VT Invite

An Invitation to a "Good Time" (But Not in a Naughty Way)

We are thrilled to announce that we're going Camping again for the summer. That is, we're heading back to the Baker family summer camp "Dingley Dell" in rural Vermont for another season of fun, food, rest, relaxation, water sports, tractor rides (Sam's favorite) and any other enjoyable thing we can think of. As always, we'd like all our friends to join us for the whole time; unfortunately we know that's not possible. We do, however, hope you'll find a way to join us for a few days (or more).

The Particulars

Originally a summer camp for boy sailors, Dingley Dell has been somewhat modernized (we have hot & cold running water and indoor toilets) but is still a classic New England camp experience. We stay in the main house, and our guests enjoy the privacy of another house across the road, with a bedroom on the main floor and a dormitory of sorts (four twin beds) upstairs. Over our past two visits we have (meaning Willl has) worked to perform necessary maintenance and some cosmetic improvements. It's still a camp, but now that we fixed the vacuum (and the roof, and the floor, and the ceiling, and the screens, and painted the walls, and . . .), it's pretty nice. That's not to say we won't have more projects for which we might recruit some help!

Generally, meals are served in the main house, except when we go down to the waterfront and enjoy picnics on the stone beach of Lake Champlain, looking west to the mountains of upstate New York. Our place is situated about ¼ mile up from a semi-private bay, with clear water that's only about 4 feet deep for several hundred yards. We plan to get at least one sailboat in the water this year, and have acquired a motor boat for faster-paced water fun. Area activities include biking, hiking, swimming (duh!), studying history (Revolutionary War forts, anyone?), eating (you KNOW I like to feed people), visiting the Ben & Jerry's factory, and pretty much whatever else you might like.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, or, Where We're Located And How To Get There

225 West Shore Rd, South Hero, VT. (You can Google it.) Basically we're an hour north and across a causeway from Burlington, the largest city in VT; an hour by ferry from Plattsburgh, NY; and an hour south of Montreal, Canada. Car, plane, boat, even train - you can reach us. Airport options include Burlington (BTV), Plattsburgh, NY (PBG), and Montreal (YMQ). Trains come into both Essex Junction (15 minutes away) and Plattsburgh. And, of course, you're welcome to drive yourself.

When To Come

We're heading there almost as soon as school gets out, and we'll get back not long before school starts again. Factoring in drive time and opening/closing the place, we figure we can host from around June 16th until about August 5th.

We Want To Come. What Do We Do?

Let us know when, and we'll be ready for you! We'll have a phone (and access to the internet), but don't know the number yet. Your best bet is to call me on my cell phone or email me. 

An Eight Year Old's Joke

Sam: Why did the onion shoot potatoes?


Mom: I don't know. Why?


Sam: Because they're friends!


Mom: That doesn't make any sense.


Sam: I know. I don't get it either.

An Instructional From Violet

No matter how heavy things get around here, I can always count on my kids for a laugh.

Last night we got home late from a basketball game and Violet crashed almost immediately. I came upstairs to find my girl, still clad in a sweet pink plaid dress, sound asleep in my bed with the following "How To" on the floor below.

Translation:

How to make a Burp

First make a deep breath and then

drink a glass of water

and then make it into

a burp

That's my girl!

A conundrum

I think, if conservatives really stand for marriage, they ought to support health care bills that cover mental health, including marriage counseling.

On Marriage

I have been pondering marriage a great deal lately, mostly because I fear mine has fractured like a bone china cup, still intact but crazed by fault lines, any of which could cause the whole to collapse into pieces. We have been married ten years, together for nearly thirteen. We have moved across country, bought and sold houses, invested, had two children, acquired a new car, adopted a dog. We have, in short, lived the american reality, if not the dream. We are married. But what does that mean? I have a dear friend whose support of “traditional marriage” makes me unspeakably sad, especially since right now I don't even know what marriage means, except that my gay friends and acquaintances long for it as a near unattainable dream.

Thinking across the various stories of marriage that have built the idea in my head, marriage was never about sex, or children, or even love, but about alliances. Us versus them. United we stand. Think about it – Disney princes rescue their unknown ladies (Snow White had never even met her prince) from poverty, evil, enchantment, all by offering a shield against these things. In return, they get a kiss. Isn't that what wedding vows promise? Not “I will love you” but “I will take care of you even if you're sick or poor”. A couple might as well write a legal contract specifying individual obligations. That is traditional marriage. It doesn't sound so romantic when you realize it's a negotiated bargain, sealed with a ring.

Historically, traditionally, marriages were bulwarks against warfare, destitution, the neighbors. The kings and queens of Europe didn't fall in love, they negotiated for the most advantageous match. And that bargaining wasn't limited to nobility. Even peasants had dowries, and girls with more goods were more desireable. If they could breed well, all the better. Many healthy children meant more swords in a fight. Lots of workers meant a better retirement for the elders.

The mythology of marriage is that it begins with love. I don't agree. Love is what happens quietly after years of marriage. After fighting and making up, after traveling and staying in, grieving and celebrating. Love is not just wanting to share the good with your partner. It is cleaning up bedpans and vomit; dealing with annoying habits that you never can embrace; seeing the beauty inside the ugly. Only when you know the whole of a person – beginning to end – can you truly love. I say marriage begins with sympathetic resonance, a sense that this one person will stand with you against all foes, and will help you achieve the highest heights.

My college roommate was married last spring. In attendance was a gay man I know and his partner of fifteen or so years. They are comfortable with each other in the way that long-married people are; I was warmed by their affectionate smiles and eye-rolling at each other's foibles. At the very beginning of their relationship they weathered the storm of a life-threatening illness that still must be managed on a daily basis, and they told me a little about how that affects their long-term plans together. For them, that future is an unquestionable fact. The strength of their union is awe-inspiring. I think often about my morning spent with them and what a marvelous example they are of what a marriage should be. It's ironic that at a “traditional” ceremony, the two people united hope to have a relationship as strong, loving, and long as that of our gay friends – two men who still had to be careful not to touch or say anything publicly that might indicate their relationship to an outsider.

My husband and I are stuck in silence right now. Looking back, I see the flaws in our earliest alliance, and wonder why we ever walked down the aisle together. I have leaned heavily on my friends for consolation, and they, in turn, have given me absolution for whatever decisions I might make. For now, I am searching for solutions. I owe that to myself and my family. And by doing so I hope I honor my many gay friends who have shown me what marriage truly means.

Why I Don't Go To the Doctor

Ten years ago, I had a first visit with a new doctor. Before any examination took place, he met with me (fully clothed!) in his office, and we chatted. Dr. E got to know me a little. And I got comfortable enough with him that I mentioned my weight. He surprised me by saying that he wasn't terribly worried; health was more important than a specific weight.

I would have followed him anywhere.

Even though he wasn't an internist, I considered Dr. E my primary care physician. He guided me through two pregnancies with minor complications, and I saw him routinely. I could address any question to him. But two years ago he retired. Sure I still get my annual exam from the doctors in that office, but it's not the same.

Prior to meeting Dr. E, I was haunted by previous experiences with a number of doctors, who immediately assumed that any issue was a symptom of my weight. Allergies? I must eat too much. Earaches? Get more exercise. A sinus infection? Lay off the ice cream. Apparently, I was so big even bacteria couldn't escape my gravitational field.

Which is why, for me, going to the doctor is a lot like being sent to the principal.

But I've not been feeling quite right. And, to be honest, I've gained even more weight. It's time to take care of myself. So, I screwed up my courage, made an appointment, and today I had a physical.

I'll get the results from the blood work tomorrow. In the meantime, the numbers in the office were good. Low blood pressure, resting heart rate of 60, great health history. I walked a 1/2 marathon last spring, and am in training to run a 1/2 this spring. I don't smoke or drink. I eat lots of vegetables. I don't drink juice or soda, and mostly avoid junk food. I am, for all intents and purposes, healthy. Despite all that, the only thing the doctor wanted to know is: am I trying any programs to lose weight?

I must be broken, because I am obese. My weight is the only consideration.

And I wonder, why in all my years I've only ever met one doctor who looked at my self first, and then at my body. Because I know I need help, but if you only see a number on a scale, doctor, then how am I going to be comfortable talking to you about what to do?

I'll go back and try and work with this doctor. But I'll miss Dr. E every time.

Teaching Feminism at McDonald's

Let me start by saying yes, I do take my children to McDonald's. I have reasons both for and against doing so, and have made an informed decision that we can occasionally go to the nearby "Old McDonald's" for a treat. In a similar vein, my kindergarten-aged daughter wears a LOT of pink sparkly things, has make-up and high heels, and frequently talks about being a princess. Again, I've made my choices, and stand by them, even if I sometimes wince at the results.

That doesn't mean I've compromised my values.

A couple weeks ago, I took my sparklicious daughter and her more sedate brother to McDonald's for lunch and a romp in the play structure there. While they climbed and played I ordered a couple of Happy Meals and something for myself. Now, McDonald's, for whatever asinine reason, not only categorizes their toys by age (toddlers get "safer" bits of cheap plastic); they also gender-identify them so that when ordering one has to request a boy Happy Meal or a girl Happy Meal, or else the cashier freezes in a quandary of what toy to put in the sack. And, of course, the toys for girls are soft and sweet and pink (Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, random stuffed animals) while boys get action toys (Transformers, skateboards, Bakugan).

I resent that.

However, I also get physically ill when facing the bickering that ensues when two kids have the same toy and one disappears, so I took the easy route and ordered one boy toy (ooh, that sounds kinky!) and one girl toy (that does too!) and called the kids down to eat.

After wolfing down their apples and some nuggets, the kids clamored for their toys. Violet got a pink fuzzy thing that may or may not have been a hamster (by making it amorphous the toy company could claim it was any one of four sweet animals -- I think. The explanations were in translated Chinese.) Sam got a Bakugan. For those unfamiliar with the ongoing trend of inexplicable (by which I mean, I don't understand it so I can't explain it) toys/games from Japan, Bakugan is/are a series of robot balls, each of which has a "power" and which seem to be a bastard cousin of Transformers, in that they open up into robots with faces. Some can even combine into greater robots. There are accompanying cards that list the robots' strength, skill, and attack points, all of which reminds me mightily of Dungeons and Dragons in which one's character had strength, skill, and attack points, and I wonder why that was unbearably geeky, but this is cool? But I digress.

Sam was delighted with his Bakugan, immediately disappearing into the tubes and germs that are a PlayPlace. Violet, on the other hand, looked plaintively up at me and asked, "Why did I get _this_ while Sam got a Bakugan?"

So, I took a deep breath and gave Violet a 5 year old's summary of gender discrimination, (yes, I did use those words) and boiled it down to: because she's a girl people think she wouldn't want to play with cool robots. And my fabulous little girl, who is so fierce and strong, understood, and immediately said, "Well, I want a Bakugan." And she took her stupid stuffed blob up to the counter and asked if she could please have a different toy.

The very nice cashier handed her a different sweet fuzzy blob.

She looked at me, then back at the cashier, and said quite clearly, "No, I want a Bakugan."

He didn't get it at first. He stood there, looking at me, then at the pink, sparkly, tiara-bedecked princess in front of him, and at the "girl" toy in his hand. And then the cashier took the second blob back, and handed Violet TWO Bakugan. Because she wanted to play with cool robots, and he was going to make that happen.

We've had a couple more conversations since then about girl toys and boy toys, and gender in general. Our kids are pretty good about it. Sam likes to wear nail polish, and has learned to ignore friends and classmates who make negative comments about it. Violet is still of an age where she's trying to use physical cues to help her distinguish boys from girls, but clothing and hair length are no longer the first things she sees. Most important (to me), is that both of them understand that they can be or do whatever they want, and we'll love them unconditionally.

And that, whenever we go to McDonald's, they can have whatever toy they want.