KateOhKatie blogs

I have knitting to show you, but this issue takes precedence.

Read this woman’s account of the current situation in Tibet, and contrast it with the glossed-over version put out to our major news sources. (This’ll get you started)

Some background info:  Lena and Joy are Americans who have been living in a Tibetan village for the past several years, using their resources and reader donations to provide medical care and education to those in their area.  Lately, though, Joy’s blog has shifted focus–a necessity–to serve as a straightforward, insider’s view of the horrors in her adopted country and the effect those horrors have had on the locals in her village.

But what really breaks my heart is this part from the blog post:
The Tibetans themselves are praying that the Americans and the United Nations will step in and stop the slaughter. They believe that it’s their only hope for avoiding genocide – they do not have enough numbers and no ability to fight. Global pressure is the only thing they believe will have the slightest effect on the Chinese authorities. He says to me, please get the word out. Ask everyone in America to write the president. He likes fights doesn’t he? Let him fight this if he’s going to fight something. It’s our only chance. Otherwise the Chinese government will kill us all.

Even after all the massive fuck-ups of the current administration, America is seen as having the capability to help or alleviate this situation.  This is not a new issue–the push for a free Tibet has been going on as long as I can remember, and long before I was born.  And though we have the resources to fight a pointless war in the Middle East so as to line the oil companies’ pockets, our government is apparently unable to step in and actively work to resolve the situation in Tibet.  Because over there, what’s in it for us?  (Except, y’know, human rights advocacy, maintenance of a culture, and the peace of mind that comes from having done the right thing.  Oh, and the possibility of redeeming ourselves in the worlds’ eyes.)  But if we piss off China, we’ll lose our biggest source of $25 TVs and $2 t-shirts, so nothing will happen.  Our priorities lay with saving a buck at Wal-Mart rather than saving a life halfway across the world.

Just something to think about this weekend….happy Friday?

Is where I was dropped as a baby.

No, really.  I have a big scar and everything.  It’s in my hairline.

Seriously, though, I have had babies on the brain a lot lately.  And, given 1) my career and 2) the fact that everybody on the blogosphere seems to be procreating at a simply astounding pace–is it really that surprising that I spend a lot of time thinking about babies?

This doesn’t mean that Jeff and I have any plans to procreate anytime soon (though I promise y’all will be the first to know, lol), we have already had lots of discussions about what kind of parents we would like to be, and steps we can take to try to somewhere within spittin’ distance of that ideal.

And, as someone who has *never* had children, but has spent many, many years around other peoples’, and is a legally certified expert on other peoples’ children, I figure I’m in an unarguably *perfect* position to be the ultimate judge of Good Parenting, right? (note sarcasm.  For god’s sake, please note sarcasm).

Most of my ideas about good parenting come from the way I was raised–after all, perfection breeds perfection breeds perfection, right?   I’m also strongly influenced by the ideals of a simple, eco-friendly, natural lifestyle–the one to which I aspire.  Finally, by something a friend of mine (the mom of one of my *adorable* students) told me:  “You don’t need a bunch of crap to have a baby.  All you need is at least one working boob, some cloth diapers, a sling, and a good carseat.”  And really, she’s right.  That’ll get you through the first few months, at least.

Here are our thoughts:

~We WILL decide to have a child only when we are emotionally and financially ready–not within the next couple years, at least.

~When that time comes, I WILL do everything I can to have a healthy and natural pregnancy.

~We will NOT find out the gender of our child before he/she is born, choose one name for Absolutely Gosh Darn Certain, and spend our last months as a couple obsessively planning (read:  buying unnecessary shit) for the Hoopling.

~I WILL avoid drugs, unnecessary cesarean sections, and a hospital environment if at all possible.

~I WILL attempt to breastfeed our child if at all possible.

~We WILL use cloth diapers whenever possible, to avoid all the waste and unnatural substances that accompany disposables.

~We WILL NOT schlep the Hoopling around in a carseat or stroller, we WILL carry him/her in a sling (like the Maya Wrap) whenever possible.

~We WILL consider co-sleeping, depending on our situation at the time (jury’s still out on this one).

~We WILL NOT buy a bunch of plastic crap to artificially stimulate the Hoopling.  Babies need attention, love, natural stimulation and playtime with their parents–not dangerous chemicals.

~We WILL NOT expose the Hoopling to passive smoking.  Ever.

~We WILL NOT partake in Baby Einstein (or Baby Mozart, or Baby Shakespeare), or whatever other “TV for infants” idea that comes up in the next few years.

~We WILL NOT impose any sort of religious beliefs upon the Hoopling before he/she has reached an age at which he/she can choose for himself/himself (IF he/she even wants to).

~We WILL NOT feed the Hoopling bland, overprocessed, chemical-laden foods just because they’re “kid friendly.”  I was sucking barbeque sauce off my dad’s finger when I was 6 weeks old, and look at me today!  Kids only dislike flavorful foods because that’s what adults ‘tell’ them to do.

~We WILL treat parenting as our primary and *most important* job.  A Hoopling is not a cute accessory to be handed off to the nearest caregiver at the first moment it becomes an inconvenience.

~Female Hooplings WILL wear an abundance of pink and lace and ribbons; Male Hooplings WILL have a tiny Cardinals onesie (already bought it! )

~We WILL remain aware at all times of the fact that human(oid)s have been successfully reproducing for millions of years before now, and they all survived fine without bizarre, neck-straining chunks of foam.  So surely we will too.

~~~~~~~~~
I am unashamedly a hippie (Jeff denies any hipppie-ish tendencies on his part).  Any parent can raise their children however they want, but that does not mean we have to raise ours that way.  We try to live our lives free of unnecessary, harmful chemicals (except caffeine) and will do so with our children.  We do not need plastic junk or junk to distract the kids.  Children may be inconveniencing at times, but they are not an inconvenience.  What kind of message does it send to them that we treat everything having to do with them (from disposable diapers to mindless entertainment), as an inconvenience?

Off the soapbox.

Yesterday morning at about 8:30 I was driving to a friend’s house so I could watch her daughter for a few hours.  They live way the heck out in the country.  As in, small town to state highway to rural highway to dirt road to long-ass ‘driveway’.  At the same time, though, it’s only a 10-minute drive from my house in the bustling metropolis that is Kirksville (I love this town).

I’m on the ‘dirt road’ leg of my journey, maybe half a mile down it, when I see something in the road.  Something large and black and white.  Something unmoving.  Something…smiling at me?!

I stop my car about 20 feet in front of the grinning Australian shepherd which has decided to lay in the road.  I honk my horn.  He jumps up, and begins doing the “Hey I’m a stupid dog!” dance in front of my car, so close I have to lean over the wheel to see him.  I honk again, so he dances his way over to the side of the car and, thus, the road.  Feeling as though I’ve earned his permission, I begin to creep forward.  But as soon as my car starts to move, he merrily dances back in front of the car, causing me to slam on my brakes.

I roll down the window and yell “Hey!  Move it!  Move!  Move!” which lures the shepherd back to the driver’s side window.  I keep talking to him as I again begin to inch forward.  Then there he goes again, trying to throw himself under the wheel.  This dog is suicidal, and happy about it.

Again I honk, again he moves, again I drive, again I slam on the brakes.  That’s some herding instinct this dog’s got.  And maybe it was the wool yarn in my knitting bag, but this thing clearly thought I was a sheep.  In desperation, I decideto try just going, thinking maybe he was just playing with me all along and would dance out of the way once it became apparent I wasn’t going to stop.  The only problem is, dammit, I just can’t bring myself to do it.   Visions of my own dog flash in my mind…how would I feel if some evil 22-year-old in a Grand Am ran over my precious Maxie?  Sighing, I continue trying to convince the shepherd that I am not, indeed, a sheep (of this, I’m relatively certain–although the availability of wool would be rather convenient).

I look over to the nearest house, where I presume my foe lives.  Despite the fact that I’d just spent fully 10 minutes honking at their dog, no one emerges.  They’re probably all inside, laughing at me.  So I pick up the phone and call the woman whose daughter I was supposed to be babysitting.  “Nancy, I’m on my way to your house, and there’s a dog in the road, and I’m gonna hit him, and he won’t MOOOOVE!” I wailed, clearly indicating how unfit I am for country life.

Nancy tells me that this particular Australian shepherd is well known for his car-herding attempts, and that he tries to guide her Subaru every time she or her husband drives home.  Patiently, Nancy coaches me on how to escape him.  “Just go,” she assures me, “He’ll get out of the way.  He always does.  I promise.”

“Fine,” I reply, then tell her that if I hit some poor person’s favorite pet, it was her fault and not mine.  Taking a deep breath, I inch forward, as slowly as the car can go.  The dog merrily hops in front of the car every few feet, but always jumps back out of the way once it became clear I wasn’t going to stop.  After a couple hundred yards (the edge of his property, I presume), he abruptly stops and allows me to continue on my way, unherded.  I swear I see him laughing at me as I drive off.

Dear Santa,

All I can say this year is, I tried to be good.  You might have heard, I got married.  Yeah, he’s pretty amazing.  No, he doesn’t believe in you.  That’s what happens when you grow up, I guess.  But I’m working on him, Santa, I really am.  In the meantime, though, this letter is from me, Katie…solo.

I have a long wish list this year, Santa.  Most of it is from my cats–Othello and Macbeth?  I think I told you about them in last year’s letter.  I know that in Xmas 2005 I asked for cats, but Santa, really…couldn’t you have done a bit better than this?  I mean, I understand that you want to save all the cute baby kittens to give to little kids, but was it really fair to stick me with one 16-lb scaredy cat his 15-lb, stinky-breathed gay lover?  That’s OK, Santa, I know you tried.  And I love them anyway.  They asked me to tell you, by the way, that they want catnip for Christmas.  Their wishes are simple–catnip, and lots of it.  What they *don’t* know, is that in just a couple weeks they’ll also be getting their yearly shots.  Ssh!  Please keep the secret, Santa!

And even though Jeff says he doesn’t believe in you, I know there are some things he wants for Christmas, too.  I think “a good wife” is at the top of his list, actually.  Boy, Santa, you sure played lots of jokes on everybody last year!  Stuck me with rotten cats, stuck my husband with a rotten wife…  aah well, that’s OK.  Because last year I asked for a wonderful husband, and that’s sure what I got.  You’re pretty awesome, Santa.  And I think this year Jeff deserves something nice, too.  Did you know that his computer is about 6 years old?  Me neither, until recently.  I was going to buy him a new one, then I realized that a new computer costs slightly more than my car is worth I’ve got right now.  So I’ll leave that up to you, I guess.  Or maybe you just want to give him some DVDs or a video game or two.  I’m sure he’d like that, too.  And as long as he’s watching TV or playing video games, he doesn’t try to drag me away from my crafting–a win/win situation, Santa!  Oh, and I noticed the other day that Jeff’s jeans are pretty much worn out, so if you wanted to slip and Old Navy gift card in his stocking, I won’t tell anyone that I gave you the hint .  As long as you put a yarn shop gift card in mine, right?

While we’re on the topic of my list, Santa, I just wanted to say THANKS! for the sewing machine last year.  I’ve broken the Johnson family tradition of using our sewing tables as convenient storage for clothes in need of mending or ironing.  I actually use mine for sewing!  Not as much as I’d like to, admittedly, and here’s why…  I picked up on knitting in June.  I don’t know if you noticed or not, while doing your mid-year “Naughty or Nice” checkup.  It’s sort of an obsession of mine now, actually.  I wouldn’t say I’m good at it, but I do enjoy it.  I’d love to be able to buy some yarn and work on super-fun projects–perhaps you need a new hat, Santa?  But hey, if going into knitting stores embarrasses you  the elves don’t know how to spin wool, that’s OK.  You know I’m not picky about my gifts.  Cash, gift cards, a kick in the seat of the pants, it’s all good.  I just want to make your job easy, Santa.  But let’s face it, this year we need practical things.  Things that are useful.  Or, things from our wedding registry.  Like I said, just trying to make your job easy.

And finally–I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds here–could you put in a good word for Jeff at the University of Chicago law school?  #6 in the nation, you know.  I can send you a copy of Jeff’s transcript if you want.  He got a 173 on the LSAT–did you hear?  Of course you did…I’m sorry, I forgot who I was talking to for a minute, there.

Thanks for reading this, Santa!  And when you come visit us on Christmas night, please remember to close the front door behind you–the cat likes to try and sneak out.

Love and kisses,
Katie

This made me giggle while working on projects in the library yesterday.  And as y’all know, what makes me giggle, is fodder for my blog.

Jeff:

Jeff’s book:

Me:

My books:

Yeah.

Here, let’s get a couple close-ups of the types of literature I choose to peruse in the course of my scholarly pursuits:

Dinosailors, always good.  And that big cardboard one on the bottom is Tonka Trucks at Work.  It has moving parts!

The Milk Makers, and From Head to Toe by Eric Carle.  Eric Carle is one of my favorites!

I feel like when you’re a kid in kindergarten and you’ve got that big Strawberry Shortcake/Lisa Frank/Sleeping Beauty/Whatever The Heck Kids These Days Have backpack, and nothing to put in it, so you put your teddy bear in it, and a juice box and maybe some of your mommy’s or daddy’s junk mail, and then you trot it out to show any grown-up you encounter, so they’ll see that you’re a big kid too.  With a backpack!

Not even 3 months

These were new at the end of last school year (2 weeks’ use, then 3 months’ rest, then 8 weeks’ use:  *10 WEEKS USE*)

Brown paint on left leg, both knees ripped out.

Blue handprint on left hip:

More brown paint:

Threadbare:

What finally did them in:

I am hard on jeans.  These were used for 10 weeks.

Hidden hazard of teaching preschool?

OK so here’s what happened.

I was hanging out here right after Jeff left to go out, about 10 pm.  Internet-ing, minding my own business.  When I hear men talking in the hallway, and a knock on our door.  Now, our apartment is part of a house that was carved up into three apartments.  So hearing unfamiliar voices is a really big thing…it’s like some stranger standing in your foyer.  Plus, we’d just watched Hot Fuzz so I was hyper alert about any potential crime in my community .

Anyway, so since we don’t have a peephole, I couldn’t look and see who they were or anything.  I opened the door a crack and said “Can I help you?”  The two men looked really suspicious to me…one was wearing a cowboy hat.  Like I said, suspicious.    Mr Cowboy Hat said “Does Ty [our neighbor] live here?”  So me, being all riled up from having just watched Hot Fuzz said, “why do you ask?”  and Mr Cowboy Hat responded “we’re his parents.”  Ooooh, ok….so they’re *that* sort of family.  Whatever.  So I pointed out his apartment across the hall and shut my door.  Then I retreated to the faaaar corner of the house (thin walls, y’know) and called Jeff.  I whispered in the phone “you have to come home right now!  These weird men just knocked on the door and they look like meth heads.”  So Jeff hurried home.

When he got here, he asked what I wanted to do.  I told him I supposed I’d go back out with him, ’cause I sure didn’t feel safe at home alone!  At least, not without a paring knife in hand or something.   So we left.

While walking to the car, we saw Mr Cowboy Hat and his friend again!  They were unloading suitcases.  And there were two middle-aged women with them.  And as Jeff so tactfully pointed out to me, “You were scared of middle-aged Mormons [Utah plates] in khakis and button-down shirts?!”

Yes, yes I was.  I promise.

They looked a lot less suspicious than they did standing at my front door!

Sigh…I’ll never live this one down   So what do I do but broadcast it to the Xanga community and beyond!  Will I ever learn?