LuluPatina

Silas and Eden on Grown-ups

2012-01-20T09:49:00.000-08:00

overheard in the backseat:

Silas: grown-ups are different than kids
Eden: yeah, because they're bigger
Silas: and they know more words.
Eden: and they don't go to school
Silas: they don't wear diapers
Eden: yeah, and they don't wear colorful pajamas
Silas: and grown-ups mostly just talk to each other and kids play around.

Another's thoughts about time

2012-01-06T20:21:00.001-08:00

I write and ache a lot about time's passing, about how Silas is now tall and lanky, all knees and elbows and nearly impossible to hold; about how Eden prances through the door to her classroom without a pause, and how I get teary most of all when I look at their old clothes. Letting people grow and keep growing hurts.

And then, of course, there are those older women who pop into your line of vision in elevators and grocery store lines who tell you how all of this passes so quickly and you should enjoy every moment -- I've written about those women before -- and the quiet pressure to inhabit every minute of the day and savor them.

Annemarie just sent me this link -- I have no idea who Momastry is and have never read another word by her, but I love this reflection she wrote about time so much that I'm posting it here. She nailed all of it.

http://momastery.com/blog/2012/01/04/2011-lesson-2-dont-carpe-diem/#comment-25838

The surprise of harbored hope (what I didn't get for Christmas).

2012-01-01T09:17:00.000-08:00

The two weeks before Christmas, I thought I was pregnant.

After a messy bedtime of screaming and bad behavior on all of our sides, I lay on the floor of Silas and Eden's room imagining a third child in our picture -- what it would be like to be spread thinner, pulled more taut, the exhaustion of night waking, the return of back pain from hauling a big fat baby around. I turned over all the reasons two made sense -- the travel, Ben's travel, living without family. We live in the promised land -- no naps, diapers, baby food -- and would have to press reset. We've given all of our baby equipment away. I drive a prius.

I am pretty good at reasoning my way through things. But despite my pep talks and distancing tactics, ever fiber of my body bent into the question -- what if?

I told a few friends about the waiting. As my mouth glossed over the immensity -- we probably aren't, it's so unexpected, Ben's been great but we're planning on two -- tears welled in my eyes each time I named the possibility. Finally one friend looked at me and said, you are hoping for this so much. I can see the hope.

It's painful to name things we are hiding.

She was right. Despite the fears of exhaustion and dagger-like impatience, bodily aches and pains, I involuntarily was envisioning the whole next year pregnant, a September infant, another sibling for Silas and Eden, the beauty of a tight full belly, labor one more time, and the sweet-smelling softness of a newborn, another person to discover.

Naming the hope made the waiting more excruciating. Hope means danger. I hoped reluctantly, constantly flinging up reasons why it would be best not to have another, why biology would fail, why we wouldn't be, couldn't be pregnant. The persistant sharpness of my hope surprised me.

Right before Christmas, I took a test and it was negative. And though my period didn't come for three more days, I wasn't pregnant.

It was a weepy few days combined with the hormones of a period, Christmas celebrations, and travel back to California. Sitting at my kitchen table now on January 1st, I am now surprised by how little I can access that disappointment, grief.

We love to save face. We love to feel in control, to make it seem like all the elements of life we move in are of our choosing. There are many reasons why Ben and I love having two children -- a tape enumerating these reasons is playing in my head a lot these days. The tape is true. There's even relief in being "done."

But that's the only part of the story I seem to be letting myself access.

Building a family is a strange process, different than most things we build. We can plan it, yes. We can make choices, yes. But we don't exactly build it, even when we choose the number of embryos implanted. Even when we track ovulation. Even when we pray.

Sometimes we can't get pregnant. Sometimes the partner we love doesn't want any children, or wants fewer or more than we do. Sometimes we miscarry. Sometimes we have triplets. Sometimes our baby's heart doesn't develop in utero. Sometimes we have all boys. Sometimes we have a much larger or much smaller gap between children than we'd entertained. Sometimes our baby dies before he's born. Sometimes our adult child is diagnosed with a disease. Sometimes we've harbored a picture of "family" and realize our reality doesn't mesh with it. Sometimes we can't have biological children. Sometimes adoption takes ages. Sometimes our children are so stunning they take our breath away. Sometimes we don't get married. Sometimes our family is more full than we'd imagined. Always, we're surprised.

I have friends who have lived each of those sentences. We all have stories.

When I was talking to my mom recently she said, you may grieve not having a third child your whole life on some level. But that's the spiritual life, isn't it, not to let that grief dominate you, but to grow in gratitude and hope, too, to be able to hold both at once.

What Happens After

2011-12-28T16:32:00.000-08:00

Today we returned from ten days in DC. We woke up at 4:40AM and were in the car driving to the airport by 5. Now it is 4:15 PM California time and the day is still g-o-i-n-g. We've settled in, opened mail, poured over Christmas cards, sat outside in the sun, talked through the story of Frankenstein (thank you school Halloween art projects), which despite having taught for several years, I still had to reference to remember the ending -!. We've played at the park, visited some friends there, and lastly shopped at Trader Joe's to fill the empty refrigerator. Silas, who apparently lost one shoe at the park and thus had to sit in the cart the entire time with all the cold food, was moved simply to make loud noises the whole time we shopped. At one point I called to him from the wine tasting booth to please let me and these other people stand in this quiet happy place for two minutes. I don't do well after many nights of too little sleep. Trader Joe's was a little crowded and there were definitely people near me when I told Silas there would be consequences if he made another noise. What consequences? Probably, off with his head (first thing I thought of). Off with my head! A long silence, and then as I rifled through the bags of spinach, a quiet voice from the cart: I'm scared. You said you would cut my head off. I know you'd never do that but you said you were going to. Why did you say that? Oh brother. Then some other shoppers heard me say, you won't eat dessert tonight, or probably again this week, a natural consequence for nothing that was happening. And pushing my cart with my legs as I tried to yank screaming Eden out of the cart basket for throwing the bag of spinach AGAIN (because her nerves, too, are a bit exposed, and I was gripping her), I looked up to find that I knew the check out guy, who is THE kindest most upbeat man ever. Great. He immediately doled out stickers until both kids stopped crying/whining/making noises and somehow made me smile and release the surface-y rage of impatience. Now we are home, and I'm thinking I should drive back to the park to find the missing shoe. But my body wants sleep, or at least a chair. And again, it's only 4:30 in the afternoon. This is a long one.

School Work

2011-12-18T08:15:00.000-08:00

We found this hanging on the wall of Silas's classroom.

In case you can't decipher it, the words read:

"I would like a ipad. I wil pla aree brs on it."

with an illustration of a flying yellow bird hurdling toward a tower of green pigs.

oh mercy.

Oh Christmakah

2011-12-15T20:15:00.000-08:00

When Silas got back tonight from "a town of Bethlehem" where he went to various shops, made buttons, ornaments with the star of David, saw Mary and Joseph in a barn, and got a dreidel (I wasn't there because I was with Eden, the first in our family to get stitches after Silas hacked (accidentally?) her forehead with a garden hoe), he said:

I love Chanukah! Chanukah is dreidels!

Yes, Chanukah is great. It celebrates a miracle God did.

Yeah! You can celebrate it all the time because it's celebrating God!

You can?

Yes! It's God and dreidels! And I'm really good at dreidels.

What about Christmas?

Santa. (disappointed tone)

What about Santa?

He has reindeer.

Yeah, what does that have to do with anything?

You know, he brings presents and stuff.

Ok. Again, how is that connected to what we're talking about?

Chanukah is about God but at Christmas there's Santa.

Christmas is about God, too, (oh please tell me you know this) -- celebrating the greatest present, that God came to earth so we could know him. The presents we give are because God gave a present and we're happy about it, we're celebrating his birthday!

Yeah, they're like party favors.

...The presents are party favors. Exactly.

I love my dreidel (at which point he climbed into the top bunk with it).

Date

2011-12-12T21:43:00.000-08:00

december sludge

2011-12-06T20:08:00.001-08:00

Tonight my plans for a quiet evening alone by the fire with a cup of tea and no people ended up as an evening of Eden inexplicably screaming and crying for 45 minutes from bed, a cup of tea that never made it past hot water, and a fire that was only smoking logs.

Here an hour after the house finally quieted, I'm drinking wine that was supposed to be for a party, by the fire that is blazing only because I've one by one thrown in all the beautiful pine cones I've collected over the years as Christmas decorations.

I've started several blog entries the last couple of weeks that I haven't finished. One about how when Annemarie was here I must have made 14 comments a day about how glad I was not to have a 1 1/2 year old, but how immediately after she left, I plunged into grief that I don't in fact have one of those delicious roly toddlers just learning language, and I won't again. 3 1/2 and 5 1/2 are kids. But how can the whole stage of childbearing and babies already be over?? I'm not quite sure, nor ready, though I also can't imagine starting it again. To learn how to hold both grief and longings about such things and gratitude and contentment at the same time must be something God most wants to teach us.

I am also marveling at (or bemoaning, really) the fact that despite lofty resolutions, I am inevitably a frantic do-er in December. How is this unavoidable? But with two families of six, nearly all the kids married with kids, three December family birthdays, four January family birthdays, four November family birthdays, Christmas cards, parties, school holiday shows, travel -- how does one not become an intense planner and list maker? I really do want to know. I think I'm related (especially by marriage) to several people who are NOT like this. Please teach me. (Zack? Beth? Susan? Tiffany? Kaia Joye? Homer? help.)

For the last three weeks, lots of family has cycled through my house. First my dad for a weekend, then Annemarie and Greg for a week, and immediately after, Hollie and Jesh (my brother's wife and babe) for a week. So I've been doing a lot of thinking about why family tensions arise so heartily over visits and holidays. Of course there are lots of reasons like becoming a child again in your parents house, grief, missed-expectations, blah blah. I'm not really thinking about those. I'm thinking about the nitty gritty practical stuff. When people come stay at my house, the things I cut out of my week are the little things: Friday morning writing time, a few hours with a babysitter, my yoga class, going for a run or walk, checking my email at the kitchen table while the kids play, doing laundry, reading in bed, taking long showers, going to sleep early, eating normally (instead of three huge meals and snacks and three desserts every day). But it just so happens that those little things are the sanity-giving events of my week -- so of course tensions rise without them. Annemarie taught me another thing -- when she was here, she cleaned incessantly, and it made ALL the difference with nine of us here. The dishwasher was always running, toys were off the floor (again), markers were put away (again), laundry was going, the floor was swept. I didn't realize how much low-grade tension she was alleviating in her constant maintenance, but it was a lot. In a couple of weeks I head to DC for ten days to stay at my parents' house, and I'm wondering if it will make any difference to arrive with a game plan, could I curb some of the tensions if I pick up after us incessantly, find a yoga class ahead of time, plan a couple times to walk/run alone, ask my mom to take the kids for a few hours one day so I can write. I'm not sure -- it's possible that once you add in jetlag and the desire to control things I may just be in trouble, but I'm going to try and see if it makes a difference.

I've officially burned all my pine cones and my fire is now quite small again, so I am going to head to bed (my bed where loud Eden is, at least until Ben gets home and moves her).

Babies Gone

2011-12-03T19:46:00.001-08:00

{one of the entries I mentioned in the previous post}

It's funny, when Annemarie and Greg were here, I must have made a dozen comments (an hour?) about how glad I was not to have a one year old, to be out of the baby woods, to be in the land of children and non-nappers. But almost immediately after they left, I was overwhelmed with the desire for a roly- poly dumpling just learning language. It took me a couple of days to realize that more than wanting a third baby (though some days I do), I'm mourning the end of this stage of life -- babies, somehow, are gone, and kids have taken their place.

A few weeks ago we visited my sister in Catalina. Silas threw up on the boat (as usual) and then came down with a high fever (not usual). So I spent most of the day in KJ's room with Silas, doling out tylenol and taking his temperature, while Ben, Eden, and KJ hiked to the top of the peak and held all sorts of sea creatures in the touch tank. At one point when I was sitting outside KJ's room while Silas slept, Eden and KJ drove by me in a john deere min-truck and Eden just waved. I think these are the moments that crush you, sometimes.

On the ferry boat home, though, Eden fell asleep in my arms. And when I looked down at her, what I saw was still baby.

So for now, I'm holding on to that.

Christmas Trees

2011-11-27T10:54:00.001-08:00

Southern California is a weird land. Today we opted out of our usual Home Depot Christmas tree shopping to go instead to a family-owned local farm. I've experienced the pumpkin patch against the backdrop of banana palms and desert mountains, but never the Christmas tree farm against office parks and the freeway... Combine that with weather climbing toward 80 and parking-lot sun, and an east coast girl has to work to feel Christmas. Silas was finally stripped down to a bare chest and rolled up sweat pants.

Historically, Ben and I have some differences in how we revere the magical process of shopping for a Christmas tree (hence the years of Home Depot trees...). I have memories of racing around Christmas tree lots in the dark cold with my brothers under strings of white lights. Ben today was ready to buy the first cheapest tree he saw. He, as my parents would say, woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

We also tend to have a slight difference of opinion every year about how one ought to transport the Christmas tree home. Does one tie it to the roof or simply reach out of the driver side window and hold onto the trunk with one hand while one drives? This farm included a freeway drive -- would we possibly have this discussion here? I looked over at Ben who still looked like a flat-mouthed muppet with frowning eyebrows. I was pretty sure we would.

Silas raced into the dense trees, and Eden kept congratulating me for following her voice even though she walked behind me. Once Silas got the hang of reading the tickets wired to branches, he'd yell for us to come see this tree or that. At one of those moments, I tripped for the umpteenth time on a little stump (I wore tall clogs) and then rocketed forward, as if I'd just been launched, into the arms of a living tree that immediately dropped me onto the dirt. Apparently, Ben saw me go but didn't hurry, and I sat there for a long time laughing while Silas and Eden stood over me watching without cracking a smile.

Finally we decided on a tree -- the one I fell at the foot of -- and pulled up our car. Lo and behold, a man emerged carrying a bucket of rope and without question strapped the bushy tree to our roof! I don't think that added to Ben's pleasure, nor did the $5 tip we gave that angel-man. Now we're home with the tree in the living room. All of our lights are broken -- how does that happen in a silent garage during the year? -- and boxes of decorations are half unpacked. Eden keeps creeping into boxes, secretly unwrapping ornaments and then dangling them in front of our faces while I tell her again to put whatever it is back til we're ready. Maybe by tonight.

Gratitude

2011-11-24T06:49:00.001-08:00

Many times I've made lists of things I'm grateful for:
-hard rain
-the smell of wet concrete
-the brightness of a humming bird's head at the feeder
-trees moving in wind
-looking into Silas and Eden's wide eyes
-the softness of Ben's cheeks above his whiskers
-cheese
-new markers
-letters in the mail
-my mom
etc...

I've heard that the antidote to worry is gratitude, which makes sense -- anxiety is the mind ricocheting in the future, and gratitude focuses on the present and gives ground. Today someone even said that thinking of something you're grateful for breaks a bad mood. But after I make these lists, I don't seem to be changed. Where, then, is the power of being thankful, the transformation?

This week I've fumbled my way into experiencing the answer, at least a little. Annemarie, Greg, and their three girls are here for the whole week from DC. The plan was for them to stay here in our bitty one bathroom house for the first two nights and then move down to the neighbor's empty house. But day after day, we keep choosing to stay together. Somehow, the nine of us as one family feels more fun than the nine of us as two neighboring families, even though it's loud, people fight over toys, throw tantrums, and grow broody in need of space (all of which seem to be coming to a head today, of course on the day of thankfulness).

Last night I lay in bed in Eden's bottom bunk grumbling to myself because Ben on the top bunk had gone to bed angry at me for being overly jocular (or as he would have said snide and rude). I'd climbed up to apologize to no avail and now was back alone in the dark. Lying there I still felt the energy of self-justification in my body -- sorry you felt bad when I was joking around. But as I lay there, I began to think about Ben, not about the evening, the remarks, or the fact that this happens to be the time of month when I make sharp remarks, but about Ben, his feeling badly in front of friends, like I was not for him, and then going to sleep alone on the top bunk. Slowly that frantic energy left until it was just me, small in the room of the people I most love. I was grateful for Ben, and sorry, for real, for being a jerk. I climbed back up to the top bunk and woke him again and my words were different -- sorry for being abrasive and inconsiderate, sorry I embarrassed you. This, I think, is real gratitude, gratitude that changes us, pulls us out of our little kingdoms and back into the light of seeing other people and our real thanks.

Today my Dad is a Year from 70

2011-11-19T20:21:00.001-08:00

I've written several poems about my dad over the years. Some are about his childhood, the moment he learned at age 11 that his own father died. Some are about my childhood, driving around St. Petersburg, Florida with him as he gestured here and there naming places and stories of his life. Some are about sitting together at a Redskins game or my visiting him at the hospital when his lungs were full of blood clots (and he just sat watching the Redskins game rather than talking to me -he and I still disagree on this detail). And some are about tiny moments when I've looked at him and been struck by the fact that I have the privilege of still having him with me at age 34, a privilege neither of my parents had, that my children get to have a warm-eyed grandfather in their lives, a mythical kind of man I only imagined. This poems describes a moment like that, and his birthday, as I celebrate his life and health, seems like an appropriate day to share it.

My Father Who Holds the World

When I walk into the bathroom, the small TV on the counter

speaks the 11 o'clock news and my father is at the sink.

I sit and watch him as I watched him 25 years ago, his young daughter

balanced on the lip of the tub, watching to see him run the razor

across his soft cheeks, over his Adam's apple, along the jaw bone.

Tonight I watch with the same attentiveness, wanting to commit

to memory the slope of his forehead, the way he stands with hands

on either side of the sink, the tension silenced in his shoulders,

the shape of his watch imprinted on his wrist. I am sitting

with my back against smooth tile, my son asleep

in the neighboring room – please please stay alive.

(Portland Review 56#1 Spring/Summer)

Nights

2011-11-19T19:40:00.001-08:00

After I wrote about Eden's wakings, I began thinking about them conceptually. A friend suggested they're night terrors, which re-framed them for me -- beyond aggravating and exhausting they are terrifying in a way, full of torment and unrest -- they're dark. That night as I leaned over to kiss Eden's little face, I prayed that God would protect her from that in between state, that she would be held in sound restful sleep until she needed to wake, and when she woke she'd wake completely. I have prayed this every night, and what amazes is that every night since, she's slept soundly.

a little more Eden

2011-11-15T16:25:00.001-08:00

Sally visits only rarely, these days. But Bella still spends quite a lot of time with us. Usually she wants to talk about college where she does art, ties ribbons or does "bouqueting." Or else she meets up with us on her way to "skate camp" where she skateboards a lot.

Yesterday I met Ivy for the first time. She's my age. But she still has a hard time buckling her booster, which maddens us both. Her baby is called Margarita and sometimes "munches bitty zucchinis" -- they'd have to be bitty since baby Margarita is only about three inches long and is sometimes still in utero. Ivy spends a lot of time buckling and unbuckling Margarita into various spots.

At night these charming girls/friends/sisters leave and Eden is replaced by Needen, a semi-consciousness hellion.

Sleep had finally became delicious for a small time in our house, but nights again are riddled with waking. I find myself climbing into bed with the newborn pit in my stomach -- the dread of having to wake again in just a few hours and then again, and again, and again. For a while we woke because of a persistent night cough, because someone had to go to the bathroom or needed a fresh diaper or had kicked off blankets and was cold. But these days, we wake because of Needen.

Needen starts off crying in a normal, child-like way calling for Mama, but then lingers in a half-dream state, adamant and refusing any comfort (or reason). We meet her a few times every night, and I think Ben might murder her. A conversation with Needen might go like this (and, in fact, did go like this two nights ago):

[2AM]

whimpering, crying.
Mama! I want my Mama!

I force myself out from the covers into the cold air.
Coming Eden.

Crying crying

I sit down next to her

Hold ME!!!!

I touch her. She reels from my touch, screaming. (Silas is on the top bunk)

Sh Sh Shhh, it's ok.

THE FIRE PIT! I want a fire in the FIRE PIT!!!

?

YOU SAID WE COULD HAVE A FIRE IN THE FIRE PIT! Screaming, crying.

Ok. We can make a fire tomorrow.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Eden, it's the middle of the night.

Screaming, crying. YOU SAID!
I want the FIRE PIT!!

More crying.
Hold me Mama.

I touch her.

NOOOOOO! Screaming and squirming away from me.

And on it goes.
Oh Needen, please don't come here any more.

attempt at a Christmas card picture

2011-11-09T07:18:00.000-08:00

Crabby Mama

2011-11-08T20:15:00.000-08:00

A lot of the games i play with my kids end up sounding really dumb once I say them aloud to another person or articulate them -- this will be one of those examples.

Today everyone started off on the wrong foot. Or it's possible that only I did. In any event, it felt like EVERYone was particularly crabby. But when Silas screamed and cried and clung to my leg at drop off (unprecedented), I had a hunch it was because of my icy facade all morning. And when Eden burst into tears more than three times crying, "YOU HURT MY FEELINGS!" I once again had a sense that I was the root of our distress. And yet, awareness or not, the intolerance and impatience persisted, for hours.

Sometimes, when I am in a continually foul mood that I can't shake, we call the woman before us "crabby mama." And when it's all gone on for WAY too long and it must stop, there is sometimes an urgent news flash (the kind that Kermit used to do) to announce that crabby mama, who has been crabbing and pinching all morning, has left town and regular Mama has replaced her. As silly as it sounds, somehow the public announcement really does chase her away.

Today was not a good day.

But the surprising saving grace, once crabby mama had officially been pronounced gone, was that my friend Joan and her family came for dinner. Ben was at a work dinner and I hadn't gone to the grocery store, but I was determined to cook from what I had. Originally I'd planned to run this afternoon because I'm pretty sure that's what I most needed -- endorphins -- but instead, I cooked.

There is something truly life-giving about working with my hands. I feel that when I art journal, when I write a poem, and when I make a meal for people I love. Tonight, channeling myself into a dinner saved all of us. Eden and Silas, once they had the vague sense that I was once again their ally and fan, played in the darkening cold yard for ages while I busily chopped and whisked: Breaded lemon chicken with pasta, skillet carrots with onions and thyme, Ina's celery Parmesan salad, and Pam Boch's Apple cake.

Conversation was full and the kids squealed absolutely happily for hours. Now at 8:08 everyone is asleep, and I, too, am already tucked into bed. Whew. Glad for people to sit at the table with.

forget the kitchen

2011-11-06T21:16:00.000-08:00

My kitchen has been dirty all day, and now I think I may never go back in. In fact, I may just climb into my bed and never go anywhere again. Doesn't that sound good on a chilly night, post daylight savings when the kitchen is piled high with large aluminum pans, giant strainer/mixing bowl/coffee carafe, piles of serving spoons, monster cans of pumpkin -- donations for park dinners that arrived before a system for storing them...

Since I started making park dinners in June, I haven't cooked as much at home -- my energy has shifted to following the grocery store circulars and buying in bulk. But today, on a grey early morning that quickly broke into pouring rain, I cooked. While Ben and Eden were camping somewhere not far away, and as it turned out, in the car, my friend Kelly and her boys came over for warmth and breakfast. Silas and I made eggs with Parmesan (my specialty) and banana-chocolate chip pancakes. A small grapefruit from the market ended up pink and sweet, and later in the day I made grilled turkey-brie-arugula-and-pear post-camping sandwiches, and this evening, a huge amount of chicken tetrazzini. I do love making food for friends who love food.

Now it is time for bed. I can't imagine how breakfast and snack/lunch making/packing will happen in that kitchen tomorrow morning. Maybe the Kitchen Fairy will swoop in tonight while I sleep...

Gusty Christmas Blowing In

2011-11-02T20:32:00.000-07:00

I am sitting on my bed; the house is quiet. Ben's in LA for the night for work. Silas is tucked into bed with a fever and a throat so swollen I can see it just by peering into his mouth. Eden, after probably pulling all the tissues out of the box and squeezing all the saline drops out of the bottle near her bed must now be asleep. Even the dog next door is not barking.

We finished Halloween without too much fanfare -- the ninja and Ariel-turned-ladybug happily raced door-to-door with another ninja and a flower fairy, and all was well. The two of them had decided ahead of time to trade their candy in for a toy, something I did not offer but a friend we know does. They walked in from trick-or-treating, chose three pieces of candy each, and turned over their bags. There wasn't much to do but comply so after they went to bed I rifled through the rest, made myself a stash (where are the mounds bars, by the way, are they extinct??) and then today bought them each a toy, of their dreams apparently, for $10.

Already today -- perhaps after having witnessed the mad rush of CVS to replace 6 ft skeletons with shiny-cheeked wreaths while I was filling a prescription -- I feel the hot breath of Christmas on my neck. As every year, but perhaps a bit more in earnest this year, I am wondering what I will do differently to slow things down, to lean away from the compulsive consumption, to stand back from the perfection the season demands. I have never used the word "perfection" to describe the weight of the season until tonight, but I think that's what it is, even driving the lengthy to-do lists. This week the catalogs began rolling in full of beautiful sparkly houses, organic striped leggings, wooden washer and dryer toys, cranberry cocktails and chestnut stuffing -- the perfect gifts, decorations, tables, trees, parties, and traditions, all perfectly photographed, perfectly thoughtful, delicious, beautiful, hosted, and handmade.

The catch always when trying to regroup or clarify my vision before charging headlong toward December is that doing these things -- hand making things, decorating, baking, hosting, photographing the kids with Santa, buying presents, writing down wish lists -- is fun.

And so I am left with my hands open in front of me holding the question of balance, a posture I hope to remember as I click through photos for Christmas cards and linger on etsy an hour too long.

Diversity

2011-10-14T21:40:00.000-07:00

I could drown in the stream of papers flowing into this house from elementary school. Yesterday a teal sheet arrived announcing an art contest -- literary, visual, dramatic art addressing the prompt "Diversity means..." So this morning, Silas and I sat down and talked about what diversity means -- it's the opposite of same, diverse fruits and vegetables at the farmers' market, diverse people at the park, how if a group of people all looked exactly the same and said the exact same thing etc. Then he left to draw. At one point I heard him say, I'm coloring my ninja. Ninja?! What exactly is happening in your picture? This was it: someone tall, someone low, a ninja, a bee keeper with bees on him, a (very small) robber, a baby, and multiple X's that show that other people are NOT those things. Diversity.

one way to look at it

2011-10-06T21:16:00.000-07:00

I have a sinus infection and have felt sapped of energy for nearly a week. As I was gearing up for this trip, I was talking to my friend Keri about its many moving parts -- packing, flying two legs with the kids, arriving at midnight, having a day in DC, renting a car, driving five hours solo to Pittsburgh, going to rehearsal and rehearsal dinner with the kids, staying in a hotel, wedding the next morning etc. The five hour drive sounded like the worst -- kids who now ask "when are we going to be there?" and "how much longer" with the insistence of sitcom kids, my feeling crappy and sick, mad impatience -- a nightmare. Keri was right there with me, nodding, until I said I wanted to make it an adventure instead of a hellish drive, and she sprang to life: Oh yeah, you could stop for smoothies and chew lots of gum, watch movies and suck cough drops the whole time!
She was half kidding about the cough drops, but yes, I think we'll do that.

Since my mom's become a therapist, she often follows up bemoaning complaints with the phrase, "that's one way to look at it." Conversations like this:

me: this is going to be the worst trip EVER. I don't want to have to DRIVE all the way to Pittsburgh after flying across the country and staying up ALL night with Eden's coughing -- this is the worst!!
my mom: that's one way to look at it.

You can see how it could seem a bit annoying, but the fact of the matter (which is why it is so annoying) is that the statement's right. So every time I've started to dread the drive (tomorrow morning), I think of Keri and chewing gum.

Unrelenting

2011-10-03T15:52:00.000-07:00

On Saturday morning I woke up in a funk. Or I should say Friday night I went to bed in a funk and several times I woke up during the night wondering if the weight had lifted. It hadn't. So early Saturday morning, I peeled myself out of bed, tied on my sneakers and walked. The sky was overcast and the light still dim. It was early.

Slowly, the sun burned through in one blazing patch of clouds and the sunrise began. I kept walking. I didn't notice the colors or even the way the light caught on the clouds; I felt small and shadowy and not quite sure if I was fit to interact at all with people around me, especially Silas, Eden or Ben; I hadn't been the day before. What finally caught my attention were the rays that reached out from the sun and stretched all the way above me. Every time I looked up, they were still there, perfectly defined. I kept trying mentally to work myself into the day, but the enormity of this sunrise was distracting -- the rays!

After an hour of this sky, of the rays perfectly visible, I told Silas, who had joined me, that this sky was relentless, looked at it again and realized the word was unrelenting -- determination behind it, a refusal to stop giving in the face of my mucky regrets, a beauty that refused to stop pouring over us. And I knew I was loved, despite any despite I could think of.

(and we had a great day. I was loved).

Adventures of Sally

2011-10-02T20:56:00.000-07:00

We used to meet Bella every day on our walks to school when we played "stranger." But then one day, Eden became Sally and she's been Sally ever since.

Sally is not just a name but a character that Eden refuses to break; she's Sally, and she's 6. Eden is her little sister and Silas is her "5 year old big brother," and apparently we are all staying at her house. There is a cat, "kitty bell," and dog "ruf ruf" that is yellow and white striped. I haven't met either. And -- most delightfully for me -- Sally knows how to buckle her seat belt herself. Miracle.

This week, Sally met Tinkerbell, Silvermist, and Dawn (all fairies) at Disneyland, and when each one bent down with her beautiful disney-fied face to meet Eden and ask what her name was, I watched Eden look shyly into their eyes and say, "Sally."

On Friday she asked me to write a note to her teachers, which she dictated:

Dear Miss Niki and Miss Tiffany,

Now that my name is Sally and Eden's at the donut shop, why doesn't my mom come back? You can call me Sally but my real name IS Sally, ok?

love, Sally

So that really cleared things up and was returned with a message from the teacher saying that for safety reasons they are not allowed to call a child a different name at school. Sally was less than thrilled.

All weekend Sally has stayed with us, and in the mountains with several family friends she had them all calling her Sally by the end of the trip. And last night (the four of us shared a room) I heard her say in her sleep, in a crystal clear voice: "I am big Sally!"

Yesterday in town, Eden told the old guy Richard who owns the moccasin store that her name is Sally, which made me kind of feel like I was a liar when he looked up at me beaming and said, "I love the name Sally!"

No matter how many times I call her Eden in a day, each time she patiently says, "I'm Sally, you bebember?"

Sally she is.

Another Cloudy Morning

2011-09-24T19:52:00.000-07:00

It's Saturday. The sky once again is a stuffy grey and the damp air sticks to everything. I heard rain in the night, but this morning all that's falling is mist. Ben is on a trip, and I am tired. I've been tired since school started, as if I were the one in a new classroom for more hours than I've ever been away from my mom, with 20 kids I don't know. I'm not the one with a huge list of sight words to learn nor the one who just started preschool either. But somehow, I am the one who is exhausted. And maybe packing lunch and snack every day, thinking newly about what we need in the cupboards, filling out and keeping track of a ridiculous amount of paper work that public school requires, focusing on getting people here and there and everywhere on time, staying on top of homework for the first time ever, and adjusting to this new life overall is more work thank it seems like it should be. But in any event, I am tired and my patience's running thin. Right now Silas and Eden are calling from the other room, but I don't feel like putting a drop cloth down in their room so they can paint on the easel. I don't feel like getting up and washing out Eden's brush because she painted in the red with the gold brush, I don't feel like fielding complaints ("MOM! Eden is painting all OVER the easel!!"). I don't even feel like sitting on the couch and reading aloud. What I'd really like to do is sit quietly at the kitchen table with the three days worth of newspapers that have built up and read them, then take a nap, then go down to the beach to walk alone. That's what I feel like doing. But today, like so many pieces of so many days, has nothing to do with what I FEEL like doing. Today has to do with showing up for the day that was born into my hands this morning. Today has to do with trying to speak in a nice voice and praying for patience when I have none, digging hard because I know it can come. Today is about forcing myself to stare at Silas and Eden and see their small noses and little faces and hear them speak without R's ("let's get in the caw"), to see that today they still are small. Today is about getting up from here and even though it's Saturday, packing a lunch for them and walking to the elementary school to meet with Silas's teacher because that's what I said I'd do. And even if the whole day feels like slogging, I will slog because these are the people I love, and love as we so quickly learn, has little to do with what we feel like, and has much to do with slogging when what we'd most like to to is press mute and climb into bed for just a little nap.

Working the System (another goodbye)

2011-09-23T14:39:00.000-07:00

Tonight Eden gathered up her blankies in a pile and announced that she's ready to give them up. At this point, I think she's trying to find things around her room to exchange for presents, but since the pacifier exodus #2 is going swimmingly, I'll take whatever she's giving.

I have no doubt that she'll sleep just fine without a one -- she was a pacifier girl and the blanket was just icing -- but I will miss it, the way she always tucked her blanket under her chin like a violin and held its cool cotton to her cheek.

tiny bright spots of imagination

2011-09-21T21:10:00.000-07:00

Eden most all days is "Bella," one of the "sisters." Her other sisters are Eden, Tulip, and Aryiah, who is very shy. Bella often holds hands with Eden or Ariyah when we walk or crosses her arms over her chest to carry one of them. Throughout the day, Bella asks where Eden is, which I think is a bit awkward since Eden obviously is left to navigate the world without parents. I'm never sure how to answer this (though we have established that on Fridays Eden works in a donut shop).

Silas the other night over a dinner of cheese tortellini and kale (i.e. very little cooking): "Mom, this is SO good. I feel like I'm eating in heaven."

Overheard Eden singing a lullaby to a 1 year old friend: "Lullabyyyyyyy, sweet and sours and a coke"

Today the city cut down all the big beautiful eucalyptus trees on a street near our house. On our drive home tonight looking out the window, Silas: "This street makes me feel lonely." Me too.

Getting out of the car, Eden: "there is a lion who lives on the back of my neck all the time, a little lion, he keeps my hair warm. do you want to touch him? he's right here"

Standing on a cliff over the bay, Eden: "why are there so many boobies down there?" The water was specked with buoys.

Nate

2011-09-19T13:23:00.000-07:00

The weather has been June-like the last week or two -- a low cottony grey sky until early afternoon. This morning, we gathered in the park, drew on blue and white balloons and released them for our friend Nate who died on Thursday night. The weather felt like grief. We watched them bob higher and higher until they were seeds against the grey, and even then we could still see them climb; they stayed right above us. We all stood around a little awkwardly, and people put markers back in my hands while I tried to make conversation. Then, so quietly I almost didn't notice, the sun shone down and patterned the grass with light and shadow, just for a minute before the clouds sealed up again.

Pacifier -- to be or not to be -- a drawn-out question

2011-09-17T22:36:00.000-07:00

About a month ago, I saw a jar of pacifiers at the dentist's office that kids had turned in for a toy (a LAME toy, by the way). The jar must have planted seeds of pacifier guilt because as Silas, Eden and I were driving, I began to talk about the pacifier fairy and how, one day, she would come to our house and exchange Eden's pacifiers for a toy. Before I knew it, I was into a whole mythology about the baby fairies who cry and cry, and as they cry, their room fills with pickles, and nothing can make them stop crying but a big girl's pacifier. As soon as they start to suck a big girl's passy, all of the pickles pop into rainbow bubbles, and the baby fairies fall asleep.

I remember when my little sister had a "YaYa going away party" and she said goodbye to her yaya; and when the "dup dup fairy" came and took away my goddaughter's pacifier, but really, I hadn't thought this one through: Eden only uses her pacifier in bed, and I've never been concerned about it -- it soothes her and she sleeps, and one day, I'm confident, she won't need it any more. But there I was driving the car still talking about baby fairies, and the next thing I knew, Eden said she was ready for the Passy Fairy to come that night.

So she gathered her pacifiers and hung them on the doorknob in a little bag, and after she fell asleep, I shopped in the neighbor's attic and found a little china tea set that I laid out in the dark of her room. The exchange went swimmingly and the pacifiers were gone!

Long story short, after two and a half weeks of MUCH neediness at bedtime that involved clinging to my arm and wanting me to stay until she fell asleep every night (two of these weeks were vacation with my fam -- less than ideal), Ben and I gave her her pacifiers back. I am pretty sure this is something one should *never* do, a cardinal sin of parenting, but she was so happy. And she slept.

Two weeks later we popped into the pediatrician for a prescription for the rash she'd had around her mouth for a month, when to my shock and dismay, he said the only way to make it go away was to lose the pacifier. Eden's eyes filled with tears, and she buried her head in my chest. I sat there floundering in the facts. We'd just given it back, school was about to start -- there was no way I could take it away again. And the doctor would never have to know; the rash (which has no symptoms except aesthetic) would persist, and we'd wouldn't come back to the office.

Eden was thrilled and began saying things like, "I'll be done with this probly when I'm six." A week or so ago I must have said something that sounded mildly threatening about pacifiers because within the next two minutes, she had named each of them for the first time ever -- Rapunzel, purple Rapunzel, and (I forget the other!) -- and gathered them in her bed.

BUT -- end of the story -- yesterday out of the blue she told me she was ready to give them up again (just in time for changing classes at school Monday morning). Two nights and several conversations later, she's stuck to it, and I think, finally, we're done.

A little note about popcorn

2011-09-17T20:04:00.001-07:00

I am quite sure that popcorn on the stove was one of the first foods I learned to cook myself. Popcorn is one of my mom's favorite foods on earth -- f a v o r i t e (right up there with lobster and hot fudge). Growing up when we had to bring snack to school or on a field trip or anywhere, the Moyer kids always brought a butter-stained paper grocery bag of popcorn.

Tonight as I popped popcorn (to complete my dinner of green beans, croutons, and beer...), I think I made a popcorn discovery. I've recently been wondering why some batches of popcorn end up a little chewy, like they are stale, and some pop up perfectly crisp. I'd thought it was simply the problem of a bum bottle of popcorn, but now I think it has everything to do with when the kernels are added to the pot: hot oil = crisp popcorn, oil and popcorn at once = chewy.

I made popcorn tonight to eat while Ben and I watched "The Beaver," which it turns out you should rent right away.

At the end of the first week

2011-09-15T20:14:00.000-07:00

We've snapped our first-day-of-school pictures and sit nearly at the end of our first full week. Both kids, thankfully, waltzed into their new classrooms with hardly a look back. And though I've bypassed weepiness and pangs of loss this September, I am keenly aware that I have no idea what we've begun. And, indeed, this is a beginning. More than one afternoon already, I've sat at the kitchen table for half an hour sorting through a stack of papers that came home in Silas's bag. I'm selling wrapping paper already! (any takers?) -- a sure sign of public school -- and have already written, what feels to be dozens of checks already for the PTA's varied faces.

We walk to school each morning, and Eden and I walk to pick up Silas in the afternoons. My mom visited last week and told me that I'd always remember these days, how old fashioned to walk a block hand-in-hand, and as soon as she said it, I could already feel the future nostalgia creeping in.

What's strange is how unfamiliar this rhythm feels -- I want to jump in my car and race somewhere, I'd rather jump in my car and race than meander down the alley at a 3 year old's pace. So it will take some learning to embody these days.

This week has also proved my un-readiness for Silas's sudden social craving. I was positive that at the end of his new long days, Silas would long for down time and bask in the afternoon hours of playing with Eden and me. Instead, every day I pick him up and he's dying to go to the park with the boys, dying to. Yesterday when I made him come straight home, he walked down the street yelling, "I am SO MAD AT YOU!" all the way to the corner. And he was. So we learn together, and make adjustments.

Eden has had only two days of school, but already I am wondering (and apparently she who asks, "when can I go to school every day??" is wondering) why in the world I signed her up for only two days. Earlier I was obsessing over whether or not to switch her to three days when I stopped by the park to say hi -- a good reality check for what's worth letting consume my mind.

And now, post-back to school night, the house is quiet and I am drinking cheap wine while Ben is at a fantastic going away dinner for his boss (he's texting me about his dry ice cosmo -- got to love a man who orders a cosmo -- and seafood tower right now). Tomorrow will wrap up week #1 and we'll all have learned a bit more.

The day before kindergarten

2011-09-05T14:22:00.000-07:00

Last week we ate dinner with Ben's dad and were talking about the beginning of kindergarten. Bill can remember both orientation and his first day. Neither Ben nor I could remember ours, or many first days at all -- Ben, none and I, only 9th grade and college. Tomorrow morning Silas will have his first day of kindergarten -- the only first day of kindergarten he'll ever have. What will he remember about this sliver of life when we lived in a pink house and walked to school down an alley? I cannot anticipate or create what comes next. These experiences will be only his, the beginnings of his conscious story -- the friends he'll have, games he'll play at recess, lego creations he'll build, ways he'll be hurt or victorious or excited, beaming moments of learning this or hitting the ball there. I will walk (and pray) him to the door of room #5 each morning, kiss his little face, and just like that, we will live in a new season.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring, but today, a sunny Monday, both Silas and I are ready. I hope we'll hold hands as we walk.

Back Home

2011-09-04T08:42:00.000-07:00

Our Sunday morning began with our jolting awake as both kids pushed and yelled, wrestling for a spot in our bed. Then there were fits and tears about putting clothes on and washing faces and getting out the door for a small walk to the coffee shop.

Now, in the calm after the storm, we are sitting in the living room -- Ben is reading the paper, I am typing, Eden (who currently is a 16 year old named Bella who sucks a pacifier sometimes, a stranger who has come to visit but mysteriously sleeps in Eden's bed every night) is lying next to me spinning more of her story, and Silas is knotting a chain around the coffee table.

Our first week back involved nearly no emotional adjustment, which is rare and welcome, but the jet lag has been unrelenting -- everyone droops around 10AM and never quite rallies. But we've had a back to school party, visited Silas's elementary school (!!) and met his kindergarten teacher (!!!), had reunions with friends, and some time at the beach.

In the last month, Eden has bloomed more into a child, no longer a toddler -- she constantly tells stories, tells me she loves me, texts her "sister" on my phone, chatters away with dolls and animals, arranges creatures in houses and boxes, and prances and dances as she goes.

Silas begins kindergarten in two days. Thank goodness (for me) that he is nothing but thrilled about it, especially the lunch card he will swipe on pizza day. He's already begging to bike to school alone -- mercy!

I've been glad to be greeted by September, fresh new beginning, a month I've always loved -- new classes, notebooks, perspective. I'm trying to anticipate what the weeks will feel like, how we'll move in our new rhythm. My friends at the park have weighed heavily on my mind since I've been home: what can I possibly offer, give that will matter enough? Time, meals and friendship, yes, but what more? How will Silas do in his long days with new kids and countless conversations I know nothing about? I haven't written since May -- will the poems come back? These are the questions framing September -- the fog early in the month before the days crisp with clarity.

At the Beach

2011-08-21T18:39:00.000-07:00

bubbles, water balloons and birthdays -- cousins

my sister-in-law's watermelon, greek yogurt, and berries layer cake. genius.

s'mores pie -- the gooiest most labor-intensive pie I've ever made

(marshmallow whipped cream, graham crackers dipped in hot fudge, vanilla marshmallow cream...) Kaia Joye's vision and my mom's heaven-dessert.

The Hair

2011-08-17T07:18:00.000-07:00

now that I have my camera hook-up, the hair post-haircuts:

The Garden of Eden

2011-08-08T20:43:00.000-07:00

A few hours ago, I would have written this:

Last night after Ben checked on the kids, he walked through the bathroom and found curved clippings of brown hair all over the floor. Needless to say that's not usually how I, one of the two brown haired people in the family, leave the bathroom. I tried to feel Eden's hair in the dark and found a few short pieces, but nothing drastic, and there hadn't been too much hair on the floor, so I went to bed without much thought -- most kids try it once, right? and I've always known Eden would be one of those kids. This morning, I saw that the hair on half her head was cut to the jaw bone, some strands a little shorter, though the very front pieces were still up in a rubber band. Perhaps not horrible, just a gap in the curtain of her hair?

She, who rarely lets her regret show, told us later in the day that she likes having short hair on one side and long on the other. And that she does not want it all short because then she can't have braids. And she loves braids. So all day I entertained keeping the gap.

Them came tonight, Eden's Garden:

Despite Silas's early rising and the number of miles the kids trudged over the mountain today, Silas and Eden are jet-lagged and despite exhaustion, had a hard time calming down tonight (much like their mother who is alone on the couch in a dark living room at this very moment). After tucking them in, we could hear Eden's animated voice bouncing behind the door and not long after heard footsteps which sounded like running between our room and theirs. But we were reading happily and knew they'd fall asleep eventually. The sounds continued in a somewhat inexplicable way -- were they jumping? stomping? still running? We ignored it. Then at one point, my mom commented on the fact that there wasn't noise anymore, hadn't been for a while, except hushed murmuring -- dangerous. So we voted for Pops to go up and sternly shoo them to bed. He walked into their room,

Where is everyone?

Then he tried the bathroom door. Locked. We listened to him walk to the opposite bathroom door. Also Locked. He knocked. And (with prompting) knocked harder. The sound of scurrying from the hidden people. I walked up and arrived at the other door just as Silas opened it. Nothing registered.

What are you doing?

Silas's big guilty eyes looked at my face, We're cutting our hair.

I saw it as the words left his mouth -- Eden's hair was now up to the jaw bone on both sides (minus the pony tail still on top) with several pieces almost to the top of her ear. And Silas's hair -- my favorite right now, coarse-soft and bleached nearly white from the sun -- was cut to the skin right on top. I just stood there looking back and forth and a laugh blasted out of my mouth as I turned to my dad. But I knew that wouldn't do, so as it was leaving my mouth, I also said, this is NOT funny. Very effective.

But Mom! It isn't my fault, Eden told me to do it.

(Several conversations followed up this statement).

Eden, tomorrow we're going to have to cut your hair.

I don't want my hair cut!!!

But you cut it.

I want it long.

But you cut it short. Yes, I stopped there. The reasoning was getting us no where.

As they finally climbed into bed sheepishly, a little itchy from hair, Ben rifled through the bathroom for the scissors.

Where are the scissors?

They're behind the sink.

Where? I don't see them.

Behind the sink. On the floor.

I'm pretty sure an angel with a flaming sword will be guarding the bathroom doors tomorrow night.

(at least they put a lot of it in the trashcan)

Asgard

2011-08-08T13:26:00.000-07:00

More than the spattering sound against the porch and railings, the rain rushes and blows through the trees and beats against the windows and sides of the house. Thunder rumbles low and grumbling in the background, through the mountains that we can no longer see.

We arrived yesterday to the woods I've come to for thirty years. In recent years, they seem more towering and brighter than ever as their huge bodies sway in the wind, so unlike the low flat land where I live.

This morning when my mom got up -- she was the first of us -- she walked into the living room to find Silas fully dressed with binoculars around his neck gazing out the door (in his west coast brain it was 4AM). Each time I've spotted his little white-blonde head today, he's been moving and armed with some kind of equipment -- binoculars, walking sticks, telescope, shovel, machete, bear whistle. I think heaven for him, like Nana, will be this exact setting.

The rain has quieted enough now that it's changed to pattering and trickling drops, still with that low thunder behind it. The trees stand perfectly still. My hands are scratched from the rope swing and my hair soft from pond water -- a water so cold it sucked the breath out of me each time I dove in. Jesh, my one year old nephew, is bouncing on the rug next to Silas behind me-- cousins.

On the trail today Eden collected handfuls of treasures that she jammed into my jean short pockets: acorns and two "rainbow leaves"-- the august woods already lean toward fall -- crumpled green leaves Eden was "making play dough" from, rocks flecked with mica.

This summer the hills have been wild with black bears -- a newer development since I was a girl -- bears so bold they've climbed onto neighbors' porches and ambled under their apple trees. Last night at dusk, a neighbor spotted a mama and four cubs right down near the gate digging out a bee hive. We clustered on the porch but couldn't seen them, despite Eli's work with the binoculars, Silas's with the telescope, and Eden's the with magnifying glass. Instead we saw fire flies flecking the dark woods.

In a few minutes we'll walk through the thundery air and drive down to Asheville for bar-b-que, faces to the glass watching for bears as we go.

From the Other Room

2011-07-24T16:03:00.001-07:00

It's Sunday afternoon at 4. A giant enchilada casserole is in the neighbor's oven for the park tonight (our rental-house-oven-from-the-olden-days is too small to fit most everything standard, much less a giant aluminum pan -- a little ironic for this time of life -- so I cook down the street nearly every weekend. Thank you, neighbors). A breeze is drifting through the front door and from the playroom I hear Silas's little voice singing "cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudel" against the sound of blocks going up.

In the two minutes I've been sitting here trying to capture this sweet pause, a battle has erupted in the playroom and Eden, in a deep scratchy voice is screaming NOOOOOO!! NOOOOOO!! NOOOOOOOO!! And Silas, who from the sound of it is still slapping up blocks (and probably pushing her away at the same time) just said, "Eden, laughter is gift."

Dentist and the Sneaky Girl

2011-07-23T21:53:00.000-07:00

Last week while the kids sang and acted the Sound of Music at camp, I sat in the dentist chair and got fillings. A few days later I had to bring the kids with me for a final visit to have one of the filling checked.

As we were walking out of the exam room, I caught Eden quickly rubbing her lips -- I looked at the tray, elbow-height beside her, the pink glossy glob of numbing gel at the edge, and realized this was, indeed, the "lip glass" she'd been sneaking.

Our initial stern talk about putting random substances on one's lips without asking must have been effective because I didn't hear much about how tingly those little lips felt.

Dolls

2011-07-23T09:53:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago in the library, Eden walked over to me with a glossy pink craft book and said, with her hip cocked, "mom? I want to make some cute things." Where she comes from, I often ask myself, but there she was with her big bright book and I couldn't say no.

I am not a big crafter. Though cooking with recipes satisfies my urge to create with my hands, following step-by-step instructions to paint/sew/decorate feels more vapid. And so the book sat. On Monday, the email notification arrived that the book was due in three days. My goal had been to make ONE thing and time was nearly up. So that morning, Eden and I sat down to pick the craft and decided on the doll.

The first doll (yes, there were a few) we made was for Eden and Silas's cousin. It's a slightly scary duck-man with a felt beak that's a little cute -- it's the thought that counts (right?), and Silas loved it so much that he wanted one just like it. So we made a second duck-man dolly. Eden's doll was more involved, not the doll, herself, but the dress (dress!), which was simple enough in the book. But Eden, who has had strong clothing preferences since she was tiny, predictably had strong opinions. Four alterations later, the dress was done and Nonnie was complete with checkered tights:

We then left for the beach, and as every beloved new toy does, Nonnie came with us. Long story short, Eden left Nonnie on a patch of sand and before we knew it, Nonnie was gone, only her dress remained on the sand. I was ready to throw myself down on the sand in wild defeat. Eden was upset, too, but not heart-wrenchingly so. We retraced and retraced our steps, but, indeed, Nonnie was gone. On the drive home, I waffled between teaching the lesson -- don't leave your beloved toy abandoned on the sand -- and wanting to make her a new one. Since we still had the dress, I plunged into the world of sewing one more time and recreated Nonnie, who inexplicably is now named Nutie (pronounced Nudie, yes).

20 books

2011-07-16T14:17:00.001-07:00

One of our family goals this summer is to read 100 books. When we hit 100, we will celebrate with milkshakes and backyard camping.

100, it turns out, is a large number. So I decided that to keep morale high, we need to have small goals every 20 books. We hit our first 20 this week (doesn't that make 100 seem far off??) and as a reward, Silas and I threw whipped cream pies in each other's faces:

to know

2011-07-15T20:58:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking lately about what it means to know someone.

I have always thought of "knowing" in a narrative way -- I meet someone, I learn her story, we develop trust, I learn more of her story, and in a rare friendship, know so much of her story that I could nearly tell it myself.

But these days, with friends at the park, knowing has taken on a different look. I realize that most of the people I spend time with there know virtually nothing about me: they don't know about my family, about where I grew up, or events that catapulted me into a new dimension of myself. They don't know where I've traveled or what I love to do. They don't know the darkness I plunge into from time to time or the ways I try to climb the muddy walls out of those holes. They don't know what I'm like as a mother, what makes me furious, or how I spend my days. From the way I've always thought about it, they don't know me at all. And of course, the reverse is true, too -- I know very little about most of their stories, and even the people whom I've spent a good deal of time talking to, even we have only just begun to scratch the surface of who we've been.

But the surprise is that we do know each other. Which is exactly what's caused me to rethink this whole business of knowing people. I have always thought knowing people means knowing who they've been, that intimacy is dependent upon this storyline.

We value pasts, and they certainly shape us, but I'm finding that even when the past is invisible, we still stand before each other in each bright moment as we are. Present. Caring. Angry. Teary. Silly. Us. We stand in our momentary choices and our character stands with us.

It's kind of liberating, existing in each moment that emerges.

July 11th

2011-07-11T15:29:00.000-07:00

A year ago today, Ben's mom Cindy died. These kinds of anniversaries seem to arrive both riddled with emotions of their own and loaded with quiet wonderings about how the day ought to feel.

For weeks we've talked about what we want to do to celebrate her -- a venti americano, extra hot seems a natural choice. The sunset at the beach. Maybe blueberry pancakes at the iHop in Huntington beach. These were things she loved.

This morning under a low cloudy sky, the children started Sound of Music camp (more about that later in the week), and Ben and I drove to LA to see the Street Art exhibit at the Geffen. As we drove, we talked to his dad, brothers and sister, each call a sinker on the line to steady the day. Before the museum opened, we walked around Santee alley, which felt like being in a different country all together, and, as Cindy would have, we walked with our Starbucks cups in hand. I bargained for a couple of bags, which Cindy would have been proud of, and then we walked back to the car.

We had a ticket.

One of Ben's LEAST favorite things ever is a ticket of any sort. No one likes them, but for Ben they seem -- despite their cause -- to defile his very sense of justice and freedom.

He hates tickets.

The worst part about this ticket is that it was a picky ticket -- his front tire was just beyond the red curb -- and was his fault.

I watched his whole body slump and his demeanor edge from deflation to anger as we pushed through downtown toward the museum.

No one said much as he navigated on his blackberry.

When we arrived, we couldn't figure out where to park -- an $18 lot? a $7 garage -- but where is the museum from here? a 1 hour meter -- not enough time? a $4/hr meter? We circled and circled and finally parked a few blocks from the museum but somehow were under it and still needed to find our way to the door.
As soon as we walked up to the ticket booth, we knew we were in the wrong place.

I felt Ben sink a little deeper.

We said less.

Rather than winding our way back to the car and fighting for another spot, we left the car and walked the mile or so. The day had grown sunny and a breeze swept up the street into our faces as we walked. And walked. And walked in shoes not really made for walking. I, wearing a linen dress and sandals, began to sweat and knew Ben must be dripping in his work clothes. He didn't complain. But though our hands brushed as we walked, we were walking alone.

Finally, Little Tokyo and the museum. The space was expansive and told the long story of street art. Glass cases held graffiti artists' sketch books -- page after page of intricate marker drawings, enormous murals covered entire warehouse walls, and a whole room was dedicated to Banksy, my favorite commentator.

Somehow stepping into the streets, into art that was too big even to read, that spilled onto the floor and redefined buses and buildings, tipped the morning.

When we climbed back into the car, Ben made his necessary transition into work mode, typing away on his blackberry. But his eyes weren't defeated. Just before I dropped him off, we stopped at Chik-fil-a and he looked at my eyes and filled his whole body again.

A day like this is a hard day.

Tonight we'll take the kids down to the sand and remember Iah together. Ben might even surf, which his mom would have loved to see.

Each Peach Pear Plum

2011-07-09T14:58:00.000-07:00

The last line of one of my favorite children's books, Each Peach Pear Plum, is about a plum pie sitting in the sun, and each time I read it and see the plump pie on a table in the yard and then Robin Hood feeding baby bunting a heaping spoonful of plum pie, I wish I had a plate of pie, too. (This happens to me -- I'm very swayed by images of food. More than once, Ben and I have been watching a show at night during which there's a commercial for ihop and have stopped everything to make a batch of pancakes...).

At the beginning of the summer, the kids and I made a huge list on butcher paper of all the things we wanted to do together this summer, one of which included Pie-Day-Friday-Movie-Night each week (pie day friday inspired by my brother and sister-in-law Eli and Hollie), which we have kept up pretty well so far.

week one:

-a so-so strawberry-nectarine pie and Mr. Rogers crayon factory and Eric Carle episodes highlight reel

week two:

-blackberry cake-crumble and a birthday party out (no movie)

week three:

-plum pie and the Sound of Music with BB!

This past week my mom came to town. Though she is in a boot from ankle surgery, she walked up to the park, strolled through the farmers' market sampling nectarines and plums, stood in a hot kitchen making huge batches of scrambled eggs, walked down to the ocean, picnicked in the park, visited the library for summer reading prizes, met some of our new friends, asked Ben and me hard life questions, read to Silas early in the mornings, and kept us company. And on Friday joined us for Pie Day Friday Movie Night, the first double crust pie I've made:

plum pie in the sun

We used an America's Test Kitchen recipe for a pie crust that calls for vodka -- a supposed secret to a tender crust, which it was, and for the filling, Carrie P's plum pie recipe. The end result was a beauty. Silas has been eating two slices a day for days now.

Carrie P's Plum Pie

*my pie was a tiny bit tart, which surprised me since the pluots were so sweet. Were I to

make it again, I'd try 1 c sugar

3/4 C Sugar
2 T tapioca
1 T cornstarch
1/4t cinnamon
1/4 t ginger
3 lbs plums
1 T butter
Double pie crust

Mix ingredients and pour into pie crust. Dot with butter. Put 2nd crust on top. Bake on cookie sheet at 450 for 20 minutes then 375 for 20 minutes. Let cool 2 hours or more.

Talking to Girls

2011-07-05T20:24:00.000-07:00

I have to say that after reading this article, I felt a little panicky. I wish that everyone would read it. I wish it had the power to curb the comments I hear strangers and friends (and myself!) make every single day to Eden and other little girls about how beautiful they or their dresses or shoes are. Bloom is right; it is hard not to comment on the deliciousness of little girls' appearances. SO difficult. But watching Eden, I can see how it affects her -- how she doesn't know what to say back, how attentive she is to her own clothing, how she now expects comments like this and has learned to nod back, how it fills some little well of measurement that swells slowly, even now, when her sense of self is so simple. We adults communicate much in our flippant passing comments. Oh help us as we raise these girls whom we desperately want to love themselves and know their worth. See what you think:

Lisa Bloom --

How to Talk to Little Girls

Author of 'Think: Straight Talk for Women to Stay Smart in a Dumbed Down World'

Posted: 06/22/11 06:08 PM ET -- Huffingtonpost.com

I went to a dinner party at a friend's home last weekend, and met her five-year-old daughter for the first time.

Little Maya was all curly brown hair, doe-like dark eyes, and adorable in her shiny pink nightgown. I wanted to squeal, "Maya, you're so cute! Look at you! Turn around and model that pretty ruffled gown, you gorgeous thing!"

But I didn't. I squelched myself. As I always bite my tongue when I meet little girls, restraining myself from my first impulse, which is to tell them how darn cute/ pretty/ beautiful/ well-dressed/ well-manicured/ well-coiffed they are.

What's wrong with that? It's our culture's standard talking-to-little-girls icebreaker, isn't it? And why not give them a sincere compliment to boost their self-esteem? Because they are so darling I just want to burst when I meet them, honestly.

Hold that thought for just a moment.

This week ABC News reported that nearly half of all three- to six-year-old girls worry about being fat. In my book, Think: Straight Talk for Women to Stay Smart in a Dumbed-Down World, I reveal that 15 to 18 percent of girls under 12 now wear mascara, eyeliner and lipstick regularly; eating disorders are up and self-esteem is down; and 25 percent of young American women would rather win America's Next Top Model than the Nobel Peace Prize. Even bright, successful college women say they'd rather be hot than smart. A Miami mom just died from cosmetic surgery, leaving behind two teenagers. This keeps happening, and it breaks my heart.

Teaching girls that their appearance is the first thing you notice tells them that looks are more important than anything. It sets them up for dieting at age 5 and foundation at age 11 and boob jobs at 17 and Botox at 23. As our cultural imperative for girls to be hot 24/7 has become the new normal, American women have become increasingly unhappy. What's missing? A life of meaning, a life of ideas and reading books and being valued for our thoughts and accomplishments.

That's why I force myself to talk to little girls as follows.

"Maya," I said, crouching down at her level, looking into her eyes, "very nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too," she said, in that trained, polite, talking-to-adults good girl voice.

"Hey, what are you reading?" I asked, a twinkle in my eyes. I love books. I'm nuts for them. I let that show.

Her eyes got bigger, and the practiced, polite facial expression gave way to genuine excitement over this topic. She paused, though, a little shy of me, a stranger.

"I LOVE books," I said. "Do you?"

Most kids do.

"YES," she said. "And I can read them all by myself now!"

"Wow, amazing!" I said. And it is, for a five-year-old. You go on with your bad self, Maya.

"What's your favorite book?" I asked.

"I'll go get it! Can I read it to you?"

Purplicious was Maya's pick and a new one to me, as Maya snuggled next to me on the sofa and proudly read aloud every word, about our heroine who loves pink but is tormented by a group of girls at school who only wear black. Alas, it was about girls and what they wore, and how their wardrobe choices defined their identities. But after Maya closed the final page, I steered the conversation to the deeper issues in the book: mean girls and peer pressure and not going along with the group. I told her my favorite color in the world is green, because I love nature, and she was down with that.

Not once did we discuss clothes or hair or bodies or who was pretty. It's surprising how hard it is to stay away from those topics with little girls, but I'm stubborn.

I told her that I'd just written a book, and that I hoped she'd write one too one day. She was fairly psyched about that idea. We were both sad when Maya had to go to bed, but I told her next time to choose another book and we'd read it and talk about it. Oops. That got her too amped up to sleep, and she came down from her bedroom a few times, all jazzed up.

So, one tiny bit of opposition to a culture that sends all the wrong messages to our girls. One tiny nudge towards valuing female brains. One brief moment of intentional role modeling. Will my few minutes with Maya change our multibillion dollar beauty industry, reality shows that demean women, our celebrity-manic culture? No. But I did change Maya's perspective for at least that evening.

Try this the next time you meet a little girl. She may be surprised and unsure at first, because few ask her about her mind, but be patient and stick with it. Ask her what she's reading. What does she like and dislike, and why? There are no wrong answers. You're just generating an intelligent conversation that respects her brain. For older girls, ask her about current events issues: pollution, wars, school budgets slashed. What bothers her out there in the world? How would she fix it if she had a magic wand? You may get some intriguing answers. Tell her about your ideas and accomplishments and your favorite books. Model for her what a thinking woman says and does.

And let me know the response you get at www.Twitter.com/lisabloom and Facebook.

Here's to changing the world, one little girl at a time.

For many more tips on how keep yourself and your daughter smart, check out my new book, Think: Straight Talk for Women to Stay Smart in a Dumbed-Down World, www.Think.tv.

Perfect for the 4th

2011-07-05T06:49:00.001-07:00

My dear friend Ali sent me these words of Walt Whitman's yesterday morning, and they seemed all together fitting:

"This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body."

"This is what you shall do..." by Walt Whitman, from the preface of Leaves of Grass, first published on July 4, 1855. Public domain.

Sludge

2011-07-03T07:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning, I woke up in sludge, as if someone had poured sludge into my body and filled up my skin (I looked up "sludge" to verify -- sludge, (n) thick, soft, wet mud or a similar viscous mixture -- yes, that was it), and all I could do was drag myself from place to place. It's always striking, and seems to exacerbate the mood, to feel this way in bright glaring sun -- that was the morning. Ben, who seemed to bounce around with a springy step, organized us all onto bikes and headed up a ride. I slothed the pedals around and around, tugging Eden in the trailer behind me. Even when Eden took my hand at the park, chattering away about the "riverbed" and leading me to the bushes, I couldn't shake it. Even when Ben made me climb to the top of the jungle gym and let me lean against him with his hands on my head, the sludge stayed. Even when I watched Silas try to pop wheelies on every dip in the sidewalk and veer off into the grass and dirt along the street, bumping and jostling as he "off roaded" -- nothing. I couldn't get out. There are days like this. And this day draaaaaaaaaged on.

In the middle of the day, our old friend came by without his wife, so I slipped out to clear my head. I had a list of errands to run, but instead drove to the park where I sat in the grass for a couple of hours talking with people and petting Sissy La La (officially my favorite little fluffy dog name ever). But I was still muddled when I climbed into the car. I thought a little clothes shopping might help (because despite myself, I have to admit it often does) and for the first time in months, I tried on a bunch of clothes. But then I dumped them all and left only to end up in the grocery store buying proper flour and boysenberries...

It wasn't really until the evening, when Silas, Ben, Eden and I were sitting in the living room, that the grey film over the day began to lift. Ben was playing with garage band and recorded Silas singing about stingrays in the sand in which sweet Si riffed a little and adjusted his lyrics to fit the rhythm as he went (it's my favorite song now). Since Eden refused to sing, Ben and I recorded an improvised song to inspire her. I am not a singer nor do I have a very melodic voice, but I can sing on key and keep time. At least I thought I could. I was finally laughing til tears streamed down my face as I listened to our recording, and the more we listened, the harder we laughed. And somehow that laughter was strong than the sludge and, finally, the spell broke.

Blackberry Bramble

2011-07-03T06:46:00.000-07:00

A summer dessert!! Hooray!!!!

I LOVE cake. And I love crumbles, slumps, buckles, crisps, and cobblers. And I LOVE it when these fine foods collide.

The other night we celebrated our friend Mark's birthday. Though we took him to the Gypsy Den for dinner, I brought along a cake and plates that I hid under the table with a single candle that had no hope of being lit -- lit or unlit, I believe the appearance of a candle is important on a birthday cake.

I found this recipe on felt and honey. I have cut and pasted it below along with her lovely photograph. Enjoy!

Blackberry Cobbler (aka Cake)

Adapted from The Pioneer Woman

A few tips and comments before you read on (this is Bronwen again): I didn't have self-rising flour and decided it couldn't be very different from regular flour (but it is, of course, has baking soda and salt in it), so the result was a heavier, gummier cake. Even so, it was divine, which should give you a clue about the recipe. I also didn't read well and put the entire 1 1/8 c sugar in the batter instead of reserving some for the top, and then sprinkled a couple additional tablespoons on top. My berries were tart and the cake was none too sweet. Lastly, I made mine in an 8" cake pan (so it could look like a birthday cake), which *nearly* overflowed. With the proper flour, it would have. But all of that said, the five of us devoured this cake, and Mark, after seconds, took thirds home. Tonight I will quadruple the recipe, use self-rising flour, divided sugar, and boysenberries, and report back. I have high hopes.

From looking at the pictures on The Pioneer Woman, I think Ree used a larger baking dish than I did, although she doesn’t specify size. Using an 8×8 dish and putting the fruit on the bottom gave the dessert a thicker top layer of cake that I loved. I cut down the amount of sugar sprinkled on top to 1/8 cup because of the smaller baking dish.

1 stick butter
1 1/8 cup sugar
1 cup self-rising flour
1 cup milk
2 cups fresh blackberries

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 8×8 baking dish.

Melt the butter. In a mixing bowl, combine 1 cup of sugar and the flour. Add the milk whisking ingredients together. Pour in melted butter and continue to whisk until well combined.

Wash and dry the blackberries and layer in the bottom of your 8×8 baking dish. Pour the batter over the berries and sprinkle 1/8 cup sugar on top.

Bake in the oven at 350 degrees for 1 hour. Devour it.

SERVES 8 (or in our case 2)

A Shift

2011-06-27T20:51:00.000-07:00

Well, in the past month, much of our life focus has shifted from the daily tasks to the park down the street. It's a long story, many years in the making, actually, but more recently, the change was triggered partly by a book called Irresistible Revolution. It challenged me far beyond what felt comfortable and posed questions like these -- if you ask someone what a Christian believes, most people can dig up an answer, but if you ask someone how a Christina lives, there often is nothing to say; or the problem isn't that we don't help the poor but that we don't know the poor; or, there's a huge difference between "doing charity" and building relationships with people and loving them. (whew).

I finally asked God what to do, what would make sense at this stage of life. And in return I saw a picture of picnicking in the park with the kids and the people who live there.

So we picnicked. And picnicked again and learned names. And again. And again. And met other people who picnic, too, to know these neighbors. And learned more names and more stories. And with some other families began making and sharing dinner regularly. And now the park is one of my favorite places to go.

But most days, I also doubt. Most days I ask God if going there, hanging out with people, trying to show them dignity, and spending time really matters and is possibly enough. Because really, "enough" has lost meaning. A million things are broken. The problems are systemic and run deep. My heart is broken regularly. And lifted up, too.

And so I haven't spent time at the farmers' market or made a good summer pie yet. I haven't snapped many pictures of my favorite bright faces. These things will happen, I am sure, at some point -- a pie will come, some stunning summer salad I will want to eat for days, an afternoon snapping shots as they tumble. But for now, most of what's happening is far inside and very quiet; I am being probed and pushed every day and sit watching this something that is just begun.

Angels in disguise

2011-06-20T08:19:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, the kids and I headed down to the beach where Ben was surfing. I'd been on the edge of teetering into mad impatience all day, and as we turned onto 34th, I realized parking would be a nightmare -- one of the first warm Saturdays with no June gloom.

I had planned badly -- we were arriving right at the end of Ben's surf session, so we had to rush to get there before he left. And moving in a hurry with kids, never goes well, especially on an edgy day. So I prayed for a parking spot, an easy one. I knew it wasn't important or urgent, and that it was kind of silly prayer, but I felt a little desperate and sure I'd bite the heads off my kids if we had to dawdle three blocks with all of our stuff.

Ben, I knew, had parked on 34th, and when I turned down 35th, there it was -- a perfect parking place, wide open, one car from the sand. YES.

But, as I tried to parallel myself into it, I couldn't quite do it. To cut the wheel hard enough to angle in would mean hitting the car parked on the other side of the tiny street (maybe illegally), and I did not have the patience to saw back and forth 4o times to wedge my way in. So I just sat there, next to the perfect parking place, defeated.

And then, a man appeared -- late 40's, flip flops, a little beach-slobby. Want some help? YES. He directed me for a minute -- you have a foot, 6 inches, 3 inches -- but must have read my energy, because within a minute he asked if I just wanted him to park it. Without even thinking, I flung my car door open and ushered him in. As soon as he closed the door behind him, I realized I'd just let a stranger into the driver's seat of my car with my two children in the back!! As he started to drive, I clamored in back next to Silas -- at least we'd be together.

It took five solid minutes for a mediocre parking job, but he got us in. And then, as quickly as he'd come, he was gone, and we were walking onto the sand.

One Good Thing About Computer Games

2011-06-20T08:14:00.000-07:00

Silas called me into his room the other day to show me this, a block sculpture rigged with a rubber band sling shot and toy cars. It's angry birds, he said, and fired one of the cars into a tower of blocks.

wee fish

2011-06-13T16:56:00.000-07:00

Rainbow Boy arrived in March, right around Silas's birthday. He was a gift from Auntie KJ who received a beta fish for her 5th birthday, too. I almost nixed the idea all together. In fact, I did nix it. But after setting my phone down and turning to Ben, I knew I had to reconsider. But really, the idea of keeping something else alive that could not talk or purr or smile, did not appeal. So enter Rainbow Boy, named by Silas.

It so happened that I, really, --ironically-- am the one who bonded with Rainbow Boy. Though Ben shook his head every time I said it, the fish was incredibly responsive. He'd come right to the glass when I talked to him. Follow my voice if I moved to the other side of the tank. He gobbled food (betas aren't supposed to eat much, or move much for that matter) and would swim to the surface and look right into my eyes.

I know -- it sounds ridiculous. But really, he did.

A few weeks ago, I changed his water and instead of using the drops to purify it, I used water I'd set out all night. Half an hour later, he floated perfectly still in his tank. I ran out to Ben feeling surprisingly sad but also a tinge of relief. But Rainbow Boy, we found, was still hanging on. Quickly, I changed the water again, this time with drops, Silas now at my elbow asking questions as I worked:

But what if he does die?

Well, then it was time for him to go.

We fed him too much.

No, we didn't -- we took good care of him.

No, you didn't use the drops.

(OH NO! please don't let him die right now -- there is blame involved!!!)

And Rainbow Boy pulled through. But I noticed he wasn't quite the same. The kids didn't notice, but he hardly moved and ate less each day.

This afternoon, we walked into the house, and Eden stopped at the bowl:

Rainbow Boy! You aren't that color!

And sure enough, he hadn't ever been. He lay at the bottom of the bowl mostly colorless. After I was sure, I we all gathered in the bathroom and Silas howled, which shocked me after his last reaction. He's now snuggled next to me, every few moments offering another theory or asking a question: Where do those pipes go?... Where is Rainbow boy?... I think we gave him too much food... I think the food we got him was the wrong kind. It must have had a chemical in it that made him die... Yes, that's what I think.

We've decided to save his plastic plant.

more Eden

2011-06-05T14:11:00.001-07:00

Three years ago, a black-haired beauty:

Kaia Joye and Eden Joye, June 4th babes:

Eden

2011-06-04T22:20:00.000-07:00

three today!

Dropping the Ball

2011-05-16T19:19:00.000-07:00

It turns out it really matters that I take my kid back to the doctor to have his TB test read three days later because if I forget to (like others must have before me, right??), he will have to get another shot in his arm and do it all over again. And the last time he had to get shots, he put his arms inside his t-shirt, knotted his body into a little ball and screamed SO hysterically that four nurses and another doctor stopped by the door just to sympathize.

And it turns out that it really is important to encourage one's child to practice the piano even though I hated practicing as a kid so much that I even fake-practiced, pressing random keys. It very well may be that, if you'd paid attention, you would have noticed that he'd been overwhelmed by the thought of playing with his thumb, and practicing could have rooted him down so that instead of locking himself in a closet when the teacher rang the doorbell and flat out refusing to come out, he would have rushed toward her.

And it turns out that parents need to be ready to leave for school WELL before it's time so as not to sweep through the living room like a cyclone, roaring for shoes and jackets, and biting everyone's heels on the way to the car. This only makes a child cry all the way to school and appear a mess as he clings to his mother in the doorway of his classroom, desperate to be without the hat he forgot, when really he's a mess because he felt scared of his wild storming mother instead of beloved by her.

*sigh*

TB test #2 tomorrow.

On Having More Children

2011-05-09T17:44:00.001-07:00

I am sitting at the kitchen table drinking wine out of a mug listening to Silas's piano lesson while Eden, minutes before dinner, feasts on crackers. I desperately need a shower, and a babysitter will be here in 40 minutes, but here I sit, quite content. Ben and I have been involved in our own series of conversations about family and children these days. We, of course, never bring it up with the kids, though I keep waiting for the day when they realize both Ben and I have lots of brothers and sisters and they only have each other. So far so good. But yesterday, appropriately on the day of thinking about motherhood, they both chimed in with their two cents.

While I was trying to talk to my mom on the phone and hear about her Mother's day, Silas screamed and cried and melted into a puddle next to me. Our conversation after I hung up:
Were you acting that way because you wanted my attention?
Yeah.
It's hard to share your mom sometimes.
Yeah, it's really hard. And there are only TWO of us. If there were more, it would be even harder. There are only two and it's this hard!
... Did someone tell you that?
No. I just thought of it by myself.

A few hours later we watched The Sound of Music, and Eden, when she finally stopped covering her ears, was mesmerized.
Finally she said, her eyes WIDE: They have so many sisters... I wish WE could have so many sisters... May we?

They kill me.

little revelation

2011-05-04T21:56:00.001-07:00

I have felt harried recently and generally, and haven't been able to put my finger on why, exactly. My mom, a therapist, insists that despite the fact that our bodies can do many things at once, our brains are only able to focus singularly. As an expert multi-tasker, I have debated this with her, but here, mid-week, following several weeks of feeling a low-grade sense of constant rushing, I’ve concluded that she (and scientific evidence) may be right.

My problem, I think, isn’t that I’m doing too much but that I'm doing too much at once. I text while I drive. I talk on the phone while I grocery shop, or while I’m making breakfast, or while I'm trying to herd people out the door. I organize my calendar while I watch Modern Family. And where I come down at the end of the day is feeling insane (code for feeling like I'm not doing anything *well* because, actually, I'm not).

So here sitting in a hot parking lot waiting for it to be late enough to walk into the doctor’s office, I am parked and doing only this. And I feel a little better.

Bed Sitting

2011-04-29T10:24:00.000-07:00

I never miss it until it comes. Bed sitting. Growing up, it was a no-brainer -- hanging out with girl friends we inevitably ended up lounging on a bed talking for hours. In college this happened too, since at least for a while, people only had bedrooms. But then, somewhere along the line, everyone becomes adults, and people begin to spend time together only in the living room or kitchen. Bedroom doors remain closed and the spaces become private.

Then one day my sister comes to town, or Mari my best friend from growing up, or Amy my old neighbor, and we find ourselves moving so freely in each other's space that we end up lounging against pillows talking, with a child or two nestled in. I love this -- the cozy comfort of bed sitting conversations. Once I've tasted them, I wonder, again, why we don't have them more.

Tide Pools with KJ and Justin

2011-04-24T13:59:00.000-07:00

a poem for today

2011-04-24T13:52:00.000-07:00

by Marie Howe:

Easter

Two of the fingers on his right hand
had been broken

so when he poured back into that hand it surprised
him - it hurt him at first.

And the whole body was too small. Imagine
the sky trying to fit into a tunnel carved into a hill.

He came into it two ways:
from the outside, as we step into a pair of pants.

And from the center - suddenly all at once.
Then he felt himself awake in the dark alone.

Eggs

2011-04-24T13:35:00.001-07:00

One of the best privileges of 4th grade was making Ukrainian Easter eggs in art class. In retrospect, I am amazed the teacher dared tackle such a process with a room of 9 year olds, but she did, and I'm still grateful. Ukrainian eggs work like a batik -- you draw with wax, then dye the egg a light color, draw with more wax, dye it a shade darker, until you're left with a dark egg strewn with bright designs. I *loved* these eggs. A few years ago I bought myself my own Ukrainan egg kit (Magiccabin.com) and during nap time, sat at the kitchen table with bowls of dye making eggs. This year, when I unpacked the Easter box, I tossed the kit right back in without a thought. No way I'd sit at the table making intricate eggs this year. But to my surprise, Silas found the kit and insisted, so together we sat and drew with wax, watching the egg grow darker with each new color. As many of our joint creative endeavors go, Silas designed and I carried out his ideas. After Eden woke up, we made on more egg and they did all the writing. All an unexpected treat.

one way to fish for the egg...

what her hands looked like all day

Saving Face

2011-04-23T06:53:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, as I stood in line at the grocery store waiting for Ben and the kids whom I could hear beyond the shelves at the juice bar, the man in front of me turned and asked, "How do you spell obvious?" I spelled it for him. He asked a second time moving his mouth through the letters, and then nodded. "I have to write a card," he said gesturing with the card he was waiting to buy, "and was just thinking. I've never been good at spelling." He had greying hair around his ears and was nicely dressed, probably in his mid-50's. We went on to talk for a few minutes about growing up and school.

After he checked out, I thought about him; how rare it is that someone, a stranger, comes at us with a bare need like that. He wasn't interested in saving face, he simply set out what he hoped to know. What would even a trip to the grocery store be like if we were all so honest about our need for each other?

Family

2011-04-14T16:31:00.001-07:00

I spent the last two weeks in Washington bickering with and loving the guts out of my family members (and could argue that bickering expresses love since it's a freedom we almost never can indulge in... ), watching the dark skeletal trees brighten with green match-sized flames -- a transformation I've never found so miraculous -- walking under cotton candy cherry blossoms, soft and full, that turned pink and heavier as they dropped and cleared way for their own bright leaves. It was a trip that left me thirsty for more. For the first time in 18 years, I walked into the house where I grew up, got to live in it for just a few minutes more until a hostile au pair shooed me out the door. I stood near my sister-in-law and husband as they sorted through their mother's things and made sense of a house packed with years of living. And watched flint and rock spark as everyone came to that task with a different idea of fire.

I've been thinking a lot about family -- Silas and Eden against the backdrop of my generation, seeing Ben with his siblings and me with mine, all of us meeting as adults, and all of us against the backdrop of our parents. Just this afternoon, I was thinking about how I'll miss these years when they're over, the beautiful, messy, ALIVE time of parenting little young children, will miss even carrying a tantrummer through a restaurant toward the exit, the ridiculousness of it. These are years of bright vitality.

A friend recently sent me this column that I only just read by Anna Quindlen. Applicable to today's musings:

Getting to the Point

By Anna Quindlen

Oh, I loved having babies. The smell, the feel, the … well, I liked the stupidity of them. The way they grabbed their own feet and then looked perplexed at the fact that they somehow felt it in their bodies. The way they’d be entranced by sunlight or ringing phones or the thrum of the dishwasher. There’s a popular YouTube video that shows a baby in near-hysterical laughter because someone is tearing up a piece of paper. That’s babies all over. Why paper? Why tearing? Who knows?

And toddlers — they were great, too. The way they would march across the lawn once they acquired motor skills, then run back to the shelter of mom legs, then sally forth again. The way they would mangle their words and chew their consonants and name things obsessively: Hot dog. Big bird. Good boy. The way they would dress themselves and then wind up looking as though they’d done so in the dark, color-blind. The way they would catch you if you tried to skip a sentence or two in a beloved book: “That’s not right!” They had such a strong sense of fairness and no filter at all. “That man is fat!” they would say, then be perplexed by the notion that there was anything wrong about that.

I loved having elementary school kids, holding their pencils like etching tools as they worked out a subtraction problem on lined paper, their faces scrunched. It was great how they would work out more complex matters, too, realize that one of their classmates was not now nor was ever going to be a good person, understand that when they hurt someone else they might also wind up hurting themselves. You could read human progress through the tears. The tears of a baby are often a reflex, for a toddler almost always the fruit of frustration or fatigue. The tears of a child begin to be the tears of knowledge. The older heart is more breakable.

Which brings us to teenagers. Ah. This is where I am supposed to admit defeat, but I just can’t. As hard as it was, as challenging as they could be, I really liked having teenagers. Some of that was about me, not them; I can’t really remember what it was like to be a little kid, but I remember very well what it was like to be a teenager. So when one of them would blow an assignment or a curfew, say something stinging or thoughtless, I would usually think: I would have done that, or, sometimes, I did. Besides, the smarts and the cool helped make up for it. I know about music and movies and slang I never would have known about otherwise. The house was full of snap crackle and pop. There were always kids at the dining room table, and if the dishes sometimes didn’t get done — well, I definitely remembered having left dirty dishes in the sink, too.

I don’t have babies anymore, or kids, or teenagers. I have adults, with their own dishes and their own sinks — and, I suspect, their own sinks of dirty dishes. The house is not always full of snap crackle and pop. But here’s my bottom line on this continuum for any woman bemused or becalmed or bedeviled by any part of it: it just keeps getting better.

Oh, don’t mistake me: I still miss breastfeeding, and having someone holding my hand when we cross the street, and high voices in sleepy conversation over the baby monitor from the bedroom. I miss laying down the law, enforcing arbitrary rules, having some modicum of control.

The old arsenic hours were when the homework was done and the squabbling began and there was still an hour until baths and bed. (Once, I remember, I lied and said it was 8 p.m. at 6:45 just to get them out of my hair. Note to the mothers of young kids: don’t buy digital clocks.) The new arsenic hours are when I’ve knocked off work for the day in an empty house and have a cup of herbal tea and an hour of whatever’s on the DVR before my husband shows up for dinner. Occasionally, if the universe is feeling merciful, I will hear the dogs bark as the door downstairs opens, and a voice will call, “Mom?” And my heart sings.

I regret being pinkslipped from my 24/7 Mom job, although there were times over the years when I thought the inexorability of it would kill me. But it’s hard to imagine anything better than right now: the family dinner with the five of us, all talking about politics, books, work, friends, and one another. It’s hard to imagine anything better than three smart and insightful people who live in the same city we do, who make me remember that there was a point to the whole exercise, and the point was this.

I couldn’t wish for more than that. Except for grandchildren, of course. But that’s another story for another time.

A poem for the week

2011-04-08T17:23:00.000-07:00

April is National Poetry month (do you know this? would love to hear about any poems you read), and some friends and I have been sending daily poems back and forth. Danny sent this one by Mary Oliver. I love the weeding through voices here, the slow movement toward clarity:

The Journey
by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Silas

2011-03-23T07:20:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time this little fella came to live at our houseand today he turned five.

We adore you*

The Present -- yet another lesson

2011-03-22T16:39:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Silas stayed home from school with pink eye, so the three of us went to my favorite beach. Rain stained the horizon in vertical rays and the clouds to the north loomed deep purple. The entire beach at high tide was covered with debris -- scraps of kelp, bamboo, sticks, trash -- and where we played a little stream cut across the beach to the ocean. The kids sloshed in the muddy sand, slid down edge of the bank, made fishing poles from long pieces of bamboo with wads of kelp "whales" hanging off the end. I tried to run around as much as they did to stay warm. After a while, though, the wind shifted and blew cold through our clothes. I felt myself grow antsy. Immediately I felt distracted and a little impatient, and my mind began to climb through the rest of the day ahead. At one point I said, "Eden, you have dance today!" -- some indirect attempt to turn her attention from the beach, back to the world at the top of the hill where there was heat. And without turning around, as she bent to pick up another handful of sticks she said, "But right now we are throwing things into the water!!!!"

And so you are, little one, and so you are.

A Poem for the Morning

2011-03-21T08:16:00.000-07:00

The Moment
by Marie Howe

Oh, the coming-out-of-nowhere moment

when, nothing

happens

no what-have-I-to-do-today-list

maybe half a moment

the rush of traffic stops.

The whir of I should be, I should be, I should be

slows to silence,

the white cotton curtains hanging still.

The Word of Warfare (Curtains)

2011-03-20T20:53:00.000-07:00

Journeying through loss last summer blew a lot of our smog away; these days, Ben and I move through life pretty eye-to-eye. As we navigate newness -- house, school district, church -- our combativeness softens quickly to kindness and we seem to be striking compromises with surprising ease. The word "maturing" has crossed my mind a time or two.

But then a Saturday rolls along and we make a move toward finalizing window treatments. Our little blissful harmony is smacked with harsh tones and utter impatience and at the end of the weekend, we still have no conclusions. Window coverings are not a part of decorating that thrill me, especially window coverings for a house we're renting. Or shall I say paying for window coverings in a house we are renting does not thrill me. So 2 1/2 months into living in this little pink house, we still have vinyl blinds, circa 1980 with a strip of flower trim at the bottom and a mauve tassel, hanging from wobbly braces.

And every weekend, we brew near each other about the unfinished-ness. It is the simple collision of approaches: bang it all out in an hour vs. wait to find what you want. And though the frustrations make sense, curtains seem a ridiculous Achilles tendon (though these battles are never really about the curtains, are they?)

And so as I sit in the living room wishing I'd climbed into bed two hours ago, I listen to the rain pat and splatter, quiet, and pour. Rain clears smog, too. Maybe tonight it will wash out ours.

This morning I sat with the front page section for twice as long as usual because the world is bubbling. And then tonight I sat in a room with lit windows beaming at a dark street and bubbled about blinds. *sigh*

Next week I head east to breathe wet Spring blossoms, and hopefully by then the curtains will have quieted and perspective will have righted itself again. Already Ben is giving me a half smile across the room. That's a start.

Looking out From the Couch

2011-03-18T21:18:00.000-07:00

Wow, February 24th was the last time I wrote. Nearly a month ago, perhaps my longest pause. And now, how does one begin?

In light of whatever notable events have transpired inside these walls -- Silas eating mango that "tastes like joy," Eden naming a butterfly in a jar Panda Puffs, Silas naming his early birthday blue beta fish Rainbow Boy -- outside these walls the world is changing. Changing as I sit on my couch, changing as I plan Silas's birthday party with Ben, as I watch my favorite youtube video, as I walk around the bay, as I battled with tantrums, as I make tea in my kitchen. The face of the middle east is changing, the landscape of Japan, so many thousands of lives -- changed, destroyed.

I just read a letter from a friend of a friend living in Japan who said as of Wednesday night there were still earthquakes every 15 minutes and a constant rumbling in the earth. I wonder why I haven't read this in any papers. Her account was so much quieter than the shaky videos of the relentless wave plowing through neighborhoods and overturning cars, it was even tinged with gratitude for how kind people have been to one another, and of course also saturated with the devastation...

And this is life, right? Holding these tensions in our small hands: the intimate and the public, the immediate and the global, the finite and the infinite, the physical and the spiritual. It's easy to consume, and be consumed by, one or the other. But to hold both at once, to allow for them to settled equally deeply into our gut, maybe that's why we're here.

Racing

2011-02-24T15:53:00.000-08:00

We woke at 5 AM, groggy but motivated, pulled on our clothes, brushed our teeth, put Silas's and Eden's socks and shoes on them in the dark, and zipped our suitcases closed. By 5:30, Kaia Joye, Ben, the kids and I were driving through the parking garage, headed to Denver -- right on track. The past two days had been sparkling and clear -- blue skies against the snow.

What we didn't know until we pulled out of the garage is that it had snowed at least three inches while we slept and it was still, in the dark, coming down. We had timed the trip with enough wiggle room to fill up the gas tank, but not much more. Ben crept down the hill to the highway as ploughs roared up the road in the opposite direction, and we pulled onto the snowy highway.

As we accelerated on the dark snowy road, I heard myself make all sorts of comments from the back seat: "let's go slowly!" "ooh, this isn't ploughed!" "we should probably slow down" (the "we" seemed less critical) "I don't think you should pass the plough" "ooh! we are CLOSE to that huge truck!" Finally (thankfully) I practiced the ultimate discipline of silence, telling myself that Ben knew everything I knew and didn't want to kill all of us either. Though in my silence I did imagine, several times, our car spinning out of control, all five of us dying, and how sad my parents would be.

Each time Ben clicked on the brights, we saw how hard it was snowing. But on Ben flew, steadily. Our little Hyundai's engine revved up the hills, and we kept climbing.

At one point, Eden insisted on a bathroom break and miraculously, a sign for Starbucks appeared. So we stopped and found that what looked like a dusting of snow across the parking lot was actually a sheet of ice. Oh, the highway. Kaia Joye and I just laughed, the only possible response.

On the other side of the mountain, the snow stopped, the roads dried, and we hit full speed. The last 17 miles of the trip, Eden, again, begged for a bathroom. We finally sailed into Budget to return the car about 45 minutes before our plane was scheduled to leave. While Eden was in the bathroom, the rental bus left, which left us at the curb for another 10 minutes. Finally at the airport, we ran to the ticket desk with three giant bags, two booster seats, the kids and our carry-on's, then to far away security, where no one would bump us to the front of the line. Eden and I finished first, since Kaia Joye's bag had two cans of split pea soup in it, and Silas's bag with a DVD player in it also had to be re-scanned. Lugging my computer bag, Eden and her hard-handled backpack, I ran to the train, where I sat and waited through three slow stops, then ran, sweating in wool, to the gate, Eden crying now because I'd held her hand as she'd stepped off of the moving sidewalk. I ran up to the desk, panting as I explained Ben had no boarding group assigned to his ticket. Just as he handed back a fresh boarding pass, Ben, Silas, and KJ careened around the corner, huffing.

We were flying Southwest, which means no assigned seats, which means arriving dead last with two children under five to a full flight guarantees no seats together. But with a two and four year old, splitting up isn't really an option. What was astounding is that everyone sat and watched us struggle: the three flight attendants were sarcastic and abrasive, no help, and surprisingly, *no* one offered up their seats to help. So finally, with the flight attendants breathing down our necks, we sat Silas and Eden *ALONE*, me in front of them, Ben ten rows back, and KJ 10 forward.

Just as we were about to start moving, Eden, who often decides she's scared of taking off, asked to sit in my lap. I reached back, unbuckled her belt, and whisked her into my lap just as the plane started to move. Immediately, Cruela Devil, the flight attendant, was in the aisle. "What are you doing? We canNOT have this many people in a row." Then loudly with disdain, "We have to stop the plane!" I tried to argue, then whispered to Eden and convinced her quickly to buckle back into her own seat. The other flight attendant yelled from the front, "What's the Problem? Do we have to stop moving??" I saw Kaia Joye's eyes laughing over her seat and turned to see Ben shaking his head, too.

Needless to say, the plane took off and we now are home. We ate the split pea soup for lunch and are waiting for the cable guy. Whew.

Ski Trip

2011-02-23T13:02:00.001-08:00

I am sitting outside on a condo porch, snow on the counter in front of me, music drifting up from the square below, sun on my face. It's that weird weather phenomenon that occurs at ski resorts where somehow a 30 degree day feels balmy enough for lunching outside, for sitting without a coat, for sunbathing.

We are in Colorado skiing. I grew up schlepping across the country to Denver as a family of six, renting a car, driving through the mountains to Steamboat Springs, during which Eli inevitably threw up; then renting skis and polls that we tried to carry over our shoulders, slashing them through the air each time we turned around, filing up the stairs into whatever condo we were staying and claiming beds; each morning, layering on clothes, socks and snow pants, lift ticket, mittens and too-tight-around-the-neck turtlenecks, smearing our faces with sunblock and chap stick and making sure our fanny packs (yes, fanny packs) were packed; then all together, already pink-faced from the layers, trudging up the hill to the base where ski school met, finding our classes, kissing goodbye, and heading out for the day. Somehow during these weeks there were groceries in the house and breakfast in the mornings. There was hot chocolate in the cabinet and a towel to grab as we ran outside to the hot tub. As I navigated my own angst about the jerky boy from Texas in my ski school class or traded phone numbers with the sweet Kiwi twins, most everything else just happened.

Fast forward twenty years with two or three ski trips peppered over the decades and here we are. This week, though our lift tickets still appeared magically (thanks, parents!), Ben and I navigated a ski trip from the other side. We trekked to the rental shop with Silas and Eden, had their feet measured, bought bright woolly socks, and rented tiny skis and helmets. We took them, both beaming and screaming, to ski school and small world (the nursery), and picked them up red-cheeked at noon. We kept track of long underwear, even washed some of it, and made sure everyone had mittens. We navigated questions of when to push and when to pour on compassion. We stood in the kitchen with my mom and sister and invented dinners, grocery lists, and cocktails. We crossed the street and filed through a hotel to use hot tubs and pools, changed everyone out of bathing suits in the quite public towel room, and made sure no one's hair froze. And made sure people slept (at least after the first long night or two) and napped.

I think probably until our dying day, we will continue to be struck, here and there, by finding ourselves on "the other side" of experiences. So much of our perception, or initial perception, is sealed into our bodies during childhood. And for the rest of our lives, it seems, we look back at how the world once looked, and see how much we missed. In those fleeting moments of wide open vistas, we change.

February

2011-02-17T13:31:00.000-08:00

Right now I am sitting in my corner chair, the sun on the grass outside is flat and bright and there are white puffy clouds coasting through the cool sky. Silas and Eden are both in bed -- a rare day when both nap (speaking too soon -- Silas is coughing and hemming and hawing, only Eden is asleep). On Saturday we leave for our first family ski trip. I've covered my bed with towering piles of snow pants and t-shirts. Eden busily packed her carry on bag earlier, complete with pacifier and blankie (though we'll have two naps and two bedtimes before we leave...)

February days have been rolling by. A teacher once told me that November and February are the low months. We were in DC where the sky weighs low and hangs grey most of those months. But even here, teased by the desert wind and balmy days, I have felt February's pull. The good thing is that we've slowed down; we've had to. We've stuck around the house; we've lingered at the neighbors' and discovered rum and tonics there (my new favorite); we've walked places. We haven't done laundry, I realize today, but we've been around home. Ben and I have spent nights talking, he listening to my layers of process. I've worked in an art journal for the first time in ages. We've checked out library books. We've moped a little and gotten on each other's nerves, and in the afternoons, eaten frozen thin mints and made tea.

Silas has been in and out of fevers. Family members have been in and out of our house. I've made Ina Garten's Celery Salad a few times -- who knew about a celery salad -- and have squeezed lemons for honey tea. Silas and I watched a humming bird hover in mid-air and snap up bugs. We saw one's little black tongue flicker at the end of its beak, and I held him up to peek into a tiny nest that held two pink eggs while the mother dove in arcs above our heads. Spring is near.

Eden learned to write E's. Everyone can snap now. Silas wrote the alphabet. I'm thinking about what "the kingdom of God" means. Ben has traveled tirelessly but seems to have landed back home for a while, and I am grateful. Some girlfriends came over and sipped champagne on Valentines day. The kids made cards for their classes and sent packages to cousins. Ben and the kids made cards, too, and we all swapped drawings and ate candy at dinner. Ben and I, ten years in, celebrated well together instead of colliding in expectations. No one sent flowers or bought heart-shaped boxes of candy, and that was all right. Again, I am learning to break my notions of tradition and let them fall on life. This is good.

Silas is coughing his little head off and groaning between each cough. His stomach feels funky and he needs his mama. And so I go. The suitcases call quietly, too.

Pause

2011-02-12T14:30:00.001-08:00

Right now I am sitting in my studio, a make-shift studio in a small workshop attached to the garage with three windows that face the yard, a rough dirty counter with jars of screws, nuts and bolts hanging from a ledge, a printer on the floor, and shelves of books behind. The sun set and the night air, clear with tiny stars, is cold.

I have been reading Galway Kinnell tonight am struck by this poem, by the reminder of daily music, of waiting through a time, or grief blooming out:

Wait

Wait, for now.

Distrust everything if you have to.

But trust the hours. Haven’t they

carried you everywhere, up to now?

Personal events will become interesting again.

Hair will become interesting.

Pain will become interesting.

Buds that open out of season will become interesting.

Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;

their memories are what give them

the need for other hands. The desolation

of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness

carved out of such tiny beings as we are

asks to be filled; the need

for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.

Don’t go too early.

You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.

But no one is tired enough.

Only wait a little and listen:

music of hair,

music of pain,

music of looms weaving our loves again.

Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,

most of all to hear your whole existence,

rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

Beauty

2011-01-30T14:48:00.000-08:00

I never knew that humans are drawn to beauty from the very beginning, until I had children. It makes sense; adults are. I had just never thought of this impulse as living in tiny people fresh on the earth.

Most little girls probably love the beauty of their mothers. I remember sitting on my parents' bed watching my mom free her hair from the turtleneck she'd just pulled on, remember watching her curl her eyelashes and carefully, face close to the mirror, put on lipstick. And, of course, there is nothing like the comfort of a mother's body. As that weird, awesome old song goes that I know none of the words to but these, : "everyone wants a bosom for a pillow."

I have a daughter who loves watching her mother. She stands with her little mouth open, staring as I put on mascara and brush blush on my cheeks. She wants to know the name of every product I use, wants me to paint nail polish on her nails, too, regardless of the color ("I LOVE black!"). She loves dress-up and constantly is "getting may-weed" (something that involves high heels and has nothing to do with a male). More often than not, she chooses her taffeta Christmas dress to wear and adores tights.

Recently she found her bikini top, put it on, and said, with batting eyes, "I'm a baaa-bie" (barbie), then asked if I didn't wear one of these under my shirt, then refused to take it off for the rest of the day. She even wants to wear a bra. I should add here that ever since I was a girl, I have revolted against barbies and we've never had one in or near our house -- the great irony.

Later that same week, waiting for her dance class at the studio, a beautiful 8 year year old girl with blond blond straight hair to her shoulders, a little girl's body (thankfully), and bright spandex shorts much too short walked by. Eden sat on the bench staring at her and without turning her head toward me whispered, "is she a barbie?"

Last night Ben and I had to dress for dinner before we left for church. It was the classic run-around trying to herd children into clothes and shoes while simultaneously dressing for a date, all in a matter of minutes. I was almost ready but turned around to find Eden clomping down the hall in my heels and a t-shirt, "I'm going to my wedding!" After much back and forth, and her stiff-as-a-board screaming, it became clear that her refusal to put her clothes on was rooted in the fact that she could not wear my high heels for the night, and I could. (Fortunately, my plan was to wear boots to church and changed into heels in the car after. This seemed a great relief to her).

As a mother, putting on make-up and straightening my hair in front of my transfixed daughter, I wonder what messages I am sending, if I agree with all of the values I must be communicating. Driving down the streets past huge bus stop ads, walking through the Target, standing in the check-out aisle at the grocery store, strolling through Disneyland, I am more aware than ever of images, so many surfaces plastered with false beauty, false youth, false tans, false body shapes, and perhaps most importantly, false expectations. I am wondering how to affirm this little buttery girl of her own beauty, within and without, especially as she, at age 2 1/2, is already pining to be older. What can I do but try to communicate, as I look at my own face, or stomach or outfit in the mirror, acceptance, and continue to kiss her tiny nose. Oh Lordy, have mercy as we raise our daughters.

Afternoon

2011-01-27T16:59:00.001-08:00

The sky dims as I sit at the table. Children have dragged cushions off of the couch, crib mattresses into the living room, and are bouncing and singing to their hears' content. This is new: a neighbor over without parents, Eden and Silas's friend-dynamic in the mix of a social setting. New.

I read a chapter in Walking in this World (mediocre overall) that said something to the effect of -- before you try to tackle your big creative projects, knock out the nagging tasks on your list -- repaint the drawer, put the laundry away, finally file the bills, run to the post office, hang that curtain -- because completing the small things will help you respect yourself and get ready for the larger ones. That was the part I liked best, the self-respect. We all walk around with huge to-do lists, some of the items important and some not, but the motivation for completing our tasks being to treat ourselves well, that I like.

Today was a day of doing errands that have sat near the front door for days -- returns, post office mailings, thank you notes, the car wash (that didn't sit by the door) etc. And rather than swelling self-respect, I instead see the larger list of to-do's. But we will get there.

We are settled in the house. It looks and feels like we live here, for the most part. There are bare walls places and the kids are sleeping on mattresses, but much is settled-ish. And the space becomes more familiar. It would be easy to stop here, to stop seeing the pull-down shades from the 1970's that are cracking at the bottom and remember we'd like to finish the job.

For days the air has blown in dry and gusty from the desert. The kids have dressed in mud more than once (we now are putting "mud days" on the calendar so they aren't EVERY day -- rough on the single bathroom -- until we build and outdoor shower, and clearly when I say "we" here, I mean Ben. Thanks, Ben).

The white evening sky yellows and pink-ens at its hem; time to make pasta with pesto. I wish it were tomato season. Soon enough, if not too soon.

observations

2011-01-19T14:51:00.000-08:00

There's no better way to start the day than to have someone say, "Wow! your belly looks so BIG today. Why is that, mom?"
Pregnancy would have been a nice answer but isn't mine, so really there was nothing to say except thanks for such keen observations, son, you really know how to make a girl feel pretty...
(we'll have to work on that)

Newness of a Yard

2011-01-17T20:13:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, sometime after my parents and Ben left, Silas and Eden tumbled out the front door and began, for the first time really, to play in the yard. The weather has been warm -- our first sunny warm days in months -- and I heard the hose turn on, heard their play bobble between laughing hysterically and yelling at each other. I settled into the couch with my computer and caught up with emails and bills for the first time in weeks. And still they played. From where I sat on the couch, I couldn't see them but could see the street. A woman and her young daughter walked by and smiled a beaming smile at the spot where Silas and Eden were -- yes, I thought, a brother and sister so small playing so well in a yard, delightful! And I saw two boys, probably about 9 years old, bike by and yell hello's to them. Then at one point I glanced up and saw two women across the street pointing to the yard and craning their necks for a better view. What? Was it really an alarming crime to allow one's children to play outside alone? As it registered that they were looking not smiling or waving, I walked outside. First Silas and the side of the house -- not bad:
Then Eden's back:
Then the nearly unrecognizable daughter, mud caked around her eyes and matted along with sticks, in her hair:

Ah, a yard.

A little rest

2011-01-09T22:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I left my mom a message about feeling *worn,* and a few hours later found this:

get some rest- there is a way to do that...not easy but there is a way. Sunday is the day of rest- even God rested...
Deciding to rest had not even occurred to me! (good thing we have moms). And so today that's what we did. Several times I caught myself starting to ask Ben about furniture or organizing and cut myself off. Instead we napped; Silas and I read wrapped in blankets on the grass; we all went for a bike ride. BREATH. Yes.

After the fact: Relentless Pursuit

2011-01-08T17:54:00.001-08:00

Writing about things after the fact always make them prettier than they were: right now I am sitting in my most unpacked corner of the living room, drinking a beer, am freshly showered skin still tingling from the scalding water, watching the sky darken out the window while Ben's making a bath for the kids with music playing in the bathroom (they can't get over it). But that is now.

Last night as I sat practically under the table texting Ben a message (I am unfit to be a mother right now! -- Eden is screaming in time-out in the bathtub. Silas and I have been at each other all afternoon -- Please come home!!) I realized I was more than tired; I was plain worn out. Six days after our move, the house looks calmer, a little bit settled in some corners, but days have been constant chains of errands, and time in the house is a constant shuffling things around. And so, I landed at zero tolerance, especially for Eden, the rascal child I've heard about but haven't parented until now, who, every time I turn around is into a new kind of mischief: lotion in the hair, Sharpee on the toys, stickers on the floor etc. The most frustrating part is that I don't know to speak so she'll hear.

Tonight, after a dawn-garage sale and another day of doing, I hit the same wall while Ben was on a bike ride. Eden had just knocked my computer on the floor, then sneaked off to the bathroom to cover her face in smuggled blue marker and then broken one of my favorite glasses, all without a dash of remorse, just a smug sing-song-y "Saaaaaaa-wy." This series was the last straw of feeling helpless -- Ben walked in and I burst into tears. He and Eden left to have a talk (which sounded from the kitchen only like a temper tantrum) and Silas, who caught me crying, climbed onto my lap and began telling me knock-knock jokes.

With Eden in her room screaming her way through a time-out (a form of discipline we haven't really used before and one I'm not sure I think is useful) and my sitting on the kitchen floor with my back to the cupboards, it crossed my mind that Eden and I rarely have one-on-one time. She seems so independent that it's easy to be busy with her. Nonsense, I know. So when Ben came back, we both realized what she needed most was attention.

I walked into her dim room and took her on my lap. I looked right into her brown eyes that actually met mine, and told her a thing or two, but gently. Then we read, and read, and read. And the book we ended up reading a few times is The Runaway Bunny. As we read it, I realized that's the whole lesson here -- as parents, that's what we must do: pursue and pursue and pursue. When our kids are awful and perched stubbornly on sharp, snowy ground, we climb. And when they are flying recklessly through the air on a trapeze, we push hesitation aside and walk the tightrope. Our job here is to pursue relentlessly.

I haven't wanted to do that these days. At all. I've wanted to put people in the bathtub (the only toy-less, small space in the house). I've wanted to get in the shower where I can't hear anyone. I've wanted to run away, myself. But if we all runaway, we're all lost. SO, I'm going to try to remember that mother bunny who became the wind, the tree, and won her child back.

Moving, the Process

2010-12-30T20:53:00.000-08:00

This is a picture of Eden at the airport yesterday, her one tantrum of our travels, which happened to take place almost in baggage claim, right in front of the crowd eagerly awaiting their loved ones from the flight.This morning as I faced the unpacked house, the mass of empty boxes, and Ben's utterly different packing philosophy, I embodied this photo perfectly, so perfectly that Silas and Eden, like a little Greek chorus sitting at the breakfast table, kept saying, "why were you so mean to daddy? why? why were you so mean to daddy?" Since, when the mouth is full of rage there is no appropriate answer to give a two and four year old asking this question, I stormed into the kitchen. Only fifteen boxes/three hours later could I bring myself to call him and say sorry. (We are working on resolving conflicts in front of Silas, so at dinner I had to apologize all over again).

Amy gave me soup, coffee and her company all day long (i.e. sanity). And other friends took Silas and Eden to play, brought cookies, boxes, and groceries. (thank you!!)

I am now tucked into bed feeling jet lagged and groggy. The kids are asleep and I can hear Ben dragging boxes around upstairs. We aren't quite ready, but in the morning, movers will appear and take these packed and half-packed things to the pink house that i can't quite imagine living in, and we will start something new.

Our Visit

2010-12-28T05:44:00.000-08:00

It's 9AM and suddenly the house is empty. My parents left for the airport, KJ drove off to the mountains, and Ben left while it was still dark. My mom always talks about how in a breath the house transforms from a flurry to stillness. Usually I am in the flurry, but today, I sit at the counter in the quiet pause that follows departure.

I feel a little restless: the tug in my chest I always feel when I leave Washington; the awareness that I still, despite the three full suitcases, have many things to gather and zip up; the anticipation of packing and moving when I get home.

Instead of springing to action, I am sitting at the counter drinking lychee tea and looking at pictures. The time has been full, "magical" as Ben said last night, a dose of everything.

Here are some pictures:

The babe we met for the first time, cousin Jesh:

brief snow:
the cathedral:

baking:

new york with Ben:
the pageant:

Christmas morning:

my sister's crocheted gifts (greatness):

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2010-12-25T15:54:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was going to write a post called "The Twelve Days of Christmas: the Pros and Cons," and it was going to say something like this:

After Silas and Eden gave each other their one present weeks ago and reveled in it, I began thinking that there is a certain brilliance in the Twelve Days of Christmas philosophy: Why not spread Christmas over several days to savor the gifts and avoid the ravenous ripping through that can happen Christmas morning?

Though the idea sounded great, I could think of no easy way to follow through with it, especially once here. But despite that, our Christmas really did shake into several days: We had California sibling Christmas, cousin/Eli and Hollie Christmas, and Newcott Christmas Eve all before Christmas. The pro's were everything I'd imagined: the slow wending through the season, through the presents, and the lack of one big binge. But as of yesterday, we had celebrated so many Christmases, that I could hardly keep in my mind that actual Christmas was still on the way - the clear con. I have always loved Christmas and been one to soak in its magic. But as of yesterday, I felt detached from all Christmas music, Christmas trees, and any sense of anticipation. Bummer.

[Enter today's blog: The Twelve Days of Christmas]
But then last night, after a day of Newcott Christmas, a mid-day of settling sadness that Cindy wasn't here, that we, again, sit at the brink of family change, we all headed to the church where Ben and I grew up for the children's Christmas service. Immediately, we were ushered into a side room where Max (my brother) and his 3 year old son were already wearing shepherd's clothing. They had volunteered our family, too -- Silas was quickly laden with sheep-dress and Eden made into an angel. Though Ben wasn't there yet, we were told that he was listed in the program as a shepherd too (he ran there). There we were, residents of a state across the country, fat in the middle of a church that had been our home for so many years, in a play. I LOVED it, and sat in the front row taking pictures of my little costumed family.

And while we sat in one of the more chaotic services -- instruments for all -- shaking my maracca to the Christmas carols, I listened to their words about light coming to me -- something I need so much -- healing, life. And I thought about birthdays and birthday parties. I love birthday's, especially my own. And I love birthday parties. I thought about how even when I don't feel like going to someone's party, I go because I love them and it's their day. So sitting there, I told God that I'd shake off my blah's and rise to the occasion, yes, I'd come to the party. It sounds silly, I know, but I made him a cake, just like I was a 7 year old, and piled it high with whipped cream, marshmallows and sprinkles. And thanks to my sister's prompting, the kids and I put out cookies and milk for Santa and a carrot for the reindeer. After they fell asleep, we all filled the stockings FULL, and went to bed with the twinkle of Christmas reignited.

And today, the twelveth day of Christmas, was the best Christmas day yet.

In the Kitchen

2010-12-17T21:08:00.000-08:00

Tonight my dad made eggnog; my sister, a huge bowl of salsa; my mom, french toast bread pudding; and I, a carrot cake, all at the same time in the kitchen. We talked loudly over the old mixer and waited for measuring cups and mixing bowls. Eli sat holding 5 month old Jesh, whose little head bobbed and watched us all, and Hollie drifted in and out of the room, her bread patiently rising on the counter.

At home, I love to be in the kitchen alone -- a corner of the house where I can unlock my mind to wander as I work with my hands for a few brief moments in perfect allowance.

But here, at my parents' house, I spend about 80% of my waking time in their kitchen with family, eating, talking, watching whatever's being made or sorted or discussed.

There are few places I'd rather be.

Last Hurrah

2010-12-14T20:22:00.000-08:00

The party felt like a goodbye party to the house; it's held us well.

(banner idea from katie did)

an Eggnog Extravaganza of sorts

2010-12-14T12:35:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, the night before my parents' annual eggnog party, my dad and uncle would disappear to the basement for hours of eggnog concocting. I could hear the thrum of the electric mixer knit with their voices and would poke my head downstairs to watch. It was always a night of chemistry, as they tweaked the recipe and jotted notes on the index card my dad kept in his yellow plastic recipe box.

When I was in high school and college, I began sitting in on the sessions a little longer, learning how to beat the yolks to death, to pour the liquor in a tiny steady stream. After Ben and I lived in California a few years, we decided to throw our own eggnog party; making my own frothy batch felt a palpable rite of passage. Each time we make it (this year was our 5th time), I have a wow-ed sense of accomplishment, that I have invoked my father, his mother, his mother's mother, and on back, in my own kitchen.

Last year I was clever enough to jot myself a note: 4 dozen eggs for eggnog this year -- perfect! Long story short, my note was faulty; 4 dozen eggs was a larger amount than I had EVER made before. So large, that it overflowed both of my biggest pots and left me at 11PM with no container big enough to combine the halves:

Yolks/liquor/milk

to be combined with egg whites/whipped cream:
I stood in the kitchen staring at my two largest pots, filled, and at more egg whites and whipped cream than I'd ever seen. Ben breezed in and out holding various pliers and announcing he was turning off the water. After looking between the pots, I finally got in my car; we had nothing large enough. Thankfully, a friend was awake and met me in her driveway with a cooler that we swapped for a bigger cooler. At home, I stood in the dark cold scrubbing it in the hose and then went about the work of combining:
In the end, it all worked. I did have to dump some eggnog residue down the drain of the complex, which I'm pretty sure I wasn't supposed to do, but at the party there was eggnog for all. I will note for next year that 4 dozen (though unprecedented) was the perfect amount but to be sure I have large buckets on hand.

interpretation

2010-12-07T15:06:00.000-08:00

A conversation between Silas and Eden while listening to Christmas carols in the car:

song: everybody knows some turkey and some mistletoe

Eden: turkey head!?

Silas: no, Eden, turkey hand.

one of those days

2010-12-06T19:35:00.000-08:00

The kids wanted to have a camp out on the floor of their room tonight -- really on the stairs' landing, but I swayed them toward the bedroom. All afternoon, they played camp with imaginary "Olivia the camp mom." Playing in any imaginary world is unprecedented, much less one that involves a camp mom, whom Eden called on her imaginary phone every few minutes. (I loved this game). So, though I have a headache that has hovered for two weeks, and though I am worn out and feeling blah, I moved mattresses to the floor and rearranged their room.

Now it is night. Bedtime has been going on for an hour. I think everyone has gone to the bathroom at least three times a piece, and there has been much calling/yelling/crying/negotiating. I've already taken away the nightlight and overly-scolded. I partly need them to stop talking so that I can stop talking.

Earlier, after cleaning a kitchen that bordered on disaster area, I made some less than mediocre lasagna (ran out of tomato sauce halfway through and had to use a tomato paste concoction). In the process, I vigorously shook the can of Parmesan whose lid was not closed and, yes, cheese snowed all over the kitchen. Then a few minutes ago, while making myself a bowl of cereal and trying to block the insane yelling that had just erupted from upstairs, I knocked the can of chocolate milk powder out of the pantry. It fell, hit the floor, lost its lid, and, yes, rocketed chocolate powder all over the kitchen.

Now, I am sitting with my foggy headache trying to finish watching The Office. Out of a brief silence, Eden's voice just called down with a mouthful of pacifier. I have no idea what she's saying and I wish everyone would sleeeeeeeeeep. All I just heard is, "hey Mommy, would you? That would be so helpful." So whatever it is, I suppose I'd best go be "so helpful."

And then maybe we'll sleep.

from gifts to shadows: anticipating nearness.

2010-12-05T13:29:00.000-08:00

Today Ben came home from New York and the kids exchanged presents. As they sat on our bed *delighted* in their one gift from each other, I wished we could give them each one more present and then stop Christmas there. They would be satiated and immensely pleased -- and Christmas would be simple.

But we won't stop it there. It's hard, even, to stop buying presents even when everyone on my list is checked off. Each year, my whole family launches into conversation about how to simplify and change Christmas this year, and each year we celebrate it almost exactly the same. Because we always have. Because it's a moment to indulge. Because we love thinking of each other and hunting for gifts. Because we can.

Maybe one year we will strip it down. Or maybe we'll just always talk about it. I'm not sure.
Today I've been realizing, though, that even if the presents under the tree look exactly the same, we are all different. The year has stripped us down, and Christmas will be covered with shadows, some very dark and some hardly a tint to the light. We haven't ever had a Christmas like that before in our families, and I wonder what it will feel like. I wonder how we will manage to think about each other and not only ourselves, to sit in sadness instead of try to fix it, to make space for absence in the room, and to name each other when we need to be reminded, again, of who (and whose) we are.

This year we'll change our usual Christmas rhythm. I don't know what that will look like yet, but I am learning to hold more loosely to what I've always thought of as in-stone-tradition. Growing up, I tended to be adamant about keeping things the same -- the same food, the same restaurant for Christmas Eve Chinese food, the same Advent celebration, the same people gathered around the living room, the same Christmas party, the same, same same. And, of course, this stubbornness was born out of fear, the fear of change, which is really the fear of loss. We are still in the in between years of sharing the traditions we grew up with and establishing our own -- a dance of loss and gain. And this year, we also knead utter newness into the dough.

In a week we fly to Washington for togetherness -- to walk and eat, watch movies and celebrate birthdays. And I'm guessing over the two weeks there, we'll feel just about everything from misunderstood to sweetly connected, but more than anything, I hope we feel near. That's what we're traveling for, the nearness, for the moments of lying on the floor and hearing family talk in the other room, or watching each other move around a party. The nearness. That's what I'm waiting for.

YES!

2010-12-02T22:02:00.000-08:00

we found a place to live and will move jan 1*

1940's house. pink. a back deck. to-be wood floors. walking distance to library, park, coffee, school. one little bathroom. a garage. dr seus pine tree. teeny front porch. dwarf lemon tree, loaded. humming birds. potential tree house tree. friends down the street. old light fixtures on brass chains. a tiny writing studio that looks onto the yard. 80's berry wallpaper in kitchen. pink counter tops.

it's going to be good.

it will also involve our saying goodbye to this little house and neighborhood where we've lived, despite our short-term intentions, six years. the house to which we brought both our children home from the hospital. the house where Ben learned everything he knows now about handiness. the house silas will probably remember as his first house. the house where i learned how neighbors can be life-givers, pantry-sources, and tea-company first thing in the morning. the house where ben and i weathered so many conversations and processed all kinds of news. this is the first house we built and filled to the brim. in the mist of the excitement of newness and the relief of finally settling somewhere, i will be sad to go. as silas would say, it's bittersweet.

Thanksgiving

2010-11-29T18:31:00.000-08:00

We are headed full-swing into Christmas -- whew! -- but a note about Thanksgiving before it is gone completely: We decided to stay in California this year for Thanksgiving, and after paging through the November issue of Sunset magazine, decided to haul our turkey and all of the sides, tables and chairs, glasses and china, bottles of wine down to the beach for dinner. Our friends joined us for the bright, windy celebration, which made it even more fun to sit bundled in coats, looking at the ocean.

The last couple of months, we have searched (and searched) for a home. I've searched within and without, weighing and examining, driving neighborhoods, researching schools, walking in and out of empty spaces, working to find our next place, which we haven't found. But as an insightful friend pointed out to me, our meal on the beach, under the wide open sky with no walls around us and no roof, ended up being the perfect illustration of what I've been realizing: there we were, the four of us together, home. And one of these days we will find a new set of walls in a better school district to surround us, but until then, we can still be home. And for that, this year, I am thankful.

A few good things

2010-11-20T21:54:00.001-08:00

Tonight is my last of six nights alone.

On day five, I hit a wall -- a patience wall, which turned out to be a hormonal wall; a disappointment wall when yet another house I thought we'd live in didn't work out; a tired-of-waking-up-in-the-night with small coughing people wall -- a wall.

But this morning I woke to rain, and Eden's feet against my stomach, and her little voice saying, "my nose is snuffly."

And this evening, driving home from a three year old birthday party where we didn't know anyone and I could watch young parents stand in a garage drinking beer as an utter parody of young parents standing at a birthday party drinking beer, I made two wrong turns, and after my second U-turn Silas said, "well that awfully went well."

And tonight, I ended up playing Spit -- a game I haven't played in close to 20 years (!) -- at a friend's house. When we sat down, I couldn't begin to remember how the game worked -- how many cards? how do we lay them out? who starts? how do you win? But as soon as we started, my hands remembered instantly. A poet I studied with once talks about how memories are lodged in our bodies that we can only access through motion. She dances an hour every day to dislodge hers. I have only experienced this a few times: Last year I went roller skating for the first time in ages, and as soon as I hit a groove circling the rink, there she was -- 4th grade me with all her hope and wondering, circling the gymnasium in the sparkling lights. Tonight sitting cross-legged in socks with my girlfriend, racing to slap the smallest pile, I felt that same way.

Learning Languages

2010-11-18T22:23:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine, just posted what's below on her blog, and it so fully captivated a few things I've been thinking about:

About twice a week I’ll talk to my sister on the phone. And one of us will say, what’s new? And the other one will say, nothing. Oh, I bought that Anthropologie dress I was telling you about, the one with the blue flowers and the gorgeous neckline. And the first one will say, nice, have you worn it yet?

And that’s about how the conversation will go. Neither of us has any wildly exciting news. We don’t have anything we absolutely have to say. But that phone call, and hearing her voice on the other end of the phone, and telling her about the forgettable details of my life, those things are as important to me as telling her about the big stuff.

I do the same thing with my best friend. We’re online most of the day for most days, and usually we talk about the truly gripping details of our lives like, I have spaghetti squash leftovers for my lunch today and they’re not that great. Maybe I should heat them up more. It absolutely dumbfounds her husband how much we talk. And he knows us both, so that’s saying something.

I got to thinking about this after reading this lovely New York Times article about sisters. And as much as it’s true with my sister, I think there’s a bigger point here. It’s important to me, on a human level, to feel that I have a witness to my life. I think this is one of those fundamental basic needs. I need to feel that I connect to people and that they understand me. When we’re talking about dresses and lunch, we’re validating each other’s experiences of the world, even if it’s in an incredibly mundane way.

Like Hannah, I love details. I love to touch base throughout a day, to know how a meeting went, what's for snack, what unexpected thing popped up, what color the new throw pillows are, what the teacher said at parent-teacher conference, which restaurant for lunch, who was at happy hour, the next minute step in the decision process. For me, the details are intimate and visually connect me to someone I love, and the process of sharing them with me specifically (rather than on facebook or a blog) feels an affirmation, itself. And what a relief and gift it is to have someone to receive my own details -- to, yes, feel that someone is journeying closely along with me -- particularly in these years when I am alone with children so often -- and is witness to my life. In my language, details = love.

These days, though, I'm working to learn other languages because the fact is, of course, not everyone loves detail-sharing, nor is it always possible, or, hard for me to believe, even desired -- Ben for example could live happily with a select few details.

This is not revelation. This is not at all new. One of my best friends from college speaks an utterly different language than I do. This has always been the case. And yet, without fail, despite myself, I expect her to invite me into details and live in constant contact -- because she loves me, and in my little dictionary, that's what love looks like. And even though I know she's never communicated like that for long, I feel the shock of her silence every time.

When it happened this last time, I realized I need to coax my stubborn programmed heart into multilingual living, into allowing love, spoken even in an abrasive tongue, still to be love. And it's hard. My defenses fly up instantly and shout their interpretation -- difference = indifference. I'm trying to hear the clear thoughts beneath. My goddaughter, Madeleine, started French immersion kindergarten this year. Two months into it, she can already turn to the French word before the English; I am taking this as hope.

Summary

2010-11-18T22:06:00.000-08:00

Today: no school for Silas. no run because I didn't want to push a heavy stroller. no Ben because he's on a trip. a big Target trip. a run-in with a friend there that enabled me to survive herding hungry children and hungry self through the rest of our list and through check-out. a douse of hope about a house we may or may not soon live in. a sunny hour on the beach making sand milkshakes and sitting nose-to-nose. a relief to be playing instead of preoccupied. a kind neighbor who lent me his phone charger. another kind neighbor who knocked on my door to tell me my keys were in the lock. a tiff with my mom on a dying cell phone. a dinner of spaghetti with cauliflower, crumbled bacon and Parmesan. a daughter who refused shoes all day, yet wore tights and sneakers on the sand. a son who stepped in to do everything right whenever he saw me become impatient. an achy-ness, wanting to love him fully and deeply enough. sitting on the couch to watch the office with tea, hot cookies, and a friend. a clock that reads too late. tired eyes and a spinning head.

Filling the Tanks

2010-11-09T08:32:00.000-08:00

A friend once told me about the concept of "filling the tanks" of kids -- the idea that often their acting poorly is their non-prefrontal-cortex-way of articulating their need for our attention, for their tanks to be filled. The conscious mothering class I took last year taught the same thing -- try to give your kids 15 minutes of undivided attention two or three times a day. 15 minutes doesn't sound like a lot to ask, and yet, mid-house hunting, it is. And Silas, for one, has felt my distraction.

The result has been explosive tantrums, the likes of which I've never seen before -- top-of-the-lung screaming, banging the floor etc. This morning, all before 6:40 AM, he melted over having no clean shorts to wear, over not apologizing after hitting me, over being misunderstood because the hitting was an accident.

So, though I wanted to lock him in his room and tell him he couldn't eat this morning or come downstairs, I decided to take him out for breakfast, just the two of us, in hopes of "filling his tank." He took some deep breaths, agreed to put on pants, found his shoes, and in light of the invitation, alone, practically danced out of the house.

Snuggled next to me in a booth, eating our banana pecan waffle with whipped cream, he kept looking up at me with a little squinting smile saying, "I love you mama." He nuzzled against my arm as he circled letters on his paper place mat and connected the dots with a blue crayon. We talked about meltdowns, about how he'd had a lot this week, and about what he might do to help himself when they start. As he was putting another forkful in his mouth, he said, "when we finish eating, let's stay here and keep talking."

As we left Coco's, he teetered along a balance beam wall, and an hour later, he climbed into his friend's car and left for school smiling and waving.

House Hunting, again

2010-11-06T14:42:00.001-07:00

We took a break for a while, but Ben and I are officially house hunting again.

What that means for the most part is that Eden and I, or Silas Eden and I spend a good chunk of time every day driving the neighborhoods looking for signs that I strain to see and dial as I drift nearly into parked cars lining the road. On good days, this hunting also means we tour empty houses.

Between the ages of 11 and 16, I followed my parents through dozens of houses. I remember racing through wide open living rooms with my brothers and finding passageways to the attics. For the 20 minutes we explored a new house, we could be children about to stumble into Narnia or to find an old letter hidden under floorboards, a hint of the history lingering in an empty old space.

Last week, we went down to the beach to look at a wee bit too expensive house a few blocks from the ocean. The man showing it, though he has three grown kids of his own, barely broke a smile the whole time as he led me up and down the stairs. More than once, as we walked down a hall or into a new room, I heard a cupboard door rattle and saw Silas's head pop out with an "AHH!" (he is working on scaring me). I may have been the only one amused.

On Friday, I looked at a house that I actually loved a lot of things about -- tiny but endearing, old with a brick fireplace and double-hung windows. By the time I called Ben to see when he could come look at it, the kids were barefoot in the yard collecting "pixie dust" (which I think was seed pods) and finding, what Eden called "ant eaters" (some kind of bug with a pincher? unclear). Ben couldn't come for another hour and a half, but the kids were so happy that I decided to wait. We literally played house for an hour. The realtor, who was starving, dashed to the grocery store and came back with bags of lunchables (he is Silas's hero), goldfish, apples (which remained untouched), and cheese sticks.

There have been houses that smelled like old rug and "party" (Ben's term for the smell of houses in college post-party). There have been houses with just dirt and gravel in the yard. A house that shared a garage with old old people next door. A house as dark as an alley. A house with an enchanted backyard and perfect treehouse but that didn't have a shower at all, just a single sunken tub. Many locked houses where I've left the kids buckled in the running car while I climb garden fences and press my forehead to the windows for a peek.

The other day, I parked in an alley and pulled the kids out of the car so we could walk around to the front door. Immediately, Eden walked up to the filthy garage door, put her hand on it, and said absently, "this is a beautiful house." Yes, they have been dragged through many houses. A

Off I go again right now to see a couple of more. I am learning patience, and something, too, about surrender; it's hard to reign in that child-like thrill of possibility standing in an empty place and to allow these houses to come and go, hard to trust that on the right day (which may not even this month), we will find our house.

More on the Pony

2010-11-01T14:20:00.000-07:00

I laughed today realizing that I'd said we trick-or-treated with a pony so matter of factly. There is nothing matter of fact about trick-or-treating with a pony. Explanation: our friends live in an equestrian neighborhood tucked next to the bay. Their 6 year old's riding teacher told them that every year a family takes Rusty trick-or-treating but that this year no one had asked (the mad look in his eyes? the biting?) and did they want him. Of course, they did, especially since their son was a knight. And of course, we wanted to come, too.

Halloween

2010-10-31T20:33:00.000-07:00

Our family: a flying dragon is sitting on Ben's shoulders (a costume he was originally building for Silas but it ended up weighing more than Silas, so it became Ben's -- marionette wings and a head on strings that turns. I love Ben -- he surprises me).
We trick-or-treated with mini yoda, mini darth vader (dark neighbor), a princess, bumblebee, cowgirl, knight, bee keeper, pink horse, and yellow belt kung fu fighter. And a pony named Rusty. Who, it turns out, bites and is moody (see those feisty eyes?)
but at least carries children well.

Eden wanted to be Ariel the mermaid, but much more important than any dress was a red wig. I think she watched herself in the mirror for 20 straight minutes. Fortunately I took these pictures Oct 30th because inexplicably on Halloween, she abandoned the wig all together.

The pirate has taken Ariel captive. (You can imagine the kind of torment this game led to for days before Halloween, though here you can tell Eden loves it).

More than Catch my Breath

2010-10-25T21:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I don't realize I'm running around like a chicken with its head cut off.
Maybe because my head is cut off.

But this weekend, in the middle of that running, my mom came to town.

My mom makes space. Slows it all down. Helps me find my head. Helps me unpack my suitcase that's been stubbornly sitting on the floor of my room for 3 1/2 weeks (it really had).

It's a little bit like a superpower, her giving space; when she's here tasks suddenly feel possible, and before I know it, I've unpacked, reorganized all the drawers in my room, cleaned out the entire storage closet, piled 5 huge bags for Goodwill by the door, organized my loft, folded all the laundry, carried armloads of coats and sweatshirts from the car, and she and Silas are laughing in the living room. Like I said, it's a superpower she brings, or spell.

There is much more to say about our time together, but my eyes are closing as I type. It's time for sleep -- sleep, I should mention, on new *comfortable* memory foam that we'd wanted for a long time but had never gotten until my mom came and, once again, idea bloomed to action in our hands.

Sometimes we just need another person. Sometimes we just need a mom.
(thank you!!)

The Power of Posture

2010-10-19T13:32:00.001-07:00

This morning was an awful morning. One of the worst. The kind of morning I wish I could erase for all of us. Eden screamed a new high-pitched hysteric scream and wrestled out of her clothes. Silas's need unraveled into whining and finally scream-sobbing. My patience snapped like a twig and fire roared out. The skies poured and rumbled with thunder. Needs were cross-firing and I pulled over mid-drive and got out to cool off.

Finally, 30 minutes late, in rain boots and raincoats, I got Silas to his classroom, I got Eden to the nursery, and I walked into yoga late and unrolled my wrinkled mat. Instantly I was sweating, focusing on balance, on the floor beneath my feet, on the movements between poses, my muscles shaking. About twenty minutes in, we paused in child's pose, body bowed, forehead to the mat, arms extended. The teacher said, "remember your prayer from the beginning of class, your intention; come to that now." I, of course, had missed the beginning of the class and hadn't assigning any sort of purpose to my practice, but as I lay pressed to the floor, and the word sorry rushed in and hot tears ran into my sweaty hairline.

In a few breaths, our faces were lifted to the ceiling again, arms extended, and my mind focused again on moving. But throughout the class, each time we lay against the ground and bowed our foreheads to the floor, my sadness unlocked again.

I've never before accessed emotion through posture, but I wonder what I wouldn't have felt if I had stayed standing on my own feet.

Why!

2010-10-13T09:52:00.001-07:00

While Silas was just throwing up, in between gags he started crying out: Why? WHy ! WHY?!

Amazing that even a 4 year old asks the question we all ache with when we hurt.

Throw Up (lessons in not-doing)

2010-10-13T08:14:00.001-07:00

I am not at Coco's eating pancakes with whipped butter. I am at my kitchen table. I am not on my way to Disneyland, as planned, with family. I am at my kitchen table. We are in throw-up land. The past 4 1/2 years, somehow, throw-up land has been a far off place. But now we know all about going there every 20 minutes til 4 a.m. and every 45 minutes after that. So while Silas lies on the couch watching Toy Story 2, I sit at my kitchen table with coffee, a piece of toast with almond butter, honey and banana, and a glass of water.

What I marveled at throughout the night, besides the persistence of Silas's little body to expunge whatever it's trying to expunge, was, once again, how quickly Ben and I wanted to *fix* it. We tried to name it -- food poisoning? flu? Rota virus? We lay in the dead of night googling symptoms. We looked for pepto bismol under the sink (which clearly wouldn't have stayed down). We tried to plan for today and mentally reorganize it before we even knew what the morning would bring. In between the floating dreams of light sleep and kneeling next to Silas, we tried to figure out how to fix this.

We do have a LOT of information. And a LOT of bottles of pink and purple medicine in the pediatric aisle at the drugstore. And we do feast off of instant-gratification much of our days. So it makes sense, I suppose, that our gut impulse is to get up and DO.

But, of course, there is nothing to do.

So Ben and Eden have left for Coco's and Disneyland, and Silas and I are sitting in our little house, watching and waiting, and not doing.

To Inscribe Against our Vanishing

2010-10-05T14:41:00.001-07:00

Sunday afternoon, on a plane ride from DC, I started Anne Lamott's newest book, Imperfect Birds. I should add here that I adore Anne Lamott and have read nearly everything she's written. But after the first two chapters, I had to close the book and, today, returned it to the library. It's about her character Rosie (whom she's written several books about) in high school, now, toying with cocaine, sex, acid, prescription drugs, love affairs, fitting in; and about Rosie's mom, whose head we maze through as she worries about what she knows, doesn't know, and allows for this girl-woman who is so much a part of her and who exists so completely apart from her. She aches and obsesses. I ached and obsessed as I read, nearly holding my breath. It was all too intense and fear-inducing, imagining my little people flung into the wild world. So I closed the book and picked up a pen instead:

I don't have babies anymore. Looking at Eden the other day in her bed -- Eden who constantly says things like, when I grow and grow and am a woman can I drink that coffee? -- I thought she was Silas, her body so long. And Silas, his lanky legs and boyish face has long since moved on from babyhood all together. We are at the juncture between having babies and real kids. It's a change, and changes tend to wring me out. I daily flip-flop between holding my breath, trying to stand perfectly still and SEE them, and wildly trying to gulp all the air in the room, open every pore to absorb these days -- the way Eden's standing by the piano, her 2-year-old run, the way she wraps her arms snugly around my back and holds on hard, Silas 's muttering as he builds with legos and blasts his creation into space, the sounds of words in his 4 1/2-year-old mouth, the way he can't say his R's, the little blond hairs on his legs.

And since I can't really do either, memorize them in their momentary entirety nor absorb every sensation of today, I find myself, here on the plane flying back to them after three nights away, writing portraits. Describing them is writing a kind of love letter, a kind of photograph, a way of cutting off the movies that start flickering in my head about the future with all of the sparking what-if's, a way, perhaps, both to hold still and to absorb.

This weekend I heard Ed Hirsch, quoting Allen Grossman, say that we write to inscribe something against our vanishing, that the urgency to create is really about leaving a mark and speaking into the future. Ultimately, it is a response to the knowledge -- the unbearable parts of it -- that we will die, to our own mortality. He articulated it beautifully and sitting here holding Silas and Eden in my head, having not touched their little arms and faces for days, I feel it well.