Hot heads

Bento art courtesy of Sakurako Kitsa.

One of my sons was feeling puny.

"I don't think I should go to school," he said.

"Hmmm," I replied. "How about you get dressed and eat some breakfast, and then we'll see how you feel."

In between spoonfuls of cereal he took his temperature four times; the last one read 102-degrees. He thrust the digital display in my face and announced he had a fever.

"Hmmm," I said, and pointed out that each time a different number came up. "You're going to have to go to school."

His response was five minutes of wailing -- the last three from his bedroom -- and then a return to the kitchen and a request that I take his temperature. I held the thermometer to his temple and after the requisite number of beeps it displayed 101-degrees.

"I'm sick," he said, beaming.

"Hmmm," I said, digging around in the medicine box and unearthing another thermometer. "Let's try this one."

The suggestion triggered more howls, but (with protest) he opened his mouth and I slipped the thermometer under his tongue. More waiting, more beeps and then a reading of 99.4.

"Again," he pleaded.

98.9.

"Let's try the other one."

99.6.

"One more time."

99.2.

"You changed it!" he shouted. "You promised I could stay home and now you changed the thermometer so it's different!"

He screamed and stomped. I snapped lids and slammed cupboards.

"Enough!" I roared. "You're going to school because I don't want you to stay home! We've taken your temperature ten-fucking-times and you're not sick! Now get your jacket on!"

Ten minutes later I pulled up to school and he hopped out, face wiped free of tears. As he headed for the playground, he turned and blew me a kiss. I sent one back and hollered that if he felt crummy to go the nurse and she could take his temperature.

Guaranteed

Photo courtesy of Ana oMeLeTe

Catching a cold is one of the few things I can count on during the month of December. So while I sit on the couch with my cup of lemon-honey tea and box of tissue, I'm sending you elsewhere.

To chuckle: If You Give the Federal Government $700 Billion is a delightful parody of that insipid mouse-and-cookie book.

To change your habits: Polar bears aren't the only ones feeling climate change according to the National Arbor Day Foundation's New Garden Zone Map.

To chuck your Christmas cookie-making plans: The sweets in the comic strip Questionable Content are loaded with more than just chocolate chips.

To challenge President-Elect Obama to appoint a secretary of agriculture who will address our nation's nutritional and environmental deficits, aka corn consumption, sign the petition sponsored by Food Democracy Now.

Kaleidoscope

Photo courtesy of Travels in Italy.

One of the things that first enchanted me about my husband was his foreignness. When I met him he was a wild-haired art major who had transferred to a university filled with tobacco-chewing cowboys. While dating we shared a joint filled with sweat-soaked marijuana that he had hidden in his shoe on a return flight from Amsterdam. And when we married he taught me how to say "I love you" in throat-scraping Dutch.

Our only daughter embodies not just our love for each other, but also our love of Holland, where she was conceived. We fill her with stories of a past she can't remember: How as a tiny seed inside of me, she made me so sick I puked into the Prinsengracht. How she grew and I became so heavy and awkward that I fell off the back of a bike while riding sidesaddle.

And although we live a world away from Amsterdam now, we help her create her own Dutch moments. Sometimes they are planned, like tonight's coming of Sinterklaas. Other's are serendipitous, split second shifts in reality and suddenly The Netherlands is in Nevada. Below my husband tells of one moment this morning when his daughter -- with eyes the color of the North Sea and hair as warm as a rare puddle of Dutch sunshine -- overslept.

I was going to walk her to school because she had an early choir practice at 8 a.m. I look at the clock at 7:25 and realize I haven't seen her around downstairs. I go up and sure enough she's still out cold. So I wake her up and she rushes through breakfast and chores. But it's two minutes to eight by the time we get going. She gets mad when she realizes I'm taking my bike (which usually means a 10-minute walk to school), because she was hoping we'd take the car so she wouldn't be too late. So I say, "C'mon, hop on," and get on my bike. She's hesitant at first, but she sits sidesaddle on the rack and we make it to school in record time.

Ik voelde me weer echt Hollands. Een leuk moment.

This time, my husband reassured me, she didn't fall off.

A winter's tale or how I fell in love

The results of a pogonip, or "ice fog." Photo courtesy of English-Word Information.

It was way past midnight and a thick, cold fog encircled us. Perhaps it was our first date or maybe our second, I can't remember now. What I can recall is the warmth of his hand through my glove as we walked down the street, and how ice crystals sparkled under streetlights. I breathed in the sharp air.

"We're in a pogonip," I said as clouds of my warm, moist breath froze in his mustache. He chewed a crystal and I laughed.

"Pogonip," he said, repeating the Indian word for ice fog, shaping lip and tongue around unfamiliar letters, owning them, owning me.

For more winter tales, go to Sunday Scribblings.

Seasonal SNAFU*

Illustration by Richard Scarry. Image courtesy of Mykl Roventine.

"Does this mean we'll only get two Christmas presents?" one son asked.

The family was sitting at the kitchen table, discussing ways to shift the focus away from the glorious pile of presents under the tree to a season of giving. Already, our children had agreed to choose from their own toys and books an item or two to give to a child who will not receive much, if anything, on Christmas morning. But now things were getting dicier: We wanted our kids to each pick a nonprofit group so that friends and family had a choice of giving a donation in lieu of a gift.

"Does this mean we'll only get two Christmas presents?" he asked again.

"I don't know if people will do this or not," I said.

Banking on Santa always pulling through, the kids made their selections and a family letter explaining our effort to chip away at the commercialization of Christmas was sent. Story finished, right? Hah! Our invitation to help shrink this season of excess was read by some as offensive and judgmental. Why, family asked, were we telling others how to give?

My first reaction was disbelief that we were being criticized for trying to teach our children charity and moderation. Then anger: Fuck you and fuck Christmas! I thought. I poured myself a glass of wine, grabbed a chunk of fudge, and hid in a bubble bath until the Buddha found me. Or, more accurately, words from "Buddhism for Mothers," by Sarah Napthali.

"Anger in fact paves the way for future difficulties. For starters, it's not good for our karma: every time we act angrily we increase the chance we'll act angrily again, conditioning ourselves to become belligerent."

I got out of the tub, dumped the wine down the sink and chocolate in the trash. The phone rang. It was one of my sisters, and I as shared my story, she shared what she was learning from the classic self-help book "How to Win Friends and Influence People" by Dale Carnegie: That I had everything to gain from saying sorry, from seeing how our letter had hurt feelings, generated stress and forced others to defend themselves.

"Never begin by announcing 'I am going to prove so-and-so to you.' That's bad. That's tantamount to saying: 'I'm smarter than you are. I'm going to tell you a thing or two and make you change your mind,'" Carnegie wrote.

"Tomorrow, before asking anyone to put out a fire or buy your product or contribute to your favorite charity, why not pause and close your eyes and try to think the whole thing through from another person's point of view? Ask yourself: 'Why should he or she want to do it?' True, this will take time, but it will avoid making enemies and will get better results..."

I needed to say sorry -- not for trying to make do with less at Christmas (which I believe to be a worthwhile goal) -- but for our insistent invitation that others join us. So, still feeling bruised, I called and apologized.

"When you feel hurt but do not hurt the other, you are truly victorious," Buddha said.

And for the night, the true spirit of Christmas triumphed.

*Definition found here.