11 and counting (unfortunately)

I’ve discovered that the number 11 has many interesting characteristics: it is the first number that cannot be counted with a human's ten fingers. In English, it is the smallest positive integer requiring three syllables and the largest prime number with a single-morpheme name. It is also the smallest positive numerical palindrome. Displayed on a calculator, 11 is a strobogrammatic prime (it reads the same if the calculator is turned upside down) and a dihedral prime (it reads the same if the number on the calculator is reflected in a mirror). If a number is divisible by 11, reversing its digits will result in another multiple of 11. As long as no two adjacent digits of a number added together exceed 9, then multiplying the number by 11, reversing the digits of the product, and dividing that new number by 11, will yield a number that is the reverse of the original number. (For example: 142,312 x 11 = 1,565,432. 2,345,651 / 11 = 213,241.) Fascinating.

In thinking about the number 11, I was also reminded of this scene from Spinal Tap:  

If 10 represents the pinnacle of achievement, 11 is even better, right?

When I started writing this post a couple of days ago, 11 was the number of mice that we had caught in our house since October. This number is already obsolete however, as we have caught that many again and more.  (We could be having an interesting discussion about the smallest odd prime number that is not a twin prime.) This is very disturbing. We’ve had mouse trouble before—one here, one there—but never have we had an epidemic like this. We’ve tried all kinds of traps to great (ugh) success—traditional traps, glue traps, sticky gel traps with bait, sticky gel traps without bait, snap traps. Our bait of choice for the traditional traps and snap traps is peanut butter. Often the mice have eaten the peanut butter without springing the trap, but we just patiently spread some more on there, confident that they’ll be back. Once, we even caught two mice in one trap. That was kind of exciting. What hasn’t been exciting is hearing the mice climbing (and falling) inside our walls and scurrying across our kitchen ceiling. What hasn’t been exciting is catching the occasional live mouse and dumping it, with the trap, in a bucket of water to drown it (or finding one in the kitchen trash and whacking it to death). What hasn’t been exciting is removing everything from under the kitchen sink and drawers, cleaning out the little mouse droppings, washing everything thoroughly before putting it all back—and having to do it again two days later. What hasn’t been exciting is observing (with mounting anxiety) the mouse smell getting stronger, to the point where my eyes began to burn from the off-gassing of the mouse feces and urine. Okay, this is getting serious.

We racked our brains to try to think of any changes that recently took place that could have contributed to the increased infestation. We knew they were probably coming into the kitchen from behind the dishwasher, so tonight we pulled that out—the burning eyes was a good indication that, yes, they were definitely coming in through here. Some online resources suggested plugging any holes that were at least ¼” in diameter, or even smaller (are you serious?), with steel wool and sealing it with caulk. This is what I did. However, this didn’t solve the issue of how they are getting into the house.

We had some work done on our house this past fall as part of an income-based weatherization program through a local organization named Hope Community Builders. One of the things they did was remove the door of our attached garage, frame in and insulate the space and add a set of french doors. Because the garage is below grade, the workers added a drain in front of the new doors to keep water from entering and tied it in to a drain coming from the garage. Our guess is that the mice are finding their way into the garage through this drain, which then gives them access to the basement and the rest of the house. We now have an 8x8x12 piece of lumber sitting on top of a can of paint that is resting on top of the garage drain cover, blocking the (¼”) holes in the top.  

Peach and Apple

 

An exciting new development for us these past few months has been the addition of a couple of chickens to our backyard.  (If you’re reading this and live in the city of Harrisonburg and are aware of the legislation regarding chickens in the city, I apologize if I’ve put you in a compromising situation.)  They’re on semi-permanent loan from friends of ours and have been enjoying the free range of their new, fenced-in habitat.  They were nameless when they came to us, so our oldest daughter immediately dubbed them "Peach" and "Apple."

It took a little time for the kids to get used to them and to learn the proper distance to keep (BT loves to chase them), but they soon got into a pattern of letting them out of their cage in the morning, changing their water and feed and gathering them back in to their cage when the day was done. We recently tilled some new ground for garden space (thanks, Don, for use of your Mantis) and covered it with compost from a local farmer (thanks, Wenger family, from Wood Ridge Dairy on Sky Road)—Peach and Apple had a great time climbing the piles of compost and scratching in the new soil. When the season turned to fall, we gathered the leaves that had fallen from our peach tree and our silver and red maples and spread them on the garden, as well, which proved to be even more interesting terrain.

 

One drawback has been that our back stairs, which lead into the backyard from our kitchen office, are persistently beshat because the birds love to roost there and watch our goings-on through the sliding glass door. On one hand we don’t mind the birds hanging out there because it allows MK, BT and JM to have a close-up view of their feathery friends—on the other hand, there’s no denying that chickens do shit where they sit which means quite a mess for this high traffic area. It’s also annoying when they somehow get themselves caught between the sliding screen door and the outer door: there’s no delicate way to pull them out of there.

One evening we had gone out as a family and I forgot to put Peach and Apple in their cage for the night. We came home and realized the mistake, so I went out quickly to tend to them before starting the bedtime process with the kids. They were nowhere to be found. After searching the yard for a few minutes, I found one of them (Peach, I think) roosting on the top rail of our fence. I gently pulled her off with some sleepy clucks of irritation and put her in the cage. Her perching position on the fence led me to think that Apple, who we believe may be a cockerel, had somehow gotten over the fence, so for the next hour I roamed the streets and backyards of our neighborhood, looking into all the dark corners with my flashlight, hoping to find him. I saw an assortment of all other kinds of nighttime creatures—cats, mice, an opossum (which seemed to be heading into our neighbor’s basement—perhaps I should have mentioned this to him)—but no Apple. I gave up the search and offered up a prayer, relinquishing him to his natural instincts, trusting that he’d find an appropriate place to perch and hoping for some leniency from MoJo.
 

In the morning, Apple was back and the world was set aright again.

I have no idea where he hunkered down—most likely he was in the backyard the whole time and I just overlooked him.

We have since given Peach and Apple back to our friends, but we enjoyed the experience and hope to set up a more permanent roosting situation in the future.     

3

Our son, BT, celebrated his third birthday the middle of last month.  As I was looking back through some recent pictures, I realized that we had at least 4 (official) celebrations with him.

Here we are with Gram and Poppy (my parents).  They visited before his birthday and celebrated with us while they were here.  They're fairly recent snowbirds, and have been splitting their time between Florida and Pennsylvania.  They stopped by (for two weeks) on their way from one home to the other.

 

Here we are celebrating with our small group at Jonathan and Greta Leinbach-Kreider's home the Friday night before his birthday.  I wasn't able to make it that evening because I was involved with a Ted & Company show at Court Square Theater (http://www.tedandcompany.com/shows/laughter-and-lament/).  When you meet BT now, more often than not he'll introduce himself as, "I'm three years old!" and proudly hold up his middle three fingers, touching thumb to pinky--he usually shows both hands, holding them down low at first and studying them to make sure he's got it right before displaying them, but in this picture his other hand is occupied.  His little sister, JM, has caught on to this ritual and loves going around holding up her three fingers, on both hands, though she prefers to touch thumb to forefinger.
BT also had lunch with Mimi and Papa H earlier this day.

On the day of his birthday, BT and I went and played a round of disc golf at a nearby park (http://www.harrisonburgva.gov/westover).  It's a wooded 21-hole course (they recently added three extra holes to connect hole #18 back to hole #1) and is quite hilly.  BT loves to play and I thought we'd be able to get in a few holes before he got tired and needed to be held.  Nope.  We played all 21 holes and he walked the entire way on his own--2.5 hours!  It was only as we finished up the 21st hole and were heading for the car that he let down and asked me to carry him.

 

 

Here we are celebrating at home later that day.  I can't believe they all stayed still long enough for me to get their picture.  The cupcakes were chocolate cheesecake with cream cheese icing and sprinkles--very tasty. 

 

 

 

 

There are several September birthdays in our family:  BT on the 15th; cousin IL on the 16th; Papa H on the 28th; cousin SM on the 29th.  BT got to celebrate with cousin IL and Papa H on the Tuesday following his birthday.  BT loves his tractor.

And a week after his birthday, his balance bike finally arrived!

 

There were five in the bed

When Monica and I woke up last Friday morning, we realized that all three of our children were in our room with us.  This is rare.  In fact, this is the first time this has happened. 

It’s not at all unusual that our oldest daughter, MK, ended up here.  When she was sleeping in her own bed, we had developed a ritual of singing to her (we adapted a song that our congregation uses for baby dedications, inserting family members’ names as a way to remember them) and listening to music (I highly recommend Lullaby: A Collection, featuring an eclectic mix of artists including Bobby McFerrin, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Judy Collins and Deep Forest), which helped her fall asleep and stay asleep.  Now she shares a bed with her brother, and the bedtime custom has become that we read books together and then either Monica or I will lie down between them until they drift away.  And every night almost without fail, MK makes the midnight crossing from their bed to our room.  I don’t know if sharing a bed with BT has anything to do with this nightly travel, or if it’s a combination of separation anxiety and a fear of the dark, but there it is.  She used to crawl right into bed between us, jostling us awake, and pasting herself against one of us.  I didn’t mind it so much—and knew I'd miss it when it was gone—but it did disturb Monica’s sleep.  Now we have a floor bed set up for her next to my side of the bed, a sleeping bag on top of a thin air mattress, and it works great—she comes in and lies right down without waking us.

BT has been a great sleeper ever since he began sleeping in a big bed.  Occasionally he will wake up in the middle of the night needing a drink or comfort, but usually he is able to sleep the whole night through without any interruption.  Recently, however, he has begun following his sister’s example, making the trek to our bed, nestling down between us, pasting himself (to me, usually), and unsubtly demanding my hand ("Hand!") so he can hold it and aggressively knead it, entwining his fingers in mine.  This somehow works for him—it's become a bit annoying for me, but, again, I know I’ll miss it when it’s gone.

As infants, both MK and BT had a very hard time getting to sleep, and staying asleep.  I used to get a good lower body workout, holding them (not at the same time) while doing deep seat squats to try and settle them down.  I would also put them in their car seats and swing them in large, sweeping arcs for 20 minutes or more, making mental note of the effects of centrifugal force, to try and send them off.  This often worked, but then it was a performance of carefully choreographed moves of diminishing degrees of contact to transfer them to the crib, where, inevitably, once the last tenuous physical connection was cut, they would somehow realize that they were alone, wake up screaming, and inaugurate a repeat production.  I began writing a song for BT which opens up with the line, “Waiting for the arm to fall”—as I would hold him and bounce him, his fingers would slowly relax their desperate grip on mine, and his arm would gradually slide away and hang in the air.  Then it was a slow count to 60 and I could begin entertaining the idea of laying him down.

JM by far has been our best sleeper.  She settles down easily and has even gone to sleep on her own in her crib, with a minimal amount of fussing.  The reason she ended up in our bed last Friday night was because she had a cold.  She went out pretty well initially, but then woke up crying several times because she was congested and having a hard time breathing.  We eventually just brought her in to our bed to lie between us so we could quickly comfort her as needed.

The next night, JM slept soundly in her crib, and we were back on schedule. 

Crepes and adrenaline

A couple of months ago, I picked up a crepe maker at a neighbor's yard sale.  Several women had set up their tables with the usual fare:  an eclectic collection of CDs (only here can you see Jethro Tull rubbing shoulders with the Indigo Girls); children's books and clothes; beverage coasters; VHS tapes boasting films from the '80's and '90's ("Anyone?  Anyone?"); assorted garden items; jewelry to attract a certain 5-year old girl; toy tractors and trucks to attract a certain 2-year old boy.  Our neighbor's mother also came and set up her table, and under some pots and pans and a folded bed sheet I spied this Electric Crepe Machine by Grandinetti. 

According to the mother, The Machine had never been used in the 15 years that she owned it.  It was marked for $1 (you can still see the green sticker pasted to the box top), but she said she'd be happy to give it away for free.  I couldn't resist.  It's not everyday that you get something for nothing--and not just the thing itself, but a whole host of associations, beginning in the Fußgängerzone in München, buying freshly-made crepes with cheese and jam at a little kiosk on the Marienplatz, which evokes other memories of hiking in the foothills of the Swiss Alps, taking a bike tour around the Bodensee (which led us through parts of Germany, Austria, and Switzerland), and exploring Longwy, France, in the spring.  

When we gathered all of our yard sale items together to tally up the total, I added a dollar for the crepe maker--it was worth the trip--but she insisted I just take it.  It took several burnt and flaky tries, but I eventually got the feel of both machine and batter.

All this, of course, leads up to my daughter MK's first day of kindergarten.  She is now beginning her third week of school, but on her first day I made crepes for breakfast.  Crepes with Nutella is a favorite of ours (and nostalgic again for me), though we do sometimes try other fillings.  She was so excited about school, and the crepes, but she was pumped so full of adrenaline that the crepes went uneaten.  Oh well--it was worth the time to make them and it was worth seeing my daughter so excited about school.