AliThinks

Grumpy And The Chatterbox

Today I talked to my kids. Grumpy Son is bouding me (pardon my franglais) because he doesn't want to come to Lexington. So we spoke for about 10 seconds, then he got his sister.

"[Sister!] Ramène ta fraise!" (This literally means "Bring back your strawberry," but in this case, it means "Come here!" I love French.)

Then Chattery Daughter talked to me for half an hour. This was good, because lately our conversations have been short. I found out why, though: I've been calling during Star Academy. Silly me.

Laughing

I called my kids today. Neither seemed too interested in talking to me, so I asked my son:

"You don't want to talk right now?"

And he said, "No, Mom. I don't have time to talk right now."

There was a football* game happening in the cul-de-sac, see.

*soccer

This Is What Happens When Boys Invade Girls' Night.

This Is What Happens , originally uploaded by Alison.

Thank You, Jamie!

A month or so ago I sent an e-mail to the Lexington Herald Leader's Culture Writer, Jamie Gumbrecht, informing her of the threat to internet radio. She thanked me and told me she'd be out of town, but that she'd keep an eye on the issue.

Yesterday I e-mailed her again, after I read that the Copyright Ruling Board had rejected webcasters' appeal for a hearing. Today Jamie wrote a blog entry about the issue, and she mentioned MOI! [insert grin]

So thank you, Jamie, for helping spread the word.

                                                       *****

In other news, I'm finding it hard to feel anything about what happened at Virginia Tech yesterday. I think it's a self-preservation mechanism. Columbine shook me hard. This? I can't let it; as it is, I'm hanging on by a hair.

To end on a happier note, twelve years ago today I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl. She's still beautiful and healthy, but she's growing up fast. 

Happy Birthday, ma belle.

A Pre-Internet Pregnancy*

Before the existence of parenting websites and mommyblogs, we had to cope with our pregnancies the hard way. Motherless and in a foreign country, I read What to Expect When You're Expecting and wrote in my journal during my first pregnancy. I was the first of my family or friends to have a child, and boy, was I clueless. It all worked out, of course. I had a healthy baby girl three months before I turned 25.

For my second pregnancy, not only was I more experienced, but I was also fluent enough in French to feel comfortable reading parenting magazines. My favorite was famili, and I bought it every month. One of the rubrics I enjoyed was "La Future Maman du Mois," which profiled a different woman every month.

I started thinking about all this recently because at least three of my "Lost In Francelation" bloggers are pregnant. Riana, Aimee, and Deb are all expecting their first child. These future mamans have an advantage I didn't: a built-in support system via the internet. I think it's wonderful that they are able to tap into the rich source that is the interwebosphere, and that they are blogging about their pregnancies. Oh! If I'd only had a blog when I was expecting. (Sample entry from my journal: March 31, 1995. I can't believe I'm going to have a baby! Here I am with my huge belly, two weeks from my due date, and I just can't fathom the fact that a real live baby is going to come out of me. I know it's in there, heck, I can feel it moving! But it's a little person and it will grow up to be a big person and I made it! With some help from J, of course.)

But I digress. So I've been thinking about these three American bloggers in France and how lucky they are. And I got to thinking about how I dealt with being pregnant, eons ago. I thought of famili magazine, and how I sent my photo and a description in to the magazine. I thought of the phone call I received from Anne Wieme-Dufour, inviting me to be a Future Maman du Mois. I thought of that November Wednesday that I spent in Paris, being dorlotée by famili. I thought of that March day in 1998, when (with my baby son in his sling) I bought famili and opened it to this page:

Creative Little So-andSos

Last night I was in bed by 10:30, asleep by 11. And guess who had a "party" and stayed up way past their bedtime?

My kids, bien sûr. Sneaky little suckers they are, too. The only reason I know they were up late is because Allan heard a THUMP around 2:00.

Well, there's also the fact that they slept until noon. That, and the magic marker mustache-n-brows that my daughter was sporting as she ate her brunch.

Lucky

   

    Click it. You won't be sorry.

Quote(s) Of The Day

Both the kids had cereal for breakfast this morning, albeit at different times. I handed them the gallon jug of skim milk without thinking too much about it.

The 8-year old said "Mom! Who put water in the milk?"

Later, the 11-year old said "Mom, why is the milk transpaaarent?"

Rock On, Sister

Yesterday the four of us were walking around the Arboretum. Suddenly my daughter said to me, "Hey mom, can we go to Old Navy today?" She made her puppy-eyes, praying-hands, quivering-lower-lip face at me. And that, of course, made me laugh.

It's no hardship for me to go to Old Navy. Nope, no hardship at all. And the kids need some new clothes. Their suitcase was light; the packing job had been hasty and not necessarily well-thought out. Besides, my children, they grow like weeds.

So I asked my 11-year old daughter: what do you need?

Her reply: everything.

Then she elaborated with a long list of apparel. Again, I had to laugh. But I couldn't believe that, when faced with the rainbow of flip-flops, she didn't see any that she liked.

We had to go to Target for those.

What Is Up

Like Ally Bean, I don't have anything to say.

Well, that's not exactly true. I do have things to say, but it's more like Announcements To The Internet. I'll spare you another bulleted list, and just tell you what's going on.

Tomorrow evening I'm leaving for France. I'm spending the weekend with friends, and on Tuesday (while all you Amurrican readers are preparing your holiday barbecues), I'll pick up my kids after their last day of school (yes, you read that right: July 4th = last day of school in France this year; please, shoot me now).

The three of us will fly back to the States the next day, and we'll have a month together. My expectations are high. I don't know how else to put it.

Suffice it to say that my arms ache for my children. I won't even mention my heart.