the middle of a sentence, while you grope for the words. It drove me what. Up the fucking wall.

For 24 hours in reality, a heck of a lot happens; for a novel, not a heck of a lot happens.

Social commentary? There is some. Biting? No. Keenly perceptive? Ya, maybe. Something about materialism. The thing is, this book is lingering with me, and someday, for some inexplicable reason, I will read it again — pretty high praise, coming from me.

My weekend? Thanks for asking. I worked. Helena stayed with her grandmother, so J-F and I went out for a pitcher of beer and rented a zombie movie.

Wonderland

A shipment arrived from Amazon yesterday. One book for me (mabye I'll tell you about it someday), and one book I ordered for a little soon-to-be-5-year-old girl I know: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, a pop-up adaptation of Lewis Carroll's original tale by Robert Sabuda.

It is AMAZING. Magnificent. Awesome. Extraordinary. Fantastic.

The New York Times summarizes the composition of the book:

Sabuda's faithful adaptation of the original Carroll text is a pleasure to read. It appears on separate page flaps that are pasted on the side of each of the six spreads, adjacent to an exploding main tableau that rather than simply unfolding, literally flies off the page (watch out for your eyes).

While separate text flaps are common in movable books, Sabuda adds to these pages more than a dozen smaller cameo pop-ups that cleverly illustrate specific passages. On the first spread there is a smartly included accordion-folded tunnel-vision "theater," so when the reader pulls up and looks down, poor Alice is viewed haplessly falling down the rabbit hole.

The rabbit is fuzzy!

Helena is a little young for this. I've kept it well out of sight for fear of having to wrest it from her tiny, grubby little hands in a million pieces. The intended recipient, though older, is, I would have to say, a trifle more monster-like in her tendencies. However, it being a gift, should she derive pleasure from pouring real liquids at the tea party (or breaking up said party) or flinging the two packs of cards to the wind, so be it.

From an NPR story:

Pop-ups are among the last types of books still made individually by hand and the production process is painstaking. For one of the pages in the new book, Alice is caught in a whirlwind of playing cards — two full decks, 104 cards in all, accurate right down to the suits and royalty.

Sabuda says that as he strives to "make the paper obey," his goal is to create a book full of "wow" moments for his young readers. "Whatever it takes to bring kids back to books — and back to classical books — I want to be a part of that," he says.

Wow. Wow. WOW!


Off with her head. 

Robert Sabuda:
Interview (1999).
Interview (2003).
Article, with reviews of his books.

On a related matter, J-F's been asking me to explain Humpty Dumpty. We've discovered a little bit of history — apparently the image of Humpty Dumpty as an egg first appeared in Alice through the Looking Glass, but how a war-machine morphed into an anthropomorphic egg is still a mystery to me.

A mouse in the house

I picked it out of the bargain bin for its delicate illustrations.

The Mouse of Amherst, by Elizabeth Spires, illustrated by Claire A. Nivala, is an odd little tale.

When I first read it, months ago now, I was not impressed. I thought it rather boring and somewhat patronizing in tone. More than anything I was mystified at who the audience for this book might be. Why on Earth would a 8-year-old want to read this? It was weird.

Rereading it today, I feel differently. Maybe it's the sinus medication affecting my judgement, or the germ of illness crying out for a gentle touch. Maybe it's a realization in the face of miles of crap lining the shelves of the bookstores, farting dogs and celebrity discharge.

This mouse is a really sweet mouse, trying to make her way in the world, to know her heart, privileged enough to find housing in the wainscoting of Emily Dickinson's bedroom.

I was never a fan of Emily Dickinson. Perhaps that explains my initial distaste for this tale. My own personal taste aside, this is a lovely introduction to the life and work of an "important" poet. Beyond this, it might inspire the young reader to awe at the power of the written word.

My hand trembled and my heart beat rapidly as I read what I had just written. Was it possible that I was a poet? I scarcely dared to believe it. And yet I had just written something that expressed my deepest feelings. From what secret place had my words come?

Neither is there shortage of adventurous incident in the daily life of this poet mouse: a cat, an outburst directed at an unkind visitor, an ill-timed nap in a basket of gingerbread, and a ratcatcher called by the business-like sister.

This book will stir romantic souls.

Emily's poem made me feel the vastness of the universe, and a lonely sailor's desire for both adventure and safe harbor.

This mouse's tale made me remember the vastness of poetry, and a young reader's longing for the stirring of unknown passions and the compassionate voice to articulate the workings of one's heart. What 8-year-old could resist?

I'm sick.

Bed bugs

Last night just past midnight, Helena woke up crying. It wasn't typical crying — not the cries of pain, sobs of loneliness or hunger. These were shrieks. Of terror.

We found her alert, on her knees, in one corner of her crib while pointing at the other. "Da bug, da bug, da bug." The bug. While I held her, I asked her about the bug, and she traced a path across her mattress and pillow and up the wall.

No bug.

I held her while she watched, her body stiff and trembling with panic, as J-F threw back the bed covers, checked under the book, behind the bear, shook out her blankets and pillow.

No bug, but a pretty high fever.

We took her back to our bed where she was still asking us for clarification: "Da bug est parti?" (The bug is gone?)

She settled down soon enough but her eyes were wide open. Minutes go by. Then the scratching begins.

No, that has nothing to do with bugs actually. It's just that she's always had dry shins and ankles, and it itches, so she scratches.

So I applied cream, and she settled down, her eyes wide open, and many minutes later she's scratching again.

After about an hour of this annoying, but remarkably quiet, cycle, I took her off to the living room, where we curled up on the sofa and finally dozed off watching The Aristocats for the gazillionth time.

Poor baby. This, after a weekend of intense teething anguish of the back molars. At least this time 'round she has the language to be able to tell us what's going on. More or less. True, she's not always the most credible of sources (every day I ask her what she did at daycare, "did you play in traffic today?" — "Oui!" But then, who really knows what they do there all day...), but I tend to believe her, what with the red cheeks, the excessive drooling, the guiding of my finger into her mouth and chomping down hard.

J-F is sick with a cold, and I'm still crippled by the weight of work deadlines.

Yet, we had some productive shopping this weekend: running shoes Helena can't take off (yet), a skirt and sweater set, a new doll (not the prettiest of the bunch but the one at the shop Helena wouldn't be parted from, and at least it's not creepy like that other doll Helena's been lavishing atention on), and this lovely hat.

A blur of mischief. 

But is it art?

Helena brought this gem home from daycare yesterday:


Fun with scissors. 

Apparently she was really concentrated on this task. She obviously had a vision (pile of blocks) she was trying to define (cut out with scissors).

I didn't see the work of her peers, but I'm told Helena executed the task beyond educators' expectations. How she came to be adept with scissors I do not know. Honest.

She can be slow, meticulous with these kinds of projects (with anything, really — language, for instance), but only so she can get it just right.

It seems I gave birth to a perfectionist. Go figure. Certain hell lies ahead.

Compelling evidence that there is indeed a toddler living in the house:


Naptime for everybody. 

The little comedian's big kick this week: fake snoring. She pretends it's naptime, worming her way through the pillows on my bed, wriggling her body down under the covers, and closes her eyes and snores. Then she opens her eyes to see if I'm watching and breaks into a grin.

Every day when she comes home from daycare, Helena fixes tea for the cats. I'm not sure they like the spoonfeeding so much, but they seem to appreciate the gesture, even if it is only imaginary cream served in tacky purple plastic cups.

Gibson blogging for America

About a month ago, William Gibson intended to stop blogging:
I’ve found blogging to be a low-impact activity, mildly narcotic and mostly quite convivial, but the thing I’ve most enjoyed about it is how it never fails to underline the fact that if I’m doing this I’m definitely not writing a novel.

But this week, he's back, with a decidedly political edge:
Because, as the Spanish philospher Unamuno said, "At times, to be silent is to lie."

Business books for brainy babies

With a focus on management skills:

Who Moved My String Cheese? Sippy cup: check. A-list binky: check. Goldfish crackers: check. But what's this? Your Arthur marathon has been bumped by a PBS pledge drive? Not to worry. With Zen-like focus, you adjust your Pull-Up and slowly count to one. In your corner of the playpen, it's all about overcoming adversity.

Not June Cleaver

In case you missed 60 Minutes last Sunday...

The trend for moms to stay home:
Could it really be that this generation of women, the first to achieve success without having to fight for it, is now walking away, willingly, and without regrets?

Why it matters:
"These are the women that would have gone into the jobs that run our world. These were the women who would eventually have become senators, governors. These women would have been in the pipeline to be CEOs of Fortune 500 companies," says Hirshman.

None of this is news. I've come across many similar articles and books over the last year in my exploration of stay-at-home-cum-work-at-home mommyhood.

At 60 Minutes, however, they begin to ask questions of employers:
"The right question is, how do we change to keep this talent active and involved with us?"

For some reason the segment made me all weepy. I'm not quite one of those moms, but part of me wishes I were, and another part wonders why I'm not, and another part wonders why I think any of this is a big deal.

It's been a tough week. J-F was on strike a few days, so after a morning's picketing he'd pick up Helena from daycare, and both would come home, bursting in on my workday. Another deadline is looming.

More weepiness this morning was inspired by Literary Mama, which this month revolves around the theme of desiring motherhood.

One mother struggles for identity in the suburbs (and does not revolve around desiring motherhood), and it's just painfully sad.

Another (who blogs here) grapples with miscarriage. Oddly, though I've never had a miscarriage, there's something rather metaphorical about "misconceptions" that I feel I can relate to.

She writes:
I felt like the pain was deliberate, a message, someone tapping me on the shoulder and whispering, "It's time for me to be born."

Perhaps I'm a fatalist after all. I don't know where to start in conveying my sense that Helena was meant to be. That I was meant to find my own path in this way so that later I can guide her.

Yet another (who blogs here) examines the recent spate of celebrity moms, and our (new moms? moms of a certain age or socioeconomic background?) obsession with them. Oddly, though it's the most light-hearted of these stories, it's in some ways the angriest, the scariest, the most confusing, the most real.

But I also want to warn her that she can never go backwards on the path — to the person she was before. And that is scary. I want to warn her that there are dark days ahead, mixed in along with the light. And that is frustrating. I want her to know that life can be a balancing act when you are suddenly responsible for someone else's needs that are at times greater than your own. And that is overwhelming, confusing, and complicated.

This morning I also read an article (via Maud Newton) about "Silly Novels by Lady Novelists," which made me want to be a good consumer and go buy some.

Chick Lit. . . tosses the role-modeling of ideal women straight out the window. Instead, the subject becomes the mundane workaday world, the world in which we care about our stupid bosses, self-absorbed boyfriends, still fitting into that pair of jeans, and whether we have a prayer in hell of having the kinds of magazine-cover lives we keep being told we can have if only we can manage to get it all right.

Michele, meanwhile, opines about choosing not to have children.

This also makes me weepy, because that used to be me.

I have never chosen. And in this passivity, perhaps I am more June Cleaver than I care to admit, than any of my contemporaries.

When I left home for university, it was to a school and in a city I did not choose; this choice was governed by my mother. I did not choose my major so much as it naturally evolved around my whims and preferences. I did not choose most of my boyfriends; they chose me. The same is true of my girlfriends for that matter. I did not choose my career; jobs, some decent, some not, came and went — I fell into my profession and it fit well. I have not even chosen my vacations; I would asked my travel agent where I could go for this much money, and I went.

I did not choose to start a family, and there was none of the associated planning of schedules and finances; it just kind of happened.

And all of this makes me feel a little weepy.

Perhaps I need to choose something.

Stem cells

Embryonic stem cells were first isolated in November 1998.

Immediately therafter: Bill Clinton requested a review of the issues surrounding stem cell research by the National Bioethics Advisory Commission (NBAC).

September 1999: NBAC releases its report, concluding that the federal government should fund research on human embyronic stem cells.

December 1999: National Institutes of Health (NIH) releases draft guidelines allowing federally funded research on embryonic stem cells derived in the private sector, and providing for stringent oversight of such research.

August 2000: NIH releases final guidelines and with the backing of President Bill Clinton, solicited applications for its first embryonic research cell research grants.

(Source: Science and Technology in Congress (STC), published by the Center for Science, Technology, and Congress at the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS).)

So the next time George W Bush boasts that he is the only president ever to approve funding for embryonic stem cell research, feel free to throw something at him (or your television).

John Kerry referenced Christopher Reeve in last Friday's debate. Of course, if he does so this evening, it may resonate a little more deeply.

A vote for Bush is a vote for kryptonite.

Writers read

Colm Tóibín reads in Montreal, brought to you by Concordia University.

Friday, 15 October 2004, 7:30 pm
de Sève Cinema, 1400 de Maisonneuve Boulevard West

Part of Writers Read at Concordia 2004–2005.

I plan on sneaking away from J-F and Helena (something I do not nearly often enough) in order to attend. Wish me luck that I can make it happen.

I've not read anything by Tóibín, but I've read good things about him. What better way to find out if he has anything interesting to say.

If anyone knows of a good source for listings of literary events in Montreal, please let me know. I tend to stumble across events by chance, which is a method that, on the whole, works out fine for me, but sometimes I think I might be missing something — not only am I kept "housebound" by baby and by work, but the city is conspiring against me to keep me from knowing about its cool goings on because I'm not good enough for it.

Me and U.S. politics

Writers in general are overwhelmingly Democrat.

It comes as no surprise that Orson Scott Card is voting for Bush. John Updike is articulate in his support for Kerry, and Jonathan Franzen thinks Teresa Heinz Kerry is hot.

What does come as a big surprise to me is the explanation of Dred Scott as referenced by Bush in last week's debate.

(Watching the debate, I even started jumping up and down and pointing at "who would you appoint to the supreme court" cuz I'd been thinking that's exactly the question I would've asked.)

Read about sacrificial lambs.
"Thirty states are poised to make abortion illegal within a year."

Vote Kerry.

Scifi — good for business

Stepping forward
According to BusinessWeek, "we're living in a science fiction world," but there are still some very smart reasons to explore the genre — "otherworldly fantasies can evoke solutions to real problems":

To mine not-yet-practical ideas.

To learn the lexicon of the future: Robot. Cyberpunk. Medichines and ansibles?

To explore social consequences.

To inspire young minds:
In a world where science and engineering can begin to tackle almost as many challenges as the mind can imagine, we need science fiction to bridge the gaps, bedazzle us, and make the future real.

The article's worth a look if only for the specific examples and reading suggestions.

(Link via SFSignal.)

See also:
Technovelgy.com, where science meets fiction, exploring 650 inventions and ideas from writers.
The Science Fiction Museum and Hall of Fame.

Looking back
I'll be hunting down The World as It Shall Be, a historical curiosity, by Emile Souvestre, reviewed in passing this weekend.

Through a series of biting vignettes, accompanied by his own illustrations, Souvestre (1806-54) scores points against the naive utopians of his own day by recounting the follies of the self-absorbed citizens of the Republic of United Interests in the year 3000.

Turkey

Funny face. 

I'm a little sad that we didn't celebrate Thanksgiving. No turkey, no stuffing. No quiet moment to consider our blessings (though these days I find myself doing that every few days, if not hours, anyway). No nothing. Except for take-out chicken dinner, but that was after Helena had gone to bed, and it was a treat more in the sense of no cooking time! no dishes! than a feasting celebration of the cornucopia of spiritual realizations and opportunities as well as the material goods that are our life.

Maybe next week, after my deadlines are met, I'll find a turkey on sale and I'll be inspired to season it lovingly, baste it with our wisdom of the true meaning of Thanksgiving. For Helena's sake.

I don't think she'll look back on her childhood and rue the Thanksgiving weekend that went unnoticed when she was not yet 2 years old. But I'm finding a new appreciation for maintaining these kinds of traditions.