Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

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In Michigan you can never say with certainty when winter is over and spring has begun, regardless of what the calendar might assert. And yet in March, with the milder days and increasing sun, most of us find cause for hope, but this year Christopher found cause for mourning.

“My hope for having snow days is now lost,” he said to me out of the blue. I nodded thoughtfully and, I hoped, neutrally; it’s rude to rejoice in another’s suffering.

“Now I have to hope for bus accidents or whatever.”

https://alisonhodgson.com/2010/04/250/

PSA

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Some Sundays, during the beginning of the service, our church has a time to greet those around you. This Sunday Christopher had his head in a book and didn’t get up. I hadn’t noticed but the next time we made eye contact he whispered,

“I wasn’t shaking hands because some people don’t wash their hands after going to the bathroom.”

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This girl just asked me if she could have a jack knife when she’s in third or fourth grade.  
We’ve been in conversation about her having a jack knife “when she’s older”, but this is the first time she’s pinned me down to an age.  I managed to pawn her off with a, “We’ll have to see.”  She’s a keen admirer of all of her brother’s jackknives, especially the Swiss Army one that my mom gave him for Christmas.  She was turning this over as we spoke.
“Why do you want a jack knife?”  I thought to ask.  
I’ve been so busy delivering my responsibility homilies it’s never occurred to me to question why she wants one at all.  Thinking about it now, I guess I just assumed that, “It’s Eden, of course she’s attracted to something dangerous,” but, as always, this kid has depth and a quick answer.
“If a robber came and trapped us in a bag I could pull out the scissors and cut us out.”

https://alisonhodgson.com/2009/08/273/

Aunt Ali’s Sleep Clinic

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This little person spent the night at our house last Saturday.  Torey traded her for my three kids and considered herself the winner in the bargain.  Wizzie do what Wizzie do and what she do is wake up in the middle of the night almost every single night and scream her sweet little head off until Torey (desperate and crazed) pulls her into their bed and then the real fun begins.  Sure Willa finally shuts her little gob and – technically – falls asleep, but she does so sideways so that she is kicking one parent and head butting the other.
I took this Naughtsy Taughtsy a few weeks ago, kept her up a little late and then when she woke up in the wee hours, changed her bum, petted her and put her back in bed.  She fussed a bit, but was too tired to give it her all.  Within minutes she was asleep.  
Back home she reverted to her old pattern so we scheduled another night at Aunt Ali’s sleep clinic.
When I awoke at two and couldn’t get back to sleep until after six I questioned the wisdom/hubris/ridiculousness of an insomniac running a sleep clinic.  Just before six, as I was finally drifting back to sleep, Willa woke and began to call my name, “Dea!  Dea!  Deeeeeee-aaaaaa!”  
I staggered to her crib.  At the sight of me she scrabbled to pop her pacifier in her mouth and to  grab Teddy.    It was 7 a.m.  That seemed a reasonable time to wake up.  I picked her up and staggered back to my room.  She snuggled in between Paul and me and then we both passed out.
My “sleep” was punctuated by kicks in my back and dream sequences where I tried to gain an inch of space since Willa was plastered against me and I was hugging the edge of the bed.  The few times I was able to open my eyes she was lying beside me peacefully, her own sweet eyes shut.  The moment I shut my own the next assault began.
Paul, was waging his own battle.  He was too tired to take anything more than a defensive posture from Teddy who kept hitting his head every few minutes.  
We all finally awoke around nine.  Woke is really a misnomer; it would be accurate to say that our sleep finally ran out.  We both felt like death; mine was stone cold and Paul’s was slightly warmed.  Willa was fresh as a daisy, a thirsty and ravenous daisy no less.
Aunt Ali’s Sleep Clinic has closed its doors.
I’m sure this comes as no surprise.