Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Everybody poops
As soon as Niko was completely potty trained I vowed never to change another diaper in my life. And I haven't. Instead, today I picked up dog poop, guinea pig poop and chicken poop. Really? Were diapers all that bad??
Sunday, May 22, 2011
I love you egg man!
If you've ever seen the very, very warped 1972 John Waters' film, "Pink Flamingos" you immediately recognized the reference made in the title of today's blog. Edie loves the egg man! (If you've never seen the film, and you have even the slightest weak stomach, you're going to want to pass...)
Well Edie is going to love us! We've become egg men! A couple of weeks ago we decided to join the growing number of people with backyard chickens.
Our three chicks won't start laying eggs until the end of the year - so don't send your orders in just yet.
Oh, and as a reflection of the weirdness that is our household, when hearing the chicks needed female names Niko offered "Yia yia Peeps", Gus added "Eleni" and I said, "Good lord, boys, we're Americans!" And thus the third became "Mabel."
Bawk, bawk, bawk!
Here are the girls when they first moved in. Now they're in that awkward adolescent stage - all legs and just growing feathers.
Well Edie is going to love us! We've become egg men! A couple of weeks ago we decided to join the growing number of people with backyard chickens.
Our three chicks won't start laying eggs until the end of the year - so don't send your orders in just yet.
Oh, and as a reflection of the weirdness that is our household, when hearing the chicks needed female names Niko offered "Yia yia Peeps", Gus added "Eleni" and I said, "Good lord, boys, we're Americans!" And thus the third became "Mabel."
Bawk, bawk, bawk!
Here are the girls when they first moved in. Now they're in that awkward adolescent stage - all legs and just growing feathers.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Remember Al Smith
I lit a candle this morning at church for Geraldine Ferraro, who died on Saturday. For those of you not old enough or who may not remember, Rep. Ferraro was the first woman on a major political party presidential ticket. Nearly a quarter century before Sen. McCain hoisted former-Governor Sarah Palin onto the national stage, former-Vice President Walter Mondale plucked Gerri Ferraro out of obscurity and into the history books in an attempt to kick-start his moribund presidential campaign.
Clearly she led the way for Palin. But also for Hillary Clinton's historic presidential run. And the appointment of women like Madeleine Albright and Condoleezza Rice to powerful positions. It could even be argued that she opened the door for President Barak Obama.
Sooner or later a woman will be elected president or vice president, and I fear
Geraldine Ferraro will become Al Smith. Everyone knows that in 1960 John F. Kennedy became the first Catholic elected president. Yet 32 years earlier, in 1928, Gov. Al Smith, paved the way when he became the first Catholic presidential nominee.
But Ferraro will always hold a special place in my heart: Mondale/Ferraro was the first presidential ticket for which I ever voted. Yeah, they went down in the biggest electoral landslide since 1936, carrying just Minnesota and DC, but that vote is still the one I'm proudest of.
Clearly she led the way for Palin. But also for Hillary Clinton's historic presidential run. And the appointment of women like Madeleine Albright and Condoleezza Rice to powerful positions. It could even be argued that she opened the door for President Barak Obama.
Sooner or later a woman will be elected president or vice president, and I fear
Geraldine Ferraro will become Al Smith. Everyone knows that in 1960 John F. Kennedy became the first Catholic elected president. Yet 32 years earlier, in 1928, Gov. Al Smith, paved the way when he became the first Catholic presidential nominee.
But Ferraro will always hold a special place in my heart: Mondale/Ferraro was the first presidential ticket for which I ever voted. Yeah, they went down in the biggest electoral landslide since 1936, carrying just Minnesota and DC, but that vote is still the one I'm proudest of.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
The Very Definition of Stubborn
I am thoroughly convinced that one day in the future, people looking for the definition of the word "stubborn" will find a picture of Niko. It may even provide an example:
1. unreasonably obstinate
2. fixed or set in purpose or opinion
3. obstinately maintained
4. being of or like Niko Huntington-Katis
I can't claim that I wasn't warned. My friend Ed informed me when Gus was still a baby that it's not so much the Terrible Twos that parents need to be aware of, but the $%&#ing Fours!
This month alone Niko has refused to wear certain pants, demanded specific cutlery, insisted on exact amounts of food, declined to attend church lest he participate in the procession of icons on the Sunday of Orthodoxy, and commanded that he would wash his own hair! I won't even go into his lack of interest in rehearsing for the school's Greek Independence Day program.
This behavior is maddening...and so much like me at times it's scary.
So I'm trying to help him work toward being less demanding, less rigid in his needs. And by doing so, I hope I'm helping myself. Because I'm not sure I've still got his loveability factor!
1. unreasonably obstinate
2. fixed or set in purpose or opinion
3. obstinately maintained
4. being of or like Niko Huntington-Katis
I can't claim that I wasn't warned. My friend Ed informed me when Gus was still a baby that it's not so much the Terrible Twos that parents need to be aware of, but the $%&#ing Fours!
This month alone Niko has refused to wear certain pants, demanded specific cutlery, insisted on exact amounts of food, declined to attend church lest he participate in the procession of icons on the Sunday of Orthodoxy, and commanded that he would wash his own hair! I won't even go into his lack of interest in rehearsing for the school's Greek Independence Day program.
This behavior is maddening...and so much like me at times it's scary.
So I'm trying to help him work toward being less demanding, less rigid in his needs. And by doing so, I hope I'm helping myself. Because I'm not sure I've still got his loveability factor!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
It's Greek to Him
When I was in college, I did a little volunteering for the Utah Food Bank. I got started when they needed someone willing to deliver Christmas baskets to families living in what was then the far reaches of the Valley - places like Draper and Sandy. One of the gals I'd met on the Frances Farley campaign worked there, knew I lived in Midvale and gave me a call.
When I went to pick up the baskets, my friend wasn't working. Another woman was standing in the warehouse, barking orders at the volunteers. I approached her and told her I was Ann's friend. She asked me my name, and as she ran her finger down the list on her clipboard said, "Katis? That Greek?"
I confirmed and she replied that her ex-husband was Greek, which made her Greek by injection. I turned every shade of red known to mankind.
But it was the first time that I realized people do "become" Greek. I mean I guess I always knew that: take my mom for example. She's become frightfully, frightfully Greek (though I very much prefer to think it was from a lifetime of indoctrination versus, well, you know...that other way).
So I knew there was hope for Kelly...no matter how dim.
But after two decades together, I'd all but given up. Then it happened. Slowly, ever so slowly, his Greekness started to come out.
At first it was subtle: he started correctly using the word "kaleevi" (which means "hut" but colloquially in our family is "pantry"). Then he started buying frozen spanakopita and tiropita at Costco.
But the real break through occurred a couple of weeks ago. The Pan-Arcadian Federation held our annual makaronada (best translated as "spaghetti feed.") Kelly came to help out, and staffed the drinks table with me. We offered a lovely selection of wine, grape juice and fruit punch. After a while Kelly noticed that the food line had diminished and suggested I go get something to eat; he'd handle the drinks.
As I'm standing in line, I look over at him and what should my little brown eyes behold? Kelly opening a bottle of wine! It was the first bottle of wine he'd ever opened. It was complete: Kelly was Greek.
And as if to prove the point, this last weekend, he made me pasta with burned butter and Parmesan/Romano cheese for dinner (a last hooray before going vegan for Lent). The butter was burned perfectly! I later learned he'd thought he'd let it go too far, until Gus wisely stepped in and gently encouraged him to let it burn a little longer.
The best thing about his conversion is that once it's happened, there's no turning back. Once you're a Greek, everything else is just weak!
Tonight as we watched some TV, Kelly mentioned he was a little worried about Gus' Scout meeting tomorrow night. They're learning about the food pyramid, and as vegetarians we do have issues with a pyramid that puts meat about equal to fruits and veggies. But his biggest concern stemmed from the possibility someone would bring in a goat to slaughter.
Then I reminded him, "Not during Lent, dear."
When I went to pick up the baskets, my friend wasn't working. Another woman was standing in the warehouse, barking orders at the volunteers. I approached her and told her I was Ann's friend. She asked me my name, and as she ran her finger down the list on her clipboard said, "Katis? That Greek?"
I confirmed and she replied that her ex-husband was Greek, which made her Greek by injection. I turned every shade of red known to mankind.
But it was the first time that I realized people do "become" Greek. I mean I guess I always knew that: take my mom for example. She's become frightfully, frightfully Greek (though I very much prefer to think it was from a lifetime of indoctrination versus, well, you know...that other way).
So I knew there was hope for Kelly...no matter how dim.
But after two decades together, I'd all but given up. Then it happened. Slowly, ever so slowly, his Greekness started to come out.
At first it was subtle: he started correctly using the word "kaleevi" (which means "hut" but colloquially in our family is "pantry"). Then he started buying frozen spanakopita and tiropita at Costco.
But the real break through occurred a couple of weeks ago. The Pan-Arcadian Federation held our annual makaronada (best translated as "spaghetti feed.") Kelly came to help out, and staffed the drinks table with me. We offered a lovely selection of wine, grape juice and fruit punch. After a while Kelly noticed that the food line had diminished and suggested I go get something to eat; he'd handle the drinks.
As I'm standing in line, I look over at him and what should my little brown eyes behold? Kelly opening a bottle of wine! It was the first bottle of wine he'd ever opened. It was complete: Kelly was Greek.
And as if to prove the point, this last weekend, he made me pasta with burned butter and Parmesan/Romano cheese for dinner (a last hooray before going vegan for Lent). The butter was burned perfectly! I later learned he'd thought he'd let it go too far, until Gus wisely stepped in and gently encouraged him to let it burn a little longer.
The best thing about his conversion is that once it's happened, there's no turning back. Once you're a Greek, everything else is just weak!
Tonight as we watched some TV, Kelly mentioned he was a little worried about Gus' Scout meeting tomorrow night. They're learning about the food pyramid, and as vegetarians we do have issues with a pyramid that puts meat about equal to fruits and veggies. But his biggest concern stemmed from the possibility someone would bring in a goat to slaughter.
Then I reminded him, "Not during Lent, dear."
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
It's Not a Bwain Tumah
Ever seen one of those comedies where circumstances force an Alpha male, guy's guy to be thrown into a situation where for some reason or another he has to care for kids. In the beginning he's usually way over his head, trying to cope by employing tactics absurd to any woman, but by the end he's in control of the situation and the kids adore him.
Not the stuff of great cinema, but some of the more "well-known" films have produced some great scenes and one-liners. I mean Michael Keaton drying a baby's bottom by holding it up to the blow dryer in a men's room in Mr. Mom is classic. And thanks to Arnold Schwarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop, "It's not a bwain tumah" is now a part of the American lexicon.
But for the most part, these types of films are silly. And totally inaccurate...or are they?
A couple of weeks ago, I woke up at 4:10 a.m. I was confused: Niko was whimpering in the hallway, and Kelly was in the boys' bathroom. Let's face it, I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed at that hour, so it took me a minute to figure out what was going on: Niko had bumped his head on his bed; Kelly was sick.
Thus started the plot of my own Mr. Mom / Kindergarten Cop.
Comforting Niko wasn't a problem. But then he decided he was hungry. Or as he put it, "I want some food." Now that's pretty general. My every attempt to get him to be more specific fell on deaf ears...and tried my still tired patience. Finally, he landed on an apple.
Half asleep, I made him sit at the table as I cored and sliced an apple, all the while he continued to whimper. Taking a half-hearted bite of apple, he started crying again, and frankly in a moment that won't win me Father of the Year, I barked, "If you're going to keep crying, go downstairs!"
9 out of 10 kids would have shut up. But not Niko. He headed for the stairs. Now I may not be the best dad, but I'm not a monster; I immediately picked him up and asked him where he really wanted to go. To my surprise, he quietly asked to be taken to his bedroom.
With Niko in his bed (his bowl of apple clutched to his chest)I headed back to my room. But in the spot usually occupied by Kelly, I found Gus. He meekly asked if he could stay. Having used all my fortitude on the Niko/apple/basement battle, I relented and simply ordered Gus to keep control of his body if he expected to stay in my bed.
Telling a 7 1/2 year old boy to keep control of his sleeping body is a little like asking a tornado to stick to one mobile home in the trailer park. For the next three hours I was smacked, thwacked, and nearly beaten senseless by flailing arms and legs. But the worst was yet to come.
Morning found Kelly still barricaded in the bathroom, leaving me to get the boys ready and off to school.
I don't know if it was the authority or desperation in my voice but both boys immediately complied with my order to get dressed. (Well, Niko did after arguing for softer pants - don't ask.)
As the boys got dressed, I scrambled some eggs. I tossed the plates on the table and commanded them to eat while I took a shower. Gus meekly decided he didn't want eggs after all. I bellowed, "You know where the cereal is. But you'd both better be done by the time I get out of the shower."
To my amazement, when I finished in the bathroom, dressed and marched in to the kitchen, the two of them were sitting quietly at the table, their respective plate and bowl empty.
"Let's go!" I barked, and we headed toward the door. Just then, a quiet voice rang out from the bathroom, "Did you make their lunches?"
Crap. OK, so briefly I thought of giving them a ten-spot and telling Gus to call Jimmy Johns for a delivery. Then reality hit and I sprung into action, throwing together sandwiches, fruit, yogurts, chips. (Yum did you know little boys don't eat the same size lunches 40-something year old men do??)
With lunches in tow we were ready to roll. As I fetched my keys, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Niko running down the hallway. Confused, I looked around, perhaps hoping it had all been a mirage, but there were his shoes and socks tossed in the middle of the living room and no Niko. Before I could react, he came running back, carrying a different pair of socks, having decided that his earlier choice wasn't complimentary to his ensemble. Wisely, Gus sprung into action and helped his little brother put the socks on.
With this minor costume adjustment made, we jumped in the car. That's when it dawned on me: with Kelly still hold up in their bathroom, the boys hadn't brushed their teeth. Crap. I thought for a second then reached back and handed them each a stick of gum. It would have to do.
Amazingly, I got the boys to school and myself to the office. An hour later I received a text from Kelly, "I don't know who had a worse morning me or you?"
Actually, it could have been worse. It could have been a bwain tumah!
Not the stuff of great cinema, but some of the more "well-known" films have produced some great scenes and one-liners. I mean Michael Keaton drying a baby's bottom by holding it up to the blow dryer in a men's room in Mr. Mom is classic. And thanks to Arnold Schwarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop, "It's not a bwain tumah" is now a part of the American lexicon.
But for the most part, these types of films are silly. And totally inaccurate...or are they?
A couple of weeks ago, I woke up at 4:10 a.m. I was confused: Niko was whimpering in the hallway, and Kelly was in the boys' bathroom. Let's face it, I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed at that hour, so it took me a minute to figure out what was going on: Niko had bumped his head on his bed; Kelly was sick.
Thus started the plot of my own Mr. Mom / Kindergarten Cop.
Comforting Niko wasn't a problem. But then he decided he was hungry. Or as he put it, "I want some food." Now that's pretty general. My every attempt to get him to be more specific fell on deaf ears...and tried my still tired patience. Finally, he landed on an apple.
Half asleep, I made him sit at the table as I cored and sliced an apple, all the while he continued to whimper. Taking a half-hearted bite of apple, he started crying again, and frankly in a moment that won't win me Father of the Year, I barked, "If you're going to keep crying, go downstairs!"
9 out of 10 kids would have shut up. But not Niko. He headed for the stairs. Now I may not be the best dad, but I'm not a monster; I immediately picked him up and asked him where he really wanted to go. To my surprise, he quietly asked to be taken to his bedroom.
With Niko in his bed (his bowl of apple clutched to his chest)I headed back to my room. But in the spot usually occupied by Kelly, I found Gus. He meekly asked if he could stay. Having used all my fortitude on the Niko/apple/basement battle, I relented and simply ordered Gus to keep control of his body if he expected to stay in my bed.
Telling a 7 1/2 year old boy to keep control of his sleeping body is a little like asking a tornado to stick to one mobile home in the trailer park. For the next three hours I was smacked, thwacked, and nearly beaten senseless by flailing arms and legs. But the worst was yet to come.
Morning found Kelly still barricaded in the bathroom, leaving me to get the boys ready and off to school.
I don't know if it was the authority or desperation in my voice but both boys immediately complied with my order to get dressed. (Well, Niko did after arguing for softer pants - don't ask.)
As the boys got dressed, I scrambled some eggs. I tossed the plates on the table and commanded them to eat while I took a shower. Gus meekly decided he didn't want eggs after all. I bellowed, "You know where the cereal is. But you'd both better be done by the time I get out of the shower."
To my amazement, when I finished in the bathroom, dressed and marched in to the kitchen, the two of them were sitting quietly at the table, their respective plate and bowl empty.
"Let's go!" I barked, and we headed toward the door. Just then, a quiet voice rang out from the bathroom, "Did you make their lunches?"
Crap. OK, so briefly I thought of giving them a ten-spot and telling Gus to call Jimmy Johns for a delivery. Then reality hit and I sprung into action, throwing together sandwiches, fruit, yogurts, chips. (Yum did you know little boys don't eat the same size lunches 40-something year old men do??)
With lunches in tow we were ready to roll. As I fetched my keys, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Niko running down the hallway. Confused, I looked around, perhaps hoping it had all been a mirage, but there were his shoes and socks tossed in the middle of the living room and no Niko. Before I could react, he came running back, carrying a different pair of socks, having decided that his earlier choice wasn't complimentary to his ensemble. Wisely, Gus sprung into action and helped his little brother put the socks on.
With this minor costume adjustment made, we jumped in the car. That's when it dawned on me: with Kelly still hold up in their bathroom, the boys hadn't brushed their teeth. Crap. I thought for a second then reached back and handed them each a stick of gum. It would have to do.
Amazingly, I got the boys to school and myself to the office. An hour later I received a text from Kelly, "I don't know who had a worse morning me or you?"
Actually, it could have been worse. It could have been a bwain tumah!
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)