The Kitchen Table

All You Had to Do Was Ask

Mister and I had been using instagram regularly (me, maybe too much) until Facebook announced its $1B buy-out. Mister deactivated his account, but I continue(d) to use Facebook and instagram.

Instagram has been one of the best and most fun ways to share pictures with our friends. I can post to instagram, which works faster than camera+ or flickr and a is more satisfying because I know more people on it. I can copy the photos to flickr for longevity and easier searching or to facebook for those friends to see, and I can tweet them. My nieces and one of my nephews recently joined instagram. I'd been doing an alphabet photo project with a friend, checking out photos of friends' kids and food, following strangers who post incredible shots of the bay area, dublin, ireland, and other places.

I have this blog. I have a facebook account. I'm on ravelry, pinterest, quora. Intellectually, I know that our content is not ours because terms of service for most social networks (barring flickr, as far as I can tell) gives those services digital rights. I'm not sure when we all became okay with this, but we did, the collective we of people who post photos, snippets of life, lesson plans, stories, poems, paintings to the internet. We said, sure, you can have access to all my creative personal work so that I can Like my friend's photo of her pug. 

A couple of nights ago, with dramatic flair, Mister showed me instagram's home page and the series of screen shots that included this one: 

There's our girl. One of his coworkers pointed it out to him. He was shocked, and I was furious. We were caught with our pants down. If you haven't had a photo of yours pop up somewhere unexpectedly, especially one of your child, this is largely theoretical. Of course we know it happens, but it left me sputtering. 

Mister and I are not on the same page about privacy, but the differences are complex. It's not as simple as Mister believes in privacy and I don't. He's more conservative about his privacy than I am. My father would have loved him for many reasons, especially this. My dad wouldn't give out his SSN to his doctor wihtout a fight. He resented being asked for his phone number or driver's license. I don't disagree with Mister's position. He was the CEO of a company that dealt with extremely personal informaiton and did everything he could to build a system that would protect that information. He didn't take shortcuts. It may have cost him the business when faced with competition that didn't have the same standards, but he wasn't going to break trust with his customers or himself.

I tear up credit card offers, but do I shred as a I should? I would tell my students and my nieces and nephews that photos they take on a cell phone and send to a friend are no longer private. A photo on facebook isn't private. They can be copied and redistributed. 

A couple of days after my major freak out and fury, I realize that I didn't expect a company to pick up and use our photos. I've worried about identity theft and security breaches, not my daughter's image being used for marketing a company. 

But, my daughter is 3 1/2. While I appreciate seeing who "likes" pictures of her and Rabbit and think it's kind of cool that a guy at instagram followed mister and liked a few of his photos, including this one, couldn't they have asked before using it? When does the Terms of Service ownership crap preclude doing the right thing and asking if it's okay, really okay, to take a photo that's seen mainly by friends and occasionally by others and largely flies under the radar, and using it on the front page of a company whose billion dollar acquisition was headline news for two weeks (we were in California at the time, and it was the only news people were discussing). 

To be fair, when we talked about it again last night, Mister said, "I could have done the same thing inadvertently, used a photo from someone's profile on the home page [user photos scrolled the top of his company's website for a while to demonstrate the community of users], and not asked." Most companies could do this based on Terms of Service including Google, Facebook, (we think not Flickr) and many others because users post avatars and projects and the list goes on. If you're excited to share, you might just share without considering ramifications. 

When I initially bitched about it on twitter and facebook, a couple of people unhelpfully reminded me of terms of service agreements (typepad has rights to this content, too). Wouldn't it have been amazing if Kodak and Polaroid said we own your photos, too! Who would have stood for that?

One of the trade-offs that comes with the digital socialization of our lives is the dissolution of common courtesies. Salutations in emails. Proper greetings via cell phone. Actual birthday cards. Actual thank you notes. Actual acknowledgement that while your company claims rights to all content that passes its transoms, asking or at least notifying people you're going to use their pictures is a nice thing to do. In truth, I would have been thrilled to have a sneaky little peek at my girl on instagram's home page. 

But no one asked so in a snit, I cancelled my instagram account and deleted all my facebook photos (except for profile shots which I can't figure out how to delete, stupid facebook, and NO please don't leave me directions on how to do this, thanks). I sent instagram angry emails. I considered dumping facebook.

Immediately I felt lonelier way out here in New York. I was out with Bama and Rabbit the next afternoon, playing in our amazing garden, and thought, why bother taking a photo? I won't mail it to anyone. No one looks at my flickr pictures. My connections to faraway felt tenuous. And there's the rub. I'm willing, like we all are, to give away rights so that I can like a photo of my friend's pug and they can give thumbs up a photo of Rabbit eating broccoli. And I need to be okay with that. 

I cracked and went back, creating a new instagram account. 

Democracy and Art

I wanted to take Bama and Rabbit to Wall Street to check out Occupy Wall Street. In the first couple of weeks, I definitely wanted a co-pilot. There was so much unrest, arrests, bizarre police actions (and lots of not bizarre action, but I wasn't going to put my children in imminent danger), so I waited.

Uncle Nellie and Uncle Ken (also known as The Big Softie after giving Bama Liam the Lamb for Christmas last year) have been in town for a week or so. Uncle Nellie, all 6'5" of him, thought he'd like to go down. A perfect co-pilot. It was also an opportunity for him to spend more time with Bama and Rabbit. 

 

Bama adores him. We had lunch together at the only decent West Coast style burrito place (Dos Toros) in Manhattan, then Bama ran circles around the fountain in Father Demo Square with Uncle Nellie in pursuit. Eventually, we headed towards FiDi, stopping at City Hall Park so I could nurse Rabbit. 

Uncle Nellie and Bama explored the fountain, settling down to paint with leaves and water. She found a leaf just for him. He marveled at her balance and ability to lean waaaay over into the fountain without tipping in.

There are several Sol Lewitt "structures" in City Hall Park, including this brilliantly-hued citadel. I thought it appropriate that the girl who loves color and art should stop to study it.

Before we went to Wall Street, Bama and I talked as well as I think an almost-three-year-old and an adult can about democracy (we all get to talk and share and work together) and protests (if you don't like what is happening, you have a right to say so). 

There's a lot going on, in true liberal form. Maybe too much. At times I was overwhelmed by the different banners and encampments within the larger camp. Below, a shot of Parents for Occupy Wall St., which was preparing for an overnight with families from the area. The green is a child-safe space. I don't know how many families were coming or came (Huffington Post says 500, but not sure if that's HuffPost's number or Parents).

It's brilliant, really, to bring families down to Zuccotti Park. Children can take part and observe first hand democracy in action. Regardless of your political leanings, getting kids involved early is galvanizing. I was always excited to hear from my students about what political events they attended with their parents and their reactions.

We added to Bama's dinosaur satchel with a bit of revolutionary flavor: Happy OccuParty seemed appropriate.
(Happy OccuParty Photo: Uncle Nellie)
We didn't stay long, but I'm very glad we went and that she got a look around. I left Rabbit and Uncle Nellie on the perimeter while Bama and I walked through Zuccotti Park. She asked questions, looked around, listened to music, asked more questions. She wanted to know what signs said, what they meant. Most importantly, at no time was she afraid or worried, just aware.

When to Call 911

It's a winding tale, but worth the time.

 

Washington Square Park is one of our home bases. When we moved here, the eastern third of the park was closed for renovations, but we loved walking the paths, listening to jazz bands, watching the dogs queue, and playing in the sweet, but tiny, toddler park. I love this little spot, I really do. Bama and I went many late afternoons to have a last play, and once a week, we met up with Aunty Zobot.

(Aunty Zobot with Rabbit, Central Park, 5 July)

We stared at the cordoned off section of the park, eyeing the giant playstructures, wondering what else was behind the layers of fences.

When it finally opened in June, we were thrilled. Sand, swings, water, slides, shade. All the components necessary for a good time to be had by all.

Exploring what's in front of him.

 

Hiding in a tunnel with Uncle Bryan.

Swiftly riding into the sunset with Bird.

We love this park. It's convenient, I can get tea beforehand, we can get (the only good) burritos (in NYC) afterwards. We can listen to jazz. We can watch the juvenile red tail hawk (yes, hawk) learn to fly and hunt. We can practice flower identification.

There's an incredible, and incredibly famous, fountain.

In which we can wonder at double rainbows.

Splashing in the fountains with friends as we spy the colors in the spray.

.......

But with the east end of the park reopening, the climate of the park has changed. Sure, there were dope dealers on the west end, but those guys never said anything to me or to my kids except, "Hey little mama!" or "Look at that scooter!" 

Enter the drunk meth heads who sprawl across the main plaza. The fountain is closed to waders, swimmers, splashers because of public bathing, urinating, and who knows what else. The day before this incident, there were guys sitting in the fountain, drinking from beer bottles. Broken glass?  Because the fountain is off limits, I avoid rolling through the plaza even though its a fun place to people watch. Bama wants to go into the fountain and talks about the fountain for the rest of the day, wondering why she can't go in. I've told her that the rangers don't think it's safe, want it clean, whatever. Should I say, "Because dirtball drunks have ruined it"?

Everyone needs a place to go, and just because you're homeless and a meth head doesn't mean you shouldn't get to be in a wonderful park like Washington Square Park. However, I'm not interested in chatting with NY Jets-shirt guy whose teeth are falling out about what a great dad he is (to a son who lives in Atlanta, GA). "His mother and I aren't together anymore." Really? Go figure.

Most of the crew that's hanging on the lawn keeps to themselves. They are like a little family. But a few stand out, like the scary crazy guy who sat near us while Bama danced to a jazz trio near the toddler park. He stared at her and me the entire time, calling me a fucking cunt and bitch, among other things. Low, but loud enough for me to hear him. When we rolled on, the musicians looked embarrassed, sorry, uncomfortable.

So, this week. Scary guy was in the plaza, which against my better judgement, I rolled through.  The dude is sitting on one of the stone benches near the fountain, sees us, and puts up his hand and mimes machine gunning us as we go by. It's hard not to want to call him a mother fucker, but I've got Rabbit strapped to me and Bama in a stroller. I'm not nimble and I'm certainly not willing to get into it with my six-month old strapped to me like a shield. We walked on and into the park.

Where we had a fabulous time with Bird and Aunty N. The girls played in the sand, went on the swings, ran through the sprinklers. Then we sat down to lunch. There is a high fence around the park, and then trees, shrubs, flowers, then a knee-high chain rope (think velvet movie rope but heavy links and low to the ground), some wooden benches, a path, and backless stone benches (the benches are effectively in two rings around the plaza and fountain; it's pretty). Drunk girl we see whenever we're there gets into it with drunk boy, also a regular. F bombs are dropped, and then she jumps him and starts pounding his head. Scary dude leaps up and pulls her off, sits her down, and tells her to cool it (thus revealing he's not actually crazy, that he knows right from wrong and how much he can get away with which makes him all the more menacing). She continues to rant, telling her tale of woe to anyone who will listen. Two Japanese women move closer to watch the action. A nanny sitting with her infant charge also stays put (I'm not big on nanny-narcing, but I'd fire this one). 

Enter this guy (you can see how the fence, landscaping, and so on are laid out). He climbs over the chain, then proceeds to walk up to the big tree in the middle, while unzipping his pants. Aunty N and I are sitting with our girls and my boy, there is a French family of five next to us, other toddlers are zooming around, some are playing nearby in the water and in the sand. Lots of visibility. "Oh no," I yell, "Turn yourself around. Don't you pee on that tree. There are public bathrooms over there." I yelled more. He stepped back and peed on the fountain side of the tree, peeking around at us. Now, I'm at a loss. Which is weird, because if we had been in Oakland, I would have yelled and called the cops (a decimated police force that would have shown up, nonetheless) immediately. There I am, casting about for a park ranger (I can seem him near the little dog park), we're talking about whether to call the police or someone else, and he charges up to the fence.

Where do your dogs pee? He asks, rheumy blue eyes looking at me. (Okay, so he's calling my kids dogs, which I didn't get until later, but my response, "I don't have dogs. I have children. They pee in the portable potty I carry with me, or in a bathroom" worked.) He swore at me, said pee is pee, yelled at us, always careful to stay just far enough back. I told him it wasn't okay to pull his penis out, that no one wanted to see it. He grabbed his junk a few times, then he broke a branch off the tree and threw it at us (it hit the tree, don't throw tree branches drunk). 

The guy stumbled away, packed up his stuff and moved to the other part of the park. Bama's in tears, caught on video because the tree branch episode scared her, the French family looks stunned, and I'm still sorting out to call the cops or not. 

 

Aunty N might remember more of the exchange, I was left feeling angry at him for threatening my children, embarrassed for creating a situation that threatened my children as well as Bird, frustrated at how trapped we were by the fence, the park paths, my ergo (babycarrier with Rabbit in it). 

When a young male-female couple comes in the park without kids. Always noticeable. "We called the cops for you," the woman says. Not only that, but they gave a detailed description of the guy. Now, we can see the cops have come into the southern entrance of the park and the dirtbag is doing his best to be inconspicuous in his bright red hoodie. But we see another woman talking to the cops, gesturing, and then they move in on him. And move him out of the park, not without incident. And a third woman comes up to the fence and says that she'd also given a description of events to the cops and pointed him out. Wow.

The couple, Aunty N, and I have a long talk about calling the police, something Mister and I did with unashamed regularlity in Oakland. People will say that Oakland is dangerous, and I can't argue against its high murder rate. However, I never felt threatened in the parks. I didn't encounter people sleeping on benches, throwing beer bottles around, whatever. The parks aren't perfect, we found unsavory items a few times on arrival at our local park, but I didn't think about avoiding our parks. On the other hand, had something happened, I'm not sure anyone would have called the police. In San Francisco, I'm positive no one would bother. I am thankful that so many people did something that day. (Note: not one person in the children's playground said anything.)

Reenter drunk girl and drunk boy, continuing to fight and harrass people. He climbs a tree, breaks a branch, comes out a bit later. 

After watching her charge up to a woman sitting on the bench, who throws her hands up like "okay, back off," I'm done. I call the cops. The police car, same cops, comes in from the north side of the park this time. The first officer spies the girl, then the guy, who has climbed over the chain rope to hide from them. Yeah, good one. She kicks his feet, "Get up. Get up. Get up. Don't say anything. Get up. Get out." And out they both go.

Today, we went somewhere else. The incident creates a quandry. Do I avoid the park in the name of keeping my children safe (my brother is shouting, "YES!")? If we avoid WSP, as we did today, we lose out on a place we truly love. And, if we don't go, and others start to avoid it, then we all lose out because Washington Square Park becomes a park and playground for mean drunks.

Gay Pride NYC!

Mister stayed home with a feverish Rabbit while the not-going-to-nap Bama and I rolled out to catch part of the New York City Pride parade. Would we make it in time? It started at noon, and here we were, at two o'clock. 

Why did I worry? 

Bama: No, thank you (to soup) because I just want to dance!

 

 

We didn't get a front row seat, but who needs it when you can dance anywhere?

 

I tried to explain to Bama what the parade was about, that we were celebrating friends and family and people we don't know who are beautiful and gay and happy and proud. And that we were letting people who might not know they were loved know that life can be wonderful, even if it doesn't seem like it. Pretty heavy for 2.5. I don't think she understood much of what I said, but hearing it is important, I think. 

She traded a bracelet for a necklace, was moved by the music, and got to see rainbows everywhere. 

Tippee Canoe

We have an incredible, lush garden that is bursting at the seams. Ferns are uncurling, reaching out feathery fingers. The dogwood bloomed, then dropped its white petals across the brick and into the pond. Every day, it seems, something new pops from the ground or off a branch, replacing another bloom that's just passed.

We have a few rose bushes, trees, really. The one on the eastern fence tipped forward earlier this year, so I tethered it to the fence with kitchen twine and crossed my fingers. After a wild night of rain, the rose on the west side of the garden tipped over. Bama is here, for scale (she's 37 inches tall).  

I called my mother and stepfather for advice, thinking I should hack away at the poor thing until it could lift its head. The trouble is that it's full of buds and sprigs, and trimming could wreak havoc. But, my gardeners agreed. Snip and cut away. So I did, with kitchen shears and a saw I found in our landlord's shed (the trimmers were rusted shut). I had trimmed back the rose earlier this year, but not enough, apparently. The pile of branches stands about two feet high. Without their weight, the rose stood up. I still have some more cutting to do, and I need to retether her to the fence, but she's upright again!

Snow Days

About 10 years ago, I lived in New York for a few months. I arrived just after New Year's Eve and stayed through May. It was not a luxury life. I escaped months of contracting and barely making it after the dot-com bubble burst and so did the company I'd worked for. Things were bleak. I headed East to housesit and hung out, living the post-college life in my early 30s.

It never snowed. Flakes drifted down the night I arrived, but that was it. Kaput. I wore a leather jacket over sweaters during the so-called winter, which was fine even as I left work for home at 4am, 6am, 8am.

When we talked about moving to New York, I was adamant we needed snow. If it didn't snow this winter, I said we'd have to stay until it did.

It snowed. And again. 

We woke up to the cliche winter wonderland. Our backyard is buried; I'm pretty sure we won't be able to open the door to the deck because of the pile up. And still, despite my C-section recovery and doctor's orders to take it easy, I needed to get my girl to her music and art class. We've been inside for days. Me, recovering; Bama, sick with a fever then an ear infection; Mister, with a cough that almost turned to pneumonia. Sure, I knew it would be a challenge to walk the short distance to class. I didn't realize it would be like the Alaskan Iditarod for a mama, her toddler, and her newborn.

Feast your eyes on Bedford, one of my favorite streets in lower Manhattan. We are on Morton, looking North. Where is my sled team, you ask?

Bama is calmly eating apples and bell peppers from her cocoon. A very kind man helped me get over some of the lumpier spots on the block. Another man helped me cross a street. Another man pulled us over a snow bank and then helped ferry Bama and the stroller over an uncleaned stretch of sidewalk. (A clean building sidewalk is up to the super. Ours is immaculate by sun-up.) 

In the end, no less than a dozen men and women helped me schlep my girl and this stroller over slush and snow. If you didn't know, you're not supposed to pick up much when you're getting over a C-section. The week before, I checked in with my doctor who said not to pick up Bama unless it was an emergency. Add 20 pounds of stroller, not including diaper bag contents, and a sleeping infant on my chest (in case you were wondering where Pickle was), and you have "busted!" gone way beyond the limit. I'm paying for it today.

A truck foolishly thinking it could navigate Downing Street. It navigated into a snowbank. One of the hilarious side effects of the snow is the creativity in parking. Drivers act like it's a free for all just to get near the curb.

Bleecker, between Carmine and Sixth Ave. Don't you want gelato from Grom (on the corner) and an afternoon around the fountain?

More than once I started down a block just to turn around and head back when I found it was too difficult to navigate. The three of us walked one of the lanes on Seventh Ave. rather than slog through 10 inches of untouched snow. Even blocks that are cleared, by the way, are not easy. Corners are clogged with snow and slush pooling by drains (and taxis love to hit those pools), and paths are cut from doorways for truck deliveries -- but the walkway is about as wide as a teenage girl, not mama and stroller width. Invariably, one wheel will get stuck.

The entry to Winston Churchill playground. There is a path. But the way is shut, just like in Lord of the Rings, none shall pass into the inner courtyard and playground. Really, who would want to? The playgrounds are like slushy ice rinks. All puddles and piles and yuck.

More snow was due today. And tomorrow. And next week. 

I can't wait.

Run, Baby, Run!

The NYC Marathon whipped Manhattan in to a frenzy, with more than 45,000 runners covering the boroughs from Staten Island into Manhattan (ending on the Upper West Side in Central Park).

We had breakfast with Uncle Raffi, who'd dropped off Dr. Ladyfriend for her race (she deferred for this year so that she could run as a race guide for a blind runner from Poland) at 4:45am. He was pretty peppy for someone on West Coast time and who'd had little sleep. There'd been much discussion about a good spot to keep an eye out for Dr. Ladyfriend, finally settling on 110th and 5th Ave., at the top of the park.

Wow. What timing. We walked up to the not-crowded stretch to find a jazz band and the elite runners just beginning to make their way into the last four miles of the Marathon. Kenya, Ethiopia, Morocco, and USA. Go, go, go! 

The elites are focused and intense. After those runners came the first round of runners -- they qualified with good times. This group wasn't as intense but seemed to be enjoying themselves. Sprinkled in were wheel chair runners (rollers?) who looked good but weary.

Zobot joined us in cheering the runners on. She made a mad dash from the west side to the east side of 5th Ave. 

 

Chilly day! Especially on our side of the street which stayed in the brrrrrr shade.

After the elites and front-runners came bigger and bigger crowds. Gone was focus, replaced by determination, pain, thrill, desperation. 

We hope we're here next year to watch Dr. Ladyfriend run it again (and maybe Aunty Mandy, too!)

What Happens in DC Goes on the Web

Mister, Bama, and I picked up our Zipcar and headed for DC last weekend for a double-header of fun. Uncle J and Aunt E, and the Stewart-Colbert rally.

It's supposed to take about four and a half hours to drive from NYC to DC, but we like to stretch these things out. We hit a couple of pockets of traffic and made a pit stop in one of the rest areas where Bama proceeded to "Spin Around! Spin Around!" and then do laps on the lawn outside. Oh, and there was that stop at Target so I could use the bathroom (the gas stations looked sketchy). And buy a pair of maternity jeans. 

When we reached our destination, Bama marched into Uncle J's arms after our long car ride, then snuggled up to Aunt E before exploring their home.

Uncle J is a baseball fanatic. He's a Red Sox fan, which is alright in DC. He did pick-up a Washington Nationals hat, but couldn't bring himself to buy the "W" version, instead selecting this model, which Bama gamely sported for part of the morning. 

The four of us made our way to the Mall for the Colbert-Stewart rally. Trains were packed with people, forcing us to backtrack several stops in to Maryland so we could be sure we'd get on the train, let alone get seats. 

We set set up next to the sheriff's wagon where we could see a sliver of a jumbotron between the trees and the port-o-potties. At this point, it was about being part of the crowd. We'd catch the acts later on TV. 

 

Bama and MIster dancing in the streets.

 

More from our boogie queen. I was off finding a bathroom (again. The port-os were not an option). This time, we were across from a dragon float with a DJ spinning a fantastic 80s mix. Bama approves.

And, lastly, an early birthday celebration with balloons, cake, and a stuffed lion. Gee, do you think the girl liked her party?

 

Now this is more like our NY tough look. Heading to the park the next morning for a little pre-car play. Apparently, she faked out a kid at the park. She wanted his car, which he wasn't going to give up. So she made like the slide was the bees knees. He followed her up to the slide, she turned around and went off in his car. Don't mess with the Pink!

Bite Me!

Two of the household items Mister and left behind were a dining room table, which was reclaimed by our friend Gerry who'd let us use it, and our king-size bed which, while impressive in size and beautiful to look at, creaked like mad and terrified me. I wondered, nightly, if it would crack apart under my weight.

Really, we should have jettisoned other items, like, say, the three stacks of cloth napkins I packed. Yes, we use cloth napkins, because paper is stupid. Stupid. One use and you toss it? We barely use paper towels, either. But I digress. Too many napkin sets. Maybe I'll dump the blue ones.

We didn't need to bring so many pictures. How many walls do we think we have? Maybe we could have left a few more softies, or donated them to Bananas, or something.

So, here we are in New York, looking at beds. I thought, Craigslist! And our friends said, "Hell no!! Bedbugs!!" Bedbugs. Want more info? I finally looked them up tonight at dinner with my cousin, Zobot, and our friend, Sarah. Zobot moved out here a couple weeks after we did, and Sarah, a native, is moving back this fall. Have you seen a bedbug?

Here, courtesy University of Florida (as credited by about.com):

Bedbugs are about the size of an apple seed. They bite you and suck your blood. They jump from person to person (like lice, like fleas, like so many things). One of the bits of advice, don't get close to people on the subway.

Um, thanks.

Places infected: Abercrombie and Fitch's "Hollister" store in SoHo, BuyBuyBaby in lower Manhattan, the AMC Empire 25 in Times Square, hotels, where else?

Getting bedbugs, I said, sounds a little like getting lice or having ants. Really, whose fault is it? No one's, yet there's a stigma attached to the person, not the bugs. You can get them by going to the movies, by standing near someone at the deli. Bring them home, and Ta Da! You're a pariah. You might as well get crabs from doing the horizontal mambo.

After talking about bedbugs too long, Zobot decided against buying a desk via Craiglist and we all scratched our arms.

 

 

Something You Might Like #17

This is a total grab-bag of items. Some are fun, some are sweet. A couple are to feed your mind and soul.

Visit

When I was in my teaching program, we were visited a few times from people from Facing History and Ourselves, a Boston-based group, with offices around the country, which uses case studies from the Holocaust, the Armenian Holocaust, Northern Ireland, and other conflicts to discuss human behavior and choices. I attended the Holocaust and Human Behavior workshop that summer, then became involved in a teacher's roundtable on transitional justice -- what happens after a genocide or other civil break. This past week, I've been popping in and out of an online forum on the International Criminal Court, the ICC, which is in The Hague and addresses the prosecution of crimes against humanity. We started with a film about the ICC called The Reckoning. It will be available for viewing until Dec. 31. I highly recommend watching it as an introduction to the ICC, and as a look at what can be, might be, should be done to those who commit the most serious crimes against humanity. (The United States, under President Bush, did not join the ICC. It is not clear whether or when the U.S. will. This is a separate issue.)

A teacher I know through FHAO and the US Holocaust Memorial Museum published this interesting (and beautifully written) piece about sex, drugs, poetry, and her seniors. 

Make

I'm working on a Tasty Scarf for one of my Etsy customers (yes! I have customers! :). I picked up several new yarns this past week including a lovely pima cotton from Mirasol in a sunflower yellow, and a crisp green grass from Jil Eaton MinnowMerino. The merino is single ply and so soft. I'd like to get more and knit something up for Bama, but I'm already halfway into (and shelved for the scarves) the Child's Placket Neck Sweater from Last-Minute Knitted Gifts, and a bolero from Interweave (pattern? issue?) is waiting in the wings.

Kitchen

Bama's vegetable in-take had dipped of late. My cooking was becoming routine, and I needed to add some new veggies into her line-up. She's a good eater, but as we continue transitioning to regular foods, there are still things to watch for. Like greens, for example. They can be slippery and difficult to chew. She hadn't been too wild for greens, or so I though, until I made up a bag of braising greens from Riverdog Farm's food box (courtesy of Aunty Jenny). Yum!

More Veggies: I often try to have some cooked items on hand, and am getting better about incorporating them into random dishes. For example, for lunch, I made a quesadilla with roasted sweet potato, then fried an egg and put chard on top (I fry the egg and put raw chard on top, then cover the pan to help wilt, prep the chard). The egg/chard combo came from our friends, the O'Reillys, and was a pregnancy breakfast staple. Bama loved the whole thing, eating more sweet potato then she normally does.

Quick Dish: This week, I bought Cooking Light's special One Dish Meals issue because I wanted a go-to for easy prep dishes to add to my laundry list of quickies (like tacos. Mmm. tacos.). Last night, I threw together the Tex Mex Lasagna. I used grapeseed oil in the casserole dish, not cooking spray, and I added slices of zucchini (uncooked) to one layer, and slices of roasted sweet potato to the other layer to boost the veggies. And, because we're sharing this with Bama who might not like spicy as much as Mama and Papa, I cut the salsa by 1/3 but added in that much extra tomato sauce. The result? We all liked it, we have leftovers, and it was assembled and cooked in 45 minutes. 

Meatballs: Last new kitchen trick, from one of the mamas in my mamas group, was meatballs. I used 1/2 pound each lamb, buffalo, and beef, seasoned with sage, oregano, coriander (for brightness), and ... I keep forgetting. Roll into marble-size balls and fry. I froze packets of 6-8 meatballs, then mixed some that were on hand with Trader Joe's Organic Joe's O's Pasta. I don't love TJ's, nor do I love canned food, but as a back-up, it's better than Chef Boyardee (too much sugar) and Annie's pasta was gross (gluey and made Bama gag). 

Covet

While I have no interest in the Time Out Pad that Mamabargains keeps hawking, I think this pad for the table looks great. I bought oilskin fabric from my local store and use it as a table cloth for Bama, especially when we are out on the town. But a friend likes the SmartyPants toddler mat because it's easy to clean and will be something her son can use for other non-food projects, like painting.

Aunty Jenny and I took Bama and Speed Racer out for a walk last week. You know, before we all went crazy in the house. After our walk, we made a couple of pit stops to look at neat things including a bear backpack she's thinking about for Speed Racer (who may be rechristened Winston Churchill one of these days for his diplomacy and hair). There were three bears, perfect for SR, Bama, and Cindy Lou Who. ;) The store, which is all about products from recycled materials, carries several Sprig Toys toys including the awesome Dolphin Boat Explorer, which is for three and up, but maybe if I took out the choking hazard life preserver ... Sprig Toys are "battery-free, eco-friendly, paint-free, kid-powered toys sure to dazzle the most discriminating preschooler."

Read

Uncommon Grace reviews books each Friday. One of her recent picks was one of my childhood favorites, Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden. This version is beautifully illustrated by Inga Moore.

I don't read as much as I used to, but I'm doing alright, I suppose. I added three books about Afghanistan to my library call list (after Futureshock, for which I'm in a mighty queue): Earth and Ashes ,The Punishment of Virtue: Inside Afghanistan After the Taliban , andThe Looming Tower: Al Qaeda and the Road to 9/11 (Vintage). I heard about the books on an NPR segment called "Three Books," in which a reviewer gives some background and then recommends three thematically-linked books. Recent triads include three not-geeky, female-centric comic books, three books about spooky houses, and three books about music.