Re: Some November Life

You know what makes me hate myself? The word “memo.”

“Memo” as in:

Student: “When will I ever need to know how to write an essay, Miss Lowmeer?”

Miss Lowmeer: “Well, even if you don’t think you’ll go to college right away, you will probably have to write a memo some time at work.”

No, you probably won’t. Not only are we not living in the 1980’s when memos peaked and eventually died, but also the chance that you will need to disseminate pages of information to multiple people at the age of 20 without a lick of college education is minimal.

I am back in the high school classroom this week and trying to convince seniors who “haven’t read a book since eighth grade” that learning to talk about ideas might not mean that sometime soon you’ll write one heck of a memorandum about corporate mergers but it might make you a better person. A more likeable person. A better boyfriend or girlfriend. Because everyone likes context. Everyone likes that one person who can make sense out of their lives.

Which reminds me of Aaron, a living idea of the ideal husband. (I know that sounds like I want something, but truly, he never gets mad, he makes chocolate chip cookies, and he happily listens to the Michael Buble station on Pandora.) On Tuesday and Wednesday nights I go to class on the computer for three hours. Every week on these nights, Aaron makes dinner, bathes Sweet Pea, feeds the dogs, talks about ears and toes with Clara, and washes dishes. As my class nears the end of the 180 slide Power Point, Aaron has been known to recline in exhaustion on the couch, sharing with all canine and human members of our family that “Daddy needs some Daddy time.”

As I am trying to inspect Clara’s mouth for new molar-sized teeth and teach her the concept of “we’ll nurse again later,” Aaron mumbles from the couch that he needs to get in touch with whoever runs the black market for heating pads.

“I need an illegal heating pad!,” he says in frustration. Poor guy tried to go skiing for five minutes in our front yard and crashed on himself. We’re telling people he broke a rib. I guess our heating pad is programmed to take a break if it gets too hot; Aaron would like a pad that takes a hard, cold look at 170 degrees Fahrenheit, keeps moving, and doesn’t look back.

It’s been a little bit of fun and little bit of ordinary around these parts. We took Clara sledding over the weekend in some 5:00 p.m. twilight, inhospitable to cameras, which she loved. After we scolded Dakota for grabbing some dinner off my plate when I wasn’t looking, Clara now scolds Dakota if he even looks at her food. Seriously, that girl sees all and loves doing what we do. It’s impossible not to think differently about what kind of person you are when a little 1.5 year-old mirror is running around, freaking out about too many clothes on the ground.

On Sunday the Cleaning Day, Clara thought it would be helpful to Windex the carpet. I know what you’re thinking and I don’t want you to worry. We snapped our shot and removed the “poison” from the premises before she had the chance to suck down some ammonia.

November 2011 012

I also pilfered this sweet photo of our big little girls off Mandy’s blog:

Clara and Bekah

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