Crabby Mama

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.