Bean seems to be having tendencies like her momma, i.e. she is a devourer of books:
Conclusion: It may be tough someday to pry her away from a good book to clean her room, but it's a risk I'm willing to take.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
The Very Sad Story of the Rhubarb Jam
I may have mentioned once or twice that life in Dominica is different than life in the United States. Yeah, yeah, it's an island, it's surrounded by water, it's hot and steamy, it's a third world country, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. What it really comes down to is stuff. Americans have lots of stuff. And we like being able to buy more stuff. We also tend to buy stuff that moonlights as food (aka processed food that makes cooking simple-de-dimple). We are generally very stuff-y, we Americans. Where life on the island gets tricky is in the lack of stuff. All things American are, quite understandably, imported. This cuts down on the variety and availability of stuff, while significantly augmenting the price. It would make sense for us to live on locally produced food while we are here (or really anywhere, since apparently eating locally is more important than eating organically [except for this article I read that talked about how to feed that trend local farms are going to all kinds of crazy lengths to produce things that are not native to their climate, which requires treatments that negate all the positives of eating locally so you have to eat not just locally, but what should normally grow locally, not oranges grown in Idaho or something crazy like that]). But we don't always.
One thing that is an interesting issue is jam. The local jam can be good; it can also be weird. Guava and pineapple are definitely more common than grape or strawberry. However, sometimes grape and strawberry can be found. They are generally quite expensive, not the brand we would normally buy, and full of sugar and/or (gasp) high fructose corn syrup (absolutely not good for you). We buy it and eat it anyway.
Last Saturday brought an important campus event - The Fourth Semester Sale. This is where students leaving the island sell off all the stuff they brought with them that they aren't taking back to the states. I love buying food at this sale. There is always some awesome stuff there that you just can't get anywhere else (like chili seasoning mix [I didn't even know it existed], thanks Sindy!). One especially good find this time around was a jar of strawberry rhubarb jam made with sugar (not corn syrup), and not too much of it at all. I was thrilled. It cost us 8 EC, which is about $3 USD. I love rhubarb pie, and had to assume the jam would be just as delightful. I am salivating just thinking about it.
The next day, during breakfast, I got the jam out to look at it lovingly, read its label, and ponder how it should be eaten. Bean was perched in her little chair (that I LOVE, what a great purchase), grabbing at things, as she is wont to do. Her reach increases daily, as does her ability and strength. However, she also spends quite a bit of time just patting anything and everything she can reach, with great gusto. The idea seems to be, if you can't grab, pat. Pat may be too soft of a word. Slap? Smack? Bang? You get the idea. At times she reaches for things that are not particularly baby-friendly, but that are unfortunately baby-appealing (it's a cruel, cruel world). The jar of jam was one of those things. I put it next to her thinking, "Ah, she can enjoy the patting of it and I will keep an eye/hand on it to keep it safe." Have I mentioned it was a glass jar? Yeah. The wildly swinging mitts of Bean were too quick for me. I swear I actually had my hand on the jar and she somehow knocked it backwards off the counter (yes, I put her little chair on the counter, and yes I swear it's solid). I reached just as wildly, but too late. I saw, gratefully (well, hopefully), that it was going to hit the couch that is right behind the counter. Not only is the couch softer than our tile floor, it was also piled with laundry (who would've ever thought that my laziness could be a blessing?). If it hit the couch and rested, all would be well and Momma would've learned a lesson painlessly. But that's not how lessons go, is it? It did hit the couch. And it bounced. And broke open on our tile floor. It had never even been opened. I'll be honest, I considered tasting the bit that was on top and I could tell wouldn't have any glass or floor-dirt contamination. I refrained, but very sadly. The jam is gone. Now we are left with nothing. And I just made bread, too.
Conclusion: The edge of the cliff really is as dangerous as your seminary teacher told you.
One thing that is an interesting issue is jam. The local jam can be good; it can also be weird. Guava and pineapple are definitely more common than grape or strawberry. However, sometimes grape and strawberry can be found. They are generally quite expensive, not the brand we would normally buy, and full of sugar and/or (gasp) high fructose corn syrup (absolutely not good for you). We buy it and eat it anyway.
Last Saturday brought an important campus event - The Fourth Semester Sale. This is where students leaving the island sell off all the stuff they brought with them that they aren't taking back to the states. I love buying food at this sale. There is always some awesome stuff there that you just can't get anywhere else (like chili seasoning mix [I didn't even know it existed], thanks Sindy!). One especially good find this time around was a jar of strawberry rhubarb jam made with sugar (not corn syrup), and not too much of it at all. I was thrilled. It cost us 8 EC, which is about $3 USD. I love rhubarb pie, and had to assume the jam would be just as delightful. I am salivating just thinking about it.
The next day, during breakfast, I got the jam out to look at it lovingly, read its label, and ponder how it should be eaten. Bean was perched in her little chair (that I LOVE, what a great purchase), grabbing at things, as she is wont to do. Her reach increases daily, as does her ability and strength. However, she also spends quite a bit of time just patting anything and everything she can reach, with great gusto. The idea seems to be, if you can't grab, pat. Pat may be too soft of a word. Slap? Smack? Bang? You get the idea. At times she reaches for things that are not particularly baby-friendly, but that are unfortunately baby-appealing (it's a cruel, cruel world). The jar of jam was one of those things. I put it next to her thinking, "Ah, she can enjoy the patting of it and I will keep an eye/hand on it to keep it safe." Have I mentioned it was a glass jar? Yeah. The wildly swinging mitts of Bean were too quick for me. I swear I actually had my hand on the jar and she somehow knocked it backwards off the counter (yes, I put her little chair on the counter, and yes I swear it's solid). I reached just as wildly, but too late. I saw, gratefully (well, hopefully), that it was going to hit the couch that is right behind the counter. Not only is the couch softer than our tile floor, it was also piled with laundry (who would've ever thought that my laziness could be a blessing?). If it hit the couch and rested, all would be well and Momma would've learned a lesson painlessly. But that's not how lessons go, is it? It did hit the couch. And it bounced. And broke open on our tile floor. It had never even been opened. I'll be honest, I considered tasting the bit that was on top and I could tell wouldn't have any glass or floor-dirt contamination. I refrained, but very sadly. The jam is gone. Now we are left with nothing. And I just made bread, too.
Conclusion: The edge of the cliff really is as dangerous as your seminary teacher told you.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Travelin'
We took Bean to Roseau. It's a trip of about 30 miles that takes an hour. In a crowded van. I was a little worried about it. She was a real trooper (unlike the fictional troopers of Star Wars fame) and traveled quietly and happily. She passed out on the way home. We got a picture the only way we can these days - with the video camera. The video actually gives you an idea of what the ride is like. It may even give you motion sickness. It's still adorable.
Before you ask, no she is not in a car seat, just my lap. Carseats are not really an option around here, at least not with the public transport system. She is protected by my lovin' arms and angels. Lots of prayer goes into it, you know?
Conclusion: When high-risk activity is the norm, it seems safe, but it's still high-risk.
Before you ask, no she is not in a car seat, just my lap. Carseats are not really an option around here, at least not with the public transport system. She is protected by my lovin' arms and angels. Lots of prayer goes into it, you know?
Conclusion: When high-risk activity is the norm, it seems safe, but it's still high-risk.
Updates
First of all, I fully intended to update everyone and let you know that, despite her early promise, Bean has not yet rolled over. However, today SHE DID IT. That, or some boogey man came and put her on her tummy when I wasn't looking. We have a number of videos of her almost rolling over, but I missed all three times that she actually rolled over, so of course there are no pictures of any kind. Sigh. Alas. The third time was the saddest. She rolled from her back to her tummy and she hasn't yet figured out how to go back to her back. When I put her in her crib tonight, she almost immediately rolled over and went to sleep. Adorable, aside from my neurotic concerns about SIDS. Then, just a couple hours later, I heard her screaming. When I went in, she was throwing her arm back with as much force as she could, but she couldn't seem to roll to her back. We've got some work to do, I guess, so we can all continue sleeping well.
Second update: Turns out that Bean was not playing with that spinning-tree-rattle-thing. She just hadn't figured out how to eat it yet. I don't know if she got more reach, more hand-eye coordination, or just more time, but she now grabs it and chews on it much more than she spins and rattles it. She even once pulled it off the tray, and it's a pretty strong suction cup. That's my girl.
(This is where the beginning of the videos really comes in. We think she's adorable. You don't have to. I understand. But her grandma might want to see this. Plus, our still-shot camera died [sniff!], so this is all we got.)
(Can I also comment on my video-voice [not that it's in this video, but the use of the new technology has really brought it to my attention]? So, everyone sounds different in their heads, and everyone knows that, right? Right. Hearing yourself in any recording is WEIRD. Um, mine is, like, twenty times weirder when I'm talking to Bean. It's not even like a cute, sing-songy mommy voice. It's just weird. Not sure why. She may grow up weird. If you stick around, I'm sure I'll post a video that has my Bean voice on it. Weird.)
Conclusion: Time and determination accomplish much that at first may seem impossible.
Second update: Turns out that Bean was not playing with that spinning-tree-rattle-thing. She just hadn't figured out how to eat it yet. I don't know if she got more reach, more hand-eye coordination, or just more time, but she now grabs it and chews on it much more than she spins and rattles it. She even once pulled it off the tray, and it's a pretty strong suction cup. That's my girl.
(This is where the beginning of the videos really comes in. We think she's adorable. You don't have to. I understand. But her grandma might want to see this. Plus, our still-shot camera died [sniff!], so this is all we got.)
(Can I also comment on my video-voice [not that it's in this video, but the use of the new technology has really brought it to my attention]? So, everyone sounds different in their heads, and everyone knows that, right? Right. Hearing yourself in any recording is WEIRD. Um, mine is, like, twenty times weirder when I'm talking to Bean. It's not even like a cute, sing-songy mommy voice. It's just weird. Not sure why. She may grow up weird. If you stick around, I'm sure I'll post a video that has my Bean voice on it. Weird.)
Conclusion: Time and determination accomplish much that at first may seem impossible.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Carnival Miracle
It's like a Christmas miracle, only different.
Have you heard of Carnival? Do you have any idea what it's like? Let me 'splain. Ok, so I've experienced three Carnival seasons, but one was spelled Carnaval, so it's different. None of the three have I actively participated in, so maybe my descriptions and views are skewed by my general innocence and/or prudish-ness.
My first season was in Portugal. That's the one with the weird spelling, cuz, you know, it's written in Portuguese. I was serving my LDS mission in northern Portugal. It seemed mostly like a cute parade with Halloween costumes. The end. Maybe I missed the real fun, since I was busy proselyting and stuff. Still, it wasn't anything so crazy it really seemed like it interfered with my life, unlike a friend of mine who served a mission in Brazil and had to spend two weeks inside his apartment in order to avoid all the rampant sinning. Portugal was no biggie.
My second season was last year in Dominica. We were already into the middle of the Carnival season before I realized what exactly was going on. Wonderman and I could not figure out why there was such a constant stream of pounding music night after night (the downfall of living on the main road, close to the city center). I don't remember how we figured it out. I do remember cursing it nightly. I also remember waking up one night in the middle of the night (well, around 3 am) to music louder than I had ever before imagined in my entire life. The pounding bass was so loud I could literally feel it in my bones. It was loud. Wonderman had a test the next day. He was not happy. We got out of bed to see what was going on. We saw a semi truck with the trailer stacked completely full with speakers, driving (read "creeping") down the road in front of our house. There were also flashing lights to make it even harder to sleep through. Following the truck of speakers was a crowd of people dancing (read "stumbling") behind. Maybe their movement was such because of the speed (read: "lack of speed") of the truck. Maybe it was because of the ungodly hour. Maybe it was alcoholic impairment. Maybe it was all of these things. It looked lame. After much grumbling, we returned to bed to toss and turn. Thankfully, that was essentially the end of the season.
This year, I knew it was coming. I was mentally preparing a while before it even began. I was super nervous about dealing with the noise with an infant in the house. During one of the nights of insanely loud music, we put Bean's crib in the closet space that is the only place in the house without windows, hoping to cut down on her noise disturbance. She still woke up multiple times in the night. I was not excited for what I knew was coming (apparently the early morning parade is called j'ouvert (juvé) , meaning: parade that ends at sunrise, which sounds kind of neat and definitely benign, but is really not, unless maybe it is if you're in it but it's not great from the outside). I expected to just bring Bean from the closet to our bed and spend the night nursing, and then probably the next day nursing as we struggled to recover from the night before. I miscalculated. I thought the parade would be tonight/tomorrow morning. Alas, it caught me by surprise last night/this morning. I didn't put the baby in the closet. I had laid Bean down just an hour before after her mid-night feeding when I heard the tell-tale pounding. I closed all the windows and drapes (every little bit helps) in the house and then waited, essentially right at the foot of Bean's crib, knowing she would be waking up crying in just moments. The speaker truck got closer and closer and the music got louder and louder. Literally all the windows and doors in our house were rattling. Bean stirred. She curled up and threw her feet down. The craziness passed, still more than audible for quite some time. SHE SLEPT THROUGH IT. Seriously? The child that wakes up if Wonderman lets his belt buckle rattle at all when he's undressing as we go in to bed (have I told you how fun it is to share a room with an infant that goes to bed five or six hours before we do?) slept through that insanity? Really? How is this possible? I have no idea. But I am grateful. I am also tired, since I spent so much time awake and on the alert, waiting for her to need me. Sigh. She never did.
Here's a video I took of the parade this afternoon. I think it was all students from Ross. Maybe it's just the university's attempt to make students feel like they're participating, without them having to be awake at 3 am. I don't know. It wasn't nearly as loud, so Bean and I went out and watched it. She seemed to like the music and the colors. Most importantly, you can see at the head of the parade the insanely large conglomeration of speakers. The afternoon parade was loud, but still probably four times less loud than it was this morning/last night. This is not a particularly exciting video, but it's 24 seconds of an interesting bit of culture. Sorry that I didn't get out there at 3 am to get the real thing.
And now, as I write this, I can hear some pounding music, but at enough of a distance that is bothers me barely at all. I don't think I have ever been so aware of or so excited for Ash Wednesday. I will say that I went into town on Saturday and got a taste of the celebration in the air and thought for a minute or two that it might be fun to check out what Carnival was like, even if I don't drink. I may have been influenced by the really pretty masks I saw for sale. Maybe. Anyway, Ash Wednesday will be here soon, soon. I may never be so aware of it again in my life. And I'm ok with that.
Conclusion: It came to pass.
ps - It's strange, I didn't grow up in a culture where Carnival (or Mardi Gras, or even Lent for that matter) was a part of life at all. Still, I feel like I have a pretty good general understanding of the history of it. Or I thought I did until this afternoon when my neighbor, Chris (she's Dominican by heritage, but spent most of her adult life in England, still she understands and is part of the culture here - way more than me), was lamenting the continued celebration of Carnival. She said it heralds back to the days of slavery where slave "owners" would allow only one day for slaves to take time off and celebrate. She said the costumes' origin was in how the slaves dressed up like their "masters" and their concubines. I had to agree that maintaining any tradition connected to slavery is lamentable. I was confused, however, since my understanding of Carnival connects it much more to Catholicism than to slavery. She should know though, so I accepted. Until, of course, I checked on Wikipedia (the source of all light and truth). Wiki made no mention of Carnival's connection to slavery. In fact, it seemed to be very much a European tradition that connects to other pagan, pre-Christian rituals. I'm led to doubt Chris. I'm curious where her understanding of it comes from. What do you think I should believe?
Have you heard of Carnival? Do you have any idea what it's like? Let me 'splain. Ok, so I've experienced three Carnival seasons, but one was spelled Carnaval, so it's different. None of the three have I actively participated in, so maybe my descriptions and views are skewed by my general innocence and/or prudish-ness.
My first season was in Portugal. That's the one with the weird spelling, cuz, you know, it's written in Portuguese. I was serving my LDS mission in northern Portugal. It seemed mostly like a cute parade with Halloween costumes. The end. Maybe I missed the real fun, since I was busy proselyting and stuff. Still, it wasn't anything so crazy it really seemed like it interfered with my life, unlike a friend of mine who served a mission in Brazil and had to spend two weeks inside his apartment in order to avoid all the rampant sinning. Portugal was no biggie.
My second season was last year in Dominica. We were already into the middle of the Carnival season before I realized what exactly was going on. Wonderman and I could not figure out why there was such a constant stream of pounding music night after night (the downfall of living on the main road, close to the city center). I don't remember how we figured it out. I do remember cursing it nightly. I also remember waking up one night in the middle of the night (well, around 3 am) to music louder than I had ever before imagined in my entire life. The pounding bass was so loud I could literally feel it in my bones. It was loud. Wonderman had a test the next day. He was not happy. We got out of bed to see what was going on. We saw a semi truck with the trailer stacked completely full with speakers, driving (read "creeping") down the road in front of our house. There were also flashing lights to make it even harder to sleep through. Following the truck of speakers was a crowd of people dancing (read "stumbling") behind. Maybe their movement was such because of the speed (read: "lack of speed") of the truck. Maybe it was because of the ungodly hour. Maybe it was alcoholic impairment. Maybe it was all of these things. It looked lame. After much grumbling, we returned to bed to toss and turn. Thankfully, that was essentially the end of the season.
This year, I knew it was coming. I was mentally preparing a while before it even began. I was super nervous about dealing with the noise with an infant in the house. During one of the nights of insanely loud music, we put Bean's crib in the closet space that is the only place in the house without windows, hoping to cut down on her noise disturbance. She still woke up multiple times in the night. I was not excited for what I knew was coming (apparently the early morning parade is called j'ouvert (juvé) , meaning: parade that ends at sunrise, which sounds kind of neat and definitely benign, but is really not, unless maybe it is if you're in it but it's not great from the outside). I expected to just bring Bean from the closet to our bed and spend the night nursing, and then probably the next day nursing as we struggled to recover from the night before. I miscalculated. I thought the parade would be tonight/tomorrow morning. Alas, it caught me by surprise last night/this morning. I didn't put the baby in the closet. I had laid Bean down just an hour before after her mid-night feeding when I heard the tell-tale pounding. I closed all the windows and drapes (every little bit helps) in the house and then waited, essentially right at the foot of Bean's crib, knowing she would be waking up crying in just moments. The speaker truck got closer and closer and the music got louder and louder. Literally all the windows and doors in our house were rattling. Bean stirred. She curled up and threw her feet down. The craziness passed, still more than audible for quite some time. SHE SLEPT THROUGH IT. Seriously? The child that wakes up if Wonderman lets his belt buckle rattle at all when he's undressing as we go in to bed (have I told you how fun it is to share a room with an infant that goes to bed five or six hours before we do?) slept through that insanity? Really? How is this possible? I have no idea. But I am grateful. I am also tired, since I spent so much time awake and on the alert, waiting for her to need me. Sigh. She never did.
Here's a video I took of the parade this afternoon. I think it was all students from Ross. Maybe it's just the university's attempt to make students feel like they're participating, without them having to be awake at 3 am. I don't know. It wasn't nearly as loud, so Bean and I went out and watched it. She seemed to like the music and the colors. Most importantly, you can see at the head of the parade the insanely large conglomeration of speakers. The afternoon parade was loud, but still probably four times less loud than it was this morning/last night. This is not a particularly exciting video, but it's 24 seconds of an interesting bit of culture. Sorry that I didn't get out there at 3 am to get the real thing.
And now, as I write this, I can hear some pounding music, but at enough of a distance that is bothers me barely at all. I don't think I have ever been so aware of or so excited for Ash Wednesday. I will say that I went into town on Saturday and got a taste of the celebration in the air and thought for a minute or two that it might be fun to check out what Carnival was like, even if I don't drink. I may have been influenced by the really pretty masks I saw for sale. Maybe. Anyway, Ash Wednesday will be here soon, soon. I may never be so aware of it again in my life. And I'm ok with that.
Conclusion: It came to pass.
ps - It's strange, I didn't grow up in a culture where Carnival (or Mardi Gras, or even Lent for that matter) was a part of life at all. Still, I feel like I have a pretty good general understanding of the history of it. Or I thought I did until this afternoon when my neighbor, Chris (she's Dominican by heritage, but spent most of her adult life in England, still she understands and is part of the culture here - way more than me), was lamenting the continued celebration of Carnival. She said it heralds back to the days of slavery where slave "owners" would allow only one day for slaves to take time off and celebrate. She said the costumes' origin was in how the slaves dressed up like their "masters" and their concubines. I had to agree that maintaining any tradition connected to slavery is lamentable. I was confused, however, since my understanding of Carnival connects it much more to Catholicism than to slavery. She should know though, so I accepted. Until, of course, I checked on Wikipedia (the source of all light and truth). Wiki made no mention of Carnival's connection to slavery. In fact, it seemed to be very much a European tradition that connects to other pagan, pre-Christian rituals. I'm led to doubt Chris. I'm curious where her understanding of it comes from. What do you think I should believe?
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Playtime
Another big deal is toys. Bean is becoming ever more aware of toys. Our neighbor gave us this awesome spinning rattle toy that is anchored with suction. Her baby was not interested. Bean loves it. Before this toy, she would "play" with things by doing her best to find a place where she could grip it and then bring it to her mouth, at which point she would slobber on it until she found a place small enough to chew, then chewing madly until her grip failed (ok, so she still does this with everything else). Perhaps that is all she would do with this contraption if she could get it to her mouth. Probably. Still, she can't, so it at least appears as if she is finally playing for the sake of play. It's a delight.
And here she is, leaning back so I can get a good shot of her sweet new gear:
Conclusion: It's vital to make time in every day to play.
Major Mileston
No, she still hasn't rolled over! It's making me crazy. She has, however, discovered that she loves the taste of toes.
Heh. Once upon a time, I thought I was flexible. I got nothin' on this kid.
Conclusion: Discovery is progress, and progress is good, even if it's not the progress that was planned.
Conclusion: Discovery is progress, and progress is good, even if it's not the progress that was planned.
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