I have over 200 incomplete posts in my drafts folder. Yikes. And that’s just here, at the WordPress site, where I’ve been for less than a year. Lord knows how many drafts are sitting over at Typepad. I dare not look.
In an effort to clear this cache out a bit, here’s a look at some things I was going to write about but didn’t get around to finishing.
Swell Stocking-Stuffer for Your Music-Loving Hubby
Or for any lover of contemporary music, really. Doesn’t have to be your husband. Your sister, your teenager. It’s just that Scott’s the music buff in my life, so I relate all things musical to him.
And also, these are his books I’m recommending. Not his as in he wrote them. His as in he keeps leaving them all over the house. Some are from the library and some he picked up with the one measly Amazon gift certificate I shared with him after spending all the rest on crafty books for my own self. Um, I mean on inspiring and creatively enriching resources for my darling children. Yeah, that’s the ticket (she says, hastily shoving her hot-off-the-presses copy of Stitched in Time behind her back).
Anyway, these music books. They’re a series of little bitty paperback books called 33 1/3. As in: thirty-three and a third. Like, you know, those round black things they used to scratch music out of back in olden times. Each volume is a kind of extended essay on a single record album. I think. I mean, it’s not like I’ve actually read any of them. But I listened ever so intently when Scott raved about the awesomeness of the concept. One book: one album: one deep exploration of musical themes and lyrical themes and the life-affirming statements of painful, screeching guitar solos and all that stuff people like Scott think about when they do this thing that is so unfathomable to me where they just sit and listen to music. I don’t do that. Music is for singing, or for cleaning to, or for entertaining children in the car, or for getting teary-eyed over when it’s your daughter practicing on the piano she got from the Make-a-Wish Foundation
Obviously, I wandered from the point. The point was: Scott loves this series of books and I thought someone on your Christmas list might, too.
The next draft was begun in mid-November. I’m not sure why I didn’t post it, or what else I might have been going to say.
What We’re Up To These Days
Let’s see. You already know we’re reading zillions of picture books for the Cybils. I think I’m up to 76 books read so far, with another five in my TBR pile and several more waiting for me at the library. Saturday is Scott’s library-run day (honestly, I don’t even try any more, not with the action-packed Wonderboy/Rilla combo), so I’ll most likely curl up for another reading marathon tomorrow afternoon.
I tried to cut back on out-of-the-house activities this fall, but bit by bit the schedule filled up again. We’ve got a pretty good rhythm going, though. Jane is taking ballet, Jane and Beanie are in a children’s choir that practices once a week, and Jane, Beanie, and Rose are all in a very nice little drawing class they begged and begged to squeeze in, and I’m glad I succumbed to their cajoling. Our sewing/laundry room walls are filling up with some truly gorgeous art in chalk pastels. I hope I’ll be up to maintaining the art class dropoff/pickup schedule after the baby comes in January, but it does leave me with an awkwardly sized window of time to fill with my little ones. Sometimes I do a grocery run during the window, but if I don’t get the coveted fire-truck cart that seats two children, I’m sunk. This week I took a less productive but infinitely more pleasant approach and simply buckled them into the Awesome! New! Double! Stroller!! (thank you, Mr. Wonderful, you know who you are) and went for a, you guessed it, stroll. Did a little window shopping on a quiet street full of craft stores and antique shops. Bought each of us a teeny tiny bag of teeny tiny sandwich cookies. It was lovely. And when I picked up the girls they were full of chatter and excitement because two of them are about to graduate from chalks to watercolors, and one of them (Beanie, let’s brag on the seven-year-old) had just completed a picture which was chosen to go in the ‘gallery,’ aka the studio window that fronts a busy street. Miss Bean was positively glowing. When her grandparents come for a visit next week, they will have to drive by and admire the display.
Wonderboy has speech therapy twice a week and PT twice a month. PT is a bit of a hike (up a busy highway to the Children’s Hospital) but it coincides with choir, and the other moms have been wonderful about keeping an eye on the girls for me (mainly Rilla) while the boy and I slip out for his session. This was supposed to be a three-month burst of PT to help him past a growth spurt (bone grows faster than muscle, so whenever he hits a spurt, his already short and tight muscles get even shorter and tighter), but the therapist would like to extend it for a while. She’s doing some pretty intensive deep-tissue massage and stretching with him. We’re giving it another few weeks before we make the call.
So all of that, plus my OB appts (which, gulp, just hit the every-two-weeks mark this week, which means we are really very close to the end of this pregnancy, which is sort of mindboggling because it feels like it’s only been a few months so far), makes for a pretty busy schedule. Much busier than in our mellower Virginia days. But then, my girls are getting big. Their interests are tumbling out of our home, which is right and proper.
Oh, look, the next draft isn’t really a draft—it’s just an unpublished baby ticker. I think I’ve stuck it at the bottom of a few other posts.
One of the drafts is called “Peace Comes Dropping Slow.” That’s all there is, just the title. I vaguely remember meaning to describe some particularly chaotic and noisy scene that had just taken place, making a mockery of the Yeats quote at the top of this blog. Of course, every single day provides, oh, dozens of such moments. “Peace” as applied to this house refers more to a state of mind than any kind of sensory description, you understand.
Whoops, the 7:00 bird just cooed. The “big noisy peace” (as Sandra Dodd calls it) will commence any minute now. Actually I can’t believe it hasn’t begun already—kids are sleeping late this morning. But I should go. I didn’t make it very far through the big pile o’ drafts, did I?
Catch Me If You Can
Speaking of Dickens…
Yet another of life’s eternal mysteries
The Real Baby Doesn’t Like That