Cold Spaghetti

We’re off to DC for a very very very last minute (company sponsored) weekend, due to my parents generous offer to watch the kids.

And it’s SNOWING there. Will is going to freak out if he finds out we’re going somewhere with SNOW and he’s not coming. (This is the kid who shivers when it’s 75.) Cheers for good flying weather along the East!

One of Will’s favorite pastimes is still with us. Eventually, he’ll get it right and prefer it that way. We’re enjoying it while it lasts.

It’s no great shakes (in Paul’s words, “you’re definitely a still photographer”) but it’s still a little fun. Just a collection of photos from the year. Think low tech. And enjoy.

The jury is out on whether the quality is any better, but it’s also on YouTube. Music nods to Louis Armstrong (Basin Street Blues), Buckwheat Zydeco (Mardi Gras Mambo), and Preservation Hall Jazz Band (Shimmy Like My Sister Kate).

A New Year’s holiday letter came in from a friend and mentor of mine at Virginia Tech. She wrote:

It’s been a difficult year – tragic, exhausting, and a bit surreal. Really, I don’t remember much of what happened before April, when we were shocked into a kind of violent parallel universe with the shootings at Virginia Tech. We still live there, partly, I think; there is a different feel to life in Blacksburg now, especially on campus. It’s not that we are on edge constantly, but that we are all more careful and more responsive, and thus busier and more tired.

Wow, I thought when it read it, that sounds pretty darn familiar. Maybe it was particularly poignant that this arrived last week… where my thoughts were with last year, when we were marching downtown over the unfathomable violent crime that continues to tear away at our city. The loss, the fear, and the fact that it isn’t changing is like a constant white noise in the background. But it’s part of everything that makes life here just a little bit… harder? grittier? riskier? I’m not sure what describes it, although my friend’s Blacksburg comparison made a lot of sense.

There is evidence of health impacts from the vagueness described above. Specifically, we know that people living in post-disaster zones experience higher rates of stress, fatigue, and related illnesses. Right now in New Orleans, there is an ongoing study of resting blood pressure rates — it’s being run out of various dentist’s offices. So, if you go to the dentist and get hooked up to a machine taking your blood pressure every 15 minutes, you’ll probably be asked to participate. The point is to see if us NOLA folks have higher resting blood pressure than average folks elsewhere. For me, the answer seems to be yes. (My BP is around 110/75 these days… more than the 100/70 I sported pre-K and much more than the 90/60 I had through both pregnancies. Granted, I wouldn’t run those results to JAMA, confounders as likely as they are, but it’s still something to think about.)

We walked around the levee on the West Bank. Here’s the steamboat Natchez churning up the Mississippi, while Kate, Paul and Will (sleepy) look on.

So the back is wrapped. There is a great deal of discussion going on regarding how to deal with this soffit.
Detail of the inside ceiling.
The inside.
The outside. Yup, that’s mildew on the existing siding. Yum.
Closer look at the wrap.
The back.


Update: remember all that doom and gloom over the hardiplank? Well, there is a reason Paul named his blog “This Old Grouse.” It is because his first response to things is, characteristically, not particularly cheery. Usually, I censor here with the knowledge that things will be fine, he just needs to take the best after preparing for the worst. Disaster scenarios have been a constant to each part of the project… it just happens that I blogged about the hardi-disaster scenario because I honestly thought, at least for a moment, that it could be true. See how hard this do-it-yourself stuff can be?

A quote of $6200? Not quite. Some misunderstanding was involved. Paul thought the quoted price was by board foot — it was actually by board. We did some foot work. Bottom line: the hardi will cost us less than $1000. Maybe up to $1200 when we include all the specialty trim pieces, cutting tools and saw blades. Crisis averted.

We’ve got other issues more pressing, anyway. Turns out that the windows we got are wrong. Not our mistake or even the mistake of the company we ordered them through — the factory didn’t follow the order and installed J-channels on the sides of the windows. These are channels used in vinyl siding installation and not used in hardiplank. The bottom line is that we can’t install the windows… and have a 3-4 week lead time for the next to come in. There is no guarantee these next windows will be correct (although the warehouse folk were as shocked as us, “Simonton never gets an order wrong!”) My darling Grouse is in a knot, as would be expected, and working out each scenario of disaster. It really sucks, since he’s been so incredibly on top of things in this whole stressful process.

New plan: start to gut the existing laundry/bathroom while we wait for the windows. This will be a rougher phase as we have no where to put the “stuff” in the existing space (which mostly includes tools, off-season clothes, wrapping paper and other assorted storage items, small luggage, linens, and laundry/cleaning supplies.) I may take the kids out of town for the weekend so that Paul can tackle the project (which includes shutting off water and electricity for awhile).

We enjoyed having Valerie, Eric, and baby Diego with us this past week. We especially enjoyed watching Will and Kate interact with a baby in their house: Will was watchful, gentle, sweet, and concerned (just as he had been with Kate) and Kate was curious and, as with everything else, followed Will’s lead. Here’s Eric reading an Elmo book to Kate (in the cowgirl hat) as baby Diego listens in:
Something unique about Diego is that he was born with one arm. His right arm did not fully develop in utero, leaving him with a very small hand on a small arm. As a family, they endured countless needless tests and exams, multiple doctors looking for other “problems” based on this one difference. I can only imagine how frustrating this must have been; it is stressful enough becoming a parent without having to advocate for your baby to be respected simply for who he is. Sometimes, it seems that children with differences are not seen past their differences. We all have personalities, characteristics, and physical differences that give us group diversity; I have a hard time with the tendency to put those with physical or cognitive differences that create challenges to ability in a completely other group.

Will was naturally curious about Diego’s arm and hand (he said it was “cute”) and Valerie brought up the well-fitted example of Finding Nemo, where Nemo had one fin that was smaller than the other. The example made sense to Will, who got that Diego was just like any other baby, and that was that.

But the whole thing got me thinking. Right now, Will shares his school with children who have cognitive and physical differences. Indeed, the Reggio approach prioritizes children with differences as an important and essential part of its programs. But how long will this last? As we consider schools for our kids, I realize that finding out about how a school handles differences in ability isn’t something I asked or even remembered to think about.

My junior high/high school had a special needs class completely separate from the rest of the school — in a hallway on a floor rarely used, out of the way from the main areas. We rarely saw these students; sometimes there would be a class session where one or two might be in the room. But there was no interaction. The whole set-up seemed to give lip service to the idea of inclusion, but really, was designed to have as little distraction as possible on the comings and goings of the general school. And that was really unfortunate.

What would have happened if inclusion was better prioritized in this environment? Would my fellow students and I have learned more patience and be better at friendship? Would we have gained skills in listening, empathy, and respect? I believe so; for these are the lessons we learn when we stop to consider the world from another’s point of view.

***

A variety of excellent work has shown how the concept of “choice” has been warped by social standards and values. One of the side effects of choice (and I should note that I am, unabashedly and completely in support of reproductive choice in every situation) — is that women are judged for the choices they make regarding children. Choice of when to have a baby is closely tied to choice regarding what kind of baby to have. For example, every woman over the age of 35 is automatically referred a genetic counselor for invasive testing of her fetus. This is because the risk of genetic differences, Down’s Syndrome in particular, increase in women over the age of 35. While there may be good reason to know if your child will have a condition that may require special care and knowing beforehand may help preparation, the practice seems more connected to the question “is this child normal” than to “how can I prepare for whatever this child may be.” And what does genetic testing reveal? A list of percentages of risk related to a range of issues that may be present in the growing baby. You are presented a gamble, a numbers game that ultimately asks how much are you willing to risk that your child won’t be the 100% standard kid. If you take this gamble and do have a child that is different, you are stigmatized for this “choice” because you were warned. The thing about having a choice (and I have a hard time using that word within the issue of reproduction since, in truth, very few situations involve choice in the liberal sense) — is that when you are seen as having a choice, there is the possibility of not choosing the right one.

I did the triple screen with Will and when it came back abnormal, I was automatically referred to a genetic counselor for an appointment that included a consultation and amniocentesis “if, after the consultation, I decided to go ahead with it.” I canceled the appointment on the spot. I did this because I knew that I was going to love my baby, no matter what, and I didn’t want to deal with the frustrations and fears around the possibilities of problems. Having a baby is scary no matter what and regardless of who that child is, the parent will feel fear, uncertainty, and frustration. As it turned out, my dates were wrong and caused a false positive in the test (something that is exceedingly common with the triple screen.) With Kate, I declined this prenatal test and had to sign a variety of forms certifying that I didn’t want screening. In short, I had to resolve anyone of responsibility: if my baby was born “different,” I’d have no one to blame but myself.

I say all of this because I am troubled by the lack of respect we have for differences in each other and deeply bothered by the continued move to erasing differences in each new generation. While I try to teach my children to value diversity and appreciate others, I hope that they can find formative experiences in their schools to enhance these lessons.

In our house, we are decidedly undecided about everything regarding the primaries. Because really, does it matter? Will our votes really sway the Louisiana electoral college to go blue? Seriously?

But if we could dream, who would we choose? No idea. In one of the first elections where I could vote, I remember discussing that we start a movement for all to join the Cherokee Nation, so that we could have Wilma Mankiller as President (I can’t take credit for the idea, as I probably picked up the idea in Ms. magazine or something). The point is, if I was that disenchanted during the Daddy Bush/Clinton years, there really isn’t much hope for me now.

But surprise: we have come to a decision on the next presidental election. If Mike Huckabee becomes President of the U.S., we are leaving the country. We can take Katrina, crime, awful schools and expense, but Mike Huckabee? No way.

Picture of Will and Ana after their names were drawn for this year’s King and Queen.

Once again, insomnia is the name of the game. Restless and sleepless. The nice part is that when I am asleep, I’m getting to cuddle Will. We’re sharing a bed while friends from Lima (one of my mentors, Valerie, and her husband Eric and happy 3-month old baby Diego) use our room. I’m not the only one, though, since Diego isn’t particularly interested in sleeping, either. (Not that he is fussy — he is the happiest, sweetest baby — but still awake.) So Valerie is nursing all the time, trying to get as much work time in the SPH&TM as possible, and barely sleeping. This is a situation I can very much understand and acutely remember. Is there such a thing as sympathy insomnia?

But lack of sleep I can deal with. What is going to make crazy? The fact that I can’t save drafts on the writable PDF for the IRB submission forms (I have to use about 5) without buying Adobe Reader. (Paul pointed out the issue when I balked that I couldn’t save my work.) Currently downloading Nitro trial to see if that will do the quick trick, if for only two weeks. It’s better than the cutting and pasting nightmare I’m currently facing. If I’m a raving maniac two hours from now, the reason has now been officially documented.

UPDATE: Nitro does the job. But it uses that new Word layout… the one that should be the poster example for why “change for the sake of change” is just not always a good thing. In other words, it’s really annoying. But it did the job and will keep doing the job for the 13 more days I’ve got it.