Cordelia's Hinges

I've been continuing to chip away at the paint-smothered antique hardware around me as time has permitted. Here's a pictorial update on some of the gems I've unpainted over the last couple of weeks. I do it partly from curiosity and partly because I enjoy it...and maybe because that little "Anne Shirley" down inside of me likes to imagine that I am really Cordelia living in a fancy estate. (Naomi just finished reading Anne of Green Gables, and I couldn't help picking up a chapter or two myself. It always gets my imagination going.)

First off, most of the windows still have the original window pulls on the bottom, a couple were missing, two were broken, but I counted eight that were intact. They looked like this:

That's a diamond in the rough if I ever saw one. I couldn't resist.

And would you believe what I found on the back?

Yes, that says PatD (Patented) OCT 31 1871! Too bad I don't own the house or these window pulls or I'd take them to the antique road show.

But even more tempting are the ornate hinges throughout the house. Many are broken or have no doors on them anymore, but they just look like they should be beautiful so I finally tackled one today.

It was only half of a hinge with no door attached so I thought it would be a good place to start. Once I finally got the screws loose and cut it away from the paint I was greeted by another cockroach graveyard. After an hour of scraping through tan, green, pink, cream, white, and lime colored paint I hit what I can only imagine was a primer. It stared me down and said something like, "I've been on this hinge for 95 years, and I don't intend to come off without a fight." But it didn't know how stubborn I can be once I get an idea in my head.

The hinge took a nice long CLR bath, but the primer still wouldn't budge for steel wool or an exacto knife. And all those little ornamental divots you see provided it extra protection. I gritted my teeth and dug out some paint thinner, but said primer would not budge after a long paint thinner bath either. I scraped and scraped at the stubborn white stuff while helping Naomi with two-digit subtraction and reviewing consonant blends with Hannah. I scraped until my wrist and elbow were both sore from rotating the exacto knife inside every divot with all my might, but that stupid primer wasn't giving up. At least the other paint jobs had been sloppy and had surrendered to the razor blade without so much struggle.

I considered giving up, but I couldn't really put the hinge back up looking like it did, and I could never bear to paint over it again, so I pressed on. Somewhere around the time I should have been cooking dinner I thought of a bottle of nail polish remover in my dresser drawer. Ha ha ha, who'd the smart one now? Soon after that Hannah asked, "Mommy, what's that good smell?" and I answered something like, "That's one bowl of CLR, one bowl of paint thinner, and one bowl of nail polish remover all sitting under your nose." Then I sent her to open the back door and breathe deeply. And after a nice long bath in acetone even that primer crumbled under my exacto knife. Six hours after I had decided to try cleaning up one hinge before lunch, I won the battle.

Unfortunately, the end result was so stunningly beautiful and rewarding I know I'm doomed to repeat this process again, probably tomorrow. At least I know to go for the nail polish remover first now. And if any of you out there know of a cheap place to buy these on the Internet, please don't tell me or I will feel totally deflated. Just let me believe that I have saved the last remaining ornate door hinge on the planet, thanks.

Go Ahead, Bite the Apple

I was folding laundry this morning when I heard a strange crinkling noise coming from the pantry.  "Toby, what are you doing?" I called out sternly, thinking he had gotten into the scotch tape again. There was no reply. I continued folding socks and listening to the quiet crinkles.

"Apple!" Toby announced cheerfully. Knowing that my apples were in the refrigerator and not the pantry, curiosity won out. I left the socks and found Toby sitting on the floor of the pantry with crispy brown onion-skin peelings all around him. He was just taking his first bite of a large yellow onion, and was clearly pleased with himself. I didn't stop him, hoping natural consequences would cool his curiosity in the future, but he stopped himself part-way into that bite, put the onion on the floor, and scampered off to find other adventures, showing no biters remorse at all.

Unfortunately for me, he's too smart to punish himself. I guess I'll have to keep that job.

Hannah on Love

I just finished memorizing 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 with the girls. Today we worked on verse 7 which says,

"Love bears all things,
believes all things,
hopes all things,
endures all things,
Love never fails."

Hannah looked up at me and said, "Why does love do all those things?"

"Well," I answered, "when you love someone you will stick by them even when it's hard, that's just what love is, and that's the way God wants us to treat everyone."

"Yeah," Hannah nodded. Then she though a moment, wrinkled up her eyebrows, and said, "Love does cry sometimes though."

"Yes, Hannah," I agreed, "sometimes love cries."

Cooking with Toby

Ever since Toby learned how to climb onto a chair last summer, cooking has been an especially difficult task with him around. This is unfortunate, because, ever since two girls were diagnosed with Celiac disease last fall, I have had to do an excessive amount of cooking, and Toby is always around.

He pulls a chair over right next to where I am working, or perhaps on top of where I am working, climbs aboard and begins to frantically touch, grab, wield, and fling any ingredient, cooking utensil, or breakable object, that he can get his little fingers onto. Quite often this ends with him strapped into his booster seat in the middle of a wide-open space where he can reach nothing. But lately I have been feeling guilty about this. Shouldn't I be fostering my son's curiosity and encouraging his God-given need to explore and learn?

I tried to foster and encourage today as I was making dinner. If you had been a fly on the wall today this is a transcript of what you would have heard coming out of my mouth as I attempted to prepare gluten-free biscuits and sausage gravy from scratch with the help of my newly two-year old son. (Really, I kept I running log, so rest assured there is no poetic license here.)

-"Hot!"
-"No, Toby, that's my spoon."
-"Yes, it will burn."
-"Give me that!"
-"OK, Toby, put the screwdriver down."
-"Honey, that's where I need to stand, so you can't put your chair there."
-"Hands off the dishwasher, Toby. No buttons!"
-"If you put your blankie on the stove it will catch on fire."
-"Yes, it will burn."
-"Leave the drawers closed, Buddy."
-"What are you doing in the cupboards?"
-"Give the shortening to Mommy."
-"No, you can't eat it."
-"Yes, you're all done with it."
-"What in the world did you do to it?"
-"Whoa there, no scissors."
-"No, you can't go down in the basement...and I don't care how much you bang on the door."
-"Here, sit down and have a snack."
-"No, get out of the fridge!"
-"That measuring cup is glass and it will break, give it to Mommy...Toby!"
-"Toby, climb down from the back of Emma's booster seat, you're going to fall right through the window."
-"You are going to spill the rice milk, put it down!"
-"Will you stop touching everything?!"
-"OK, the Worchershire sauce bottle is glass too, put it down."
-"Naomi, can you strap your brother into the stroller and wheel him around the house? Otherwise we're never going to have dinner."
-"Thank you, you're an angel."
-"Here, let me help you buckle him in."

I've decided to foster his love of being strapped into moving objects while I am cooking from now on. His love of handling sharp, hot, and fragile items while running and climbing will have to wait to be fostered until further notice.

Hannah on Relative Naughtiness

We've found ourselves sitting in a lot of waiting rooms lately, and so to fill the time we have begun "telling stories." I will start a story with a sentence or two, then each girl will take turns adding another sentence or two until we've woven a creative, time-passing tall tale.

Today, as we were waiting to pick up Naomi's next 24 hour urine collection kit, I began a story about Borris and Horris the bears. I thought I would use this story to teach a little point so I made Borris and Horris naughty bears who didn't obey their mother. "And Mommy bear said, 'you naughty boys! You go home right now and stay in your rooms!'" I said in my scolding voice, then added dramatically, "but...Borris and Horris didn't obey."

It was Hannah's turn next. "Well, they tried to obey their mommy as best as they could," she whined, clearly empathizing with the bears' plight, "but it was too hard for them."

At my next turn I added a dreadful pack of wolves snarling at them to scare the bears into obeying their mother and going home. Naomi appropriately scolded the naughty bears in her best mother bear voice. But Hannah felt this was unjustified, "But we weren't being naughty!" she insisted for Borris and Horris, "We were just playing a game...it's called hide and seek, you know?"

Black isn't really black and white isn't really white, I prefer it this lovely shade of gray. Postmodernism...inborn in my four-year-old...oh help.

Remopping, Rewashing, Recovering

This morning I woke to find the sun shining and discovered that I could stand up for extended periods of time without the room swirling about me and the lights going dim. I released Toby from his jail and checked on the status of each girl while Toby ran circles around me grinning and grunting like a rabid raccoon. Naomi: much improved, slight joint pain still. Hannah: A-OK. Emma: sleeping soundly despite chaos growing around her (red flag #1).

I started off the morning by disinfecting every non-porous surface I could find and washing loads of laundry in hot water. Toby's diaper had leaked during the night so I changed his bedding and snatched his special blanket ("kiki") while he charged down the stairs announcing, "Go see vacuum!" Later Toby followed me to the basement when I went down to switch loads of laundry. I quickly pulled his "kiki" from the washer, hid it under the other wet clothes in a laundry basket and carried the basket across the basement to the dryer. This plan would have worked well if I hadn't gotten distracted picking lint off of a fleece shirt as I pulled it from the dryer. I ignored his cheerful chatter until I realized what he was saying, "Kiki! Warm! Warm kiki!" Swirling around, I found, to my horror, Toby happily dragging his wet white blanket all over the filthy dungeon floor. (I've swept and swept that floor, it doesn't get clean.) Toby cuddled the now dark grey blanket to his face happily, and was horrified himself when I snatched kiki up and plopped it back in the washing machine.

He screamed and clawed at the machine, he tried to climb into it. He wouldn't calm down long enough to hear my explanation. He only knew that kiki had vanished and that his life was over unless he could somehow retrieve it. I carried him, screaming and sobbing up the stairs and locked the basement door. I tried distracting him, I tried feeding him, nothing consoled him. About this time Emma finally ventured out of bed. I ignored Toby for a minute while I checked on her. She wasn't interested in eating breakfast or getting dressed (red flag #2), but seemed otherwise stable. I went back to Toby who was banging on the basement door and  tried explaining to him again, "Kiki was dirty, washing machine will make kiki clean with water, dryer will make kiki warm and dry, then Toby can have kiki again." His bottom lip quivered as he finally quieted long enough to listen. Pitiful streams of tears ran from his red eyes. When I was done explaining, he began screaming and banging on the basement door even more than before.

"Mommy," Emma said, "I fink I weady do get gess." (I think I ready to get dressed.)

"Oh good," I thought, "at least she's doing better." I smiled at her, "OK, Emma, go pick out your outfit." She smiled back, then vomited all over the kitchen floor. I dove for the garbage can and caught the second half of her vomit in that. Poor Emma had to stay leaning over the garbage can while I pried Toby from the basement door and carried him up to his crib--one can only handle so much at a time. I cleaned Emma up, wiped down the floor, took out the trash, and settled Emma on the couch. Thankfully Naomi, my right-hand girl, was back on her feet today. She brought me clean jammies for Emma, and did her best to entertain a crib-bound Toby.

Toby eventually was reunited with a warm, dry kiki. Emma made a much quicker recovery than Naomi and I had, and by the end of a very busy day the house is mostly back in order and ready for a more "normal" day tomorrow. This is good, since tomorrow Mr. Tobiah Matthew Eby turns two years old. It's hard for me to believe, but the new rounds of temper tantrums and self-assertiveness tell me that I have a two-year-old boy on my hands. I plan to enjoy the momentous day tomorrow, as long as nobody throws up tonight.

An Eeyore Day

Did I complain about yesterday? How foolish of me. Today I feel like Eeyore wallowing in self pity, but disguising it with a clever, "That's right, gaiety, song and dance, here-we-go-round-the-mulberry bush and whatnot. You go right ahead enjoying your day, I'll just be here lying lifelessly on the couch hour after hour, wondering which breath will be my last while the children run amuck. Don't you worry about me. Some can and some can't and that's all there is." (If you don't know A.A. Milne's character Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh, go buy the book and read it, it will all make sense.)

I felt a little queasy heading to bed last night, and by 3:00am it was clear that I wasn't going to enjoy the day ahead. At 4:30am I heard Naomi clomp down the stairs with her stiff-jointed thuds. A minute later I heard splattering, lept from bed, and found Naomi just as she finished covering my kitchen cupboards, counter, floor, and Brita filter with vomit. She had been trying to fill her water bottle, and I guess it snuck up on her.

I wanted to give myself the luxury of blacking out and keeling over on the floor from my own nausea, but there was Naomi, completely helpless, dripping with vomit and shaking. Matt hadn't come home from work yet. So I gathered my wits and said what any mommy would say, "It's OK, honey, I'll clean it up."

I used half a roll of paper towels up and stripped Naomi while trying to maintain my equilibrium. Thankfully Matt walked in the front door just then, and though he'd just worked a 13 hour shift, I had no choice. Poor Matt was greeted by. "She just threw up. Can you find some PJ's for her and put her in bed. I need to vomit." And that's exactly what I did. Can't argue with that.

About five pounds lighter and feeling a bit less queasy, I found the strength to Lysol the kitchen and bathroom before heading back to bed. Half-an-hour later Emma joined me in bed, "I ah baah  geam," (I had bad dream) she explained. And I thought, "Well come on in, I'm living a nightmare." She tossed and turned for an hour then decided her own bed was more comfortable. At 7:40am I heard the kids stirring, and I knew I had no ability to care for them today. I wasn't sure if I could even stand up. Toby complained loudly in the next room while I picked up the phone and tried to think of who to call first. Suddenly I threw the phone to the floor and discovered that I could not only stand, but run down stairs and kneel in front of the toilet quite nimbly. Round #2 of weight loss began.

At this point I was sure I couldn't care for the kids, and Matt needed to sleep between 13 hour shifts. Carma, a friend from church, agreed to come by for the morning to take care of the household while I laid helplessly on the couch. My body threatened to black out and collapse each time I attempted to be vertical after that. Naomi laid helplessly on a bed on the floor, having a headache, a stomach ache, and joint pain flare-ups again. I did the only thing I could, called Matt  to put Mary Poppins into the DVD player on my computer. Soon all the kids were giggling, I was resting, and Carma was folding my laundry and changing Toby's diapers.

By noon Naomi and I started taking sips of 7-up, and we have even achieved sitting upright for a few minutes at a time now. Carma had to leave, so dinner will be a "whatever you can find" self-serve buffet for Hannah, Emma, and Toby. They don't seem to mind that at all. But I hate to complain...I'm afraid of what tomorrow will bring if I do.