I come from a big red barn,

From newlywed dreams of pigs and beef cattle

And maybe a few cats to keep the mice out of the corncrib.

I come from piles of warm, sleepy kittens,

From puffy tails, shaped like Christmas trees,

And insistent mewing than quiets only

When there is something interesting to chase.

I come from Varnes & Hoover Hardware,

From rows of shiny brass lanterns and sparkling Mason jars,

Where the cheerful Amish gentleman behind the counter

Is just as polite to the girl in the T-shirt that reads, in neon green,

“MY FEET HURT FROM KICKING SO MUCH ASS”

As he is to the woman in the pristinely pressed bonnet.

I come from grilled pork in barbeque,

From salads with sugar and mayonnaise

And overstuffed subs sold by the thousand

To pay a boy’s medical bills.

I come from toasted olive-nut sandwiches

At the Olympia Candy Kitchen,

Where patrons shake their heads and say airily,

“You just can’t find this anywhere else.”

I come from wide-open prairie skies,

Blue and hazy all day, inky black all night,

And in between, a glorious palette of golden-tinged pastels

That demands further investigation,

That demands you stop and gaze.

I come from an old, weathered pier, with flaking white paint,

From crawdads and leeches and seaweed

And the delicate balance between the hot skin of the water’s surface

And the cold, murky, uncertain depths below

That vulnerable toes would rather avoid.

I come from prizewinning eggplants and Merino sheep,

From the Big Pig sleeping on a pile of damp hay

And fluffy, trembling rabbits and feisty draft horses

And gowns with perfect, even seams

Made by tiny, deft fingers

Whose skills I can only dream of, three times older.

I come from lazy, roundabout conversations

About kids and baseball games;

From the pause between catching up and resuming a life lived apart,

From counting rail cars at a crossing,

So fully focused on the moment

That weightier matters slip away; instead,

128 (plus two locomotives) is all that ever mattered

in the whole wide world.

Elliot’s all-time favorite trick, and Abby’s all-time favorite Pointy Face.

Blue Steel vs. Head-Squisher.

I asked Billy to define “corkscrew curls.”

Elliot wanted me to get ALL angles of his face.

“Now, take Mary and Colleen.  THEY have lots of flare . . . don’t you want to express yourself?”

She’s doing this.  You probably won’t find it funny unless you’ve seen the episode multiple times.  Maybe not even then.

One normal one.  Look, we got some sun at the hotel pool yesterday!

Back to weirdness . . . here is Tristan singing along to a Motown favorite (anyone?  help!)

Relax, they’re not fighting.  Just singing, um, passionately.  I think Journey was the instigator.

Yes, there was actually a wedding amid all this craziness.  And here’s the beautiful bride, groovin’ to some sweet tunes on the dance floor.

Grandma’s making trouble again.  I don’t know how many times we must have told her to stop lighting things on fire.  Sigh . . .

Obviously, we had a wonderful trip, especially since Katie and Matt were gracious enough to spend lots of time with us, breaking the time-honored tradition in which the bridal party barely gets to see their guests.  We’re blessed with such a great extended family.  I wish we could get married again just to get them all to come back in Baltimore!

And to sustain you through the miles of walking between Italianate Flemish, Brabant Gothic and the rest, just think of all the things to eat for which Belgium is famous.  We came up with ten:

1. Beer. It does SO qualify as a food if you were raised in my family.  Our bishop recently confirmed that fact.  (I’m not joking.  Would I joke about beer?)

2. Endives. Best enjoyed wrapped in ham and under a blanket of au gratin goodness, comme ca:

3. Stoemp, a mashed-potato dish with flecks of root vegetables, herbs and / or bacon.  The above was a very simple version.

4. Chocolate. It was on every corner, made into every shape and color and size.  Its fame is well-deserved.

5. Butter biscuits. Dandoy is the most famous of the biscuiteries, and we went a little crazy in there, buying varieties flavored with ginger, spices, orange zest, almonds and even Earl Grey tea.

6. Mussels. I actually had better mussels in Paris, but these were still quite good, especially the broth flavored with herbs and wine:

7. Frites. These are not just French fries; they are hand-cut, double-fried, crunchy-delicious works of art.  Local custom dictates dipping them in mayonnaise (shudder) but I think just a sprinkle of salt is best.

8. Beer. (We like beer.)  Did I mention that every variety has a special type of glass?  Well, it does.

9. Waffles. Although Rob pointed out that he’s never had a bad Belgian waffle, this was the best I’d ever had by far.  It was made from wheat flour, cooked until delightfully crispy on the outside, and topped with creme chantilly and kriek, a smoky-sweet sour cherry confit.

10. Petits Choux, the sprouts for which the city is famous.  Unfortunately, we didn’t see many places that featured them, so we left Brussels without having eaten Brussels spouts.  Quel dommage! I suppose we’ll just have to go back someday.

The point Frederica makes, with which I couldn’t agree more, is that there are plenty of things you should regret — and these usually fall on the side of self-indulgence.  I don’t think I’ve ever come to the end of a day and wished I’d spent more time watching YouTube videos, eaten more junk food or snapped at more people.  I almost always wish I’d been more patient with my family and more guarded in my choices — spending time cooking or gardening or writing instead of being passively entertained.

It’s the tough choices you don’t often regret — the choices to suck it up and be an adult, keep your mouth shut instead of complaining, do the work instead of finding an excuse not to.  Ironically, it’s often much easier and more rewarding than you could have imagined.  I can’t think of a time I’ve regretted sacrificing for someone else, no matter how unfair it seemed at the time:

There are gonna be times like that, when you look back, when you see — you weren’t having a great time, everything wasn’t just the way you wanted it to be . . . you might have been uncomfortable, it might have been difficult, you weren’t getting the thing that you wanted, but . . . they are the times that we think, ‘I don’t regret going through that . . . I did the right thing, and it was tough.’

For instance, we’re going to see these guys live tomorrow night:

And yes, we paid money for the tickets.  Actual American currency.

E-mail me if you want to know where to send the sympathy card.

UPDATE: For all my whining, I have to admit it was a fun concert, if a little short.  Beautiful weather at Pier Six and fun, funky, soulful jams.

• The Good Morning America report. I’m sure it’s easy to find if you want to (yep) but in fact I don’t think I’ve ever watched Good Morning America, and I certainly wouldn’t accept a five-minute special report as unquestionable truth.  In fact, if GMA says it’s “extreme” and harmful, I’m willing to bet it’s a great idea that’s misunderstood and poorly reported.

• A lot of kids’ time and effort in school is wasted, much more so in the early years.  The teacher dismisses a child to go to the bathroom, helps another one find a tissue, allows three to sharpen pencils, and after ten minutes of directives, everyone is finally ready to go over the Math lesson.  Once it’s finished, it all happens in reverse, and the process begins again during the Reading and History lessons.  There is something to be said for learning patience with others, but invariably, the smart kids get bored and retreat into themselves (me) or goof off and get in trouble (my brother.)

• The teacher controls the classroom at the vast majority of formal schools.  Again, learning obedience to authority is a virtue, and one that many modern children lack.  However, this can become tiresome very quickly, and I’m not sure it’s valuable in the long run; it seems to me that it promotes unquestioning submission.  As much as I detest the constant complaining of parents at my school, I’m glad they feel they have the right to complain.  I also don’t mind ignoring them, since we all know I don’t need correction on any points.

• Kids in formal school are stressed. Period.  They know far too much about schedules, and “dates,” and they have very little time to explore things they’re interested in.  An unschooled child might choose to spend the whole day planting seeds and waiting anxiously for them to sprout, or reading about and drawing dinosaurs, or learning how to bake bread.  S/he will have learned far more than in a cramped, authoritarian classroom.

Con:

• Most parents lack the discipline, creativity and time necessary to expose their children to a wide variety of subject areas, such that the child truly has the wealth of knowledge necessary to make his or her own choices regarding education.  This may sound harsh, but I’m just speaking from experience.  My cousins are stellar examples of unschooling parents, but I have seen many more who only encourage their children (consciously or not) to pursue areas they know something about and are interested in.  This is natural, and maybe it’s okay, but I prefer the Liberal Arts philosophy, since:

• I learned a lot from taking classes I was forced to take. In high school, to graduate with honors I needed four History credits.  My only choice in my senior year was an AP Government class. Government?!  I thought.  Ugh.  How boring!  But the teacher was dynamic and funny (a drill sergeant, he had an unnerving habit of pointing and yelling “Go!” when he wanted an answer) and the class filled with overachievers like me, who pushed each other to succeed.  Last weekend at coffee hour I recalled the details of Plessy v. Ferguson, fifteen years after studying them in class.  I could quote more examples, but the point is, I never would have sought these interests out, especially if my parents had suggested them.

• The world doesn’t revolve around your kids, as much as you may want it to, and I’m a little concerned that unschooling may allow them to believe that.  We all have to learn to do things we don’t want to, and yes, sometimes it’s annoying and completely useless, but well, that’s life.  You don’t always get to choose what you want to do, especially when you’re young.  That’s a privilege that grows with age.

Conclusions:

• We’re pretty solidly in the homeschooling camp if we ever have children, at least for the elementary years.  There are certain formal programs I would support, but for the most part, we couldn’t afford Waldorf or Montessori and there is no Orthodox classical-education institution near us.  I’m not signing any pacts, but that’s where I am now.

• I don’t think I could unschool, and I’m a pretty skilled teacher and a pretty well-rounded person (if I do say so myself.)  I would worry that I had left something out that my kids might have wanted to learn.  I also think most ideas work better if implemented with a plan.

• One of my favorite bloggers, who recently retired, spoke about vocations in words I heartily commend.  She homeschooled five children, beginning with very basic instruction: a half-hour or so of formal math and reading every morning until about age eight, plus a wide variety of family activities that educated them enough to choose very diverse and specialized vocations.  I especially love what she says about organized activities: why young kids need to be on a soccer team or in an art class, instead of playing with their friends or drawing on their own, is an important consideration.

Well.  I hereby present Ten Pens.  It’s way more fun, and just as free.

Take ten pens from around your house.  They must be free promotional pens.  If you’re short a few, I’ll lend you some: I rounded up 58 just by looking in the study.  They’re all going to school, in case anyone there wants to play (and because, seriously, they seem to multiply exponentially every 13 days or so.  I’m worried about the load-bearing capacity of my desk.)

Now, try to imagine how they might have entered your house.  Word limits are lame, but keep it short or your audience might fall asleep.  (All three of them.) Here are mine:

1. Mini Cooper: Let’s Motor. This is one of those cool moving pens; when you tilt it, the little red car sliiiiiiides back and forth from the Hollywood sign to the Statue of Liberty.  And it was completely free!  All we had to do was buy a car.
2. Revlimid capsules. Please see accompanying full prescribing information, including Boxed WARNINGS. I guess these prescription drug giveways must work, or no one would continue doing them.  I just have one question: “Boxed warnings”?  They don’t sound too bad.  Better than the free-roaming warnings that catch you by surprise, anyway.
3. My school. Awwww. Actually, to be fair about 12 of the 58 were from my school.
4. My school’s archrival school. What th–?!  I did tutor a couple of students from there, but I think I would have noticed this pen before now.  At the very least, I would think my school’s pens would be ostracizing it, but noooo, they’re playing nice and being friends.
5. Best Wishes in the year 2003, Enslin & Son, Hattiesburg, Mississippi. My father’s family’s butcher shop.  We last visited there for my grandmother’s funeral.  It was a sad time, but wonderful to see them all, and I loved the tour of the slaughterhouse and my dad’s accompanying anecdotes from the summer he worked there as a teenager.  We also got married in 2003, so I think their best wishes might have helped a little.
6. Mark & Anna’s Wedding: The Highlight of 2009. Most original wedding favor ever, from a very original couple!
7. Sauza Tequila. Once again, what th–?!  We don’t own a bottle, and I’ve never even heard of that brand.  Tequila is not my scene.
8. Microsoft. Steve, this means nothing to us!  We swear!  We don’t know how it got here or where it came from!  We’re burning it right this very instant and burying the ashes in the back yard under the Apple tree!  Isn’t that poetic justice?  Steve?  STEVE!  DON’T YOU WALK AWAY!
9. Kone Elevators & Escalators. Courtesy of my husband, who goes to trade shows and can’t turn down a freebie to save his life.  Really, if he had to choose between certain death and a duffel bag of stuffed animals with building product manufacturers’ logos imprinted on their bums, I might have to raise Maia by myself.
10. My high school alma mater. This isn’t technically a pen, it’s a letter opener — but it counts solely because of the number of times I’ve reached for it intending to pick up a pen.  A clever ruse, but I’m wise to it now.  Away, fiend!  Into the bag with the others!

Okay.  Your turn.  Comment here with a link to your Ten Pens post!  If it doesn’t go viral within a week, I’ll be personally offended.

I blame parents.

Easy to say for one who is not a parent!  But I have heard too many caregivers lament that their child “will only eat” macaroni and cheese or hot dogs.  As one of my classmates points out, when given the choice, any child (or human, if allowed to act on his basest impulses) will gravitate toward the sweeter, more calorie-dense food.  It’s our instinct, derived from the days when such foods were very hard to come by — restricted to finding a patch of berries or a hive of honey.  Today, as others have already stated, such foods are actually cheaper (with externalized costs, of course) than nutritious foods, and they are certainly easier to serve.  But since when do we allow a child’s preference to govern his rules for living?  We don’t let him choose whether or not to brush his teeth, go to school, or say his prayers.  Why would we let him choose what’s on the dinner menu, beyond such reasonable choices as “green beans or broccoli?”

Many of you have indicated causes of childhood obesity with which I can’t argue: working parents, busy schedules, child-centered advertising.  I think there is one more vastly important factor: the demise of home cooking.  Statistics show unilaterally that fewer and fewer people cook for themselves — even when “cooking” is widened to mean putting together a sandwich from purchased ingredients.  Children are not learning how to come home from school, cut up carrot sticks and peel an orange — and, at a later age, to saute onions and garlic for a sauce or set bread to rise in a warm place.  They certainly are not learning where the carrots and onions come from, when to plant them and how long to wait before pulling them up.  I was lucky enough to be raised by parents who did everything themselves, but I constantly meet people my age and older who say they can’t (or just don’t) cook, and that number seems to rise exponentially as age decreases.

At this point I’d like to surrender my point of view to two gentlemen who are far more convincing and knowledgeable than I.  One is Michael Pollan, who has already been referenced several times on this board.  Please do read all of his books; they are wonderful.  However, this article (it’s long, but worth it) from the New York Times Magazine last year reinforces my argument by illuminating one of the strangest dichotomies in modern times: the huge popularity of cooking shows on television and the dearth of skilled home cooks.  We spend untold amounts of time and money watching Martha Stewart, Rachael Ray and Emeril, but we are less and less likely to translate that enthusiasm into our own kitchens and dining rooms, mostly because we haven’t seen and modeled that behavior from a young age.

However, on that note, the second reference I want to make is to this excellent lecture (about 20 minutes) by Jamie Oliver.  Yes, Jamie Oliver, the English chef / television personality.  It turns out he’s also a compassionate, dedicated humanitarian who is shocked and pained by the current crisis in child obesity, and determined to do all he can to alleviate it.  For me, the most moving moment in the film is when he confronts an obese mother with a dining-room table covered with pizza, corn dogs and sodas — all the food she typically feeds her two (also obese) children in a week.  “You are killing your children,” Oliver says simply.  It cuts like a knife, but it’s absolutely true.  This mother, by failing to pass on the skill set she never learned herself — how to make nutritious, satisfying, diverse meals — is setting her children up for severe health problems and an early death.  Sobering, but verifiable fact.

But, as Oliver points out, this crisis is entirely preventable.  Children who couldn’t identify a beet or a tomato (watch the video, seriously) can be taught to.  Children who will only eat macaroni and cheese can be taught to love spinach (and not only, Mrs. Seinfeld, through trickery.)  They love to help in the garden or in the kitchen, and they are far more likely to try diverse foods (and thus to learn weight-management behavior) when they have participated in the entire process of harvesting and preparing food.  We can fix this, one household at a time.

This idea has followed me around in much the same way my cat does when she feels neglected.  Quietly padding after you as you go about your business.  Scampering away in fear if you make too much noise or motion, but returning cautiously to sit at the other end of the couch, tail swishing quietly, until you have time to give her attention.

Last week I read this post by Anna and the many comments that followed it.  It struck me that Anna, though a blogger who has created a warm and comforting “home” on the Internet that might rival her actual home in scrumptious splendor, is actually a rather private person.  She shares recipes, photos, and sewing and schooling tips, but she is quiet, for the most part, about herself.  So why would she suddenly open up, as e.e. cummings wrote, “petal by petal,” only to “shut very suddenly, beautifully / as when the heart of this flower imagines / the snow carefully everywhere descending”?  This topic must be such a part of her that she longs to share it, but so painful and personal that she just can’t.

I thought about it for a few days.  And then yesterday, a student phoned me to ask whether she could come a little earlier to her lesson.  She was with her dad that day, she explained, and his schedule was too full to bring her at the normal time.  I said that was fine; we had the lesson early.  Then, five minutes before her regular time slot, her mother called me in a panic.  Where was Katie?  When I explained, I could practically hear the eyeroll over the phone.  She was furious at her ex-husband and thanked me pointedly for being responsible enough to let her know about the change in plans.

As I ended the call I realized I had never seen Suzuki piano successfully practiced in split households.  Ever.  It requires involvement and consistency, two things that are in short supply when a parent is struggling to support a family alone.  Even when the other parent continues to have a relationship with the child, and even to be involved with piano lessons, there are constant miscommunications about everything from tuition to lesson time to weekly assignments.

There is nothing to do but be understanding and sympathetic in these situations.  I know this.  I cannot imagine what burdens these people must carry, and they’re not all as pretty as Anna’s snappy red suitcase, and others don’t have someone to hold hands with on the journey.  But . . . but . . . what about the children?  Is it fair to hand them a burden larger than they can carry?  Sweet Katie is already learning to make excuses: “I didn’t practice because I was with my dad all weekend.”  “I left my book at my dad’s.”  “My dad couldn’t drive me here, so I had to miss my lesson.”  I know her dad; he’s a great guy.  But he and her mom have left her in a pretty terrible position.

And finally, after writing yesterday’s post and feeling downright wretched, I decided to take myself to a movie.  I had wanted to see It’s Complicated since I’d first seen the previews; Nancy Meyers is a great feel-good director, and I think Meryl Streep could paint her toenails and give an Oscar-worthy performance.  A light, happy movie was just what I needed to yank me out of my self-loathing and despair.

(Stop reading now if you plan to see it, which I can’t recommend, although John Krasinki and Steve Martin can make just about anything funny . . . )

I did enjoy it, and there were plenty of warm and happy moments, but ultimately it was a colossal disappointment.  Throughout the movie, you see sign after sign that this couple can make it work.  They obviously still love each other; they know how to work together and how to fight; they share three beautiful children, who have managed somehow to move on and succeed despite their parents’ selfishness.  And yet, in the end, they decide they shouldn’t be together.  Why?  “It just doesn’t work . . . We got divorced for a reason (they never explain) . . . I like my life the way it is.” They are so bent on affirming their own choices that they have convinced everyone else of their wisdom in splitting up; when the father professes his love for his ex-wife, all three grown children begin to cry. “We’re still getting over the divorce,” says one.  It’s enough to break your heart.

Certainly, Rob and I are not a textbook example of the perfect marriage.  But in thinking of what advice we could offer this mixed-up couple, I am reminded of what Sharon Astyk recently wrote about living a sustainable life: “It isn’t sexy.  It doesn’t look good in pictures . . . Here’s me deciding that my hair can go another day without a shampoo . . . Here’s me eating leftovers for lunch, rather than making something new, since otherwise, they’ll spoil . . . Here’s me not buying the boys stuff out of the toy catalog.”  Likewise, the perfect marriage isn’t about scandal and intrigue, sweaty trysts in high-priced hotels and endless scenes of giddy laughter.  It’s on the boring side, in fact: Here’s us swallowing the cutting and acerbic remarks instead of unleashing them to the other’s detriment.  Here’s us listening and responding to subjects that may not thrill us.  Here’s us counting to ten or ten thousand instead of smashing things.  Here’s us praying for each other to avoid temptation and be fulfilled at home.  For these characters, it was all about them and what they wanted, so I suppose in the end, yes, they shouldn’t be married.  In many ways, they were each already married to themselves.

So what to do with this idea, this thought that presses on me with such persistence?  I’m not sure writing all this has accomplished anything, but maybe it will clear my mind a bit.  I guess all I really wanted to say is that divorce is ugly.  And sad.  Period.  I’m sure I don’t have it all figured out, but boy, is it troubling to see what else is out there.

So speaks Mr. Woodhouse, the pathetic paterfamilias of Jane Austen’s “Emma.”  Like many of her characters, he is a predictable trope, a cariacature of himself, and most readers find him downright irritating.  But I feel more and more of a connection with Mr. Woodhouse these days.

I was able to write a little when my sister left; what I couldn’t write was the gnawing, grating emptiness that fills me each time I remember how far away she is, and how long it will be before I see her again.

My brother leaves us for months at a time, going to Montana in the summer and now, possibly, out of state for good to start a new branch of his business.  It is harder to write about how badly I miss him — even when he’s here, I miss him.  We inhabit different worlds: his is rocks and dogs and football, and mine is books and dinners and too many choking thoughts.  We are so far apart.  My friend Jessamyn comes close here (yes, that it is a long link, but trust me, it’s worth it.)

Last month, some dear friends moved north.  It’s “just for awhile;” he’s in school up there.  But after school, depending on where the jobs are, there will probably be another move, maybe further away.  Their children are growing too quickly.  I miss them.

Another friend, a brother really, left for a year in an unstable African country last July.  I was able to say goodbye, barely.  But I saw him again last weekend, home for a family wedding, and this time I had to say goodbye for much longer.  This time I knew what it meant, the danger he is in and the loneliness I will feel without him here.  This time it was harder to let go.

I detest the Virtual Community revolution in part because, at its core, it is hollow and empty.  It is a poor substitute for flesh and blood, hugs and tears, shared glances and jokes.  This is especially true of all the people I’ve just mentioned — siblings, friends, people who have moved south and north and west and had babies and joined the Coast Guard and made new friends to fill in the gaps.  When was the last time we were all together?  Probably a decade ago.  I left them first, to go to college; they scattered too, one by one, some bouncing back, some unable to resist the inertia of their new homes.  I guess it’s my Woodhousian Madeline, that memory — washing cars for the youth group, or playing and listening to music, or making up silly games to pass the time and put off homework.

I am certainly not so naive as to imagine I am the first person to miss people who move away and grow apart.  But it’s hit me awfully hard, all of a sudden.  It’s hard to be the one who’s still here.