Good Help Ain’t Hard to Find

Last summer, for my bride’s birthday, we bought paint. Emma’s room needed some work prior to the arrival of Lily, and Jodi has wanted the bathrooms redone for quite awhile now. Since the upstairs bathroom gets the most traffic (and since most of the changes there were to be cosmetic) we bought paint for Emma’s room and the upstairs bathroom and looked for time to undertake these projects.

Emma and I finally tackled her room this past fall. She helped a lot – but although I knew she liked to paint, I also figured most of her enthusiasm had to do with it being her room and us using paint she picked out.

Lily arrived, then Christmas and New Year’s, and the bathroom remained untouched. We got new towels to coordinate with new Bird’s Egg Blue shade Emma had helped pick for the bathroom, but the walls remained a splotchy, pale sea green. Finally Valentine’s Day rolled around, and Jodi didn’t want anything. I offered to make sure the bathroom was repainted by St. Patrick’s Day. She accepted.

Luckily, last Friday was a day off for me. I asked Emma to help me by taking down the decorations and the shower curtain. She did, then served as my “gofer,” bringing me tools, etc., as I needed them. As we got closer to actually painting, she asked if she could help with that, too.

“Of course you can,” I said. “Thanks for the offer!”

She helped prep the walls for the first coat, helped roll it on, watched me do the brush work around the edges, then went with me to Goodwill and Menards to look for a medicine cabinet. When we returned late in the afternoon, a friend asked her if she wanted to come over and play. She declined.

“I’m helping my dad,” she said.

“Wow, Rosie,” I said, “I didn’t know you liked to paint so much.”

“I do,” she said, “but I also like spending time with you.”

I melted. I know it won’t be like this forever, but still.

The next day, St. Patrick’s Day, we were the first two up. We put on our green t-shirts and listened to Flogging Molly over breakfast, then went back to work. Later Emma and I and Trevor continued our quest for a medicine cabinet – found an over-the-toilet model we had missed at Menard’s, plus an antique mirror at a shop in Elk River. We returned home just in time for Emma to enlist her mom’s guidance in another project all her own: Jodi and I were going out for the evening, and Emma had planned to make the boys a St. Patrick’s Day cake with green frosting and pistachios. She wanted to do it all herself, but want to get it in the oven before we left, just in case.

Here is the result:

Emma did everything herself, including the decorating. (She learned that it pays to let the cake cool a bit more first.) Her three brothers each ate two small pieces that night while Jodi and I were gone; Emma didn’t taste it until Sunday, since she had given up sweets for Lent. She earned two 10s, and a 9 from Trevor, who said the cake was still a little too warm when she served it. Jodi and I thought it was excellent.

Especially since Lily’s arrival, Emma has been a tremendous help, and she is becoming quite the young lady. For her birthday this month, she wants money to save for a Nook or a Kindle so she can read more without lugging books. I’ve had many opportunities to talk with her these past several days, and I also learned:

  • She is not feeling crowded in her room, despite all the baby stuff – and in fact, she thinks that, despite the nine-year age gap, she will always love Lily so much she won’t ever want her own room.
  • She is thinking about the University of Minnesota (because I work there) or the College of St. Benedict (where she is slated to visit for a Young Authors Young Artists program). When she mentioned a Catholic college, I mentioned Wyoming Catholic College, which sounds like my kind of place – now that’s on her list…
  • She, too, knows she won’t want to hang around me forever, which is why she’s doing it now.

Gosh, I love that girl. And good help is right next door!

Greeting From the North Pole, Part IX

Blogger’s Note: Over Christmas 2003, we became annual pen-pals with an elf named Siberius Quill, and he has again delivered this year! Transcriptions of past letters from Quill can be seen here.

Christmas 2011
My dearest children!
Bless my soul, but you’ve thrown a wrinkle in my writing! Again, the four of you have been on Your Very Best Behavior (all in all), so I’ve had my attention elsewhere—joining the Watcher Corps to observe and encourage those Children-on-the-Cusp, who drift from Naughty to Nice and back again throughout the year and may need a Pre-Christmas Nudge to keep them aright. Our Director of Circumstance, Miss Incognita Trueheart, and her team of Elfin Infiltrators secretly arrange opportunities for these children to do what is Right and Good, free from distraction or wicked influence, and most “Cuspers” thereby prove their True Loving Natures and merit the Nice List.
But back to the point: Such is time to an elf already centuries old, and so engaged was I in the trials of my other Young Charges, that I overlooked the Blesséd Arrival of little Lillian Clara, your delightful Baby Sister! I had thus already penned my letter to Masters Brendan, Gabriel, and Trevor, and the lovely (and still special, regardless of what your Father says in jest), Miss Emma, when the Goodchild Twins burst into my room with bright grins, all a-flutter. Now, the Goodchilds (or Goodchildren, as they prefer to be known), are the daughters of Old Abacus, the Master Counter, who for long centuries stretching to millennia, has aided my forefathers on the Quill side with assembling The List for the Old Man, ensuring no one is left off! Plethora Goodchild is herself a Nursery Watcher, whose sole responsibility is to monitor the hospitals, huts, ambulances, and baby-rooms of the world—anywhere a New Someone might appear, and add the Infant’s name to our records. Oftentimes she knows Who and Where to watch, for her sister, Firtilitee, is an elfin Midwife, who aids in the Arrivals of our Own Kind and has an eye for spying Baby Bumps, even on humans. Indeed, it was Plethora and Firtilitee Goodchild who first told me of the Expectation and Loss of little Jude last autumn, and they have watched your Dear Mother with much joyful anticipation these several months! Welcome, Lily! A very Merry Christmas indeed! Santa is most pleased to have Another Reason to stop over, and I am grateful for another Wee One to bring along in the Ways of Christmas!
You Older Ones have asked no questions of me this year, though I suspect you hold some close to your Hearts. It is no Crime to doubt Father Christmas and his Ways, for he is not only Bold and Jolly, but also Cunning and Elusive as the Artic Fox which pilfers ptarmigans from our coops! When you seek him hardest he slips your grasp, only do not lose your Sense of Wonder—for it is there, in your sleeping and waking Dreams—that you will find the Saintly Old Sprite, warming his hands o’er the Fire of your Own Heart. You’ll know he is Real when you do the Hard Work he does—the work that Christ Himself assigned to each of us: loving Each Other, our Neighbors, and our Enemies. Christmas is not about Any of Us, after all—it is always about Someone Else entirely (and the Child in the Manger, of course).
Ah, but I ramble so, and have run out of paper! A Very Happy Christmas to you all!

Siberius Quill

Preparing for Baby Boggles the Mind

[Blogger’s Note: This is a classic Pooh mural my sister painted in the baby’s room in Michigan when Brendan was a toddler, just before Gabe came along. There was a plaque alongside with the following inscription: “Getting Tigger down,” said Eeyore, “and Not hurting anybody. Keep those two ideas in your head, Piglet, and you’ll be alright.” The rest of this post originally appeared in the Friday, Oct. 14, 1997, edition of The Pioneer daily newspaper, Big Rapids, Mich. The first third is a bit much, but I was excited at the time that people would pay to read this sort of thing. It is the column referenced in yesterday’s Almost There post.]

It’s Friday, and this is a Friday kind of column.

For those who looked in Tuesday’s paper to find my column, thank you. I appreciate those people in the community who have said that they enjoy my columns. (I would say “my work,” but do you realize what O’m paid to do? I get to write.) I appreciate those who enjoy them and do not say so. I appreciate those people who read my columns and don’t like them — tell me what you don’t like, and we’ll discuss it.

It might make fodder for another column.

It’s Friday. Not my usual day for a column — I would say that too much work kept me from writing Tuesday’s column, except that my column is part of that “too much work,” and so is no real excuse. I got my other work done…

I could tell you that other people’s columns took precedence, except that a day or two ago I was accused of writing with honesty, and to be honest, everyone including me expected I’d have a column in for Tuesday. I can’t even blame a lack of ideas — I’ve got no less than a dozen columns started right now. No ends in sight, though.

I have slowly discovered that I have a readership. (A readership!) It’s a good feeling, and a source of pressure. I like to write columns, and now I feel I have a responsibility to turn out quality material every Tuesday so as not to disappoint my readership. Several weeks back I ran a piece out of my college journal — I drove from Big Rapids to Remus and back in the middle of the night to deliver that piece to the paper because I hadn’t written my column and didn’t want to let the Taylors down.

Crazy, yes, but dedicated.

But, as our night editor used to say (at least once), “{People don’t want to see how the sausage is made.”

They want the product.

What follows is this week’s morsel.

October 8, Jodi and I signed our names and purchased a home — three bedrooms, a bath and a half, brick halfway up and a two-car garage. It’s on Maple Street. (Sounds homey, doesn’t in? A friend of mine, Ed Quon, lives on Micheltorena Street — which of us is married and expecting?)

We haven’t actually taken possession yet, and out baby is due Nov. 19, which means any day now. [Blogger’s Note: Too funny. Brendan was born what, 40 or so days later?] At this point, the baby has more stuff than his or her parents, and we’re anxious to get in, repaint the baby’s room, and decorate. We have to repaint the room — its current color just isn’t Classic Pooh.

Classic Pooh is that subtle, old-fashioned Pooh based on E.H. Shepard’s illustrations — very nice; cute and pricey. Will the baby like Classic Pooh? I don’t know.

All decorating and kidding aside, we need to make sure we’re ready for this child. Crib? Check. Carseat? Check. Stroller? Check — but not the one we registered for. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a very nice stroller, but the one we registered for had a reversible handle so the baby could ride facing toward you or away from you.

“Babies like to see their parents,” I’ve been told, by parents who wish they would have gotten the reversible handle.

I suspect parents like to see their babies. Even so, will the baby like the stroller we have?

Snugglie? [Blogger’s Note: Sic. Snugli, not Snuggie…] Not yet. Wedge-shaped pillow to keep baby sleeping on his or her side or back? Nope. Outlet covers? In a couple months, probably — we don’t know yet how many outlets we’ll need covered/

How about corner and door pads — have you seen these? The package proclaims, “Give your child the safety of a padded room,” or something like that.

My kids ought to be in a padded room — is that what they’re telling me?

With millions of products on the market that new parents “need,” how does any baby survive to age one in a family with average income?

Baby wipe warmers?

The retailers and manufacturers have expectant and anxious parents right where they want us. At the beginning of life, just as at the end, people are made to feel guilty unless they spare no expense.

How did babies survive before crib monitors and motion-sensitive night light/musical crib mobiles? How did parents survive before Diaper Genie? [Blogger’s Note: This is the one product about which we were both excited and sorely disappointed. Yes, it makes disposal of diapers relatively odor-free; the magically disappear and are locked away, sealed in scentless plastic…where they ferment for days until you are forced, gagging, to empty the “Genie.” Apparently the pail/bag in combination is somehow scentless, but a bag full of rotting waste on its own reeks regardless…]

What about names? We have two in mind for a boy — Brendan James (middle-named after me) or Zachary Venjohn (middle-named after Jodi, whose maiden name is Venjohn). We like Brendan James, because our oldest boy will be named after his dad. On the other hand, we like Zachary Venjohn because it’s unique, it would mean a lot to Jodi and her family, and he’ll still be named Thorp after his father and his father’s fathers.

For baby girls, it’s either Emily Rose or Rachel Elizabeth. Probably Emily, but will she like it? Is it too old-fashioned? Too cute? Will it serve her well in her profession?

Can you yell it out the back door?

We need to save enough money to cover Jodi’s time away from work and our bills. We need to find day care for when she goes back to work. I need to get a cell phone or a pager [Blogger’s Note: Remember pagers? I wound up with a “bag-phone,” which I lugged everywhere and dubbed Baby-Com.] — what if I miss the birth? Will Jodi remember to breathe? Will I?

With all these questions flitting around my head, how do you expect me to concentrate on a column?

Rosebud on Food

Our daughter is a picky eater. She likes what she likes (toast, buttered noodles, brownies, meat) and little else (most plants). She also has a sense of humor about food and eating.

A few days ago, the boys were talking about our recent train ride to Mall of America and brought up Rainforest Cafe, which no Thorp but Emma has ever entered (for a friend’s birthday party). The boys were speculating about the entrees, and Brendan — recalling Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, no doubt — asked if they serve monkey brains.

“I’m not sure,” said Emma, deadpan,  “but not on the kids menu!”

Then this morning, she and I were eating English muffins together. “Emma,” I said sternly, “you’ve got butter on your little finger. You know what you have to do now.” Then I mimed licking my finger and savoring the white fatty goodness.

She smiled. “I’ll do that when I’m finished,” she said. “I’m gonna make sure there’s lots of butter on it!”