sillymortalmama

wherein i reveal why exactly it is that women are so soft and fabulous.

2012-01-26T05:33:00.000-08:00

so every year at this time i start getting it in my head that i want to have another baby. every.single.year. at the same time. like the flu. or taxes.

i start noticing cherubic toddler cheeks peeking out from knit caps. i see babies in strollers and long to pick them up. i don't, but i really really want to. because hormones make you crazy. i always think about that when i read news accounts of women who go nuts and do crazy things. i wonder...

i look at old baby pictures of the boybarians and remember ONLY THE GOOD TIMES. never the times i wanted to run away screaming or leave my kids in the free pile or considered implementing mama happy hour at 8:30 in the morning.

i think about how beautiful and sexy pregnant women are. how the clothes are WAY cuter now than they were 16 years ago. or that magical few months when you feel like liquid gold. mainly because you don't feel like shit 24 hours a day anymore. like how not getting hit in the head with a board feels so good after it stops. after the nausea, before the cankles.

i never think about that. how sick i am for four months solid or how i gain 85 pounds when i'm pregnant or how having another baby could literally kill me. not 'literally' like a drunk college girl uses the world either. like kill me dead. you'd think that would be a deal breaker for even thinking about it right there. but apparently not. silly mortals are weird that way.

or that i'd have another bunch of breastfeeding and co-sleeping and homeschooling years ahead of me. when frankly i'm lucky my boobs and my sanity have weathered the first two rounds as well as they have. nope. all i'm thinking about is how amazing it is to hold a brand new baby.

a little revisionist history. you know, like how texas writes their textbooks.

it's a bad idea. for me. for all the reasons i listed. and it's not gonna happen. but it doesn't mean it *can't.* and that's the scary part right there. one false move. one too many cocktails. paired with the goosh that is my brain thinking about it for a good part of the new year. it's a minefield out there. (this is the part wherein the husband stops reading and seriously reconsiders our romantic evening out tomorrow for his birthday. might as well file this under 'how not to flirt 101.')

so i was thinking about it this morning while i was staring out the window at, i kid you not, a toddler playing with a puppy! AACK! and it hit me. it's JUST BIOLOGY. that's it. that's all. it's not a need or a want or a loss of a possibility. it's not a choice to make. i mean it is, for some, but not for me. i made my choice. BUT there's still that little matter of 'the childbearing years.' just because your head and heart make a decision doesn't mean your body will go along with it. it's hardwired for what it's hardwired for.

(which explains SO MUCH. mainly bad boyfriend choices. but that's another post.)

it's just what happens when you're born a girl. it starts early and goes late and then it's gone. in the meantime you've got decades of TRYING NOT to get pregnant then TRYING TO get pregnant then TRYING NOT to get pregnant again. that's if you've decided to have kids. and that's if it all goes swimmingly. for some it doesn't. for some it's a heartbreaking and horrific ordeal.

basically it's an amazing, magical, fucked up process. and it goes on SO LONG. and there's next to nothing we can do about it. and it spills over into so many parts of our lives. sometimes all of them. and it may or may not have been responsible for a few tense words and a box of popsicles being thrown against the wall in the late 90s. good lord it's a wonder we don't all end up in a corner rocking back and forth. more.

OF COURSE i'm going to be affected by the cute and the cuddly and the memories of how wonderful newborns and toddlers and preschoolers are. how watching your child grow is the most awe inspiring heartbreaking thing you can ever do. who wouldn't want that again? then pair all that with all that biology and BAM! another baby at 40 coming off the worst year of my life coupled with the fact that i haven't exactly gotten around to losing all of the baby weight from the last baby (who is now 11) yet seems like a *fine* idea. oh. and i forgot about the kill me dead part. again.

god. just thinking about it makes me want to re-consider the implementation of the 8:30 a.m. mama happy hour.

so there you have it. and i share this all with you to put it out to the universe. again. how it isn't gonna happen. i also share this all with you so that the next time you look at a woman just know that what you see is NEVER 'all' of what you get. there's a lot going on underneath that skin. a LOT. so allowing a bit of latitude for how that translates 'behavior wise' is always appreciated. because sometimes we can't help going bat shit crazy. can.not.help.it.

THAT'S why they make us so soft and fabulous on the outside.

it's survival of the species. it's also why they make toddlers and puppies so cute.

and wine.

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2012-01-24T05:08:00.000-08:00

a friend on a certain social networking site posted something a few days ago about how we are all beautiful. and how people can't accept being told they're beautiful. they simply don't believe it. but they should. i'm likely paraphrasing terribly, but that's the gist.

i've been thinking about that the past few days. about how beauty really is in the eye of the beholder. that it really does come from inside. but most of us have a hard time imagining that could ever be applied to 'us.' me? beautiful? nawwwww. and i'd have to say it's because in this culture the *beauty* we truly *prize* is that which is nearly unattainable by the masses. not to mention nearly unsustainable over the long haul we call life. so as we get older it becomes less believable. who? me? but i'm 40? i'm 38? 57? my stomach isn't flat and i have grey hair. beautiful? nawwwww.

why is that? why can't we just be beautiful to the people who find us beautiful?

i suppose it's the same reason we exercise and watch what we eat to be 'thin' rather than 'healthy.' because in this culture 'thin' = 'healthy.'

how do any of us make it out alive i will never know. oh, that's right. we don't.

okay, anyway, moving right along...i was driving the husband to work this morning and noticed, as i always do on this drive, how many funeral homes i pass in the 5 miles there, and the 5 going home. how the fire station is always hopping.

and then i heard wingman pipe up from the backseat

'have you noticed all the flower shops are going out of business?'

death and tragedy can survive anything, but not the florists. apparently celebration is not sustainable over the long haul, either.

which got me thinking about beauty again. about how flowers make people happy. because they are beautiful. but not every flower is beautiful to every person. people have their favorites. but we can say, as a whole, flowers are beautiful. people are beautiful. especially the people we love.

when i see a friend i look at that face and it makes me happy. because i love them. because they are my friend. all my friends are beautiful. to me. and really, that's all that matters. right? right.

so thinking about beauty and the florists and friends i haven't seen i too long and how anything can happen at any moment. and mostly, does. we lose people. that's just a fact. they die. or they just leave. and you never see them again. ever. and what once was so hopeful and loving and special and heart tugging and amusing and fun lies in a kind of relationship ruins. that's just there. not often visited, but still there. still in the guidebook. even after all these years.

and my hand went to my heart and i was touched by this idea of the fragility of it all. kind of like a cosmic 'oh.' how the funeral homes and the fire stations will always do a brisk business while the florists must struggle to survive. no further than that, just thinking how very silly mortal this business of living is.

and i KID YOU NOT RIGHT THEN AND THERE the following song came on the radio. just like that. which just goes to prove everything is connected. and just as it should be. and is constantly circling about itself. and that life is the most amazing goddamned thing i can think of. even the silly mortal moments. all amazing.

you are beautiful. and if you were here i would throw my arms around you and whisper it in your ear. 'you are beautiful.' and then i would say 'HELLO!' and 'i realize that life goes fast and it's hard to make the good things last but you and me together here is a start.' and even though i'm not a hugger i would tighten my arms and hold on just a little bit longer. give those funeral homes and fire stations a run for their money. life really is too short for anything less. so here you go. your moment(s) of zen. enjoy!

be blessed,

x.

that's his story and he's sticking to it.

2012-01-20T06:38:00.000-08:00

so today wingman turns 11. he also just happens to be getting ready to go through a growth spurt.

i know i've talked about this before. how right before he goes through a growth spurt he does this regression thing. favoring old toys long since put away, reminiscing about when he was little, etc.

he doesn't want to get bigger. or older. he doesn't want to grow up. he doesn't want to be a teenager.

he wants to stay his size and his age. he is comfortable here. in a world where he can ignore the opposite sex and the existence of the 'inappropriate for his age.' he is safe here without the workaday worries and concerns he sees his older brother going through. he is happy here. with his legos and his video games and his mama and papa and his cats and his casually crafted perfect world.

he has seen how it can change. and does. seemingly in an instant. he watches his brother and has seen that rapid transformation. he has had a front row seat to how much it can change in just a year for an adult. he knows upheaval. he knows people die. he knows people get older. and with that comes all these 'things.' and he doesn't like what he sees. and even though he's shielded from the worst of the worries and we mostly spin it all towards the positive, he's not stupid. and very observant.

i indulge this. i meet him where he is. because you have one chance to be a child, and he's doing it the way he sees fit.

for his birthday he asked to get a happy meal. can i tell you how long it's been since he's asked for one of those? so long i can't actually remember. he says it's because the burgers 'always tasted better coming from the happy meal box.' because he likes the apple fries. and because he saw on television that they were offering hot wheels as the toy. he used to love hot wheels.

the other morning when i was sitting with the husband while he had his breakfast before work, and the duke was packed off to the bus for school i heard a strange noise from upstairs. wingman was supposed to be sleeping so i headed up to check it out. and i saw the door to his room ajar. and when i looked in i saw him lying on his stomach driving a hot wheels back and forth across the wooden floor. it's been years since he's had a hot wheel in his hand.

i remember leaving childhood behind. and was mostly glad to do so. good riddance and all that.

but what if your childhood is one marked by warmth and comfort and balloons on your birthday and bubbles in the summer your toes in the soft grass always with family and friends and pets you adore and cozy beds waiting for you to get tucked into. parents you love AND like and a brother you adore. what if you were the buddha baby and grew into the smiley cheerful much adored charming child. how could anyone ask you to leave that behind?

i ask you.

so for now i let him mostly be. there isn't anything either of us can do so i'm just going to let it do what it needs. this growing thing. he is a bright and engaged kid. he'll make his way. right now he just isn't keen to do it so quickly.

which brings out some critics. especially when people find out your 11 year old boy still likes stuffed animals. 'you still let him have stuffed animals?' that's when i choose to tell them he also likes anything that has cats printed stamped or glazed onto it. the more the merrier.

hey, i went through it all already. everything those crazy hippie parents do i did. people had their opinions then and they were welcome to them.

and when my boys each wore the salmon pink long sleeved undershirt (hand me down, so soft and cozy, practical) because that's what they grew into at the time people had their opinions and they were welcome to them. because boys don't wear pink. okay. check.

then there was the duke's barbie (he wanted it) and wingman's doll house (every single kid who came to our house, boy or girl young or old, ended up playing with that doll house) all of it. and don't get me started on the pink doll stroller. hand me down. perfect condition. and it got the babies from A to B. which is all it needs to do when you're three years old. it doesn't need to make a statement. it's a pink doll stroller. not a 'slippery slope.'

so i was making mistakes left and right. ruining my kids. this is me smiling. bless their hearts.

even with all the best intentions a lot of what parenting becomes is not about what the child needs but about what the parent wants to project. which is to say if children are an extension of us and our family then *surely* they should have their best most sophisticated step forward. always. right? their talents and accomplishments should be their calling card. and these should be crafted and honed and nurtured. and then everyone can truly see your child shine. and that's what people should see. the shine. everything else either slowly wiped out or hidden away. certainly not dragged out for company.

what *they* want to hear when they ask him or me questions is that he knows latin and greek and has a beautiful singing voice. that he's a talented artist. but what he will tell you about are his video games and his cats and how awesome the make it yourself touchscreen fountain drink dispenser is at five guys burgers and fries.

learning how to let go and let your children answer for themselves about who they are you definitely run the risk of appearing to have raised the 'least interesting child in the world.' it's okay. take a deep breath. you may curl your toes and want to jump in, but don't. this really is the good stuff.

i am all for talents and gifts in children. for earned bragging rights. for crowing about your kid. but i know there's absolutely no substitute on earth for your childhood. for just being 10. or 11. there's nothing that can replace it once it's happening and certainly not when it's gone.

so my kid is 11 and we're going for a happy meal and the hot wheel. he's got no room to sleep on his bed unless he moves all the stuffed animals. and he has an apron with a big fat smiley cat face on it. and he'd get another one if i let him (he doesn't *need* another one). it has a bunch of cats in chefs hats cooking, mixing, baking. there are butterflies here and there in the pattern. the butterflies are pink.

that's his story and he's sticking to it.

happy birthday, wingman!!! you are, simply, the best.

x.

it's 3 am. do you know what your thoughts are?

2012-01-19T10:18:00.000-08:00

taking down the christmas tree is something i have never enjoyed doing.

and i used to think it's because it was a LOT of hassle and work. and i'm lazy. which it is. and i am.

until i start to do it.

then it's like no big deal. and goes really quickly. and before i can say nutcracker i'm sweeping up needles and reclaiming precious living room space.

no. the real thing about taking down the christmas tree is that it has to be done. must be. really. because if you don't...and it stays up too long, people start to talk. never take it down and well, that's just a slippery slope all the way to crazy town. and more talk. from the people. you know, the people. who talk.

so it's not that it's *work* it's that it's *there.* sitting in the corner. just waiting to be dealt with. losing its charm with each day passed and ornament attack by the resident cats.

and even as you put it off all you can think about is how charming it all starts out. as most issues do. the search the find the decorating the sheer hopefulness of a christmas tree all lit up. how every year you proclaim it to be 'the nicest tree we've ever had.' until it's past all the charm. and becomes an issue.

and so it sits. losing needles and gathering dust and mentally pricking you each time you see it. hey, over here. it's january 7th. it's january 8th. 12th. last weekend came and went. and so on. and so forth. hey, over here.

you can't ignore the christmas tree. literally. like trying to ignore a mime dressed in drag. it never says a word but the noise is deafening. and a christmas tree doesn't go away on its own. ever. they never ever have. even in the urban legends. a christmas tree requires you to deal with it. always.

isn't it funny how we can camouflage so much in our life without ever touching the issue. the non christmas tree in the corner issues. the wake us up at 3 am thoughts. gain some weight? buy some spanx. drink too much? take advil and drink water. deceive the ones you love? promise yourself you won't do it again. act like an asshole? blame anything else but yourself. rob a bank? tell yourself it's the last time. get taxed at 15% when you're a qudrabillionillnionaire? well tell yourself you're stimulating the economy. asshole.

there are all kinds of thoughts to have at 3 am. and no two are the same. and it's easy to pretend that the things that wake us up at 3 am aren't really any big deal. because we think no one else can see them. because we think we can hide them. yeah.

i always tell my kids that to just do something is better than sitting and fretting over having to do it. doing is better than complaining about the need to get it done. like the dalai lama says, we create our own chaos. take a deep breath. take it bird by bird. you have plenty of time, but only if you start now. start where you are.

easy to tell other people. especially the people in your life who 'have' to listen to you.

just so we're clear...the christmas tree is down. and it was easier than i thought. and the ornaments are even more organized than they were last year. and, it was no big deal. really.

well then hell wouldn't it be nice if all the 3 am thoughts we have were christmas trees? without all the treading of water or touching bottom to get there? wouldn't it be nice if all our 3 am thoughts were just smack dab in the living room. and we HAD to deal with them. just like that. no excuses. and forcing our action.

(i have a sneaking suspicion they can be. we just put them up and decorate them in the out of the way places. where there's very little light and we are the only ones who ever go there. makes it easier to do nothing and always have company at 3 am. sigh.)

i don't know where i'm going with this, i just know it must be said. because i know i'm not the only one who wakes up at 3 am. or battles with the christmas tree in the corner only to find it's not that big of a deal.

and i know i'm not the only one who sometimes wishes it could all be like the christmas tree. and that when it comes down it's down. that we can handle it easily and quickly. after dinner and in time for prime time. packaging it up better that we did last time. sweeping up all the detritus and tossing it all away. done.

just like that.

how nice would that be?

yeah.

x.

why i believe in santa.

2011-12-24T13:20:00.000-08:00

i needed to run an errand to the drugstore. since it's christmas eve i headed out fearing the worst. turns out in my little corner of the world there was no traffic at all. so instead of turning to the drugstore i just kept driving.

i've been thinking about my father all day. missing my family terribly. missing home. and as i drove i thought about how much my father loved to drive. and about how much he loved christmas.

people have asked in the past why it is i 'let' my kids believe in santa claus. why i would lead them down the path of 'the big lie.' and i always chuckle because i believe in santa as much as my children. maybe even more.

i've made no secret that my childhood was a struggle. on many levels. when i was little there were times we had no heat or light. no electricity. once we did without a refrigerator for three months until my father could afford to replace it. i didn't get new school clothes until i started working at 13 and bought them myself. there were long stretches without a working vehicle. but we never went hungry and santa always came.

and the thing is, i *knew* from a very early age that the gifts under the tree weren't 'really' from santa. i just knew. but that never stopped me from lying in bed at night thinking about christmas and dreaming and wondering what santa would bring me. and even though i knew my father was responsible for pulling santa off and even though i knew we were ever on the margin, that there wasn't money for the basics at times, even though i knew this...santa always came. i don't know how, but he did. and every year it was like a christmas miracle. (i'm sure my father thought so, too.)

and that's how i learned to dream. to imagine that it could be different from what it is. that even though you can't always see it, it's there. possibility. it's there and it exists and the *only* thing you need is to believe.

and so my kids believe in santa. and i never stopped. and today while i was driving i was thinking about my father and santa and my heart was hurting so deeply i began to cry at a stoplight and knew i had to pull over. the light turned green and i made my way to the next driveway. and parked the car. and sobbed.

there's so much more to say here but i've said it all. and repeated it. and then said it again. this is such a humbling bumbling silly mortal process. and it sucks. and there are moments that REALLY suck. but i see the light, here and there. i know it ebbs and it flows, i know i know i know. that it won't get better, just different. i believe in the process. i trust that i'm right on track. but mostly i am just sad. today especially.

so i had my cry and wiped my tears. took the breath you take after sobbing deeply and looked around. and realized i was in a wendy's parking lot. and thought about a thanksgiving years ago when we lived with a baby duke in san francisco. and i was missing my family then, too. only it was because we moved a 1000 miles away, not 3000. and my father wasn't dead, just on the other end of the telephone.

and he asked me what we were going to do for thanksgiving and i told him we were going to wendy's. and he said oh honey, i hate to think of you guys eating at a fast food place on thanksgiving. and i chuckled. dad, i said, wendy is a friend of mine! we're eating at her house! and he chuckled.

so we spent that thanksgiving with wendy. wendy who had just the year earlier nursed the brand newly born duke while i spent two days receiving blood transfusions in the hospital barely able to sit up. when i couldn't, she did. and the re-telling of that story happened *just* today on a certain social networking site.

a wendy's parking lot. where i could most certainly get a cheeseburger. amazing. because if one was taking a quiz on sillymortalmama and got the question 'what is sillymortalmama's favorite food to eat after an emotional upset?' the answer to that would be 'a cheeseburger.'

ah life. sometimes it really is a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.

so i got out and got a cheeseburger and ate it in the parking lot of a wendy's on christmas eve so very far away from those i love the best with teary eyes and a broken heart.

and then, i felt better.

just like that.

so i wiped my mouth and dried my tears.

and then i drove home.

so it goes.

merry christmas.

be blessed,

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2011-11-17T06:26:00.000-08:00

(i am still talking about my loss. you have been warned.)

i believe in jackalopes. and the ability of the postal service still amazes me. how siri works i will never understand.

the fact that they put a man on the moon doesn't phase me. the fact that they can do that and still not be able to construct a plastic lid that fits over a paper cup properly does.

i don't believe in unicorns, but i believe that others believe in them and for them they exist. i do believe in dinosaurs, though. and i believe there are many higher powers and i will never ever stop believing there is a santa claus. and i believe in love at first sight and i believe it's never too late to find what you're looking for. and i believe that good people are capable of making terrible mistakes and still be good people.

i believe in forgiveness, but i don't believe in the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth across the board. sometimes it's better just to keep your mouth shut.

i believe in miracles. however small. however subtle.

i believe in the rope. you know, the one that comes dangling down from out of the blue. right when you need it most.

i believe in the mountains and valleys of a life. i am in a valley. i've been trying to come to grips with this past year. i'm not even going to pretend that this is one of those posts where i have a low and then find the high. this isn't like that.

today the husband asked me if we have any envelopes. he's been trying to pay bills. he gathered all the bills. then he needed stamps. then he said he realized he had no envelopes and kept forgetting until he went to send the bills. the process was taking forever.

'that's like a depressed person. that's how it is being depressed. everything seems to have five steps and usually i just get to step 1.5 and stop. the process eventually repeats itself until it gets to 5. so. there's that.'

i believe this will pass. i know it will. but what i can't wrap my head around is how different everything is. and how it will never be the same again.

usually i love beating a dead horse. if it's a story i really like or a point i'm trying to make, etc. but this feels over done. maybe if the year hadn't already been difficult then losing my father wouldn't be so awful.

i know that isn't true. because it's awful no matter how you slice it.

but how do you move past that loss? how. really. and i tell myself the thing i tell everyone who asks me the same thing about a million other losses human suffer everyday...time and distance. that's all. keep going, keep breathing and moving and eventually you come out the other side. you really really do.

only right now, i can't see that. because i'm not the one doling out the soothing words. i'm the one with the broken heart. i'm the one asking how? why? and lamenting how unfair it is. it's SO UNFAIR.

again, like with the house i KNOW it's not personal. i KNOW this. the world works the way it does and it's ours to react how we do. nothing more.

but it just seems so wrong. for someone to die so quickly and randomly and just...die. to no longer exist.

it seems so wrong to feel so incredibly sad. to miss someone so much. to be without the person who raised you.

i believe, folks, we have reached #4 of the phases of grief.

and the only door prize here seems to be a bottle. either in liquid form or pills. thankfully i've rejected both or else grief would be the least of our worries.

so what do you do when you feel so sad and broken? well. for me i get up and i don't go back to bed. i walk. i take great pleasure if a song i love comes on the radio, if it's sad i turn it. i learned that the hard way. (BAM! i ran into the back of the woman in front of me. i was stopped. so was she. both trying to merge. i thought she went. but i was teary and not paying attention. no damage for either of us. she was really sweet about it. but my god.) i cook. because under normal circumstances it's something i truly enjoy. and because when we are sad and our hearts are fragile there is nothing better than feeding the cracks and the tears with good wholesome food. and i try to do the normal stuff a normal person does.

but the fall reminds me of my father. and the days and weeks before we left the farm for good. at once fall is so hopeful and yet so melancholy. made even more so this year.

what do you do when you just can't go back to bed and cover your head? and what do you do when you do get to go to bed and you wake up in the middle of the night? nearly every night? writing poems in your head about how grief is like a house of cards and you want it to stop trembling or fall already. just pick one. pick.

it's like a battle every day to make sure this is all kept afloat. and some days are easier than others. and some days it's just so hard and sad. and my father is around every corner and in every expression the duke makes. and some days i can think about him and smile and some days i cry. and some days it's both at once. and it's like a war of the emotions. and there is no victor. but i keep going because the alternative is to give up. and just be in this place. that i've been in. and that i don't want to be in forever. or anymore. and i can't do that to myself or to my family.

move forward without missing a step on the path. yeah.

i suppose i could be approaching this all wrong. i mean, a normal person goes to therapy and gets a prescription and gets some aid for the rough patches. normal people don't try to general patton their way out of their shit. soldier on, baby. don't stop. i am my father's daughter. i would have made a good cowboy. a soldier cowboy.

(oh and thank you, well meaning people for your suggestions and concern. while it looks weird, it works for me)

there's a point to all of this. really. and here it is; all of this time i've been wondering how do you move past the pain of tremendous loss? and i saw glimpses of it here and there this past year after losing the house. then my father died and i couldn't imagine how that would look down the line. how? so i got all mired in that. and it compounded the grieving.

and then yesterday i was listening to NPR and there was an interview with michael stipe and mike mills on the demise of REM.

michael stipe was clearly in a more lamenting and contemplative place in discussing the matter than mike mills was. mills was being very deferential and sensitive to the situation (and stipe's attitude) while still being pragmatic and positive.

"I've been to a couple of shows since we made the announcement, and going to shows was not easy," Stipe says. "It was hard to watch friends, or to watch people who I admired, up there performing and think to myself, 'Wow, I only know that now from here — from standing in the audience.' "

"But it's not necessarily gone forever — it just won't be with the same people," Mills says, addressing Stipe. "I don't see you stopping making music forever. You have too much of a good gift for that. You'll be up there doing it with somebody, and I'll be up there doing it with somebody else, and it won't be what we had, but it will be what we have."

and it won't be what we had, but it will be what we have.

and all of a sudden, there was the rope.

the one that comes from out of the blue when you least expect it.

things are never going to be what they were. my father isn't going to come back and i will never be serenaded to sleep by the frogs in the pond in the back pasture again.

and of course i knew this, i am not drowning in magical thinking. i just didn't know what to put in those spaces. you know, the empty ones. the ones that no longer hold my father or my former life. that's what i was wondering. what do i put there?

it turns out there really isn't anything *to* put in those spaces.

but there are new spaces to be created. and filled. when i'm ready.

it will never be what i had, but it will always be what i have. and that's going to have to be enough. and, eventually, it will be. it's not, right now, but it will be. and that's it. that's all i got. that's the best i can do. which doesn't feel like much, right now, but it's a lot better than getting mired down in the wondering. trying to fill the un-fillable. it's a start. something to grab. something to hold.

in the meantime, i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen. enjoy.

"If a man does his best, what else is there?" General George S. Patton

x.

move the cutting board.

2011-10-27T06:07:00.000-07:00

i don't like my kitchen. i mean, i really don't like it.

which is not a good thing because i spend so much time in it.

it's not a bad kitchen. it's actually kinda cute. i guess. except that it was filthy when i moved in. which pissed me off. the cabinet full of liquor left behind mitigated that somewhat...but still.

plus, the rental ad touted it as a 'chef's kitchen.' so i was excited until i was standing in it and i was like, uhhh...chef's kitchen? chef who? chef boyardee?

i have always maintained it's not the kitchen, but the cook. if you can cook, you can cook anywhere. with any set up. but i REALLY do not like my kitchen.

because it's not my kitchen. in my house. 3200 miles away. and before you start rolling your eyes and stop reading because this is another maudlin post about how a sillymortalmama lost her house and can't let the fuck go...don't. because it's not. at least i think it's not. sometimes i don't know until the x. goes at the bottom what's going to come out. anyway...where was i?

oh yeah. okay, so i keep a running list in my head about all the shortcomings my kitchen now has. and i mutter them while i'm cooking in said kitchen. or hand washing the millionth tub of dishes that day (no dishwasher) or rescuing small items from the monster of a garbage disposal (not another measuring spoon! the tip top of the blender? great! sigh.) or battling ants and lack of space and the never learned to shop or cook bachelor sized refrigerator i could go on and on somebody slap me.

plus. it's charmless. my old kitchen had windows and light and space and the classical station was always on. in my kitchen now, it won't come in. the classical station. it's cold and the light is bad. plus the neighbors have full view of everything i do. but if i draw a shade then there's no light. somebody slap me. really.

okay. so yesterday i was sitting in the green chair in the corner by the window in the living room. thinking about how things are these days. how my life used to be. and how it is now. how i miss my house, my life before. and my dad. my family. and my friends. thanksgiving is coming and we are so far away. (it's okay. i'm still within time limits for grieving. for all of it. don't send the men in the white coats quite yet. unless of course they're here to clean. or tell me my hair looks pretty.)

i was thinking my favorite thoughts about how this house is too small and my office doesn't work and i can't find anything. good lord i do go on. and thinking about how i don't leave the house except to do things for other people. how i've lost my sparkle. and how hard it is without sparkle.

and i just sat there. wondering if this was it. you know, it. like this is your life from here on out. so get comfortable sister because you have arrived. in this house that's too small and in this life that's filled with loss. go you.

sigh.

(you know what's coming, right?)

and then i thought about something my cousin, dane posted on a certain social networking site earlier that day. i don't know why, as it didn't really fit with what was flitting about. but it kinda niggled in and held on so i went to the computer and looked it up.

*Positive and attractive feelings such as security and confidence are similar to their polar opposites insecurity and jealousy in that they often end up becoming self-fulfilling prophecies.*

not a new concept, but seen right when i needed it. holy shit. i'm fucking my own self up. yeah, those things happened. and it hurts. still. sure. life's rough. tell me about it. and i do tell y'all about it. but if you spend your time telling yourself how rough it is, well that's just dumb. crap. i know this. i do. why do i keep having to re-LEARN it. SOMEBODY SLAP ME.

i live here in this small house. in this life. i live here now. i won't have a different kitchen anytime soon. i won't see my family for thanksgiving. or go a day without missing people anytime soon. it's not going to happen. so what am i going to do about it?

indeed.

so i thought about my kitchen. why i focused on that i don't know, but that's what flitted in. and i wondered how in the world can i make it work. HURDLE. big hurdle.

and i swear the hand of the divine reached out and smacked me right in the ass. it hit me. (i mean the idea, not the metaphorical hand of the divine.) i got up i went into the kitchen and i grabbed the cutting board from where it always is for prep and i grabbed the onions and the garlic and the chilies from where they are by the oils and the cooking utensils the knives and the stove.

and i switched them.

i put the cutting board by the stove. i put the onions and garlic and chilies where the cutting board was.

i switched them.

and i discovered that prepping where i was was making me crazy. because there's no dishwasher so there are always dishes on the counter by where the prep space was. and no matter how often i do dishes it's ALWAYS a chaotic jumble right there. and the onions and garlic and chilies just spilled out onto the other counter making it impossible to use the space for anything but as a place to have STUFF.

so i switched them.

and i discovered a world of calm at the other counter. free of chaos. closer to the stove. walking across the kitchen with what i prepped to the stove was making me crazy. and it was stupid. why did i not see it before?

because i set that kitchen up in a haze of loss. through tears and irritation.

and i never revisited that. never once saw what i had done, and was continuing to do to myself.

and you know what else? with the onions and garlic and chilies gone the classical station comes in loud and clear. i kid you not. isn't that something? if i could make shit up like this i would. and make millions.

and then the husband moved the under cabinet light to the new prep space and it's the best lighting we've ever had. and it was a pleasure to be in the kitchen last night. and this morning making breakfast and preparing lunches with dvorak on the radio i actually found myself humming.

i don't hum.

sparkle. sparkle.

i'm fond of saying it's the little things. that the big things are never really what do you in. because you can see them coming. and you HAVE to deal with them. so you just do. it's the little things that do you in. swooping in totally out of the blue and leaving you lying broken on the floor.

like a stupid cutting board in the wrong place.

and it does make me wonder where else i can 'move the cutting board.' i mean shit, where to start, right? every one of us has that running list in our heads. but what if instead of letting it hang us up because we'll never tick everything off, what if we abandon the idea of ticking those items off altogether? what if instead of ticking we go for tweaking? just a bit here. a bit there. you aren't going to have a different kitchen soon? fine. move the cutting board.

it seems simplistic, sure. but the moment we decide to let our lives be about the 'positive and attractive feelings,' quit muttering our lists aloud, let our lives be about the small tweaks to get us to the next step, about tweaking *instead* of ticking, that's the moment we don't define our lives by 'this moment.'

life is made up of a string of moments. no one moment defines us. so why should we let it?

we shouldn't.

sparkle. sparkle.

so that's my story. i moved the cutting board. one foot in front of the other. lather rinse repeat.

x.

loss, language, and a love letter.

2011-10-17T07:40:00.000-07:00

be warned. i go off into the weeds in this one. really. i make blanket generalizations and assume a lot about what people do and do not do anymore. so if you have anything better to do i'd suggest doing it.

it started with andy rooney and morley safer on 60 minutes. okay, it started with my father dying...but the actual can't keep back the choking sobs started with andy rooney's farewell interview on 60 minutes a few weeks back.

i know what you're thinking, she's not going off into the weeds, she's smoking weed! (and yes, people still say weed. i know because i asked.) but bear with me. or go clean your fridge. it's up to you.

anyway, i couldn't get enough of listening to the two of them talk. the language. the timbre of their voices. like discovering full fat butter after growing up on tubs of country crock. and i got up and left the room and went to the bathroom and shut the door and started to sob.

people don't speak like that anymore.

and then i heard harry belafonte being interviewed on npr. and i got the same feeling. like i could listen to him forever. again, the richness of his language, the thoughtful way he spoke, you could feel his heart in his words. and i tried to keep the tears back while i made my way through traffic.

people don't speak like that anymore.

my father spoke like that.

i miss that about my father.

i miss my father.

he drove me crazy when he monologued when i was younger, but as i got older i appreciated our conversations. well, mostly. he could still drive me crazy. and during our last visit i spent it mostly listening to him speak. about everything and nothing. just soaking it in. and as his days here on earth waned i appreciated hearing from him on the telephone. just hearing his voice.

i wish i had recorded him.

my father could hold a whole conversation with himself and still keep you engaged. he knew words and meanings and phrases no one else did, and he strung them together so beautifully. and his voice. it was deep and rich, and he knew how to pause, and to dip, and to draw out and it was like a perfectly coordinated dance.

people don't speak like that anymore.

people don't use language anymore. they don't have conversations. they just talk. text. type. they don't pull words out of their head in mid conversation and float them out there in hopes that they convey what they mean them to. typing and spell check and delete makes everything more crafted and less interesting. at least less spontaneous.

not my father, language was and remained incredibly important to him. he got it from his own mother, this idea that words always meant something. everything. the idea that you don't just toss words about, and that you don't use a cheap and easy word when there are so many magnificent ones to choose from. that you don't abuse language. ever. even as he was being admitted into a strange nursing home room that he was certain to know would be the last room he would know, my younger sister and i were admonished for our use of language with the nurse. he felt we were in poor taste and being crass.

and whenever i think about this i can't hold back the sobs. because i won't hear him again.

and i think about kids these days, and young adults and how no one really has conversations anymore. and i know there is merit in the use of screens and text, and that life changes, and we adapt, but i can't help but mourn real live conversation.

but who am i to talk. pun intended. when i lost my house and had to move so far i all but stopped speaking on the telephone. and since my father died even more so. i can't think of what i would say if someone asked how i was doing. i can't find one more way to say 'okay' and not start sobbing and put us all in that awkward moment. people get tired of grief. they don't know what to do with it. and so i don't force the issue. i figure if i jaw on about in my blog it's their fault if they read. ;)

which makes it even more lonesome to be so far away from family and friends, people with whom i talked with. not only on the phone, but in actual person, on holidays, and during bbqs at the farm. i don't have that here. a bit, here and there, but not on the regular. like it used to be. and the more the year catches up with me and the more grief i bear the less i want to speak.

but i remember conversation. especially when i was younger. and there were few responsibilities and no social media and no one ever lost a house or a parent and hanging out and talking with friends was the best time ever. real live conversation. jesus, i sound old.

and i remember one of my very favorite people to have a conversation with was my friend kelly. he and i used to talk.all.the.time. sometimes for hours. there was this little park in our hometown we had our own nickname for and we'd go there. and if it was nice we'd head out to where the park rose into a little knoll and we'd pick a spot just shy of the top and we were off. if it was cold we'd sit in his car. it didn't matter. even if all we had was 10 minutes we'd take it.

we talked about everything and nothing. like you do when you're 16 and 17 and 18 and the world couldn't be more confusing and amusing. and if we weren't at the park we'd talk on the phone.

all of my friends were fabulous conversationalists, but kelly was my favorite. we were actually very different people, but he wasn't afraid to go to the places people are afraid to go in conversation because it's so unformed or new or scary. to explore those differences. and when you are a girl teenager or a boy teenager that's everything. because it meant being able to let go of some of the guard. and going to that place of being so sure you knew it all and yet none of it made any sense. and we could admit that. so, we did. and we'd try and figure it all out with words.

those conversations lasted for years, and then when we were apart we wrote letters. i hadn't thought about that in so long. but kelly was also my most constant letter writing companion.

and in those conversations and letters i learned what i thought about the world. and how that shaped who i was. was going to be. when you have everything floating around inside and you have someone who will not only listen, but respond, it's such a gift. especially someone so gifted with language. someone who understands the importance language.

and writing to kelly was some of the first 'writing' i did. i think because i always respected him as a person and a musician i was trying to make it to that level of being 'interesting enough.' and i found i had a voice when i wrote. plus, in some ways i suppose i was trying to impress him. and so i tapped into the writer in me to do so. all because i was under the misguided notion that he was cooler than me. we have since worked that misconception out. ;)

and yes, he talked about girls. and i talked boys. and we gossiped worse than two women over a backyard fence.

i always say my friends in high school saved me. i think my father thought so, too. he was grateful for my friendships, for what they gave me, and he loved my friends. he especially loved kelly. he once told me that kelly was the kind of boy he'd love for me to marry.

kelly and i did not date or grow up to marry. but there's something very sweet and precious about close friendships at that age. opposite sex or same sex friendships. i recently read an interview with jonah hill and he's talking about the sleeping bag scene at the end of 'superbad' (which is my favorite, BTW) and he said "The great romance of your youth is your best friend at that age." and i am inclined to agree.

i am feeling especially fragile these days. and anything that reminds me that there was a 'before' to all of 'now' is so dear to me. and i don't want to stay so long here where it's sad and i have a hard time keeping the tears back. but i'm here and while i'm here i want to be reminded that things used to be sweet and precious. to be reminded of my father in the positive. not just gone. because it helps.

which brings this full circle, i hope...the other day kelly told me he was going to go by the house i grew up in. just drive by. a bit of a pilgrimage. and until he said that's what he was going to do i didn't know that that's what needed to be done. but of course it does. i've always said that kelly knew me before i knew myself. and it's because we sat on that grassy knoll for so many hours talking about everything and nothing at all.

dear kelly,

thank you. it made all the difference in the world.

and when you drive by the house pour one out for my father, wouldja?

with love,

x.

pretty smart.

2011-10-15T10:30:00.001-07:00

when i was in high school i believed i was not smart, not pretty, and i was pretty shy. i was surrounded by pretty, smart, and outgoing friends, so i covered this up with bravado, sarcasm, wit (no shortage of ego there ;) ), and really really short skirts.

why? because my father, who raised me, didn't ever really tell me i was. not in general, and not on the days it was obvious i was suffering with some sling or arrow of adolescence. not just for the sheer parental praise of it. not ever.

thus i spent my high school years with, at time, crippling self-esteem that extended well after high school.

before you feel sorry for how i felt about myself, don't. we, and by we i mean me and my younger self, worked that out. it got better.

but in high school? not so much. i couldn't figure out why i was in the advanced classes if i wasn't smart? (for everything except math. stupid math)

my grades were crap, even though i fully understood the material (for everything except math. stupid math) and at times was so bored i couldn't keep my eyes open. but i was not raised by someone who paid a lot, or really any, attention to grades, and test scores, and attendance. my father was so busy trying to keep the lights on and food in the house and his own demons at bay that i was on my own.

my father loved me and he did the best he could, but parental praise and educational participation were not his strong suits. which is funny because i always knew he was my biggest fan and the smartest guy in the room.

but, if you grow up incredibly shy, and grow up never hearing, 'you're pretty, you're smart' by the ones who love you best how do you know?

you don't. and you believe that you are neither of those things. and you proceed accordingly. and are graded accordingly. and you measure the boys who like you based on that they like you at all, and that brings your self-esteem up. and then you add in short skits and a smart mouth and if you weren't basically a good girl what a recipe for disaster, right?

thank god my low self-esteem 'mistakes' were made MUCH later. you know, in the days when you know a little more than you did in high school. making ALL the difference in the world. still not always pretty, but keeping you out of the places you shouldn't be in in the first place.

all right. where were we? oh. yeah. all about me. i SWEAR I HAVE A POINT. i do. really.

okay, so it took a LONG time for me to understand that how i felt was not how it really was. when it finally dawned on me that what i never heard from my father DIDN'T automatically mean the opposite was true, it was a light bulb turned on.

the reason i tell you all of this?

the duke is failing math.

and yes, they are related.

see, okay, he's getting a high D. so not technically 'failing.' but c'mon, there's not a lot of difference between a D and an F. well, except if you're me and it's two days before graduation and you just learned you failed the geometry class in your SECOND ATTEMPT taking it and you are most certainly not going to graduate and add to that your mother is already in town for the graduation and how can you NOT FREAKING GRADUATE YOU DUMBASS so you cry to your teacher with big wailing gasping sobs and he takes pity on you and gives you a D and you pass and now you can actually graduate and no one is the wiser. then. yes. it makes a difference.

in the duke's case, it's in a sophomore advanced algebra honors class. so. it's a tough class. but still, none of us can understand it? it doesn't add up. pardon the pun.

so there's that and here's a recent snippet of conversation:

'the kids in my history class are all really smart.'

'yeah? well. you're smart, too.'

'i am? i mean, i know i'm not dumb, but they are like, really REALLY smart.'

'um. you're really smart, too.'

'i am? like how?'

i just looked at him and he was getting his backpack together and the bus was going to come and so we left it at that.

when he left i was left with the thought that the duke does not think he's smart! he's in mostly honors, doing well in EVERYTHING but his math class and he doesn't think he's smart? how can that be?

because he was never part of the public school system with its segregated classes of 'smart' and 'regular.' because he never had several teachers at once telling him or demonstrating to him that this was the case. and because he never got progress reports or report cards or awards or spelling bees or labels from the school and from other kids. because when you homeschool there is no honor roll. because he wasn't ever part of that process he never had a clue.

did i tell him he was smart? sure. but not on the regular. because we spent so much time together and he did so well on all his work, and i would tell him he did well. and help him when he didn't. and because he understood what i was saying to him and what he was reading and he taught himself geometry and algebra and did high school latin and greek and french.

i just assumed he knew? he finally started getting graded in 7th & 8th grade and i would tell him he got all As, but that was a pretty abstract concept to a homeschooler. and because i never emphasized grades as much as comprehension and participation and dedication to learning, i guess it was even more abstract.

it was just never an issue.

so he goes to school. and he's in these classes. and he looks around. and based on what kids around him say about who is and who is not 'smart,' and now there's As AND A pluses and minuses and Bs and Cs and Ds and Fs and everyone is so hell bent on grades and percentages and splitting hairs about pluses and minuses and suddenly he doesn't think he's smart. or at least 'as smart' as the other kids in his class. even though they are ALL in the same class. he's lost some confidence.

and it's impacting him. even though it couldn't be further from the truth.

so. i got out every year-end cumulative test result from every year he took the test starting in the 3rd grade. every year in may i would take him for a two day standardized test proctored at a big creepy church in the middle of nowhere. and every june they would send the results and i would look at them and file them away. so i got those test results out. and when he came home i spread them out in front of him. and he looked at them. and he saw how highly he scored in everything every year. grades and grades above the present grade he was in. by 7th grade he was scoring post high school in every single subject.

i'm not telling you this to crow about my kid. i'm telling you this because i never told him. and i think i probably should have.

he was dumfounded. again, pardon the pun.

'why didn't you ever show me these? whenever i asked how i did you just said i did well.'

'i didn't show you these for the same reason i wouldn't have shown you these if you did poorly. they are a measure of a time. a few days in the month of may. they aren't the whole picture of who you are as a person or a student.'

'yeah. but they're pretty FREAKIN' awesome!'

'yes. you did well.'

'WELL? i'm like totally smart!'

i may have created a monster.

but at least he's a monster with a new healthy dose self-esteem that will hopefully serve him well. and hopefully in algebra. and hopefully soon. (he's got a plan in place. someone to help. they offered to move him down but he declined. 'i've already taken geometry. why would i take again just for a good grade? and moving to a lower algebra 2 class would mess up my whole schedule. so, i'm just going to do it.' good for him. fingers crossed)

look, being a teenager is so tough. just 'being' a teenager. and then you start measuring yourself against everyone around you. and if you find you come up short, and who doesn't, really, you grab and reach for whatever makes sense. to keep you afloat. to bolster you.

if the duke starts wearing really really short skirts i'm going to begin to worry.

and add to all this that pesky frontal lobe. throwing any logical reasonable thinking out the window when you need it the most. so you NEED your parents to believe in you. to support you. to tell you you are pretty and you are smart. and i'm not saying my father didn't believe in me, quite the opposite, but he never told me what i NEEDED to hear.

the duke is different. he knew even before seeing those test scores that he wasn't dumb. that he had the chops, and that he was doing well. BUT he was letting his perception that he couldn't possibly be as smart as his peers affect his performance. at least in math, and who knows how far it might extend as time and pressure wears on. simply because he hadn't grown up being told that 'this is what you are. you are smart.'

all i know is it's pretty darn hard to sit in a room full of people and feel like an idiot. to hang out with pretty friends and feel not pretty. for four years solid. to know there is something there, to you, in you, that is *more* than what you think of yourself, but not have access to it. just because you believe this one thing. just because you never heard differently.

i don't want that for the duke. i don't want him strutting around like he's gods gift to the educational system either, but i'd rather he feel empowered. and we'll see where that takes him. either way, i'm a proud mama. no matter the grade.

and yes, i told him that. he's been hearing that for years. :)

so there you have it.

and just in case no one ever told YOU;

you are pretty.

you are handsome.

and you are smart.

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2011-09-27T08:53:00.000-07:00

so wingman is sick. and i ask him where? he says his head. and i ask him how does it feel? he says his head 'feels sick.'

now. that may seem simplistic as he is 10, but i've always taught my kids to tell me exactly 'where' it hurts and 'how' it hurts. in words that are easily understandable by everyone. detailed description, however simplistic.

like the word 'stomachache' doesn't always cover what is actually going on. the stomach is a broad area to a child. where? point to it. how? do you feel seasick? do you feel like you've been punched? does it feel pinchy? or growly?

same with the word 'headache.' etc.

i learned that if they could tell me exactly where and how using language they understood then i could administer the best remedy. biggest complaints first and go from there. basic parenting.

okay, i have a point. i'm getting to it.

so his head doesn't hurt, it doesn't feel fuzzy, it just feels off. 'sick.' which i understand. even if i can't put my finger on it. he's not warm enough to worry about a temperature, he feels fine otherwise. but the BAD disposition percolating the last few days coupled with the glassy eyes this morning and his complaint leads me to believe we're on to something. so i sent him to bed and started a big pot of homemade chicken soup.

if he had said, 'i have a headache,' and if i had left it at that, he'd have some children's pain reliever in him and we'd be doing school. but that's not 'healing.' and being asked exactly how you feel and describing exactly how it feels is powerful to a person. to be asked. to be heard.

the beauty and power of language.

i was thinking about this as i pulled out the chicken. pasture raised, kosher, no antibiotics, etc. the words printed on the package gave me a specific view of the chicken i held in my hands. they told me that because of how it was raised, when this chicken sat in the pot for an hour with covered with water and a bit of vinegar added before cooking there would be more minerals and calcium to draw from the bones creating a healthier broth. and that because of how it was raised this chicken would produce more gelatin and give the soup more of the healing oomph that gelatin provides. everything from fighting the common cold to fighting delusions. a one stop wonder of healing! (that is, if you believe what you read about gelatin and pasture raised meat and chicken soup and if you're not a vegan or vegetarian ;) )

i make this soup with love. and when i tell wingman, 'i will make you a pot of soup' and when i hand wingman the bowl and say to him, 'i hope you feel better soon' he will feel the love in the soup and he will hear the love in my words. and that as much as anything will work to heal what ails him.

the power of language to have the power to heal.

which brings me to my point. i swear.

the duke told me the other day, chuckling, that his friend said to him that cupcakes are just 'slutty muffins.'

which is actually pretty funny.

but to which i said

'i don't like that word. slutty.'

'well, i don't either. i just thought it was funny.'

'it is. but you understand how derogatory the word slutty is, right?'

'yeah. i mean, i don't use it or anything.'

'but you did just now.'

'yeah.'

okay, i wasn't trying to be a bitch about it. (aaannnnddd. there's that word. bitch. a whole other story. sigh. oh language, you are nothing but trouble some days.) i told him i thought it was funny. and i'm inappropriate A LOT. i get offensive humor. to a point. i laugh. but only UP to a point.

BUT

i am also 40 years old.

the duke is 14.

so the other day if i had just laughed at the joke and left it at that then the chances of 'slutty' becoming part of the duke's lexicon would be higher than it is today. and he didn't ask for my opinion, but he got it. because i am a woman and because i am his mother.

and because language has the power to heal. as much as it has the power to hurt.

the duke is just figuring out how the world works. how being a 14 year old boy works. figuring out how what we SAY shapes how others SEE us. how what we HEAR & SEE shapes how we VIEW the world. language. words. images.

he's figuring out how this puzzle fits together. and how girls fit in at all.

and what drives that process? parents, friends, media.

okay, parents and friends have a LOT of influence, but let's face it, the media wins this race based on sheer face time and the ability to catch and release our young people more times in a day than any other thing or person can. to 'hook' them. over and over and over again. in just one 24 hour period. HA! yes. i just used a fishing reference as metaphor. perhaps successfully. i am as surprised as you are.

anyhow, this is for most of our young men and woman. not all. but most. and the media is driven by numbers and figures and bottom lines. and the bottom line is that because of this, the portrayal of women in the media is more often than not not terribly positive. and oftentimes downright exploitative.

and if the young men are getting most of their information about women from the media how is that going to work? because you and i know what's out there. this is in no way a new conversation. what's out there is what's always been out there, only getting more outrageous. more intense and shocking. condensing women to boobs, hips, lips. and no argument from me that these are indeed intriguing female qualities, but they are NOT AT ALL ALL THERE IS to a woman.

but how do the young men find this out? how do they get the other side of the story?

which brings us to the joke about the slutty muffins. which, is, like i said, pretty funny...but...

all right. i have a point. i do. and it's this. i think that language is very powerful. and i think young people need to be more educated about the world around them before they just fall into using certain words. that the images presented to our young people should be less condensed and more balanced. homemade soup made with love vs. canned soup: just add water. how is that food? to nourish and heal and grow? okay, i'm falling into judgment and more bad metaphors, but you get the picture.

these days it seems our young people are way more sophisticated than they are mature. maybe it's always been that way, maybe i'm just old. but i'm willing to bet that's not entirely the case. and i'm willing to bet it's creating a huge deficit of actual understanding. about members of the opposite sex, the same sex, about who we are. as individuals and a collective culture. about what we are capable of. all of us. even the ones with the boobs, hips, lips.

so. when the duke came home yesterday i showed him the following video. (props to my friend jodi for directing me to it.) because it has nothing and everything to do with the joke about the slutty muffins. because it's timely and it's a continuation of a long and developing conversation. because women are so intelligent and so capable and so beautiful and so fabulous and they are almost always more than what the media tells us they are. and i know that. and you know that. and i want my son to KNOW THAT, TOO.

so we continue the conversation. the one that begins with 'say, MA MA.' and continues with 'hot! ouch!' and 'please.' and 'thank you.' and 'i'm making you a pot of soup.' and 'i don't like that word.'

it is in that spirit i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen. it's a bit long, but well worth it when you get a spare 8 minutes. and if you happen to know a young woman or young man share it with them, too. (though, in fair warning, there are images that could be considered inappropriate viewing for teens in some families. the images are in context, but they are there. so. proceed accordingly.)

x.

dear person i like to pray to: this does not mean i think it's a good time to get knocked up. that would be never again. amen.

2011-09-16T04:35:00.000-07:00

they tell you in the books about how your teenager will change. they mention the moods and the frontal lobe and drugs and sex and rock and roll. they tell you how hard it will be and how to be cautious in your approach and how to be aggressive in your pursuits and how to bide your time and get through it and to listen and to provide and to support and to be present and on and on and on.

but they don't tell you how much you will miss your child. just simply miss him.

oh you know they're not that same little kid you used to know. and you love the teen they are now. you know that they won't initiate as many of the hugs, you know they will want to be with their friends more than you, that weekends are best when spent with their group. you were a teenager once. you know how it is.

and it's natural. and it happens every day. but now it's happening to me.

and i miss my kid.

i eat breakfast with him and dinner with him and hang out with him when he wants company for homework. and i'm not there when he doesn't want me there.

we make time to do family things.

but it simply is not the same.

because it used to be different.

and i know it's just a transition.

and things will change.

and there is a new normal on the horizon.

and it will be golden.

but right now, i miss my kid.

and they never mentioned this part. not once.

i had a baby. and now i have a teenager.

and some days i just need the world to be a little patient and let me catch up.

x.

take care of your eyes.

2011-09-12T05:09:00.000-07:00

my friend ingrid had a dream about me. i was splitting open milkweed pods and letting the wind take them.

this describes my grief as of late.

instead of crying when i want to i will feel it come and i will send it up and away. i don't know why this is. i am a champion crier. i cry at anything. and yet, i don't want to cry. be sad. think about it.at.all.

i am choosing to believe this is normal.

i've been thinking about my father a lot lately. i feel his presence with me even as i am completely certain i'm not fully understanding that he is actually gone.

there are things i need to do that aren't getting done. there is personal work and paper work and house work and LOTS of things i need to do that aren't getting done. this is depression. i know this. depression and grief. i am allowing it. even as i can't really stop it. we have an understanding.

yesterday we went to REI to buy sunglasses for me. i sat on my beloved smiths more than a year and a half ago and have lived with cheap/free crappy ones since then. my cheap gas station ones were stolen (nice work, idiot. how are those crappy sunglasses working out for you?) and my free with a box of vitamin ones i somehow LOST. i still don't know how. if i didn't know better i would think the husband lost them for me so i would be FORCED to get new sunglasses.

but i couldn't put it off any longer. and now i know why i did.

when i sat on my beloved smiths i was still estranged from my father. and then i wasn't. and then he got sick. and then he died. and i knew the place i would be going for sunglasses was REI to replace the smiths. not online, not to another store, because REI was the place to go. i lived in seattle nearly 20 years. that's just the place you go.

my father worked at REI for years and years. he fitted packs and sold stoves and recommended or didn't the fun gadgets and charmed customers with his tales and his twinkly eyes so that you couldn't quite figure out if he was pulling your leg or not. he won the coveted sales award one year. he was good. it was his element. he was even featured in a television report about REI. we joked he was the 'face' of REI. he was 'that' guy you see in every REI.

and, he sold the sunglasses. he loved to fit glasses to faces, he would flirt and cajole and the customers ate it up.

of course i didn't want to go buy sunglasses. didn't want to go to REI. not then. not now.

but i was out of sunglasses and out of options.

and when i went to the REI yesterday, across the country from the one where he worked, there was a guy my father's age working with the sunglasses. 'that' guy. REI is like that wherever you are. the same young girls in clothing, the older handsome woman in kayaks, floaters in books and maps. i drifted over to the cheaper glasses (made by smith at least, but under a different name and not as good.) because that's just how i roll. even as i heard my father's voice and felt the husband's push towards the smiths. 'take care of your eyes' my father would say. 'why would you put cheap glasses over your eyes for protection? they're your most valuable asset? take care of your eyes.'

i just wanted to grab a pair and get out of there. i hated the shape of my stupid face in the stupid mirror and i hated the selection of stupid smiths that weren't the ones i used to have that they didn't make anymore. it all felt scratchy and wrong. i felt teary.

and then i asked the guy working the counter a question about a pair and i swear to god he had to hold up the glasses to his ONE GOOD EYE and try to read what was on the side! he couldn't SEE! okay, a bit, from far away, with ONLY one eye.

a sunglass salesman who couldn't see.

this would have been one of my father's literary characters. this would be the kinda guy he'd make up and create a life for. imagine that, x, he would say. the guy sells glasses and HE CAN'T SEE!

all right. okay. hi, dad. i cracked a smile. i let my shoulders down a bit and ended up with the glasses i first saw, i liked them and they fit my face, and we left. i felt better. and OH MY GOD i cannot believe how much more relaxed my eyes were! i cannot believe i've been living with crappy sunglasses for so long. TAKE CARE OF YOUR EYES. i get it. i got it.

and then later when we were checking out at the brazilian market right there, on the ground, there was a penny. and then another. and another. they weren't there before, i swear they weren't. and then they were. just like that. all over. the duke and wingman and i kept finding them 'look i found another one!' nearly 10 in all. in just one spot. we were giddy. it's Pops! they said. yes, it is. it's Pops.

i guess this is how grief goes. you are sad and then you're not and then you're sad again. you take comfort in the signs however they come. lost sunglasses, lucky pennies. humor. you let it all sink in. you go with it. it's okay. or, it will be. you pick up the lucky penny, the wish having changed, but still there just the same.

you take care of your eyes and your heart does the rest. it distills the best of the person that you can remember and you take little sips here and there to sustain the momentum of moving forward.

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2011-09-09T05:12:00.000-07:00

from the time i was 13 until i was 19 i saw my mother less than a handful of times. maybe three. one of the times i saw her was for my high school graduation. then the two of us hit the road for a trip up the northern coast of california.

i am the middle child. my mother moved out when i was 8 and moved across the country when i was 13. and it occurred to me that i had never really been alone with my mother. and here we were. just the two of us.

my mother is the most fun when traveling. i discovered this on that trip. one day i'll have to tell you about our more recent trip to los angeles when her own mother was dying. let's just say it involved a HUGE ASS white on white cadillac and an incident that started with a safety deposit box and ended with me stuffing into my purse a plastic grocery bag full of not technically belonging to her (yet) jewels on the streets of east la. like the gypsies we totally are.

anyhow. back to the graduation trip. so we were headed up the coast. we stopped in oakland for breakfast. my mother was born in richmond and grew up in the bay area. but she was always more of an oakland girl than a san francisco girl. more east bay. those were her stomping grounds. with a mother who worked nights as a cocktail waitress and who was always in between husbands and adding kids, as a young girl my mother had lots of responsibility and maturity and very little supervision. she was a child of the neighborhoods, running with the gang, two little brothers in tow.

we made our way up highway 101, through cloverdale, stopping in booneville for something cold, driving through wine country and orchards and heat and continued up highway 128. towards highway 1 and the coast.

i had recently bought the album union by toni childs, but i think my mother had it, too, at any rate we were listening to one of our copies while we drove. we were chatting and reminiscing, the area we were headed to was our old stomping grounds. my favorite place. the place i lived with my mother, my whole family, intact. the way i remember it, the place where my mother was happiest.

now as you're driving on 128 you will go through a stand of trees. and when i say stand of trees please know that it is a majestic gorgeous band of redwoods. it's about oh 10 miles or so. and after winding and heat it's a welcome bit of straight and cool. we turned off the air conditioner and rolled our windows down. we were mostly quiet. listening to the music, enjoying the trees.

when you come out of the trees there's a bit of an estuary where the navarro river mixes with the ocean and then bam. there's the pacific ocean. just.right.there. and if you are me you KNOW it's going to be there because you've made this drive for as long as you remember breathing, but every time it feels like you've snuck up on it. because you can't see it through all the trees.

okay, so we are nearly out of the trees. and the song is ending on the tape. and as the music dies my mother asks

'where's the ocean?'

and i kid you not my hand to god THAT'S right when we came out of the trees to the estuary to the ocean. and it was right.there. like we snuck up on it. and i KID YOU NOT MY HAND TO GOD that's when 'where's the ocean' the LAST SONG ON THE TAPE starts playing!! and the very first line is 'WHERE'S THE OCEAN!!'

my mother looked at me and i looked at her and we couldn't speak so she took my hand and held it as she drove. she would not let it go.

as you may imagine there's a lot more to the story when it comes to my mother. and the stories aren't the same, as no two stories of the same circumstance ever are. she has hers and i have mine. and i'm not going to pretend in my story that as magical as it was that THAT'S the moment i knew i would be able to be totally 'okay' with her and the circumstances of our relationship. that it was right then that our mother/daughter relationship was cemented and firm. a magical musical moment that had the power to heal all. because it wasn't, and it didn't happen like that. that would come later, and i am happy to say that it did.

but i will say this, i remember the way my mother's hand felt in mine as we shared that moment of serendipity. as we looked out over the ocean we both loved, in a place we were both mostly happy. the only place i feel like that had ever really happened for the both of us. together. and please, when you hear the word happy remember the relativity of it. always.

and i did realize then that this meant something. this moment. that this person holding my hand represented a bond that i did not, could not share with any other person on earth. that she was my mother, and regardless of how it all played out, that was a fact that would never change. that and the fact that i love my mother.

so no matter what she did or what had happened, no matter the circumstances, the history...it was done. and that going forward, well, that was up to me now.

so, i held her hand back.

it is in that spirit i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen. <------ (psst. click
there)

there are songs on that album i love more, and this is more a love song than a mother/daughter sharing a moment song, but life isn't perfect and neither are the circumstances of the moments that make up that life. so, you take serendipity where you can find it and you try not to be too picky about it.

have a wonderful day. and if you can, call your mother. she'd probably like that.

x.

losing!!

2011-09-02T05:32:00.000-07:00

me again. i SWEAR i will make it up to you one day. i PROMISE.

all right, so we don't need to recap do we? regular readers know about 'the year of my loss' and for those who don't, check the 8th season DVD (still in progress).

okay, so it's a bit of a recap. call it a rerun. it's me. no dead horse left unbeaten. it's what i do.

so. i've made much of trying to move with and in and past loss and change. at least with the house. my father is so freshly 'gone' that i understand there is a process there. steps on the path. stages of grief. last night i think i was in stage #546 PEOPLE ANNOY ME WHEN THEY ARE IN MY EYESIGHT OR WITHIN EARSHOT. WHEN THEY BREATHE.

it's a real step. look it up.

anyhow, so there's a lot here. a lot going on. some days i am so close to tears i can taste them even as they don't fall. some days i just try to keep my mind occupied, my loss and grief in the abstract. most days i just wish for a break and carry on. did i mention it's been a tough year?

okay.

so yesterday.

wingman and i decided to get out of the house and walk down to get a slice of pizza. it was the end of our school week (we don't have school on fridays. ask me who's idea that was. ;) ) and what a weird week, two weeks, it had been. death, grieving, the duke no longer at home with us.

so much change. so much 'muchness.'

i swear wingman and i catch ourselves staring at each other, like empty-nesters. looking at each other, looking around, wondering what in the hell just happened here? for the whole time i've been homeschooling and wingman has been homeschooling the duke has been *here.* and now, it's just the two of us. just like that.

okay. it's NEVER 'just like that.' but you get the point. and really, when things finally happen, even though you know they will, it still feels 'just like that.'

anyhow, we needed to get out of the house. so we headed down the hill. wingman was chattering on about the thing that gives meaning to his life, link and the legend of zelda, and i was just amazed at how fine a day it was. the weather had finally turned for the better, the sky was blue, the clouds amazing.

and i know this sounds an AWFUL lot like other walks i've described, but i swear to you after a block i had to literally stop.in.my.tracks.

what was that?

i realized that it was so silent. in my head. in my heart. my gut.

there wasn't any buzzing or squeezing or continual knot tying.

it took me a minute to define it. and then i realized it was...calm. joy. relaxation. peace.

what is this? did someone slip little white pills in my trying to stave off an ulcer (true story) probiotic drink that morning?

'c'mon mama!'

i started walking again. and it felt like i was hi-IGH. like 'knocked up' seth rogan high. like this is fucking awesome.

here's the thing. i lost my house. yeah. but, and it doesn't make up for it but it's amazing nonetheless that when we lived on the farm i could NEVER EVER in a million years decide we needed to leave it right then and there and get a break and just put on our shoes and just leave out the door and just take a walk. and here we were. just heading out the door. taking a walk. wingman was trucking along, in a neighborhood he's getting really familiar with, saying hello to his favorite dog, thinking about his favorite slice two blocks away. we'd walk to the library after. and he was humming. the whole way.

and the buzzing and knot tying were gone when my father died. the past few months have been hell wondering when and if that phone would ring. bringing more bad news, no news, stasis, crisis. every day there was potential for absolute heartbreak. i knew the proverbial shoe would drop, but when? and not before kicking my ass first.

it was incredibly painful, crazy making, stressful. *refer to the ulcer above.

so here i was. knowing that was a hook i was no longer on and i could really and truly just enjoy the afternoon. for the first time in a long time. it was incredible.

and i started thinking about loss and its impact. how hard it is to bear. how much havoc it reeks. and yet. there is that point when the benefits show themselves. you've just got to be able to see them. and pull them into the process. because it can't be all about the loss. that's why it's a process.

a process that brings you to the good stuff. a process that HAS to include loss.

i literally hadn't been this relaxed in a very long time. we sat outside. wingman eating his slice.

(me with my almost ulcer NOT eating a slice. along with a blander diet, there is no alcohol or caffeine or ibuprofen. okay i cheated last night with a glass of wine after i ate. but i swear, really? no alcohol? i e-mailed the husband and i said

"no wine for awhile while i heal this ulcer. what will i do with all that free time? take up knitting? porn? "

he said knitting was too dangerous and voted for porn.)

okay, so we were sitting outside and wingman was eating and i was just...there. without the buzzing and squeezing and churning. just.there.

and i know there are ways to achieve this feeling by manufacturing the relaxation. and those are fine too. for a minute. constant whiskey and putting 'the boxer' on repeat helped the first few days after my father died. my doctor offered tranquilizers. she offered it all. i declined.

the worst moving across country road trip imaginable helped after losing my house. there's no way to feel pain when every day for 8 days is a fresh kinda road rash hell. complete with blizzards, police pull overs, and freshly severed deer heads. by the time we landed i was exhausted and still had to keep steady. for the boybarians, the family, the cats, the future. no shrugging for atlas.

(yes. the cats. who wants 4 fucked up cats? not me.)

so finding a break from the pain that is neither breaking me down or addiction worthy, even if just for an afternoon, is amazing and welcome.

because some places of peace you cannot stay in.

okay, this is an old story, you've heard it before, but bear with me a moment. when i gave birth to the duke i almost died. i had been in so much pain for so long. 36 hours of hard labor, 3 hours of hard pushing, no drugs, etc. etc. when my behemoth son emerged it was too much loss for my body to absorb. so, i started to bleed. it was as if someone turned on a faucet in the yard. and i bled more than the normal human (not pregnant) has in their body. and i floated up to the ceiling and watched the scene below.

god. i felt so good. so warm. so peaceful. it was easy, now. no more pain. i could observe the scene below without being the main attraction. big big sigh. big smile. but there was a problem. and the problem was that i saw the husband in the corner holding the duke. watching me bleed. watching me fade. watching his world fall apart in front of him.

the problem was that i was up on that ceiling alone. and i knew that that feeling of being absolutely pain free was ultimately false. because NOTHING is pain free without a price. ever. and i grabbed a fireman's hand and yanked him to my face and said

'look at me. talk to me. do not stop.'

'uh. okay, who's the president of the united states?'

'george clinton.'

'close enough.'

and then i knew i was saved.

cue the p-funk.

so i KNOW there is a way to be pain free. but there are a lot of ways to achieve it without bleeding out and floating up. and choosing to stay there.

i don't want to escape the pain only to end up in my own private idaho. so i took yesterday afternoon as my parting gift and absorbed it as much as i could.

of course by the evening my afternoon of peace gave way to melancholia and irritation and wondering if i would ever not be sad. about it all. *refer to grief stage #546 above.

lather rinse repeat. process. blah blah blah. so in life loss is inevitable and yes, necessary. you have to go through it to get through it. to understand. and to accept. and to benefit. and you just do it as long as you need to. it gets better and worse and better again. but it goes forward. in its own way. yours is to recognize it moving forward. however that presents itself.

and that whole thing about all you need is love. and only love prevails. i believe those. with all my heart. i also know that it's not as easy as all that. in the end, sure. but in the meantime? in the meantime it's two steps forward and one step back. it's messy and complicated. it's heartbreaking and crazy making.

and it's funny. because when you're in the thick of a situation that's so FUBAR you can't imagine it can get worse, and then, of course, it does, and you are so scared. you are in so much pain. you can't imagine ever feeling better. and then, you do.

just like that.

x.

so it goes - august 2011.

2011-08-28T10:57:00.000-07:00

the day my father died the weather turned. it had been so hot and humid and suddenly with dawn came overcast skies. a blessed breeze.

i had spent the whole night curled up on the couch with my phone to my ear, the phone in my father's room on his pillow, just listening to him breathe 3200 miles away. it reminded me of being young and we'd be at someone's house, a gathering going too long and i would get sleepy. and i would curl up in his lap and put my cheek against his chest, let the rumble of his talking put me to sleep. he was always talking talking talking.

that night i settled for breathing. trying not to count how long the periods in between breaths were extending. watching the candle on the mantle burn down. matching my breath to his.

by morning he had pulled out of his coma briefly to say goodbye, to say he loved us, i love you, too dad, i said into the phone.

my sisters were sobbing and that was absolutely heartbreaking to listen to. to know i wasn't there to comfort them, to hear brokenness and grief and despair and not be able to help. had i been able to be by their side i would have given anything. my father and i were set, we were solid, and i knew my one trip out in early summer was the only trip i'd be able to afford to take. he and i made the most of our time. but to not be able to be there to hold my sisters up, to grieve with them. well, so it goes. and that hurts the most.

and then, later in the day, he was gone. just like that. as these things happen.

my father told me to always look someone in the eye when you shake their hand. and to do it firmly, the shake. never sit with your back to the door. he taught me how to properly knife someone and gave me a switchblade. he taught me to shoot a gun. he taught me how to pack everything i would need to survive on my back and told me, you carry your own stuff. always.

i would have made a good cowboy.

he also taught me about loving someone even when it's difficult. and about forgiveness. that we are, all of us, martyrs and saints, devils and angels, we are good and bad, and sometimes we are definitely ugly. but that in the end the beautiful moments win, if you let them.

i think about this year. what i've lost. and adding it all up what does it mean. i think about the book i can finally write, about difficult childhoods and how they stay with us. my difficult childhood. how strength comes from the most unlikely places. a story to be told and not hurt anyone's feelings. finally.

and then it hits me, that the story has already been written. that it's been told. and that the ending has come. and that it's over. and the ending, contrary to my broken heart, and missing my father, is better than i once imagined it could be.

so. now what? i ask myself.

now what? i'm 40 and on foreign enough soil literally and figuratively for this to be...something. but what. what now.

and then i hear it

bloom where you're planted. be here now. start where you are.

my father would never utter any of those words, not in a million years, but the sentiment stands.

cowboys don't stay lying down for long.

i took the whiskey from the kitchen counter and put it in the liquor cabinet. i got dressed. i left the house. i cleaned up the stack of newspapers. i stacked the scattered books.

and that's when i found it. the post card i bought while staying with the goddess mother on cape cod last weekend. i bought it for my father. i specifically picked one that had glitter on the edges. with his failing eyesight i thought he would appreciate a little sparkle, the feel of the rough texture of the glitter on his fingers.

even as i bought it i knew somehow i would never send it. he was declining rapidly last weekend, there wouldn't be time for a post card to arrive in time. he would have liked it. he would have loved cape cod.

bloom where you're planted. be here now. start where you are.

i went into my office and got a pen.

dear dad,

it is really pretty on cape cod. i think you would love it. i miss you.

love, x.

with nowhere to send it, i left the address blank. i got a stamp and grabbed my keys.

i walked to the post office down the hill, chose the blue box at the end, opened it up, and popped the post card inside. the one for my dad. with no address to send it. i stood there for minute, just holding onto the handle. thinking about what the funeral director said about death making people crazy. and then something i read recently flitted through my brain;

To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your life depends on it; and when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.

my grip tightened on the handle. shit. now what?

bloom where you're planted. be here now. start where you are.

the tears started. i let the handle go. and headed back up the hill towards home.

x.

church on the radio.

2011-07-29T10:58:00.000-07:00

every sunday at 11 am i listen to church on the radio. it's broadcast from a chapel at boston university on the banks of the charles.

i am not a religious person. not by nature and not in practice. but i have spirituality and beliefs that run deep and get deeper as i get older.

i love church on the radio.

and when people find out that i listen to church on the radio or that i love the virgin mary or that i regularly pray, sometimes to god, they give me the same look they give me when i try to convince them that i am not a vegetarian and that i am not a 'hugger.'

it is simply not fashionable among some segments of the population to believe in god. or his son. and, some people simply don't believe. and that's just fine with me. always.

but. i do. i also believe in gaia and witches and fairies and the absolute divinity of a much needed cheeseburger and the salvation that comes with a well timed dirty martini. three olives, please. and if you think i'm being cheeky adding in the last two you don't know me very well.

i believe in so many things, my spirituality is shaped by so much it's impossible to pinpoint any one influence. and yet it's funny how there are those who zero in on my 'god thing' as it has been called.

and i fully understand people who don't believe as i do, that there is a god. god. or any god. though the way i see it is that beyond the god we all know from experience or popular culture is that there are many. gods. and they aren't all male. and they aren't all gods. thank god. really.

the thing about belief and spirituality separate from religion is you get to choose. and no one gets to tell you what you choose to believe is wrong. NO ONE.

believing in the ability of something/one to call upon, in the existence of transcendence in its many forms, in the divine here on earth, is crucial for those of us who are mere silly mortals. and the beauty of the world and our individual relationships to it is that there is so.much.there.

and yet even in my belief of god there are also those who discount it as blasphemous. not real. because i don't believe in the way they believe. which is the most ridiculous notion. NO ONE gets to tell me what i believe is wrong.

there are a million ways to kneel and kiss the ground. whether you are on your knees or are arms open to the sun or flipping on the radio. painting a picture or creating a meal or nursing a baby. spirituality and belief take so many forms it's impossible for me to even fathom judging another for how they find theirs.

the other night i was in an angst that can only come from it being the day AFTER the day you turn 40 and the fact that a parent is dying and your children are growing older and the world is such a mess how do any of us even get out of the bed in the morning. so, i went on to you tube. and i listened to all the songs i loved from when i was young. a time when all practical experience to the contrary my faith in the world should not have been as strong as it was. and i basked in the reality that it just is. that life has its own rhythms and mine was to just go with it.

music was my prayer to find the handhold. to keep me steady. to hold me. to ground me.

and who is to judge whether that is 'just as good' as kneeling or confession or knowing the bible or you don't know or praying to a 'real' god. NO ONE.

i have these two friends. and both of these friends have a child(ren) who require more of their parenting skills than other children do. more of their 24/7 parenting hands on than other children do. all of it. all of them. all of their presence in nearly every single waking moment. all of their patience, their expansion, their faith. they are pushed daily, sometimes hourly i'd imagine, to find the balance. lather, rinse, repeat.

and both of these women have THE most incredible smiles i have ever seen on anyone in real life. the kind that not only meet their eyes but they bore into your soul and they settle there. and they burst open. and you smile, too. it's amazing, really.

being in their presence brings me a peace and a measure of comfort, a reminder that life is and ours is to just go with it. like they have to. like they do. and they do and they are smiling. to have faith that life is not what we have been given, but what we choose to make it. no matter what. and they show that to me with their actions and with their smiles. it is divine. it is peering into to the light.

and who is to judge whether that is 'just as good' as kneeling or confession or knowing the bible or you don't know or praying to a 'real' god. NO ONE.

lately the world seems to be so incredibly tragic and sad. it threatens my sensitivity on the regular. there isn't a day that i don't consider giving up the paper and scrolling past the news on the internet. but i don't. won't. considering is as far as i get. because burying my head won't make it go away.

it's then i am reminded of a quote by abraham lincoln "I have been driven many times upon my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go. My own wisdom, and that of all about me, seemed insufficient for the day."

and that's when i remember that i am not alone. not alone in my overwhelming grief and incomprehension. that my belief and spirituality give me somewhere to go and lay it all down.

and i think that's quite amazing. really. i think being able to lift my head or get on my knees or sit in front of the buddha in the back yard under the big pine tree or talk to my friend who has been dead for too many years or turn on the radio or you tube or re-read siddhartha or the dharma bums or create a meal that takes hours and is wolfed down in 7 minutes or do yoga or get wildly drunk or watch pretty in pink for the millionth time and to lay it all down is such a gift i cannot imagine not having that.

today i am sick. my throat is sore. i need soup. i need a shower. i need to clean my house. i want someone to hold me and i want to be left fully alone. my father is dying and has just been put on a constant and double dosed morphine drip. they said it could be hours. days. maybe a week. two weeks. more? one cannot know with these things. it's in another's hands now. he's 3200 miles away. i need to brush my teeth. i'm afraid of the new bathing suit in the box on my desk. i'm afraid. i'm at peace. i'm hurting. my sisters are in pain. my family.

i have been on my knees and lifted my arms and i have taken the deep breaths and i have said, are you there? because pretty soon my heart is going to break. and i just need you to hold me in the light while that happens. so that i can be okay. eventually.

i've called on who i need and now i'm listening to stevie nicks. one more tool in my spiritual arsenal. breathing easier.

and i tell you what, if i didn't have that, all of it, i cannot imagine how this would and is all going to play out.

hold on to what you believe in and don't let anyone fuck with that. NO ONE gets to tell you what you believe is wrong. hold on to it because at some point, if it hasn't already, it will be your greatest gift right when you need it the most.

be blessed, x.

it was enough.

2011-07-08T08:25:00.000-07:00

good lord are you sick of me yet? when does another's grief become just too too much, right? remember when i used write about boybarian hijinks and accidentally wearing a maternity dress? the time i tried to buy 'long and lean' jeans at the gap? super good times.

not today. today i woke up with swollen eyes and a broken heart. after falling asleep in a puddle of tears.

i think the worst part of someone being sick and in the process of dying is that it's such a...process. there are so many layers. and you have to navigate each one. have to. if you don't you'll just have to go back.

and when i woke up this morning i saw what i had written in the night:

'for my father,

It was enough.'

and i cried again.

because it's true.

because i wouldn't change a thing.

because i am certain this broken heart is complete underneath.

it was enough.

x.

leaving. jet planes. and all that.

2011-07-04T09:57:00.000-07:00

so i left again yesterday. i say again because every day i left my father for the evening it felt like leaving for a lifetime. because i was trying not to count down the days until i left for good, but i did it anyway. counted the days. and left. it seems like all i'm doing is leaving lately. this time, for good. is it? god. i hope not. but i can't think of it any other way.

i miss my father. i miss seattle. i can't not think of it as my home. i lived there longer than anywhere. and with no actual hometown left seattle became it. plus, and oh yeah, that's where my family is. and when your family is getting smaller it feels so far away to be so far away. it hurts like hell.

but i had to leave. and so i did. and because even in grief i can't go anywhere without tripping the wire that signals 'things are about to get weird' i set off security at the airport. they scanned my stuff and something was suspicious. so they put me in the slow cooker x-ray thingamajig. and that's when it got good.

'ma'am can you step over here.'

so i step to the side and a very beautiful woman in a very official uniform is talking into her shoulder radio (to the person who is looking at my x-ray somewhere else) and then informed me

'there were some areas of suspicions on your person. the uh, chest and upper inner thigh region to be exact.'

and the WTF bubble pops up above my head. so basically she's telling me my girlie parts are suspicious and tripped off some alarm. nice. not to reference pornos twice in one week of blogging lest i gain some kind of reputation, but really? i call 'em like i see 'em. and this is a seriously good set up.

'i suspect it's the bling on your shirt-'

okay. i have to stop the story and interject here. to clarify, i did not have 'bling' on my shirt. i do not own anything with 'bling' on it. BUT i did happen to be wearing this t-shirt i picked up on a whim to go with a skirt i refuse to wear because i can't find the right sandals. and this shirt happens to have a few sparkly seed beads at the v neck part. i'm not saying it's the most fashionable shirt, but it's cute and happens to have a FEW sparkly beads. which are NOT bling.

i'm not sure yet how my crotch tripped the alarm. but we're getting to that.

'i suspect it's the bling on your shirt. still, i need to wand you and then pat you down. where the bling is. in the area of your cleavage.'

and of course i want to make a joke. like 'well you're not my type but it's been a long time since i've seen my husband and you know what grief can do to a girl and i do like a drink first but what the hell carpe diem right?'

but of course i don't. because those fuckers on 9/11 made sure the airport can't be funny anymore. even though it's just good material going to waste most of the time. such.a.bummer.

so she gets down to business then she asks me to empty my left pocket because that's where it was suspicious on the screen.

so i pull out a wad of tissue and wouldn't you know it, FIVE lucky pennies. the ones i found on the floor of my father's room. i carried them with me once we took him into the hospital.

'lucky pennies.'

'those should have been put in the bins, ma'am. how deep does your pocket go?'

'i guess it's pretty deep.'

'well, it must have shifted toward the middle of your body. i will still have to pat down your inner upper thigh. please spread your legs and hold out your arms.'

so i do this and i can only wonder if life is really this amusing for others or if it's just me. my pocket full of lucky pennies shifted toward my girlie parts and now i'm being treated like a criminal. oh, and this is not a private exchange. i'm right there where everyone is bustling about to get shoes on and laptops back into cases and i'm just in their way.

'okay. you're good.'

and i want to say, well now how do YOU know? you only got to first base. but instead i say thank you and have and nice day and go to get my stuff.

and once i'm on my way in the airport this thing happens that's been happening since i was first in seattle. i keep seeing my father. not my father, of course, but i keep seeing men who 'could' be my father. you know, if he were well. if life had been different. if his life had taken a different turn. healthy, robust, on his way somewhere. for business or pleasure or life different from the one he has now. if he was really the travel writer he tells the nurses he is. if he had married the girl from high school he's loved since he first saw her. if he wasn't dying. if if if.

the lack of dignity in air travel depresses me. i fall promptly asleep when the plane takes off. and when i wake i trip the weird wire again. the 10 year old boy next to me is getting the news from his mother next to him that when he's 18 he will inherit one hundred thousand dollars. she's on her third bloody mary (and has to be told the bar is now closed) and seems irritated at telling him. she says she and his father wanted them to change it to 21 or 25. and that it's his to do what he wants when he's 18 but that she's his mother and he should do what she thinks is best. save it for a master's degree, or a doctorate. to put down on a nice house.

and the cynical bitchy part of me is like way to go lady. he's 10. go ahead, put this on him now. set his path.

but she's just being a mom. she wants for him all the good things. and if this means one narrow path that she decides is 'all the good things' then so be it. she's parenting the best way she knows how.

and i think about my father. and how he never encouraged me to go to college or to get my homework done or to 'pad' my high school resume with activities that 'look good.' i'm sure we never even discussed my high school resume. or why i missed 60 days of school a year to stay home and watch love boat re-runs. or why i failed nearly every math class i took. why they still moved me up, to the next grade. never once did he ask me what i wanted to be when i grew up or encouraged me to go for it.

now, this does not mean he didn't love me. or didn't parent me. like the drunk mother beside me he just did the best he could. and giving me wings was probably out of his grasp when all he was doing was just trying to hang on.

i think about this and i wonder at what i could have done had the woman beside me been my parent. did i miss out on anything? did i want to be a doctor or a lawyer? did i want my master's degree? in what? i am a nearly 40 year old stay at home mother of two with a half finished college education and i look like shit on paper. what did i miss?

and i realize i didn't miss a damn thing. that by my father not giving me wings i found my own. and i did what i found i wanted to do. i delivered babies on the border and got married and got divorced and had babies of my own and got married and everything i did i did because i wanted to.

well shit. not everything. who 'wants' to get divorced? and who wants the broken hearts and dreams that come with living a life, that come with not yet learning how NOT to be an asshole? but you get the picture. so for lack of a better word, 'want.' i did what i wanted to do because i wanted to do it. not because someone else wanted me to do it.

and while my resume would suggest otherwise, i am happy and accomplished. my heart and my life are full to bursting.

and i will tell you what, don't we all want that for our children? for them to follow their hearts and do what makes them happy? i'm not saying my father didn't have dreams for me, i'm just saying that the dreams i had for myself were able to fill the space left by his inability to do what the woman beside me is doing for her son.

and that is parenting the best way you know how. even if the kid has to pick up the slack. even then.

and just like that i become the weepy creepy woman on the plane. and i don't want to scare the boy next to me so i cry quietly. i wish i were home. and in awhile i am. well, in awhile i am in boston. 'home' for now. and i am happy to see my own boys and the husband. but i want to scoop them up and drag them home. not to poet's corner, our new home. but our 'home' home. back home. seattle. to be with my father. until it's not possible anymore. to be with our family. to build the fence around our hearts you can only build with family and friends and familiarity. i want to go home.

and i think to myself, girl, you better hold on. you are days away from being 40 and you knew life would be different, but you weren't prepared for this. this is the kinda thing that makes someone think whiskey in their morning coffee is a good idea. or 'i KNOW! let's have a BABY!' shit like that. this is gonna hurt like hell. so hold on and try to avoid the rabbit holes that seem to be popping up on the regular.

lather rinse repeat.

x.

pennies.

2011-06-29T17:17:00.000-07:00

in the week before i flew to seattle to see my dad i found a lucky penny nearly every single day. not every day, but in a week i collected 5. parking lots, sidewalks, the gutter. i picked them up and made a singular wish. the same one i always make on dandelions and shooting stars and rocks tossed into the sea. of course lately that wish has a bit of a flourish at the end.

when i got to seattle and would bring coffee and meds down to my father in the morning (while he was still at my sister's house) i kid you not somewhere in the two rooms he was in i would find a penny. just there. on the ground. every.single.time.

i am thinking about the pennies as i rub my father's back in the VA. he's in his favorite position, a kind of doubled over yoga pose. he has a theory about this position. i know this because he lectured to me for nearly 20 minutes this morning on his theory.

and i didn't mind, i just listened. happy that he can do this again, have theories and give lectures as his pain has finally somewhat been managed, he is somewhat comfortable, he has color, he has humor. my father is my father again, and i just bask in it moment by moment.

he has lost so much weight that it doesn't take much movement to cover his back. up and back, a scratch here and there. but he is still strong, i feel that. and whether that's strength of muscle or spirit it's hard to say. and really doesn't matter.

he looks good now. the big windows with the million dollar view don't hurt. but it's mostly the fact that by dosing him up with a metric assload of morphine and adding in cocktails of various other white pills he is able to relax a bit. to get some sleep. he reported that he even dreamed the night before. eating still isn't high on the activity list, but he does what he can. and you take what you can get.

my father looks like a man one might find sitting cross legged at the edge of the ganges. holding court. dispensing wisdom and experience to all who ask and all who don't. doctors, nurses, techs, social workers, the former historian and now custodian who comes to sweep the floor. my father looks like the guru he has become. the guru of the VA. he looks like gary snyder.

'dad, you look like gary snyder.'

'oh? well. i'll take that as a compliment.'

'you should.'

i am rubbing his back and thinking about how odd it is that we are so present and relaxed. my father and i. how our journey has been rocky at best at times, and yet was also marked by the sheer wonder and beauty that is the parent child relationship. and it's not lost on me that for the first time in my life i am physically stronger than my father. that even in my curvy softness i could take him. and somewhere deep and ancient and inside the eight year old silly mortal is shouting YES! and throwing a fist up in the air.

but none of that really matters. at all. not now. as it turns out, the balance of a life is just that...a balance. that in the end, any one period of time doesn't take precedence over another. the mistrusts and missteps are just that and no more. the cataloging is done.

i understand also that what this is, me in this hospital rubbing my father's back , that what this is is me being given a gift. that this is grace here on earth. and just like those pennies i am so very lucky. to have made the journey and been able to rest at the end of it with my father.

my wise friend ingrid always likes to say 'only love prevails.' i understand that in a way i only theoretically did before. i understand that in a way that cannot be explained or ignored. i understand. and as i rub my father's back i close my eyes and lift my face upwards in thanksgiving.

we are, all of us, martyrs and saints, devils and angels, we are good and bad, and sometimes we are definitely ugly. there are moments as divine as can be, and low moments that level and break us. rendering us knee bound and groveling. we are pain and heartbreak and love and light. and all of this is so and necessary, because in the end there is a balance. no tally, no score. just balance. in the end it all makes sense. it really really does.

i don't know much about heaven. so i don't know if those pennies were from heaven as they like to say. i do know that they are a tangible sign of what is always around us. the abundance and the good. the richness of life. we just have to be willing to do a little bending to grab it.

x.

monday.

2011-06-28T06:52:00.000-07:00

yesterday morning i had to tell my father it wasn't working here at home (my sister's house). that he would be better managed pain wise and comfort wise back in the hospital. i didn't have to say it, but we both know that meant he'd be going in and not coming back out.

this couldn't have come as too much of a surprise, but you know it was. he didn't wake up knowing this was it. i feel bad. but this is for the best.

he asked to nap and wake him at 1pm. he bathed and shaved. he dressed carefully in his good pants and nice sweater. his scarf. inexplicably, he's taken to wearing a black stetson.

we get to the VA and go through a maze until we find the right spot to talk to his oncologist. and it becomes apparent how fucked up the VA is when my sister receives a call while we are in the waiting room, five minutes early for the appointment:

'this is the VA calling, is your father aware he has an appointment today?'

'yes. we're here now. in the waiting room.'

they come out and call him. apparently for the first time in FOREVER they are ahead of schedule and he's already late for an appointment he's early for.

we go back to a windowless room. the by the book doctor comes in and asks him questions. my father answers them all wrong.

no he is not eating 3 meals a day. try 3 bites. he answers the pain question right but downplays it. he is not as strong as he tries to appear. oh my god we talked about this! he knew what was up before we came! i know why he's doing this. because he can't really remember and because he doesn't want to stay. this is the cancer version of cock blocking.

my sister starts to look worried. he needs to stay. this is better for him. she can't do this anymore. she's been working so hard caring for him. it's getting too hard to care for him in the way he needs.

dr. c comes in. dr. c is straight out of a 70s cigarette ad. or a porno. i don't like dr. c. he is brusque and has zero bedside manner. i decide it's definitely the cigarette ad. he'd never make it in the porno.

he tells my father what we all know, that he's not well enough to withstand even a bit of chemo. but that if he puts on weight and blah blah blah he might be able to.

by now my sister is getting that panicked look on her face. and i am not sure what to do. i told my father what was decided and he's trying to block it. my sister is talking but not saying what she wants to because this is so so hard. and how do you say i can't do this anymore to your father? i don't have a relationship with these doctors. and i am leaving in two days. i am practically an interloper here.

dr. c asks him all the questions dr. by the book asked him. he answers them all wrong. but dr. c, bless his fucking heart, he looks out of the corner of his eye at me. and i shake my head no at all the questions my father is answering in the positive. my father is confused, yes. but i know he's answering the questions that way to get out of staying. he needs to stay.

and then my sister asks dr. c. if all we are doing is waiting for him to get better for chemo or worse in general. we all know it but don't say it that my father is not going to get better for chemo. we choose our words carefully. my father is dying and confused, but he's not an idiot. he is the writer with the million dollar vocabulary. this is delicate territory.

dr. c mentions hospice and that 'we' can wait to see if he gets better for chemo, and STILL use them. he can wrangle it. this means hospice at my sister's house. my sister is crestfallen. i see her face. she cannot do this. i look at my father. i see his face. better yet, i know his heart. he can't do this. doesn't want to.

something has to be done. something has to give.

so. i choose. in front of the doctors. in front of my father. i choose. and i choose my sister. just like i've always done. just like i always will.

'my father can no longer be at my sister's house.'

and it sets the ball rolling. dr. c says he'll fix it and admit my father today. dr. by the book is not pleased. hospitals are not for this kinda of thing, he says. not for the dying with no acute symptoms. as if death isn't an acute symptom. but i hear what he's saying. and he's right. but this is one of those cases. this is one of those times. dr. c clearly wants dr. by the book to shut up. moreover, he's the boss so dr. by the book is now just annoying him.

dr. c tells dr. by the book they are taking the 'conversation' outside.

the doctors start to argue in the hall. you can hear dr. by the book pleading his case for the integrity of what a hospital 'should' be used for. dr. c says 'didn't you hear her? she can't do this anymore. we have to take him. that's our job.'

i like dr. c now. go dr. c. go VA. my father served this country and he needs it to give back right now.

my father won't look at either of us.

i feel like the world's biggest asshole.

because i said the words out loud. i know deep down my father knows this is best. but on the surface, i am an asshole and now my father is here. and not leaving.

later we are taking my father up to where he had stayed before.

we walk in and it's like going somewhere with lady gaga. they call out his name. 'you're back!' they cry. everyone on the floor coming over to see him, to say hello, to touch him.

one comely nurse is asking him if he's been working on the poem he started when he was last here, 'i will now that i'm back because you're the inspiration' he tells her. one guy in scrubs is grabbing his hand and clapping him on his back, 'how are you doin' man? good to see you.' another nurse comes in to say she wants to tell him about her camping trip.

apparently, my father has not lost an ounce of his charm.

even with the big welcome and a large room with i kid you not probably the best view in seattle, this is very difficult at best. the food is slow to arrive because it arrives only at a designated time. the pain meds even slower. the doctor is young and annoying. it's loud in the hallway. and of course i wonder how we thought this was best. it is. it is. but when you're dealing with dying there comes a point when everything is second guessed. especially if you're the one doing the guessing.

we wait to see that the food is edible (always a gamble at the VA) and that he gets his pain meds. then we leave.

and i realize i can't go home in two days. not yet. there's been a change of plans. i realize i can't go home and i miss my kids and the husband so much it hurts. my father can't go home either. ever again. i wonder what he misses.

i cry on the way home. i cry in target. and then i drink too much wine and stay up too late and when that no longer works i cry myself to sleep.

and in the morning, i write. just like my dad.

x.

hallelujah.

2011-06-25T22:54:00.000-07:00

my father is a writer. as a kid, i would wake to the sound of a typewriter nearly every morning of my life. later, it was the sight of the ever present notebook in hand. he was always writing. working on something.

as it turns out, sometimes writers are not so good at recognizing or validating fellow writers. even if one of those fellow writers happens to be their own daughter.

this morning my father turned to me and said

'they say you're a pretty good writer. so it's gonna be up to you now, kid.'

and right then i thought about leonard cohen. you know, about the cracks. and the light. i thought about perfect offerings. and how it really is never too late. for anything. especially the good stuff.

i thought about grace and expansion and how sometimes the truly great things come when you least expect them. mostly when you least expect them. but that you always should. expect them. because they're always there. somewhere. i thought about a million things. and then i said

'well. i'll do my best.'

then i let out the breath i had no idea i had been holding for all these years. maybe even for 39 years and 11 months.

x.

since you didn't ask; day I part I

2011-06-22T21:20:00.000-07:00

when you're in the air looking down everything is the same.

and so it goes with knowledge and reality. knowing is one thing, experiencing is quite another. it's so easy to know. it's the hands on that fucks with the balance and offers the front row glimpse into the full silly mortal.

i think about this as the plane is making its final descent. i look down and see the city and area i once loved so deeply. a city i was a newlywed in, a newly adult in, divorced in, became a mother in, almost died in, found a life in, married and built a family and a life in a house only to have it taken away in. and now, a city that will represent, in time shorter than i'd like, my greatest broken heart.

as we touch down i wish more than anything that my kids were here. to feel the duke's quiet go with it resolve, to see wingman's fully open face at the sadness and wonder and excitement of it all. to feel the husband's confident and knowing hand in mine.

i am keeping open to everything. to finding the grace, to embracing what needs it...to...being. my sister has been doing the heavy lifting and i am the ham handed interloper in my own extended life at this point. but i am open to it. all of it. or i will be, as soon as i can get a little sleep.

in the meantime, on the plane, i am touching down and landing. and with every fiber of my being i want to be anywhere but here. i want to shout, turn me around! there's been a mistake! i want to wake as if from one of my very real dreams. i want to be in a world where the first time i see my father in nearly five years that it is also not the last.

i wish on the stars i can't see and i call to anyone who will listen, in the tiniest 'i am in a public space' whisper, anywhere but here. right now. anywhere.

and even as i say it i know i have the luxury to do so. that all evidence to the contrary, i am so very lucky. to be here. to be. here.

x.

onions.

2011-06-17T06:30:00.000-07:00

i am thinking of my father as i chop the onions for dinner. my father taught me to chop an onion. actually, that's not true. he told me chopped onions went into the spaghetti sauce he taught me to make. that and garlic. then the tomatoes, then the spices. meat if you were using it came before the tomato sauce, after the onions. but he never taught me to chop an onion. i watched him chop the onion and make the sauce and the next night i had a knife in my hand and was making dinner.

i learned to properly chop an onion later. when i was an adult. with a child of my own.

i think about this as i throw the onion into the pot and it begins to sizzle.

my father has pancreatic cancer. of all the cancers to get, this isn't one of the 'good' ones. in fact, it just may be the very worst.

somehow this makes me decide that while making dal for dinner i need to make a double batch. as if i'm not 3200 miles away. as if i am going to be feeding more family than just the family here at the little yellow house.

and so far i've remembered i'm doubling the recipe and have enough oil for the amount of onion. isn't it funny how we learn things. remember learning them. i mean i didn't learn to chop an onion from my father, martha stewart actually taught me. but my father was the first to hand me the onion. and then the knife. maybe when we compare and contrast childhood and adulthood and what we remember and what we forget, maybe it's just the world 'properly' we get the most hung up on. maybe it's a simple as that. maybe.

there's a point in the hot oil in which raw onion goes from ingredient to divine. it happens so suddenly it's like a surprise each time i cook. oh. oooohhhhh. and then you add the garlic.

as i wait for the confirmation from the doctor for what i already know i measure out the curry, the garam masala, the cayenne. the voice in my head telling me to listen for the phone, to measure out double the spices, to just keep cooking even as the tears fall. you still have to feed the kids, your voice says. you still have to feed you. keep cooking.

my father and i were estranged for many years. we only just picked our way over that rocky outcropping last summer. and then i had to leave. and move to the ends of the earth. and then he got sick. and now i'm making dinner. and wondering for the millionth time why i had to move so far away. wondering why that doesn't look like enough liquid in the pot. and then i remember, double the recipe. double the water.

the phone rings. it's not the doctor i expect to call. it's another doctor from the 'team.' and i am stirring in the rest of the water as she is confirming what we all knew. i hear words like 'chemo' and 'pallative' and 'hospice' and 'months.' like the spices i have in my arsenal for cooking these are the spices doctors use. have to use.

she is now expressing her sympathies. and it's only then that i realize that all along i've felt like this has been a conversation. that we were equals. trading questions and information. until now. this moment when she's saying she's sorry. because now i know this is not true. we are not equals. because suddenly she's become the responsible adult in the white lab coat and i am an 8 year old kid.

and i'm turning down the pot which has come to a boil. it needs to simmer. and i wonder why i don't just turn off the flame and put it at the back of the stove. at this moment, just take a minute away from pot watching. i know why. it's at a crucial stage. this pot on the stove. and i will regret ruining it by turning away from it.

and it's for the same reasons i can do yoga while the cats chase their toys at my feet and meditate while mario kart music comes tinkling in from somewhere in this little house.

and talk about my father's diagnosis and final time here on earth and make dinner and remember to double the recipe. because no matter what i have to keep going. i still have to feed my kids. my family. i still have to feed me. no matter what you have to eat, right? and if i keep cooking i can keep going. if i've learned anything in the last year of loss that is lasting longer than i thought it ever would it's to just keep going.

we end the call with the knowledge that i will fly there next week and it will be a pleasure to meet her and all the things you say to someone on the phone who has just delivered the worst kind of news and you don't know her and she doesn't know you. and this phone call is just one part of her job that day. and this phone call is your whole life.

and even though you *knew,* having it confirmed is such a surprise. oh. oooohhhhh. just like the onions.

later when the dal is done i set it aside to drive. picking up the husband from work, delivering on a promise to the boybarians (who don't know what i know) of a special drink for the hot day. and on the way reggae comes on the radio.

i think about my father who hates reggae with a passion. even though he's an old hippie. god he could go off forever on his disdain of reggae. it used to make me laugh. i start to cry. and then i stop. because the people out here drive like assholes and tears would be an unwise idea. just because i'm a grieving daughter i can't forget i am a responsible mother. and just like that i feel the beginnings of the pull that starts to happen to people my age. women's magazines write articles about people like me. my god. i've become a statistic. i start to tear up again.

the husband suggests i don't need to finish dinner. it's too much. let him rescue me. let's get something out he says. and i realize i need to finish it. i need to eat food made with love. and maybe a few tears. i need to be comforted and nourished. more than i need a break. more than i need something quick and convenient. more than i can explain.

and when i talk to my father later we agree that there aren't words to fill the space or to capture what we are feeling. and that there don't need to be. and the thing that gets me while i wait for it to sink further in and while i wait for it to get worse the thing that really really gets to me is that he's hungry. but he can't eat. certainly not the food at the VA. which is just as bad as we can all imagine. but even the things he thinks sound good he knows he wouldn't be able to stomach more than a few bites.

what is hitting me the most is that i can't cook for my father. i am simply too far away. even if he can't eat it it doesn't matter. the irony is incredible.

then he asks me what i made for dinner. and i understand and he understands this is not a normal topic of conversation for us, but we understand why. so i tell him indian food. he asks me to describe it. so i do. and i tell him the dal would be good for him and that the pickle i made would probably be way too spicy. he says he would have given it a try.

and then he tells me about some cuban pulled pork he had a few weeks ago. before this. before we knew. when he still had an appetite. he thinks he would like that right now. he mentions it would be wasteful as he couldn't eat more than a bite. and there's no storage for food in his shared room at the VA.

i say it sounds like it would be worth it, though. and the 'though' floats on the air like a net. capturing all the emotion and all the space we agreed had no words.

x.

why i quit googling eye creams and started searching for thigh high boots.

2011-05-10T08:20:00.000-07:00

i'm going to be 40. soon.

and while this doesn't particularly fill me with dread or excitement, it's a fact. even so, the idea of turning 40 does give a gal pause, you know, just because. it could be that all my life growing up i saw those black 'over the hill' balloons with the number 40 on them, or the buttons that said 'i'd rather be pregnant than 40,' you know...shit like that.

oh, and the other day on the phone a friend said, 'wait. YOU'RE going to be 40?' 'um, dude. you're older than me.' 'i know, but YOU being 40 is just weird.'

but now that i'm actually going to BE 40 much sooner than later it's really becoming not a thing at all. (especially since inside i still feel 17.) and especially since i'm on a certain social networking site and keep seeing friends turn 40. and, judging from the photos and status updates no one's combusted yet, either from age or birthday induced alcohol consumption. so i'm guessing it's going to be a-okay. (note to self; LOTS of water. start now.)

BUT

there was a bit of time not too long ago i was googling eye creams. it's all fun and games until you start to google the eye creams. it's like an admission of...something. like you've grabbed the baton in front of a screaming crowd. you're in this and there's no going back. like sex. or drinking. because you're gonna stop once you do it once or twice? i don't think so.

and i don't know what triggered it, i think just the birthday coming up. the *idea* of 40 more than the reality. and so here i was googling these eye creams and really getting into it. and freaking out over which one was *actually* the best. i think i freaked out less choosing a name for wingman than i did trying to decide on which eye creams might make the top 5. (and i called that kid 'agamemnon' for THREE DAYS before we decided on his name.)

and then remembering all the articles i've ever read that said wiping cheap imported lard or somesuch on your face did the same amount of good as a 100 dollar eye cream (i may be paraphrasing here).

and then wracking my brain trying to remember the last place i saw lard for sale. on sale, of course.

and as i sat there i started to actually feel older than even my birth certificate says i am slated to be. because when you're on the eye cream sites there's LOTS of ways to navigate over to other stuff. all of them saying it's NEVER too late to start. or START NOW before it's TOO LATE. fine lines! wrinkles! and not just on your face! i tell you, trolling anti-aging sites is not for the weak.

so i got all worried. then i got all pissed. there i was, googling something i don't really need because i thought it *must be time.* so what if i started the eye creams before my 40th birthday? what would that accomplish? i mean i don't really even *have* an issue with my eyes. i actually think they look pretty good. i just figured eye cream can't hurt. right?

and if i start with the eye cream do i have to start with the other stuff? start dying my hair? i mean the slippery slope is paved with all kinds of good intentions. and apparently, retinol. but it's still a slope. and slippery. and where does it end? because i'm just not into the maintenance. but moreover i just don't see the connection between this stuff and beauty. real beauty.

(insert How do any of us make it out alive? here)

besides, if it's like rod stewart says then the morning sun is just gonna show my age anyway. you think maggie may wasn't using eye cream? with a college aged boyfriend? ha!

so i thought about what *i* think beauty is. real beauty. not for everyone else (because to each their own), or for the magazines, or the advertisers, but for me. and all i could come up with is that i feel the most beautiful when i'm happy. like really happy. like hanging out and shooting the shit and laughing with friends. and really i just couldn't for the life of me equate the eventual suppression of laugh lines around my eyes with happiness. and by default, beauty.

so i thought about my 40th birthday. and i thought about what would make me really happy.

and that's when i clicked out of the eye cream sites and started looking for (and found) 4 1/2 inch heeled black thigh high boots. to wear on or around my birthday. there is a word for boots like this. and it's completely inappropriate. so i will employ the ladylike personality that knocks about my person waiting for occasions such as this and not mention it here. but these are happy making boots. and they are awesome.

"Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy."

guillaume apollinaire must have been talking about these boots when he said that.

there's really not much more to say than that. life has a funny way of marching on. and whether you're slathering on cheap imported lard or actual eye creams or wearing 4 1/2 inch heeled black thigh high boots there's all kinds of ways to keep in step.

you just have to find your happy. to define your own beauty.

and it's NEVER too late to start that.

x.

lilacs.

2011-05-02T10:00:00.000-07:00

the husband and i like to joke that the reason we bought (what is now formerly) our 100 year old falling down farmhouse in the middle of nowhere was for the lilacs. the beautiful beautiful lilacs.

but really, it's true.

okay, not really.

but sort of really.

god they were gorgeous. dark ones and light ones and even white ones. you could smell them on the breeze. big bunches of purple and green in blue glass jars scattered about the house. some for your friends, the rest for you. and, lilacs in blue glass jars scattered about the house also meant that windows and doors could be left open for the day and that winter was through. finally.

yesterday while walking wingman to his baseball game we traveled through the most charming town i may ever live in under the bluest of skies. the sun was shining, wingman was skipping ahead, and i was marveling at how very lucky i was to be enjoying this moment. (and yes, it was just as quaint as it sounds)

then i walked by someone's yard and there it was. the flowers yet to bloom, the leaves full and lush and that distinctive green, unmistakable. someone's lucky little stand of lilacs. and *immediately* i began walking as fast as i could and didn't even try to stop the tears. something took me fully over and i couldn't get away fast enough. i couldn't stop crying. it was truly instantaneous.

i was, in that moment, just about as heartbroken and angry as i have been about this whole lost house lost coast thing. it was amazing, really. how quickly it took root and spread. and stalking down the charming main street of the charming town with a charming and humming wingman skipping ahead i was thinking dark thoughts about stupid people and their dumb ass lilacs and felt very very selfishly ungrateful and covetous and sad.

i was grief stricken and enraged and wanted to scream and to howl and shout out how unfair this whole thing has been. poor me in all its pulled apart at the seams gory glory.

but of course, as many of us know, there never really is the right time or place to stop and howl. and if i did, well then i'd surely make the town blog. which is a distinction i strive NOT to accomplish every single day that i'm here.

so. instead i slowed my step, took some deep breaths, and dried my tears in time to catch up with wingman who had run ahead to the ball field. i smiled instead of cried, i did not howl, and i made the best of the afternoon. because that's just what you do when you aren't a one woman wolf pack.

(wingman's team won, by the way. 17-1.)

and when i went to bed last night i forgot to remember all that's best to remember before you close your eyes for the day. and i began to tally up the loss. what has been taken and what this has cost. from me. to me. to be here. in this house. in this new life. and i felt very beaten by the world and wondered if we would ever recover from this materially. forgetting that it isn't about things and money. forgetting that i've landed so charmingly. forgetting that this process of digging out of the rubble takes time. forgetting to be grateful.

and when i woke up this morning and went drowsily about my routine i still had that tightened fist of 'not enough' sitting on my heart.

and then the following very amazing thing happened. and if i could make this up i would and make a lot of money as a very clever writer. but i didn't. and thus remain 'homemaker' on all important documents.

i was sitting at my computer and in a moment of pause i looked up and out the window to my right and holy shit and honest to god there was there IS a lilac bush growing in the back yard against the side fence!

i have been in this house for close to 6 months now. i have been sitting at this computer every day in that time. and since the snow finally for good stopped and the sun came out in the last month or so i have gone outside every single day in that time.

and i never ever saw the lilac.

i raced outside and it was just there. and then ANOTHER ONE down the fence on the other side of the big flowering yellowy bush that i don't know the name of. another lilac. just. there. purple spears turned toward the sun and soaring atop the distinctive green leaves. and ready to burst into bloom at any moment. how did i not see these???

now. i concede that it's likely true that they didn't just 'appear.' that they've been there and somehow i didn't...notice them until now. i understand enough about the world of the humans to know that this is the explanation that will make we silly mortals accept the appearance of the lilacs.

but even so, does that make it any less of a miraculous event?

no. it does not.

BECAUSE I HAVE LILACS!

why we even waste our time creating our own pits of despair is beyond me. why we give into the dark when there is so much light i fail to understand. because the world is SUCH a miraculous place! the miracle is that every single day we wake up we are given the opportunity to view the world anew. to start again. an opportunity for something TOTALLY amazing to happen. and this means that the tightly closed fists and dark thoughts and deepest despairs and the bad days and weeks and years of our past do not have to dictate our future. that every day ends and every day begins. and in that we are given, each and every one of us, one more chance.

one day i shall learn this without having to keep learning this. but wait? what will i write about then? a conundrum to be sure. in the meantime...

LILACS!

and it doesn't matter if it's the work of the mysterious and divine or if i just still have a LOT of work to do towards acceptance and grief or if i just really REALLY need to start wearing my glasses more.

because the fact of the matter is that the lilacs were there. i just needed to notice them. and, i did. and THAT'S where the divine exists.

and i still have lilacs. isn't that something?

x.

what the parenting books don't tell you.

2011-04-28T15:35:00.000-07:00

the parenting books never have the chapter titled;

Some Days Parenting Sucks and On Those Days You Will Feel Like a Fucking Hack. HA!

but here's the deleted chapter. i will try and be brief.

some days parenting SUCKS.

the end.

yeah. okay.

some days it is quite possibly the job with the absolute least amount of visible tangible return and absolutely not one.single.minute of satisfaction. i've seen polls wherein parenting is listed BELOW housecleaning or somesuch honest and needed but not terribly fun endeavor. that's because even if it's the grossest toilet on earth it will come clean. or close to it. and your effort, for even just a few seconds before the adrenaline recedes and the gag reflex really kicks in, it will all be worth it.

some days there are lots and lots tears spilled behind the bathroom door because you are tired of hearing yourself say the same.thing.again. and again. and when you aren't heard, even if the person is TEN or FOURTEEN it still gets really personal after a time. it's hard not to be heard. because this is your *job.* and wow. what a choice. oh, and my god my voice is shrill.

(and if you are a stay at home mother...double wow. these will be the days that you will REALLY reconsider your career choice. duuuuuude. the lack of a pay check should have been your first clue...)

some days it's hard to remember to be kind. to take the deep breath. to count to fucking ten. FUCK YOU TEN WHAT HAVE YOU EVER DONE FOR ME! WHY ARE YOU SO *IT* FOR NUMBERS? HUH? HUH?* you forget to moderate your voice. to remember that this isn't all about YOU *not* being listened to, but rather it's about pulling these kids up and through this life. and some days, that is neither easy or fun. hell, some days it doesn't even hit gross dirty toilet cleaning level.

some days you are certain that you are not cut out for this. at all. that you are most certainly raising children who won't be able to make it on their own. and thus will be susceptible to the whacknoodles of this world. you know, women with father issues or cult leaders or telemarketers. OH MY GOD or the birthers. worse yet, that they will end up living in your basement. for the rest of your life. and still draw an allowance.

today i had that kind of day. and after the tears and the less than book worthy behavior, after the full on silly mortal mama-ness i looked around and i repeated the words of a dear dear friend's father...'this is bad management.'

because it doesn't matter how bad the day or how fast and often those wheels have spun. or how the sound of your voice is making you crack. or wish you had some. ultimately it's up to the parent to right the ship and get things back on track. and to not fall into doing crack.

that's why kids are kids and parents are adults. the theory being that by the time one becomes a parent they know how to take the deep breath and the higher road. and has learned that the world is larger than the personal. and that some days just suck, but the job still needs to get done. and, ultimately that the kid *gets* to be age appropriate, but the parent (who is the adult) *has* to be age appropriate.

i guess the thing to remember is that the sun always rises. tomorrow is another day. one more chance to start again.

(oh. and wine. wine helps. the parenting books NEVER say that.)

in the meantime, deep breaths and deeper hugs can stopgap the rest of it. because when that some day turns into the evening it's time to let it go. to throw your hands up and throw your arms around your kid and surrender for the time being.

and don't forget to get some arms thrown around you, too. really. take care of you AND your kids. applying the oxygen mask first and all that.

because the evening and bedtime is always your free pass. your out. your tap on the shoulder in the ring. it's a natural transition to softening. to let the shoulders down a notch. and the voice, too.

this is a hard job. a hard job one is so very lucky to have. that i am lucky to have. i am so grateful for my children. but just because one is lucky enough to have and raise children, in whatever circumstance that is procured, arranged or executed, and experience the divine here on earth doesn't mean there aren't those days that make you want run screaming from the room into the street and overwhelmingly demonstrate and define what to 'rent one's garments' really means.

in conclusion;

sillymortalmama said there'd be days like this. so go easy on yourself. go easier on your kids. and don't forget that tomorrow always comes.

(wine helps)

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2011-04-20T10:28:00.000-07:00

when the duke was almost 4 his very cool preschool in southern california did their annual assessment of all the children. this particular assessment had nothing to do with 'academics,' how much or well they were learning, but more with assessing their abilities. establishing a baseline for further notes on progress or regress.

see this preschool was unique in that was ALSO for differently-abled children. children with mental or physical or emotional limitations or issues. every class was a mix of all different kinds of kids. everything was integrated. if you could even call it that because it was just the norm. there was never a deal made about it. it was really a great experience.

and for the yearly assessment they observed all children. regardless of ability.

so. when the duke was 3 going on 4 and wingman was 2 months and 2 days old i received the written assessment for the duke from the specialist they brought in. honestly, i never remember receiving it let alone reading it. i was recovering from another hard pregnancy and another hard birth and was still adjusting to life with a preschooler AND a newborn.

i found the report the other day. i noted the date. i read it. honestly, it's like they were talking about a whole different child than the duke. and i cannot imagine what i would have felt had i actually read it at the time.

"...lacks the shoulder/elbow/wrist joint strength to increase stability for coloring. This suggests low muscle tone in the upper extremities."

"All of his interactions with others are rough and quick. He objects to holding his dad's hand or to hugs. This suggests he does not like any form of touching. Be sure to encourage touching, firm and quick, with verbalization."

"Does not use own legs to turn self on merry go round. Waits for someone to turn it."

"Tends to move in fast spurts of energy. His graded motor output may be difficult. A brushing therapy program may help."

the report suggested that future IEPs for school would be necessary. (individualized education plan for children with learning or other disabilities so that they may get the best possible opportunities and resources to meet their particular needs.)

may i say the the duke was a very energetic boy who loved to run and play and jump and climb and hug and hold hands. he was rambunctious at times. he was 3.

he colored well and was already writing his name and knew his alphabet and could count to a gazillion. okay, i don't know how high he could count but that's the point. he could count. he was 3. it didn't matter how high.

and who turns their own self on the merry go round? just because you don't doesn't mean you can't. and who doesn't want someone else to do it?

then attached was a referral to a specialist at a local hospital for further evaluation.

all this from one visit one morning with a stranger.

so.

and here's the thing.

i totally appreciate early intervention. while i don't have a child of my own with different abilities or special needs or an IEP i know MORE than my fair share of parents and kids who deal with one or both or all of these and MORE on a daily basis. i am compassionate and i am educated and i am aware.

and i know there are a lot of parents who have fought for a long time to have their children observed and properly diagnosed by the 'right' people. who wait forever to get an IEP and then have to on the regular fight the red tape and bureaucracy and administration and ignorance to keep their kids resources intact.

people who NEED resources for their children.

but what if i had read that report when they sent it to me? when i was still cracked out on my pregnancy and birth and newborn? when resistance was low and i just two weeks prior made the decision, out loud and with conviction, that i was now turning my sights on being a mama solely. and that i would no longer pursue my career. thus leaving me ripe for finding a 'mission.' or a 'purpose' beyond wiping bottoms and trying to figure out how to put together the figure 8 wooden train track 'exactly' like on the box and sourcing individually wrapped cheese sticks for the best price.

because that report was heavily suggesting something that never came to pass. that report didn't nail the duke. not even close. not at 3 almost 4. and not for now.

and maybe i would have just known that and maybe i would have not. and been alarmed. and taken the action they were suggesting.

i wonder.

i wonder what road i would have gone down. i wonder if things would be different for the duke. for me. for our family.

i don't know where i'm going with this other than to say, it happens. sometimes it happens that kids get observed and referred and labeled and put on a track. a track in this case that was and should have just been called '3 almost 4 year old energetic taurus boy' and let it commence as such. but is called and viewed as something very different.

i really do wonder if i dodged a bullet for the duke by sheer lack of awareness, lack of sleep, lack of two minutes when my breasts weren't leaking and my body wasn't trying to knit itself back together and there wasn't a bottom to wipe.

wouldn't that be something?

the other day after i read the report this song came on the radio. i looked in the back seat and saw my two boys sitting there. each staring out their own window lost in thought somewhere else. and i thought about the time and the climb it has been to just reach this point. how every moment seems so big. even the moments you miss. and how it just keeps going. this parenting thing. running up that hill. making deals with god. wondering.

it is that spirit that i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen.

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2011-04-01T08:53:00.001-07:00

so the duke has scoliosis. and there's a very real possibility he will end up in a back brace. we go on monday to the orthopedic specialist.

now his posture has been slouchy for some time, but i thought it was just him being slouchy. but he's been going through a huge growth spurt and the slouch morphed. actually, as it turns out, his rib cage is twisted.

we've been waiting for the appointment for a month. and right after we made it i had a chat with the duke about 'embracing' (all pun intended) whatever the diagnoses was. that whatever it is just diving right in and totally accepting it will help him heal all that much faster. that there are all kinds of people with all kinds of issues and problems and illnesses and disabilities. that no one is perfect, the trick is to accept yours, try to heal it if you can, and move forward.

he agreed that that sounded like a good approach because although he wouldn't be thrilled about a brace (other option is it isn't that bad and he can do physical therapy) he would want to do what he could to help himself get over it more quickly.

that was a few weeks ago. as the appointment approaches he is a bit more apprehensive. (and let's face it, i am too. more than i thought i would be, actually.) so last night he said

'i think it would suck to end up in a brace.'

'yeah. i know. but remember, just 'embrace' it right?'

to my delight he chuckled.

'yeah, i mean there's nothing i can do about it. i might as well just be positive. even though i really don't want to start high school in a back brace.'

'who would? but we'll just take what comes. and just keep talking about it if you need to.'

"wait. mama, don't i have an eye exam and a dentist appointment coming up too?'

'yeah.'

'and everyone in our family wears glasses and the old dentist already said i needed braces?'

'yeah.'

a slight look of something indistinguishable and unpleasant came over his face.

'oh my god! so...there's a chance i could start high school in a back brace AND glasses AND braces?'

i opened my mouth and nothing came out. i closed my mouth.

we just looked at each other.

this moment was one of those john hughes movie moments. 'teen discovers true horror. is not amused.'

and then...he just burst out laughing.

jesuschristo.

whew.

and then i started laughing. and then the husband came in and asked us what was so funny.

'papa, i could be starting high school with a back brace AND glasses AND braces!'

and then we all laughed because what else do you do? other than thank god that the boy can rise up laughing. other than not burst into tears right then and there because you love your son so much and are so proud of him. other than wait until bed when everyone else is asleep to cry just a little because you wish his rib cage wasn't twisted.

when the duke of fun was less of an infant and more of a baby he would NOT go to sleep for anything. we finally settled on a routine of one of us walking around and around and around the living room while bouncing him up and down (he HAD to be bounced) and listening to one particular song by the verve over and over and over for an hour and a half every.single.night until he finally passed out.

he weighed 10 1/2 pounds at birth. this was about 6 months in. this was not an easy task. and i would get really tired. and sweaty. but i would walk and bounce and listen to the song. because this is what worked even if i didn't like it. knowing that this phase would end, hoping it was sooner than later. walk and bounce and listen. lather rinse repeat.

that's what i feel like right now. like i'm walking and bouncing and listening. because what i told him is true, lots of people have lots of things wrong with them. worse things. ours in life is to just accept and move forward. but i will tell you what, and i've said this before about other things and i'm saying it now about this thing...i can do that, accept it. walk bounce listen. but i still don't like it. it still doesn't mean i don't feel like there's something i wish i could do to make it different. and maybe i'm making WAY more of this than is necessary (what else is new). but since i don't know what it looks like yet, right now i'm just a mama waiting to exhale.

it is in this spirit that i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen. a bitter sweet symphony, this life. indeed.

i'll keep you posted.

x.

i give you these boundaries so that you don't do everything at once.

2011-03-25T07:37:00.000-07:00

"Brain scans revealed that the front of the frontal lobe—responsible for impulses and decision-making—was among the very last parts of the brain to mature, which researchers say could explain a lot of irritability and recklessness among teens." Rob Quinn at newser dot com

i've thought a lot about the duke being a teenager. having been a teenager i know what can go on. and what often does. and while i was pretty much a good kid and made it out fairly unscathed i'm certain i wouldn't want my own son to engage in some of the behaviors i did. okay, a lot of them.

BUT this is not something i can fully control. nor do i think i want to. because the duke has to have his own adolescence. period. oh and just because i believe that doesn't mean i have to like it. because i don't. but i didn't raise him all those years the way i did to lose faith in either us now. faith that i can loosen the ties and not yank too hard, or at all if necessary, faith that he'll hold on as tightly or as loosely as he needs to.

so i sat him down and i said 'look. there is a time and place for everything. and while a lot of things look tempting and you can't see a problem with at least trying it, remember to hear my voice in your head. remember to hear me telling you that you can't un-do un-see un-experience a thing. and if you do some things too early, when you are unprepared emotionally or physically, it shapes your view of the world. it shapes you. not to mention dragging danger and illegality into some of it.

the problem here is that as a teenager the processing and decision making part of your brain is not growing along with the rest of you. that means you may not be equipped to properly assess certain situations and their level of risk. because impulse kicks in. that's why there are parents in the world. and that's why you need to listen to me and trust what i am saying. look at the boundaries i give you as an opportunity to learn as you grow, and ease into adult behaviors. try not to see them as roadblocks to fun. plus, if you do everything at once, where's the fun in that? seriously, life is pretty amazing. you don't need to it all right.now. and, it's better if you don't.'

then we talked a bit more about the frontal lobe. and why it makes teenagers behave like toddlers. because you can teach toddlers all kinds of things to be aware of/avoid like hot, ouch, pinch, etc. just like with teens, sex, drugs, risky behaviors, etc. you can teach them about these things but if the frontal lobe isn't supporting proper reasoning skills then it's in one ear and out the other. and impulse kicks in and that's that.

'it's like if you were a toddler and i taught you that the stove meant *hot* but you saw a bright shiny apple sitting on it.'

'there might be times i would only see the apple. not the stove.'

'exactly.'

but just because you're up against flawed biology it doesn't mean you don't teach them. or talk to them about it. you do. early and often. he needs to know the stove is there. especially when he can't see it.

i stressed, again, that THIS is why he needs to hear my voice. yes, he will learn as he goes, and yes i want to hold space for that. but that he needs to let me parent, too.

i also stressed that i get that many decisions teenagers make are age appropriate, but that that doesn't mean they are *okay.* that it's about safety. and developing personal responsibility. and yes, restraint. not my favorite concept, but it's important. plus, and this is a big plus, we have addiction and mental illness in the family. so that's another layer that makes addressing the concept of safety and personal responsibility and restraint EVEN THOUGH YOU WANT THE APPLE a doubly good thing.

so far the duke is a young teen. he's well socialized (i cannot STAND that word but it's one the masses get) but being homeschooled he certainly hasn't been exposed to large groups of hormones and attitude all wrapped up in bravado and ego and shyness and self consciousness and peer pressure all moving in the same direction all at once.

but he is going to high school next year. and his world is going to drastically change. and THAT'S when it's all going to kick in. there will be context to what i'm telling him. and it will be interesting to see what happens.

i'd be lying if i said i was 100% ready. but i'm a mama, i wasn't ready for any of it to change and it always did anyway. and i changed with it. and here we are at the precipice once again.

at least, thus far, the edge is pretty amusing.

'no offense to anyone in this car (his family) but i'm really looking forward to spending my days away from you at high school next year.'

and the other day i chided the duke for not remembering to put the milk away. again. because this is an issue with him and this time the milk went bad.

'sorry, mama. i think it's that pesky frontal lobe at work.'

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2011-03-22T05:23:00.000-07:00

so i was coming back from taking the husband to work and the song on the stereo changed. and a song came on that *instantly* transported me to another time and another place. a girl i used to be.

and just like that i was in el paso, texas. sun baked and dusty, looking right at the mountain that burst into green after it rained. and just like i was in all the towns that i've ever lived in that were so different than the one i'm in now. with the other people i've ever loved who were different than the one i love now. how i've lived a million lives and now i'm living this one. how amazing that is. really.

because when you are in those towns and with those loves you think that's your life. things find their balance, or don't, but they continue on and you go with it. never thinking it would be different than it is right now. that this moment is so defining how could another moment even come close. never imagining how drastically any life can change. and given time and distance, it usually does.

and how here i am at 39 living a very different life than i did at 18 or 24 or even 6 months ago. and i'm here. i made it. and in made it i mean i just lived my life. and...here i am. still standing still breathing and laughing and loving and living my life.

and i swear to you at that stoplight right then in this quickly becoming less alien never imagined i'd ever be here place i looked up and there were billowy and beautiful white clouds drifting across the bluest sky i've seen in so long. and right then the sun burst from the clouds and illuminated it all. everything. and it was like the hand of god or the whisper of the tao or the sturdy knowledge of buddha or the work of fairies or angels or gaia or whatever your spirit or faith or gut tells you to call it because there's a word in every language...right then i was touched by that thing. and right then i got *it.*

this morning i completely understood that my whole life's purpose is to live. that this thing i've been searching for that i know is out there and have come close to finding, that it's just to live the life i have been given. that's it. *it.* to be who i am and that THAT is the thing. that my big calling is to just fucking do it. to be this girl at this moment. to make the life i've been given or made or plunked into or chosen or haven't to make it MINE. to adapt to change to charge forth or hold back, just make it mine. and that is *it.*

it sounds simple but i will tell you what, it's not. because it means a shift in perception. to open the door to the possibility that every single thing i've ever done, the good the bad the ugly the boring the stupid and the on my knees heartbreaking is absolutely the thing that i should have done. that it is absolutely is all about me just being me. the rest is transitory and relative. i can gain and i can lose but i still have to be me. that there isn't some magic bullet of success or progress that i just haven't tapped into yet. my life, right now, is success. and not success 'enough.' just success. all those moments. strung together and pulling me along.

and what's interesting is i think i knew this in some capacity. i've seen glimmers of it. but to fully 100% *know* that i've been doing exactly as i should have been all along is pretty fucking sweet. it's enchanting and delightful and bubbly. and that's the only way i can describe *it.* so thank you hand of god or whisper of the tao or buddha or fairies or angels or gaia or whatever your spirit or faith or gut tells you to call it because there's a word in every language (i even have my own)...you can reach out and touch me any time you like.

and that's the beauty of music. you can be living your life that eventually balances, or doesn't, but does just becomes the life you feel like you always lived, and then a song comes on and reminds you that it's a series of moments. this moment just being one of them. strung together to make a life. and the song pulls at one part. and it buckles and puckers a bit, and then just like the bluest sky after a whole winter buried in snow you are transported. and reminded.

so it is in this spirit that i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen. likely it's not the song to transport you, but i'm guessing after you listen to it you can find the one that does.

so the song ended. the light changed. and then i drove like an asshole all the way home. because if i'm going to live the life i've been given and make it mine and adapt and shift well...that's just how they do it here.

x.

train.

2011-03-14T07:12:00.001-07:00

we took the train into the city yesterday.

when we boarded a man and his toddler son in a stroller boarded also and sat across from us. the father unstrapped the boy and settled him next to the window. the boy was excited about the train. looking around and every few minutes asking 'train?' to which his father would reply, 'yeah, we're on the train.'

the boy was wearing thomas the tank engine rubber boots and jeans and a blue zip up fleece. he had the round wide eyed face of a toddler enjoying a very special treat. he looked out the window. he looked at me and i smiled at him. he became shy and burrowed into his father's shoulder. he could have been either one of my boys at any point in their toddler lives. i started to tear up.

i wanted to lean across the aisle and tell the father to enjoy this. right here. this trip. this day. this year. don't take it for granted and wish for another stage, an easier one with no diapers and full vocabulary. day by day train ride by train ride enjoy this. because this goes so fast you don't even know.

but i didn't. i sat with my swelling eyes missing my own toddler boys. having an indulgent melancholy free fall on the green line. a mama with no more little ones wondering how the time went so fast. why didn't i keep better track.

right then i turned and caught wingman's face as he stared out the window. big open smile, wide eyes, captivated fully and 100% by a simple train ride into the city. no longer a toddler, but still every bit my little boy.

and just like that, i was saved.

x.

olives.

2011-02-28T08:55:00.000-08:00

while it pains me a little to admit this, everything is still packed. well, not everything. but most things. i could say it's because i don't have enough wall space for my furniture that houses said packed items, but that's only one excuse. i still have all that furniture in the basement ready to be used to house all the things i need but haven't unpacked.

it could be said that if i haven't unpacked it i probably don't need it. i mean, we are going on three months and nobody's suffered because i don't have my extensive collection of sugar and creamer sets unpacked.

except for me, of course.

but see, the thing is my stuff isn't just stuff. it is to some people, but not to me. because i use my stuff. if i didn't use it it WOULD be just stuff. but i use it. and i miss it. and i like all of my things around me. i like seeing my six different sets of beer glasses/mugs. which seems like an excessive amount to some, but when you've had beer out of the proper glass it's like heaven. and thus, they become a terribly useful necessity. i like knowing that when people come over my people coming over plates are where i can find them.

i like knowing where my tablecloths are. where are my tablecloths? or my serving platters and serving dishes my square plates with the big huge blue flowers on them? i cannot even begin to imagine where my blue glass sorbet dishes are. or the dish i like to serve olives in.

for everyday this is not a big deal. but when i have people over it sucks. i feel like i'm entertaining in a college studio kitchen.

(we could add in the psychological angle and talk about how i longed for these kinds of things as a little girl and after suffering so much loss last year that i am even more attached to my stuff than ever. which is only kinda true because i've let go of a lot and even just the other day one of my grandmother's awesome bowls broke and i just hucked it in the trash and didn't get all crazy over it as i once might have. i mean that's progress people. i'm STILL verklempt over a certain PERFECT rectangular serving platter that broke years ago and i've never met its equal. but, i digress. and we don't need to get into all that. moreover, who would want to?)

but the thing is most people don't care. they don't. they are happy to just hang out and eat. they don't care if the olives are in my special olive dish or not. most people would eat the olives from the jar. most people don't care that much about olives.

but i do.

and people say oh don't go through the trouble. oh sit down and visit. (i do eventually sit down and visit and i don't get up again. just so you know) oh let me help. they use one plate for everything when i've set out two. oh i don't need another glass for this wine. but that glass had merlot? and now this is shiraz? let me get you another glass.

most people come and they say you work so hard i don't need another glass let me help you.

but i WANT to work this hard i WANT you to have another glass i WANT you to sit and relax.

LET ME LOVE YOU.

this is how i love. i love by creating food and making sure you have everything you need. i love by chilling the beer mugs before you come and making sure if we're having stella artois you get the fucking stella artois glass. i don't want you to have to keep asking for the salt and pepper at thanksgiving so i put individual salt and pepper shakers at various stations on the table. i WANT to do this. i LOVE to cook and to have people to cook for. i don't even care if you're vegan! or you have food allergies! i will do it!

i want you to come to my house and feel taken care of. content. this is not a sickness. this is not perfection i seek at the expense of everything else. this is just how i roll.

am i the world's best cook and entertainer? no. i am not. i am just me and i'm hoping you like what i make and i am glad when you do.

do i get stressed and overwhelmed in the process? yes. sometimes i do. but that's just part of the process when you are creating on a deadline. this does not mean i am a crazy neurotic who takes on too much crazy person. okay, i am all those things BUT not about this. this is me loving you by making sure you have a separate fork for dessert.

BUT

that being said

THIS

is my confession.

the dinner i ruined two weeks ago? with guests coming over? i ruined it because i was so obsessed by the fact that i didn't have my people coming over plates or my cutest tablecloth handy and could only find THREE champagne glasses in which to serve sparkling shiraz to FOUR. my dining room isn't put together and my kitchen isn't awesome yet. this house needed more TLC when we moved in than i gave it. the cabinets need repainting and the hardware needs replacing. and if i haven't unpacked all my clothes yet i sure as hell am not tackling the kitchen cabinets.

so. because i was being vain i ruined 3 dishes and barked at the boybarians and got all sweaty and ended up serving take out pizza to my guests.

did they care?

not a bit. they had the best time and are the kind of people who wouldn't care. they found my confession amusing and she even told me about a dinner she ruined consisting of a corn chowder that was delicious but ended up looking like vomit and biscuits that were hard as rocks. did she order pizza? nope. she served the 'ruined' dinner. and it became a story for her arsenal.

i AM proud of myself that i threw in the towel when i knew my goose was cooked (no pun intended and no i wasn't making goose) and stopped barking and sweating and running around trying to recreate an entire meal and called in for pizza backup.

(all that being said i am very much in the I DON'T CARE camp when i dine at other people's houses. you can feed me on a paper plate next to the draftiest window in the house with the stickiest mouthiest kid you've got on my right and your creepy relative across from me and i *literally* would not care. i am just so happy to be eating someone else's food in their space. true story.)

so. what is the lesson here? the lesson here is i need to unpack my stuff. because it's becoming a 'thing.' stuff is only stuff if you don't *use* it. the longer i don't unpack and use my stuff the more it becomes useless stuff.

you could also say the lesson here is that moving sucks and it's really hard for a long time. that every time i confront those boxes i miss my house and my family and my coast. those boxes make me sad and they make me cry. so i turn away and turn off the light and go where there are no boxes.

and the lesson here is that even though setting a table and cooking a meal is the way i love i could re-examine a few bits of my process. i literally need to not sweat the small stuff.

i have to remember that it's all about the olives.

and most people just don't care that much about how olives are served. it's okay that i do (i really really do) but it's not worth ordering pizza over.

x.

wherein i become a mommy blogger for a day. you have been warned.

2011-02-11T06:13:00.000-08:00

it is a commonly known fact among parents that when you have a baby you know a growth spurt is coming when they start to nurse (or bottle feed) a BUNCH. and when they are toddlers there is the uptick in snacking and a few well placed tantrums in a row to let you know. as tweens there are the growing pains, and as teens they just appear at the breakfast table one day in comically too short pajama bottoms that you could have sworn fit the day before.

but there is a time in there when it's less easy to tell. the growth spurts in the 8 to 10 years old set seem to be more subtle. a more gradual process that's not so easy to detect. even as it is happening right before your very eyes. at least in my house.

when the duke was that age the only way i knew he had a growth spurt is i had to go and purchase new clothes. wow, he's really growing i'd think. but wingman wears mainly his brother's hand me downs, so i don't have that consistently to go on. fortunately, wingman has a 'tell' when he's about to sprout up. and it's not a subtle one.

the last time was about 9 months ago. i went into the back room and he had the box of old thomas the tank engine videos out. he ended up watching them all and kept watching on and off for the next week. then he got out his wooden train set that hadn't seen the light of day in about a million years. he made tracks and took those apart and made more for the next week or so. then, he was done. the videos were stuffed back into the closet, the train set went back to where it had been unearthed from. two weeks after that we were buying new pants.

he hangs on for the move forward by going back.

and it isn't just the nostalgia of and sudden interest in old toys and favorite videos that signals a growth spurt in wingman. cut to last week. it was just the two of us at target. we were tooling around and i had to be in the office supply section. you can go look at the toys if you want i told him. no, that's fine. i'll just hang out here with you. which i thought was weird, that he wasn't interested in the toys.

so we're done with office supplies and headed towards cleaning supplies. and there on the end cap was a valentine's display of housewares. and he saw something and went right to it and had to have it. oh, mama can i have this! it's only 1.99! that? you really want that? yes! it's awesome! um, sure. okay. and it was this;

yes, a plastic bowl with a smiling bear and hearts.

now, you wouldn't think it to look at him because he's 'all boy' and snark, but wingman has always gravitated to things like this. well not hearts, which he says he cannot stand (all photographic evidence to the contrary), but just smiley things. things that are soft and happy. since he was a baby until now. things like that bowl make him happy. they also give him security.

for instance, last summer he went to YMCA camp for the first time. for a week. he had been waiting forEVER to be old enough to go. he was packed up and on the bus and off he went. i cried. and then i figured it would be like the duke, he'd jump right into camp and be sad it was time to come home.

turns out, i found out MUCH later, he was horribly homesick the WHOLE time. he said he had fun, enjoyed it a lot, but the homesickness never went away. and the very first chance he got he went to the camp store and spent all of his money on two stuffed animals and slept with them both every night. he told me he still felt homesick, but that the stuffed animals made him feel much better. they've joined pooh bear on the bed and he sleeps with them still.

and yes, they are smiley and sweet and soft and they comforted him when he needed it. and while i am sad to think of him missing home so much, i am proud of his ability to tend to his emotional needs.

so cut to the bowl with the bear and the hearts. he knew immediately he had to have it. and, i did too. (thank god. i wish every aspect of parenting came so easily.) he eats out of it every night. and he will continue to do so until one day i'll notice when he's setting the table that he doesn't set it at his place. instead there will be just a regular white plate like the rest of us. shortly after that we'll be buying new pants.

and the bowl will go in the cabinet. and i'll see it occasionally when he digs it out, or when my goddessdaughter or youngest niece come to visit. eventually, i won't see it anymore.

the thing about growth spurts in children is that we tend to think of them as purely physical. but there's a whole emotional component and when you're little it seems to hard to put a finger on. you know you feel...something. but what is it? it's hard to describe, because you feel it but you also "feel" it.

babies nurse more for the nourishment to sustain the growth spurt and as they do they stay close to their mamas longer than usual, holding on and keeping safe until it passes.

being a toddler is just one HUGE growth spurt. and they tantrum because they have little to no ability to adequately verbalize their feelings. god what an intensity to grow so much so fast. can you imagine? and not just feelings of i'm mad i'm sad i'm hungry i don't like those socks. more the WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON WITH ME feeling that is surging through their tiny bodies, and not just physically. sure they snack for nourishment, but the tantrums are the hold-me-closer-even-as-i-scream-because-trust-me-i-need-to-scream nourishment for their exploding souls.

tweens need empathy and understanding for their growing pains just as they do for their rapidly growing inner emotional lives, too. teens need new clothes to cover their person and they also need the same assurance that you've got their back for the rest of it. 'it' being a very big deal even if they can't quite explain it fully. it's easy to notice too small pajama pants and fix that. but it's just a symbol of a larger expansion going on inside. one that doesn't need 'fixing,' just noticing. and understanding.

note to self; keep that last paragraph handy for a not so distant future reminder.

for now, wingman has his bowl. and for how long i don't know. and as much as i like to see him grow and mature, i kinda hope he eats out of it for a little longer than i know he will. because i miss my little kids. and i think i always will.

x.

i messed up.

2011-02-08T05:39:00.000-08:00

so.

i bitched about someone in an e-mail i sent to the husband. only i sent it to the person. i bitched about. instead.

and you always hear about these things and you hope it never happens to you and it feels just as you would imagine something like that would feel. and yes. there was the OMG maybe i can get it back!!! hopeless totally sinking moment.

with shaking hands and a pit in my stomach i quickly sent a sorry. i explained what caused the bitch. why i was upset. it's been an upsetting day. i should have just said no. this has been a problem before. this is my issue. this is not your issue. i apologize for dragging you in. i understand if it's just too much and you want to terminate the agreement. (this was a professional acquaintance) please let me know.

she didn't let me know. not yet.

shit.

just because you mess up and feel like a colossal ass doesn't mean you don't have to feed your kids. chopping the cucumbers and the tomatoes washing the lettuce. vegetables are easy. slice slice neat rows of four. turn and chop chop chop. they get shoved to the side in a tidy little pile. i set the table with a fresh tablecloth. i sat down. i ate with my kids.

and the thing wasn't that it was bitchy *about* her. just the situation. but it could very definitely be interpreted as directly hurtful. it was not an e-mail any of us would care to receive.

moreover, it revealed my inner ass. it shed light on my absolute ability to appear passive aggressive. to BE passive aggressive. my 'say one thing with a smile and feel quite another with a bitch' side. sure, it was supposed to be private. a vent from a wife to a husband at the end of a long day. i'm entitled. but it revealed to someone else what i cannot stand about myself. it revealed my inner silly mortal. i felt ashamed. and embarrassed.

i am a good person. but i felt like a bad person.

i messed up.

she didn't let me know. still.

i went upstairs and brushed my teeth. a shower. a shower might be a good thing. i never shower at night. but it was if cleaning my teeth and my person could clean my conscience. see. i'm clean. good people are clean. i AM a good person. as if the minty flowery foamy steamy would really wipe the slate.

the thing is, when you hurt someone's feelings it feels worse than when you get your feelings hurt. at least when my feelings get hurt i get a dose of righteous indignation. the free pass to cry. the opportunity to rise above it. to forgive and feel better. even as we are hurting, these are soothing balms. when i hurt someone's feelings i just feel like shit. and there's nothing i can do about it. except keep breathing, know that we all slip up, and hope for the best. and feel like shit.

i wanted to cry. but i didn't. because i was way too anxious. and because i didn't think it would be fair.

i messed up.

she didn't let me know. still.

i set up the coffee for the morning and made the husband's lunch for the next day. the salad arranged so nicely in the container. the dressing separate and nestled in so it was presentable and convenient. the leftover homemade pizza fanned out in the next container. containers stacked neatly. good people do nice things for others. see! i AM a nice person. look at the care i am taking with someone else's lunch. look at me be a good person.

i wonder if she who does not know me well knows that i am a good person. not the sum of my bitchy parts. i wonder as i wait for her to let me know.

here i am on the couch. doing flashcards with wingman. i cannot stand doing flashcards. but here i am doing them. with encouragement. and a smile. good people do things they don't want to do to help others. with a smile. yeah. and that's what got me into this mess. this is not lost on me. but mothering is different. yeah. at least that's what i tell myself as i ignore the blurred lines in my life.

i see wingman through the evening and get him into bed. i am a good mother. good mothers are good people. see me being a good person. see.

i messed up.

and then i opened my e-mail. she let me know. she was more than gracious. i was gracious back. with humility. and appreciation. and after all that, that was that. she is a nice person.

so. we go from here.

yeah. and did i still go overboard and agree to a bit too much (though not as much as before?) yep. i absolutely did. but, this was a good huge humbling step. and i am still learning. and truth be told i created a HUGE situation over what, in the end, amounted to changing two hours. two freakin' hours. even though i felt justified and she didn't listen to my needs as closely as i would have liked, i didn't take a step back i just jammed forward. i should take more time to take that step more often. and i am too accommodating, it's true. BUT i am also a person who does like to help others. and in the end i agreed to a bit and she conceded a bit and it will work for both of us. maybe not perfectly for either, but...

there is a balance. and i will find it. it will likely take me the rest of my life. but, isn't that why we're here? to keep trying until we get it? hoping we'll get it.

so. i'm an ass. i mess up. and i can hurt people's feelings. and sometimes i do.

my advice to my kids in this situation is exactly what i did. own up, be honest, apologize. hope for the graciousness of others. learn from it. move on.

and, as an addendum, absolutely check the name in the TO: box on your e-mail before you hit send.

because lessons can be learned and we can move forward but that does not mean the silly mortal won't rise again. because it always does.

x.

move.

2010-12-16T06:38:00.000-08:00

the other day someone asked me if i was pregnant because i 'seemed so happy lately.' well first of all, every baby is a blessing, but me + pregnancy rarely = happy. even on the best of days. and the 'happy' part? well, i must confess...i haven't been terribly happy.

what i have been is positive, i have been open, i have been the seeker of the silver lining, but i cannot say that i have been happy.

the move leveled me, frankly. physically, mentally, and emotionally. i have never in my life been so flattened by something. the wicked month long cold like something out of that scene in alien only in my head and the terribly injured arm didn't help, either. but when you have kids and you carry the heart of your small family you've got to see your way past that.

and perhaps my ruse was so good that's why i seemed happy.

and while i haven't spent my days weeping, i am sad. and i know i will have to process the loss of the house and the move away from family and the total life transplant to a very different place than i ever thought i'd find myself eventually.

don't get me wrong. i LOVE my new house, this town is beautiful, and thus far we've had a lovely almost eerily easy transition into things.

(well, some things, good lord don't dare to ask questions about a small town's outdated and archaic recycling/waste management practices lest you want to be run out of town on a rail. or to be told to, and i quote, 'suck it up.')

but let's not forget the best part of all, a fabulous job for my husband. which is huge. bigger than huge. and the reason we find ourselves here. the reason it's all going to be worth it. and what i've been trying to put at the absolute front as my focus.

but it's like leaving a crumbling relationship and finding yourself in a healthy and progressive one. there is still loss. when your heart has been broken, even finding it beating and whole again can't ever erase the earlier pain entirely.

and while i haven't processed this, i knew i would break down spectacularly exactly twice before we got here. the first time was at the house, finding the truck was already full and there stood my grandmother's chairs, the rocking chair my father in law refinished for me to rock my babies in, my desk where i spend the majority of my days. and no room left for any of them. jesus could we bring more any more metaphor in?

i broke down in tears and instantly i had two sisters and a husband and a brother in law trying to figure it out for me. there's nothing quite like a woman on the edge losing her shit in the middle of chaos. "I AM TIRED OF GIVING THINGS UP! NOBODY FUCKING ASKED *ME* ABOUT ANY OF THIS! AND I'VE BEEN SO GOOD ABOUT ALL OF IT! WHY DO WE HAVE SO MUCH STUFF! WE ARE SUCH AMERICANS! THERE IS SOMETHING VERY WRONG WITH US IF I CAN'T EVEN TAKE MY GRANDMOTHER'S CHAIRS! WHAT IS *WRONG* WITH US!"

in the end i left the chairs and the rocker. a friend has them stored for me. along with everything else we couldn't take and i couldn't part with. and lest you think otherwise, i left a LOT behind that i did have to part with. because even if you love something sometimes the truck is just full. and you have to let it go. but not the chairs. and my awesome sisters and brother in law and husband made sure my desk and desk chair got broken down enough to fit at the top of the truck.

the second breakdown was because of the trees. the first day we drove it was nothing but snow and traffic and the roof box on the car being blown open on the freeway and chaining up a 26 ft moving truck on a mountain pass. god it was intense. i was driving away from my home for the last time and it was snowing. all of a sudden it was winter. and i realized i hadn't left the house at all in the past two weeks getting things cleaned and packed. i realized i had been so preoccupied the past few months (years) that i had lost a whole season. where had fall gone? i had completely missed fall.

so the second day i was riding in the moving truck and our traveling companion was driving the car. i was looking out the window and all of a sudden i noticed the trees. we were in eastern washington and the trees suddenly weren't my trees. these were ponderosa pines. shorter. scrubbier. they were not my trees. the trees i have lived around for so long. perhaps taken for granted. and i realized that from that point on EVERYTHING would be different. the trees, the view out the window, my life. it's like that's the moment it hit me that nothing would ever be the same again.

and i lost it. it was that moment i realized just how far this had gone. it's like after all the hard work and worry and cleaning and dumping and packing and moving and organizing it's like once that fell away i came right down to the nugget. and that nugget fucking sucked. and it still does. because that nugget is loss and distance and change i didn't ask for but have to totally and completely accept. that nugget is my sisters. my family. my house. my friends. my coast. my fucking trees.

i cried for the next 300 miles straight.

i'll not bore you with how hard the trip was from there. oh, but please don't forget about the 4 cats in a car the size of a large handbag. because that added a special extra element to the whole traveling circus sideshow.

and just because our life gets to be extra adventurous we were doing all this with no set place to land. we didn't find out until we were on our way that the house we wanted was actually ours. well, so we thought.

after 8 days of hard travel we landed here at the house. only to sit outside it for an hour, the afternoon light fading and it's getting colder, the neighbors curious and trying not to spy, waiting to 'actually' find out if it was ours. because what people say and what they actually do can be two different things. which i understand. and it happens. though when you're sitting outside what you thought would be your home with a 26ft moving truck packed so full you can't get the door open and your kids and a car full of cats and there's even a question of 'maybe' life boils down pretty quickly. and you begin to wonder if this all hasn't been one cosmic joke and you fell for it. and why you didn't think to pack your flask.

well here it is, some weeks later and we all know now how the drama played out. there are still boxes all around, except for the bed none of my bedroom furniture will fit up the stairs, the house isn't nearly big enough for all my useful pieces, i can't find ANYTHING, and there's one bathroom for 4 people. one of whom is a teenager who appreciates looking at himself in the mirror more than 1 bathroom for 4 people really allows.

i miss my family terribly. i used to talk to one or both of my sisters nearly every single day and i can't remember the last time i talked to one of them now. the time change has been a big hindrance. the cold i caught a month ago is just now going away, but still a bother. and my injured arm is still in a lot of pain.

BUT

this is a lovely home and we are lucky to have it. really really lucky. to have a roof over one's head is one thing, but to have such a charming roof is quite another.

the neighborhood is very nice and has been welcoming. we are in walking distance to a few cool places. there's a trail that runs through the whole town just a block away. we chose this town specifically for the high school for the duke next year. there were exactly 3 places to choose from here. and we got 1 of them. and we made it here.

and then there's the job. it will take us awhile to dig out of the past two years, but the future is incredibly bright for our family.

so, no, i haven't been happy. but i have been positive, and open, and the seeker of the silver lining. i have smiled when i've felt like crying because i am still the mama, the keeper of the heart for my little family. oh, and the teacher. these kids still have school.

and don't forget about the 4 cats.

and it's all going to be good. it is all good. just because you're sad doesn't mean it isn't good.

and yesterday when we were coming home from our walk (yes i make my kids walk in 19 degree weather) we were coming up the street and our house came into view on the corner. a very cold and grateful wingman raced across the street and shouted "HOME!"

and right then i knew that it was all okay. that everything happens for a reason. that we're right where we need to be. and the rest will come.

and that maybe, just maybe, it will be better than we ever imagined. i'm sort of leaning in that direction. i'll keep you posted.

so here's my christmas card letter to you all;

Dear Family & Friends,

Well, 2010 pretty much sucked a metric assload for the Sillymortalmama Family. But, kinda, sorta, maybe eventually in a good way.

Seasons Greetings!

x.

2 boybarians. 4 cats. 1 piano.

2010-10-29T18:02:00.000-07:00

when i was little we didn't watch tv. i mean REALLY little. by the time i was 9 & 10 & 11 i knew the theme songs and formula to every show worth watching. but when i was really little, when my mom was still with us, we got to watch Little House on the Prairie. i want to say it came on only on sunday nights, and that it was a big deal, and that i had to have my bath first, and be in my pajamas already, with wet hair brushed, and lots of anticipation. but i may be just remembering that the way i want to remember it.

anyhow, i DO remember very clearly when they packed up and left the big woods for the prairie. i remember the wagon and the stuff and the kids and ma and pa. i remember seeing all this and thinking, but they live in the big woods? that's their HOUSE. that's where they LIVE. and i didn't know about the magic of tv at such a young age, but i couldn't help but thinking this was just, well, magic. something that would happen and then it would all get changed back. you know, BACK. to where it was before.

so i watched this for awhile with my mom and dad and my two sisters and eventually i turned to my mom (and shit for me to remember this moment is magic in itself. believe me. magic.) and i said

'but they are going back. right? next show? they'll be back in the big woods, right? that's their house! that's where they live!'

so it's time for the sillymortalfamily to leave the big red house. i'd be lying if i said it was 'entirely' voluntary; that it's not forced at all. that i had 100% certainty of where we will end up.

but i do have 100% certainty that it's all going to work out. that this is just part of the adventure i never planned on myself having. and how fun is an adventure that's planned for, anyway?

see, i am not a cautionary tale. no. i am not. i'm just one more person part of one more family who tried to do it and got caught up in the rising tide of crap that so many other families got caught in recently. not because we were stupid trying to bite off more than we could chew but because after awhile there wasn't anything left to bite. let alone chew.

we fought so hard and so long and in the end we came up short. we gave it everything we had. and it wasn't enough. but, this is not personal. i know that. in the end it just didn't work. and while my heart breaks with the loss, i get the situation and i am so rich in all the ways that actually count.

please allow me for a minute to offer a smidgen of advice. whatever it is you are facing, please do no be afraid. however hard or scary or unfamiliar, nothing ever comes of climbing into bed and pulling the covers over for the duration. maybe for a minute, sure, we all need a break. but after a bit it begins to get hard to breathe under there.

and no one ever got to see a beautiful sunrise or the magnificent sunset with the covers over their head. and when things aren't going the way you may like sometimes it's the break of a new day, the eventual rest of a day gone by, the leaves changing on the trees, the way the air feels different as a season changes. sometimes it's the the little things you notice...that you may not have so much before. because you were preoccupied. or because you were so busy doing something close to nothing that you just.never.noticed. how special it is to be alive. to notice colors. to breathe. to just be able to breathe.

losing a house is like a death, in this regard. it puts A LOT into perspective. boils it down. makes the little things count.

the big things? well, perhaps sometimes the big things are made bigger just because we can make them bigger.

but it's slow, this death, and it gives one some time to gather themselves. so i use this time to count my blessings, to fully understand and to know with all the certainty in the world i am luckier than most. wine helps. ;)

so. i am leaving a house that for all intents and purposes is the family gathering spot. holidays and sundays and birthday parties and saturday afternoons. a house i bought so young and so excited and so full of the future. a house full of possibility. and a house i fully expected to die in.

toys haphazardly 'stored' in the basement for the grand kids, grand plans for skylights and a wrap around porch and a mudroom that would actually be functional and be the envy of all mudrooms everywhere. i got married here. right in the back pasture. with so many who were ever important to me gathered in one spot. my kids and nieces and nephews and kids special to my heart all have graduating heights recorded on the wall between the kitchen and living room. maybe we could get someone in to help us make the gardens what they should be. what they could be. it was all there. potential. the future. love at first sight for a falling down house that i thought i had time with. but there was never enough money. and now, we've run out of time. we always expected that would come later. the money and time. that it would all come. later.

but, sometimes things just don't work out how you want them to.

and this is just the way it sometimes goes.

and so i am sitting here trying to figure out how i move a life nearly 16 years in the making. nearly 12 in this house; complete with 2 boybarians, 4 cats, 1 piano OH MY GOD I HAVE A PIANO TO MOVE! HOLY SHIT A PIANO! and one mama and one papa who have thus far kept it together but are getting so very tired of keeping the world up and spinning, of making it all work out of nothing. who are more than willing and ready to move towards MOVEMENT FORWARD. whatever that looks like.

and regardless of what their hearts have to say about it.

i am at once scared and interested in the great wide open and so very very very very sad.

but, i am going to let go and jump in. both feet. the hugest fucking leap you ever did see. round and round she goes where she ends up nobody (including her) knows. with eyes wide open. because i can still see through the tears, and also because even in loss and as your heart is breaking ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN...and sometimes it does.

everything is possible.

absolutely.

always.

be blessed,

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2010-10-20T08:33:00.001-07:00

years ago i was moving from one place to another, 'back home' really. as if that place actually existed, but that's a story for another day.

so i was leaving the desert southwest to go 'back home.' and the day before i left a friend, with whom i had laboriously forged a tenuous and somewhat difficult friendship, placed a wonderfully beautiful pendant in my palm and closed both our sets of hands around it and said

"i want you to have this. but whatever you do, do NOT lose it or i will be really upset."

and i held on to that pendant for the drive halfway back across country to the first place i thought was 'back home.' and i held on to that pendant for the short drive to the next city that was the second place i thought could be my new 'back home.' and when both of those didn't work out i drove two states north to the place that had become 'back home.'

and then i stopped driving.

and when i came to the first big body of water, which just happened to be the puget sound, i tossed the wonderfully beautiful pendant in with many blessings, good wishes, and good riddance.

and with the knowledge that i will never lose it because i know exactly where it is.

which brings me to this installment of your moment(s) of zen.

there are a million ways not to lose something. a million ways to hang on.

and a million ways to let go.

x.

giraffe.

2010-10-07T08:27:00.000-07:00

so i went to the doctor on tuesday for a follow up on a minor issue from earlier in the month. and my blood pressure was high. even for me. who has high blood pressure. i was instructed to keep an eye on it for a few days and make a follow up appointment.

i was appropriately nervous, but figured the sinus headache, lengthy cold, minor issue from earlier in the month, all in the last month and lack of exercise from all those all in the last month and oh yeah, the last few years just was rolling all together, and contributed to the reading and i just needed to take it easier.

so i went for a walk after the doctor to clear my head and get some fresh air.

now, the walking trail we've been going to for years is 4 or 5 miles from our house. it's a bike trail, too. one big loop, flat and wide, a boardwalk over the wetlands. it's pretty and quiet. you go through trees and meadows and wetlands. there is a little creek. and in the fall you can even see salmon.

so i'm walking along and i'm thinking about what i can do to get healthier, but sort of on the abstract. despite all evidence to the contrary, i feel like a pretty healthy person. i eat well, i exercise, i like my body. all the things you're supposed to do. sure, maybe i could do more of this and less of that, and not every curve is the one i want to flaunt. but all in all, i feel like i'm doing what i'm supposed to.

at this point i get to the spot on the walk where the trail cuts through a tall meadow. and at the edge of the meadow there is a stand of trees, and beyond the trees is the highway.

some time ago i was walking along with my family and right there at the edge of the meadow where it meets the trees there was a giraffe. just out of the blue. just standing there. and yes, at first i thought it was real.

oh, there's a giraffe!

and that's when wingman said

it was here last time, mama.

oh. i honestly did not remember it being there last time. and then every time after that i would see it and it would shock me. this life size giraffe just standing there. and i would wonder, is it flat? or a real lifelike replica? part of a drama set? who put it there? and then as time went it shocked me less and less and i would look forward to coming upon it. and i would register it and keep walking.

and then one day i noticed someone had mowed a path through the meadow to the giraffe. you could walk right up to the giraffe and check it out.

oh, there's a path!

and i didn't take it. not when i first noticed it. not the next time. and not tuesday when i was walking after my doctor's appointment. i can't say why, i just never did. i registered the giraffe and the path and kept walking. i felt good, i ended my walk, and i went home.

and the next morning, yesterday morning, i went to the emergency room with all the symptoms of a heart attack.

i got put in a wheelchair and saw my kids' faces in the waiting room as i was taken back through those double doors.

i got put on a bed and hooked up to a bunch of machines and saw my husband's face as he stood next to me.

they put in an IV for blood draws and took my blood and my blood pressure and stuck stickers with snaps all over my chest and snapped me in and measured my heart rate and asked me all the questions you ask someone who comes in with shortness of breath, chest pains, shooting pain down the arm, all the questions. they put me in a gown. i knew then it would be a long day.

'have you been under any stress, lately?'

and that's when i started to cry.

obviously, they don't read my blog.

and my blood pressure? 193/116.

they ran the tests one runs to check for a heart attack. they watched the monitors. i held my husband's hand. i held my breath.

the first tests came back negative for a heart attack. but they cautioned about a false positive. they would do another test in three hours, that would give them a better estimate.

my blood pressure came down. still high, but way way down. my heart monitor and oxygen saturation and respiration and heart rate looked good.

my lab work was excellent. i am, apparently a healthy young woman. (i put in young, the doctor never said young. ;) )

i sent my family home to eat lunch and come back for the next blood test.

and i just rested in the hospital bed and listened to the beeps and the commotion around me and wondered how in the hell i got there. not that i didn't know. but life seems to become a bit more transparent and beg for a bit more self examination, WITHOUT all the bullshit, when you're confined to a bed and can't move because you are hooked up to machines that are there to measure your life. and what you may have left of it.

funny how that works.

the second test came back negative. my blood pressure was still down. no heart attack. it was chalked up to blood pressure and stress. i am to monitor, talk to my doctor, and only change my blood pressure medication if it doesn't stay level through the weekend. come back with anymore symptoms.

and then they unhooked me and took out the IV and gave me my clothes and i took off the stickers all over my chest and i got sent home.

my family was scared, it was traumatic. i'm only now realizing how much harder it is to be the one in the waiting room. the one standing by the bed, rather than the one in it. harder still when you're 9 and 13 and that's your mama. or you're 45 and that's your whole life.

fuckin' giraffe.

i have known that i have high blood pressure. hell i take medication every single day for it. it's not some big surprise. it's not like it hasn't been there a few years. it's a family curse, one of them anyway. i'll take the sharp wit and the gallows humor. the blood pressure sucks, though.

but i can't just blame that. i'm right where i am because of me. i know what i need to do and i don't do enough of it. the bottom line is while i am happy with who i am, my heart is not. my frame is simply just too damned small for the weight on it. i'm not supposed to be a size 2, but i'm not supposed to be as 'curvy' as i am.

and it's been such a stressful long stretch and i can be as positive as i want, and i am, but that stress finds a home somewhere. i did NOT do enough to give it an outlet. stress builds. and it kills. i know this, and i could have done more.

but even when you know something it's easy to disregard it. like the giraffe at the edge of the meadow it's easy to become accustomed to seeing it. even when a clear path is created, we are content still to just see it at the edge of the meadow. no need to get closer, we know it's there, manageable. and look at me! look how i manage!

but that's not how we get healthy. by managing. we get healthy by doing. less of this, more of that. it's never been rocket science.

i am not a stupid person. i know this. what the fuck.

and all of us has a giraffe. whether it's related to health or relationships or finances or addictions or whatever, we all have some thing somewhere we know is there and needs to be addressed. and we don't, or we do very minimally. enough to convince ourselves we've got it covered. and even when we do see a path to it, we just walk by. and we keep going on the loop. seeing the giraffe, registering it, ignoring the path, moving along the loop. lather, rinse, repeat.

it's so easy.

but i will tell you what, and you know where i'm going with this, lying on a hospital bed bargaining with god is NOT the time to start dealing with the giraffe. your odds, at that point, are not very good.

so there you have it. i could go on and on about changes and plans and preciousness of life and all that. but unless you're on oprah and she's touching your knee and handing you a tissue that's just boring. and, i think you get the gist.

i am still the luckiest girl in the world. but i know now that luck can and does run out.

and when atlas shrugs it's a big fucking deal. so secure your goods and find your hard hat before this happens.

above all, take care of you. and quit ignoring the parts that need the most attention. life is too goddamn short. and it's only getting shorter every day.

blessings,

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2010-10-01T09:23:00.000-07:00

when i was in jr. high i was bullied. by two girls in my grade with whom i seemed to have an AWFUL lot of classes. for two years. every single day. and it sucked. and i think about that now with all the recent news of kids killing themselves because they were being bullied. for being gay. or being perceived as gay.

i wasn't bullied because i was gay. i was bullied because i was poor. and shy. and strange.

and the day i left 8th grade was the day it ended. even though i had high school for the next four years with those girls they never said one word to me ever again. i don't know if they found somebody else or what. but, it got better. i found friends, the best friends a girl could ask for, who knew me and accepted me. i was still poor. and shy (i know y'all balk at this one, but it's true. i still am shy. really. i promise you.) and strange. but it didn't matter.

because IT SHOULDN'T MATTER.

i will never understand why people think being gay is wrong. in my life i will never understand why people even give a rat's ass? it's not like it's some new invention or fad dreamed up just to bother the bigoted and unkind. it's not like it's not BEEN AROUND FOR FUCKING EVER. who are we to judge? nobody.

we are NOBODY to judge.

my 13 year old son has endured his fair share for the past year or two from teammates and others who 'suggest' that he is gay. and they like to shove this at him. and say things. and call him names. as he is home schooled it's not daily or all that intense. but really, at 12 and 13 how intense does it need to be to make an impact?

and my 13 year old son is sharp and strong. but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. and doesn't make an impact. now? it's pretty much a joke to him. he could not care less what those assholes think of him. but when it first started happening he did care. he's 13. an age when it can all turn on a dime. so we talked and talked and talked about it. talked about how he felt. talked about how it doesn't matter to bullies if something is true or not. talked about how people are miserable in their own lives so they pick on other people.

and not just weak people, but people they are afraid of. people who they can't figure out. the duke is an anomaly out here in the sticks to some of these boys who are raised in a whole different culture than he is. and of course if he dresses like he does and refuses to talk smack about girls' bodies with the rest of them then he's gay. clearly.

and we talked about what it meant to be gay and more importantly who in the hell cares? we don't. and i reminded him that kids can be assholes because they haven't been taught *not* to be. and that these boys won't be around forever. and that it sucks but you've just got to ignore it. and get through it.

then i reminded him that some of the adults he knows, people who he thinks are cool, were bullied. and how they had to get through it. and they did. that they made it. and how awesome they are. and how awesome THEY THINK HE IS. and that meant a LOT to him. it's impossible not to feel good about who you are when you know there are cool people who think YOU are cool. especially when you're 13.

and that helped. and boosted him.

and now he likes to say who cares? i don't. and he likes to remind people that in ancient greece they thought that the love between two men was the highest form of love. and in sparta they would strive to put male lovers in the same army regiment because it was thought that the men would fight harder to impress each other. (history is awesome.)

and he takes the comments in stride. and comes up with more outlandish fashion choices. partly to push the envelope, partly because he just plain likes the idea of wearing lavender skinny jeans. and a lot, i suspect, because he's figured out the chicks really dig a guy wearing something out of the norm. young mr. smooth. he is not stupid.

so my 13 year old son is getting through it. and it breaks my heart that there are mothers out there missing their own 13 year old sons. their 11 year old sons. 16, 18, 21 year old sons because they weren't so lucky. life is so very cruel sometimes.

people are entitled to their own opinions. i respect that. but that's what they are; opinions. they are not gospel and they are not the *only* truth. and in some cases they are hate disguised as personal belief. and that is tragic and shameful.

and i only wish everyone got to know that. before it's too late. because too late comes for some. and may they rest in peace. and may god or someone somewhere have mercy on the souls of the bigoted and the unkind. may something positive come of these tragedies.

when i was 12 and 13 i couldn't imagine life getting better. i was at the mercy of cruelty and circumstances beyond my control. but, it did get better. and continues to. and there was a moment the other evening when i was sitting with my two boys and the papa and we were all busting up in laughter at something and couldn't stop. and i remember seeing that moment so clearly even as it was happening. and i remember thinking life doesn't get any better than this moment.

and i wish that every child or teen or young adult who feels that life won't get better could have a glimpse of a future moment to convince them that it can. it gets better. and it is in that spirit i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen.

be blessed.

x.

wherein i give a lesson on breastmilk. and my kids chase the dragon.

2010-09-23T10:15:00.000-07:00

there is one woman responsible for both my of kids' 'first meals.' and that woman is not me.

when i gave birth to the duke i was transported to the hospital and he couldn't go with me. not until the next morning. so that meant that for about 12 hours i didn't get to have my newborn baby with me. sure, he was surrounded by those who love him best in the world, but even in my half dead (literally) state i was upset about this.

what would he be thinking, not hearing my voice? not seeing my face? because he had heard my voice for so long, and saw my face when he was first born. what if he wanted to nurse? sure, he wouldn't starve, but when the midwife put him on my tummy he crawled up and latched on and started nursing. he would know something was missing.

the papa brought him to the hospital after i was first admitted that night for a short visit, but by then i had been poked, prodded, and prepped for the multiple blood transfusions to come, was battling a monster migraine, and was cracked out on morphine. plus, there was that half dead thing. so it wasn't a terribly long or coherent visit

i tried falling asleep but i couldn't. not really. so i passed the night thanking god for being alive and with the vision of the duke's two huge pink cheeks peeking out of the ugliest piece of newborn clothing i had for him and wondering why the papa would dress him in that god awful thing? (in the papa's defense, not that he needs one, i think he wasn't thinking 'what's the cutest thing i can dress my newborn baby in to take to the hospital to see his half dead mother?' i have no defense. i'm a mama. even half dead i saw it could be done a 'better' way. how any relationship ever survives is a mystery.)

and i passed that night wondering if the duke wanted to nurse and if he wondered where i was. wondering if he missed me. because i sure missed him. terribly. until that night i didn't know how much i could miss someone.

so it was early the next morning and i cannot recall if it was a phone call to the room or if a family member brought the information in but in my dozy hazy state i heard the goddess mother lean into me and say

"wendy's at the house. she's nursing the duke."

and with that i was finally able to let go and rest.

wendy. we were in texas at the clinic together. and from the moment i met her i loved her. it was hard not to. if you think of looking into a face that seems to hold the whole world, is capable of anything, and yet is right there present with you, that's wendy. she had since moved to the bay area and just so happened to have been visiting in seattle with her 8 month old son when i gave birth. she came right over and dove right in. there when i couldn't be. and she put the newborn duke to her breast and fed him. a mama doing what a mama does. opening her heart, feeding a hungry baby. so basic. and yet when i was lying in the hospital, utterly helpless in this arena, it gave me the greatest comfort and meant more than i could ever express.

the trouble with this arrangement came later. when the duke finally came to stay with me in the hospital.

now, there is a huge difference between the milk of a woman who just gave birth and that of a woman who's pretty much exclusively nursing and has been for 8 months.

let's have a little biology lesson shall we? when a woman gives birth her milk doesn't come in right away. what a baby gets in the first few days of nursing is colostrum. which isn't milk, but precedes it and is filled with antibodies and minerals and all that good stuff. there's not a lot of it compared to actual milk, but a newborn doesn't need a lot. and, the lack of real flow is helpful in teaching a newborn to regulate the milk while nursing. so he/she doesn't get too much and choke, etc.

a baby will nurse on this for a day or so and then BAM the real milk comes in. as a woman you know this happens because you wake up with the biggest rack you have ever seen and it's ON YOU. that paired with the incredible discomfort from engorgement and yep, there it is. and by incredible discomfort please know that this is an understatement.

okay, so wendy had been nursing for 8 months so the milk the duke got was not the bit of colostrum he could learn to regulate but a windfall of super rich and abundant milk. the cadillac of milk. double cheeseburger with bacon milk. wendy said he nursed right away, got way too much, threw up, and then nursed some more.

so by the time he came to stay with me in the hospital he was a nursing pro (that little crawl and latch after birth gave me a glimpse of that) and was ready to nurse. and nurse. and nurse. and not that colostrum stuff either. he was ready for the good stuff. the flowing stuff.

as you may imagine, this took a bit of time for him to adjust to. newborns can look like angry little men better than angry little men can. but, after awhile and lots of mama love we figured it out. but whoo boy when my milk came in he didn't leave my side for the next few years. literally.

he nursed ALL THE TIME. in the car with him strapped in the car seat and me leaning over. like a barnyard animal. this is not recommended, by the way. in the grocery store with him in the sling while i pushed the cart and shopped. the original hands-free device. occasionally, just for fun, he would get curious and stop nursing for a minute to peek his head out of the sling and see what was going on. just because *he* stopped didn't mean the milk did. and so i would up flashing whomever was around and spraying breast milk all over. fun.

he nursed all night long. all day long. and then all night long again. he nursed so much i ate like a pack of teenage boys and STILL lost my ass. this is just a theory, but i think he was chasing the dragon. trying to recreate that first great meal from wendy. and no matter how hard he tried...nothing. but he wasn't going to stop trying.

and he wasn't quiet about it either. he nursed with great smacks and sound effects. he wanted EVERYONE to know how much he was enjoying nursing. and when he couldn't nurse right.then.and.there. he would let you know how terrible it was. when we lived in san francisco when he was a toddler he would push against the straps and STAND UP in his baby backpack and shout I WANT NEE NEE! at the top of his lungs, punching the air with his fists. all. the. way. home.

good times.

fast forward a few years and i have a 4 year old and a 6 month old and i'm getting married. in a big wedding. because that's how we do it in my family. we like EVERYONE in the pictures so you've got to have the kids first, right?

anyway. wendy. by now she had two children and came for the wedding. which was lovely and a good time was had by all.

and, as an added bonus, because i had all the important people around, the day after the wedding i planned to feed the 6 month old wingman his first solid food. cooked mashed made with love organic sweet potato. just like his brother.

i even filmed the whole thing.

his first food. such a milestone.

well.

a few years later wendy was visiting again and she had a story to tell me. apparently the day of the wedding when i went to have my hair done wendy and her family took wingman to do some errands with them because the papa was busy with last minute details. there was some reticence because i wouldn't know about the arrangement, wouldn't know that wingman wasn't at home, and i was/am an 'attached parent' to put it mildly. but it was decided because it was wendy this would be okay.

so.

they are at target. and the normally quiet wingman was at the end of his rope. too much going on. too many people. who were these kids? where was his own brother? he cried and cried.

so they hightailed it out of target. and they got him strapped in his rear facing car seat in between wendy's boy and girl. and he cried and cried.

and because they wouldn't be eating until after the wedding later in the day and with a crying baby there were few options they went through a fast food drive thru. got food for the adults and the two kids. and wingman cried and cried.

but about two minutes after pulling away from the drive thru wingman stopped crying.

wendy asked after him in the back because she couldn't see him due to the rear facing seat.

"he's not crying anymore!"

she hears from the backseat.

"he really likes the french fries!"

she hears from the backseat.

and sure enough, there's the 6 month old exclusively breastfed waiting on his first solid food tomorrow wingman in the back, in between her two kids, with two fists full of fries, chomping them down and as happy as can be.

and not crying.

and wendy in the front going oh. SHIT.

and wendy and the papa making a secret pact vowing to NEVER EVER speak of this to me. ever.

to their credit, i had NO idea.

until wendy told me years later. and by then i had relaxed a bit into my parenting, and to my credit, i laughed.

no wonder wingman seemed so underwhelmed by those stupid sweet potatoes.

and wingman? well, let's just say out of the four of us his palate has always been a bit less 'refined.' and further, he's always seemed less than impressed by the things he does eat. like he's looking for something...more.

i'll bet. shit, how do you top fistfuls of hot salty fries as your very first food? i almost feel sorry for the lad.

and so it goes. the baby books never tell you about the little things that crop up. the what ifs and the oh shits. and that it can all go sideways in an instant. and sometimes, it does. and then what do you do?

indeed.

and what do you do? you jump in. or you let go. or you make the best of it. you try. you fail. you learn to laugh.

and you don't place too much emphasis on the stupid sweet potatoes.

and if i've learned anything about parenting it's that surrounding yourself with the very best people makes ALL of those things much easier and makes ALL the difference in the world.

i wish for you a wendy in your own life.

we should all be so lucky.

and, some of us are.

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2010-09-14T13:29:00.000-07:00

so i was sitting in the car in front of the grocery store while everyone else was inside.

this is a store we don't often go to, mainly because it's a bit out of the way. but we do enjoy shopping there as it's locally owned and operated and they have an excellent meat department for the size. it's been a long time since it was new and there is no pretension about it whatsoever. the kind of store you can pull right up and park in front of. it feels straight out of my childhood to shop there. in fact there was a grocery store near my house called new deal and that's what this store reminds me of. the kind of place with some produce offered outside. a shopping cart full of discounted items you choose outside and take inside to purchase.

all right so i have the radio on and all of a sudden that oasis song comes on. you know the one, 'wonderwall.' you either love it or hate but you know it. and i RARELY hear it, but when i do it always reminds me of one of the most up in the air what the fuck moments in my life. and by moments i mean months and months of moments. and now the only time i hear it something unusual happens. like the sun breaks through the rain, or there's a call from someone from out of the blue. something out of the ordinary.

so i was thinking about this hearing the opening chords and right then three teens, a girl and two boys, walk up to the front of the store. the boys kinda slump against the wall to the sidewalk near the shopping cart of discounted items. the girl sets down her backpack between them and leans against it. one boy takes a cigarette out and lights it. he leans across the girl and hands it to the other boy. all the while the girl is staring at the first boy. he turns to her and says something. she blushes and shoves him a little. she LIKES him.

the second boy hands the first boy the cigarette back. he takes a drag. then he nudges the girl and motions to the cart and leans in and says something to her. she looks up at the cart and shakes her head. he says something back. she looks nervous and shakes her head again. he gives her a nudge and a smile. then puts his head on her shoulder. this all takes about a minute.

then i see her get up, back pack slung on her shoulder, and go over to the cart. she kinda looks around and then quickly reaches in and takes something from the cart and puts it in her back pack. i can't see what it is from where i'm sitting.

what *she* doesn't see in that time is that the two boys have gotten up and gone around the corner of the building, and that there has been a store clerk watching her the whole time.

the clerk comes out and confronts her, all the while she knows she's busted and she looks as white as a sheet. then the clerk kinda takes her arm, loosely, and leads her inside. she's got her head down.

all of this in less than 5 minutes.

and the song ends.

and i'm thinking about the girl.

and i'm thinking about how she thought the boy liked her. and, maybe he does. but who knows? who knows anything so young? you just keep going along and hope for the best. the faith of teenagers. it comes so easy yet doesn't make the hard any easier. you do things you think you would ever do. and you just do them. and you wonder what in the fuck you were thinking. and you might even do them again. because he likes you. or, usually, because you like him. and because teenagers sometimes have momentary lapses of reason. and sometimes, more often than not, they last longer than a moment.

and i want to take that girl aside and save her! give her some bit of wisdom that catches fire and stirs her senses. that keeps her safe and aware. that keeps her away from the boys with the cigarettes to come. but i know i can't. and i know it doesn't work like that. you have to go through it. she has to go through it.

and i think about how teenage girls grow into adult girls and how it doesn't get much easier. how those momentary lapses of reason are still around. how you STILL have to go through it. how you never quite know where you stand. because you think you do, but it's only the gift of hindsight that tells you that you didn't know a goddamned thing. you know everything and yet, you don't even know where to begin.

how there are many things you just don't know how to say. for starters. just for starters.

well, until you are ancient like me. because now? now i can say what i mean. and i mean what i say. it's not just a big puzzle i'm dragging everyone in to work out with me anymore. i don't have any problem telling people how i feel and what i need and what i want. i will never again be the girl with the backpack for the rest of my life. and for that i am so relieved.

but when you are just girl it's so hard to say what you feel. there's so much it's about to burst out but you don't even know where to begin. or if you can. you're too busy being nervous or unsure or in love or too cool or not cool enough. that's a lot to bust through. too much to work with.

i don't know how any of us make it out alive, and yet.

it's amazing really.

and then, just when you might have figured it out, the wheel takes a big deep breath and starts to spin again.

this morning the duke (13) turned to me and out of the blue he asked

"mama, how old do i have to be to be allowed to go out on a date?"

and i think about the boy with the cigarette and that girl with the backpack and this girl crying her eyes out in that room somewhere in san francisco during one of those moments and the chubby 10 1/2 pound blue eyed baby the duke used to be. my baby. not my baby anymore.

"i don't know, honey. let's just take it as it comes, okay?"

and in that spirit i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen.

x.

it's all about the dress. (and spanx.)

2010-09-08T09:48:00.000-07:00

okay, so we all know i often have some difficulty in the dressing myself department. or at least i've crowed about it enough. and judging from the whole little black maternity dress debacle from two years ago, my judgment in general when it comes to clothing isn't always the best. i believe it might be referred to as 'suspect.'

so a little more than a year ago i had an important event and needed a dress. not just any dress. i needed a dress that said 'stay at home moms are the HOTTEST kind of moms!' and 'i don't look like i weigh as much as i do!' and 'no OF COURSE i'm NOT wearing spanx under this dress!'

i realize this is a lot to ask of a garment, but i believed i could find it. and, i believe i did. in a size smaller than i normally wore, too! nice!!

so i wore the dress and i felt like it did its job and life was good.

okay, cut to about 9 months later and it was awards season. and there was a certain movie out with a certain actress. in addition to being talented and young and pretty this actress was also plus sized. really plus sized. and there was all this press about her weight and whatnot along with her talent. okay, so i was trolling through a bunch of oscar party photos like i like to do and there she was. looking cute. in a cute dress. and i panned down and realized, OMG (yes i say OMG in my head) THAT'S MY DRESS.

okay not the 'same' 'exact' dress as this was longer and in a darker color, but make no mistake...it was MY DRESS. the 'stay at home moms are the HOTTEST kind of moms and i don't look like i weigh as much as i do and OF COURSE i'm NOT wearing spanx under this dress' dress...and as i panned even farther down and read the comments they were mostly positive and in the following vein;

and i quote

'it's nice to see a larger girl dressing APPROPRIATELY FOR HER BODY SIZE...'

end quote.

sigh.

so of course i got on the phone to sisters and friends and they assured me my dress was cute and i was cute blah blah blah. i like to do that, you know...get that positive verbal feedback after a totally manufactured and self induced and made up in my head set back. it works.

okay, so this summer i was paging through a friend of a friend's wedding photos on a certain social networking site like i like to do. i didn't know but one of the people who had been tagged in the photos of this wedding, but the whole wedding was up for everyone to see. so i looked. because wasting time looking at the photo albums of people i don't know is a fine way to spend an evening in my book.

so, i get to the family pictures of these people i don't know. all in their wedding finery. oh say can you see where this is going...guess what the MOTHER OF THE BRIDE WAS WEARING??? oh, just take a guess. i'll give you a minute.

aaannnnnddddd there it was, on a woman (albeit a very pretty and in shape woman) of a 'certain age' wearing MY DRESS. the straps were a bit different and she opted in some photos to sport the smart little matching jacket...but otherwise she was wearing MY DRESS. exactly MY DRESS. my 'mother of the bride' dress.

sigh.

i couldn't ignore it now. it was like that movie where all those girls have one pair of pants. and they can ALL fit into that pair of pants. magically. no shit. it had to be magic because there's no way that stick of a girl from the 'gilmore girls' and the curvy america ferrera could fit perfectly into the same pair of jeans.

only all those girls were young and cute and sharing those jeans while they traveled and had adventures and romances. my situation wasn't quite like in the movies.

so i sulked a few days and made my usual round of phone calls.

then i started really thinking about it and realized that this was some kind of metaphor, this dress...jeeze, everything's a metaphor lately, but stay with me. because it bugged me enough to really look at it. what was going on here? was this vanity? yeah, of course, but not all of it. and i thought about that young actress, and that mother of the bride. and me.

okay, so here's this girl and she's in the race for the oscar and it's been this huge whirlwind that her life has become in just the past year. so much has changed for her. and she's standing in front of the mirror and suddenly she's no longer the famous actress in the race for the oscar. she's suddenly just like every other woman and girl in the world...she's just a girl in front of a mirror. and she wants to find the dress that makes her beautiful. the one that fits the best and gives her that extra little boost. it's not about the body anymore, or the fame, or everything that isn't the same. it's about the dress. find the perfect dress and it's like magic.

and then you have this 'woman of a certain age,' the mother of the bride. and her daughter is getting married. and everyone is coming. maybe relatives she doesn't care for, maybe an ex-husband or two, frenemies she hasn't been able to stand since high school, who knows...but one thing SHE knows is that she wants to look GOOD. maybe it's that despite her love for her daughter she DOES NOT want to look like the mother of a much younger bride. and like every other woman or girl who stands in front of a mirror she wants to find the dress that makes her beautiful. she doesn't feel as old as she is, she still feels 17 maybe. suddenly she's just a girl in front of a mirror. and it's all about the dress. find the perfect dress and it's like magic.

and, you already know my story. just a girl, in front of the mirror. find the perfect dress and it's like magic.

so i was thinking about these three dresses and the women wearing them and i swear i saw like this maiden mother crone thing going on. okay, don't tell the mother of the bride she drew crone because i'm pretty sure she wouldn't appreciate the analogy. BUT it's true. it was right there.

it doesn't matter how young or old or in between you are. it doesn't matter how much you weigh or don't. it doesn't matter what you have deep down inside or what's sitting on the surface. because when you are a girl in front of the mirror you just want to be beautiful. and it's all about the dress. find the perfect dress and it's like magic.

yeah, sure, it IS all about what you have inside. yes. that is what it's about. ultimately. but when you're walking into a room filled with people you don't know OR do know all.too.well. OR haven't seen in 20 years it's all about the dress. the rest comes later.

so i felt a little better about my 'perfect for the extra plus sized mother of the bride that we all know is really a bigger size than it says in the tag' dress.

better still that i got that fucker for half price.

because in addition to being fashion challenged i am what one might like to call 'frugal.'

and hell, as if that wasn't FABULOUS enough, now i have something to wear when the boybarians get married. one less stress during what i am betting will be a pretty stressful time.

and, judging from the evidence, it's gonna be perfect on me.

(though i do wonder if i should spring for the matching jacket?)

x.

the shed is a metaphor.

2010-09-03T10:06:00.000-07:00

i once read about this russian fable about women who lose their children. when this happens the other women build a shed at the edge of the village, and the woman who buried her child goes to stay there for 6 weeks. the other women bring her anything she needs and leave it with a knock at the door and no interaction with the woman inside.

at the end of the 6 weeks the shed is set on fire.

and it is up to the woman inside whether she will come out or stay inside.

i've been thinking about this fable a lot lately. thankfully not because i've ever lost a child, but because life has a funny way of being sucky sometimes. this is an interesting time in this country, in my little piece of the country, in the country my friends and family inhabit. and by interesting i mean it's kinda scary and bleak for some. for a lot. i can choose to see the positive, but it doesn't mean the negative isn't there. it still exists.

sometimes when life isn't the way you imagined it to be, or want it to be, when it's hard and painful and frustrating it's so easy to imagine the shed burning. it's so definite. you need only to make the decision to stay in or get out. how easy is that?

but what about the times when *nothing* is happening? when the decisions seem endless and the outcomes all seemingly fruitless. time just drags and things seem stagnant. and you feel like you want to just set the shed on fire yourself? before the end of the 6 weeks? just to force the decision. the outcome.

this is all metaphorical, of course, but you can see it happening. you can see it happening in a bad argument with another person. there is that moment when you are so angry and frustrated and you aren't getting anywhere and you just want to see that fucker burn. the shed, not the person. or maybe the person but that's weird and you should see someone about that.

but, i digress.

or when you're just sitting in that godforsaken shed waiting for the end of the 6 weeks and the 6 weeks DO NOT END. they just go on and on and on and you think well if i just set it on fire that brings the 6 weeks to an end. right? it would so so easy to decide then what to do. case closed. problem solved.

and you can do that. you can force the outcome with anger and frustration and impatience. it happens. and sometimes it feels good to set that flame. sort of a scorched earth approach to problem solving.

but there's something to be said for waiting for the flame to be set. for waiting out the 6 weeks just see what it brings. there's a reason they leave the woman alone in the shed. there's a reason there's a set amount of time. there's a reason they don't give the woman the matches.

sometimes it's good to just sit. to be. to be patient. to let the path clear and to let the world come to you. sure, it's not as much fun. it's not the american 'can-do' way. but it has its merits. and it works. eventually. but how many of us give our issues that kind of time? give ourselves that kind of space.

pain and loss and frustration feel desolate and powerless and crushing. and there is nothing in this world that truly can take away the impact. not right at the time anyway. nothing. and then desperation sets in. and desperation is just like that scene in the movie when everything starts to go wrong and it only gets worse from there.

so i say there *are* two things that 'help.' but you can't 'do' them. you can't force them or make them different than they are. and i've said this before to a few of you and i will say it again because i have never spoken truer words.

time and distance.

simple as that.

there are times i think it would be so easy to just not come out of the shed. or easy to speed up the process. get the crap moving and over with. no time. no distance needed. done.

but then i think about it and i realize that i don't want to go down in flames. that i want to be part of the group that builds another shed. because there is always another shed to be built. the next shed in a string of sheds that need to be built. because that's just the way life is. you're moving along and then bam, it's time for another shed. and sometimes you're building the shed and sometimes you're the woman inside. and yes, sometimes you're setting the fire.

and the women in the village don't 'do' anything for the woman. there isn't some set thing that is executed to help the woman 'get over it.' what the women in the village do is offer time and distance. and it's up to the woman inside to accept or be able to accept the space. and who knows what goes on in that shed in those 6 weeks. but the space is there. and the woman emerges or she doesn't. she chooses to battle the flame rather than succumb to it. or she doesn't. but the shed has been offered. is there.

i don't judge either way. stay in the shed and let it burn, or come out and help build another one.

the trick is to know when you've been offered the shed in the first place. to know you are square in there and now is the time. the trick is to know when it's time to be patient and let the world come to you. to resist the match and let it just be.

x.

my wish upon a star.

2010-08-04T10:55:00.000-07:00

i was 22 years old when i drove drunk. i was leaving my sister's high school graduation party. i had arrived in heels and was leaving barefoot. i remember this detail because i spent 20 minutes in the driveway in my rental car trying to figure out how to adjust the seat. that's the last thing i remember.

i drove to my in law's house. across town. in the dark. there were stoplights and stop signs along the way. and other people in cars. people. real live people.

i only knew i got home that night because i woke up the next morning and was there. my rental car parked by the curb. intact. me, head splitting, but intact.

i remember looking at the car out there by the curb and thinking oh my god what have i done? and then i puked for the next two days. more out of fear and shame and disgust than anything else.

i am not a stupid person. i cannot for the life of me figure out what possessed me. and there have been times in the past nearly two decades that i have literally dropped to my knees in thanksgiving that that stupid choice did not kill me or someone else.

i haven't driven drunk or even slightly buzzed or even barely tipsy since. not once. and i will not.

i tell you this story not out of some deep seated need to be confessional or sanctimonious. i tell you this because my dear cousin stella was killed by a drunk driver this week. a driver who also put my aunt in the hospital for the next 6 weeks with serious injuries, and badly injured my cousin's boyfriend, too.

a driver who, according to the police report, had no license at the time of the accident due to "habitual operating a vehicle under the influence of an intoxicant, driving while license suspended/revoked for DUI and inattention to driving..."

the thing about my cousin stella was that she was LIFE to all who knew her. she was LIGHT. she was LOVE. and the injustice of someone, and here is my judgment, who seemingly lived his life in darkness taking the life of someone who lived only in the light is so very very tremendous. unfathomable.

and *he,* the driver, did *take* her *life.* i don't consider it an accident. because an accident is something you did not mean to do. and when you get in the car when you've been drinking that is a choice you've meant to make. accidents are not borne of choices. mistakes are. and a mistake is only a mistake until you fix it. then it becomes a lesson. he cannot fix this. this cannot be fixed. this is broken. hearts are broken. he fucked up.

i fucked up, too. but i was "lucky." by the grace of god i was lucky because i didn't kill myself or someone else. lucky that i got the chance to learn that lesson, and have spent and will spend the rest of my life putting that learned lesson into practice. so goddamned lucky. and a lot of us have made this same mistake. some of you may have made this same mistake. not doing it again EVER fixes that. never ever again. EVER.

but 'this' cannot be fixed.

but maybe, just maybe, someone will learn a lesson here. gain some clarity. understand. get it. someone, even if it's just one someone. anyone. someone.even.just.one.person.

i have to believe that tragedies like this do not *just* occur. that hearts aren't broken for no reason at all. that lives aren't taken and lives aren't horribly altered and that there aren't so many people grieving the loss of such an amazing person for *nothing.* it may be a silly and foolish notion to some, especially when there is so much hurt and anger, but i like to believe that positive can come from negative. that hope abounds no matter what. that my beautiful cousin's life was not lived in vain. that the giving she did when she was living will somehow continue into her leaving.

people are writing on stella's facebook page and the common theme is about her infectious laugh, her unforgettable smile, her unfailing gifts of kindness, of spirit, and love.

she was an absolute treasure, the very best kind of person to know, and she will be more than missed by all who knew her and all who loved her.

stella means star. and my wish upon that beautiful star is that the people of this world respect themselves and those around them enough to make better choices, especially when alcohol and 2 ton weapons are involved. my wish upon that beautiful star is that the people of this world take to heart the words of another of stella's cousins and understand that drinking and driving doesn't just break the law, it breaks people's hearts, too.

be well, be safe.

x.

eat when you're hungry. rest when you're tired.

2010-07-30T09:15:00.001-07:00

when i was hiking earlier this week i realized that one of the things i've missed most, that went by the wayside when i became a busy mama, was backpacking. and that one of the greatest gifts my father ever bestowed upon me was never letting being a single father with three girls stop him from doing what he loved, and backpacking was what he loved. so from a tiny girl to a teen to a young adult i always backpacked. first with my father and then with friends. i've gone with the boybarians, but not nearly enough. not by a long shot.

and as cliche is it sounds as i type it here, much of what i learned about life i learned from backpacking.

1. eat when you're hungry.

2. rest when you're tired.

3. take care of your gear so it can take care of you.

4. keep moving forward, no matter the pace. one step in front of the other will always get you there.

5. don't forget to stop and take a look around. to appreciate your surroundings. it's not all about making the daily miles.

6. get up in the morning and do it all over again.

when i was on the very hardest part right near the very end of the trail i was on the other day i came upon a woman from florida. now, i've never been to florida, but when i think of florida mountains don't generally pop into my head.

this woman was older, but in no way elderly, and she had her college age grandson with her. she seemed in okay shape, BUT not the kind of shape this trail demanded. ask me how i know.

so her predicament was that she and her grandson had driven to the top of the mountain to see the view. they were coming down to see what other views there were to see. i'm guessing that's the florida kicking in as one generally does not come down a mountain to see a view. AND there was no thought to getting back up. he in flip flops, she carrying the hugest pair of binoculars i've seen in a long time. neither had water. and it was a 1/4 mile back up to the top. the steepest 1/4 mile of the trail.

she was trying to catch her breath on a log. i had hiked behind her long enough to know she wasn't going to do very well getting back up. wasn't doing well getting back up. when i reached her on the log, i offered her one of my water bottles and some chocolate. i chatted her up to help ease her worry, you could tell she didn't know how she'd make it back up and she seemed nervous. after a time i asked her if she wanted me to hike with her, but she said no, her grandson was there and that would be fine. so i kept making my way up.

it's funny, because before i came upon her i was feeling like my lungs might burst and the thought of being devoured by a hungry cougar was starting to look good. you know, because at least if you're being devoured by a cougar you aren't still making that sadistic climb. but after meeting her and giving her some assistance i realized i was doing all right. i could do this. there was nothing keeping me from the top, and for that, i was lucky. my ability made my pain no less painful, but it was temporary, and was being replaced by the knowledge that i was a lucky lucky girl to be so physically abled. so i was now humming sweatily and slowly along with a new found respect for the strength my legs had, for my ability to keep my own body going.

it was right then that a woman, who was clearly older than i am, and clearly in way better physical condition that i am, came RUNNING up behind me, passed me, and left me in the dust.

and right there, folks, is life in a nutshell. it's hard, then it's not, remember to help each other along the way. some people get to go forward, some people are further behind. and right when you're feeling smug and self assured and the most able there will be someone to come up behind, to pass you, and to leave you behind.

the trick is to just keep moving forward.

and keeping a stash of chocolate never hurts.

x.

happy birthday carlos santana!

2010-07-20T09:39:00.000-07:00

so every year carlos and i celebrate our birthdays on july 20th. not together mind you, but i'm sure he's thinking about me.

so last year when i turned 38 i listed the 38 things i had learned in the past year. i won't be doing that this year. i'm sure i learned 39 new things but jeeze that seems like a lot of typing doesn't it?

5 things the universe taught me. 5 things i was smart enough to take to heart;

5. indian leg wrestling while drinking is always a bad idea. worse if you're wearing a dress.

4. teenagers are like toddlers. give them a cold drink and a snack and let them listen to their music and you're golden.

3. it's not about forgiving and forgetting, it's about remembering and reconciling.

2. don't condemn don't convert. just love. (thank you for the words, z. marley)

1. if somebody loves you, even just one person, you are very very lucky. pass that on. a LOT.

x.

seeds.

2010-07-19T09:35:00.001-07:00

i was planting sunflowers in the garden with wingman the other day.

he had grown the sunflowers himself, started each one from a seed. he scooped some soil into a cup, carefully put in each seed, and then gently patted some soil over the top. watered the soil and moved on to the next cup. his face set in full intent the whole time. to look upon the face of a 9 year old boy in full concentration is to experience the divine.

he kept the cups on the front porch, and every day he went out and watered them. and every day he checked on them. he wondered about them and talked about them, and on the day the sprouts started to peek through soil he jumped around in excitement.

but out of 15 cups of seeds there was one that wasn't peeking through.

give it a day or two i said, some seeds are late bloomers. he checked the cup the next day, nothing. then the next, nothing. by the third day i walked out and saw the 15th seed had sprouted.

'wingman, your seed sprouted!'

'yeah, i dug all the soil off the top and there it was.'

'well, that's one way to do it.'

so as we were planting the now much bigger sprouts in the garden i was thinking of how pleased wingman was with his efforts. and thinking about everything that can happen between the time the sunflowers reach their 5 feet and now, at five inches and being transplanted from the small and cozy to the vastness of the garden. what the passing of time can bring. weather, squirrels, other things, elements beyond the control of any of us. things that might prevent wingman being able to see his sunflowers grow to their full potential.

but a gardener doesn't think about those things, wingman wasn't thinking about those things. and i didn't bring them up. planting seeds is planting hope. that's good enough.

so i was thinking about this yesterday when the duke came home from a four day camp out with five other boys.

this isn't my story to tell so i will just give the quick and dirty; the duke was harassed by a few of the boys. the whole time. with slurs, and worse, that i won't type here.

now, as a mama i sit and fume. why didn't he call? why are those boys such assholes? how could he stand it? as a mama i want to send nasty e-mails and yell at someone on the phone. compassion takes a back seat when fury rears its needy head.

i talked to the duke about it. asked him how he felt. asked him how he handled it. and he did what he could and he understands how asshole bullies work and why they target the people they do. he promptly 'unfriended' the offensive boys on facebook and said good riddance. the 21st century equivalent of whatever it was we used to do as kids. it made him feel better. moving on.

so he was upset and said so, but he survived. and said he thought about calling me but stuck it out and tried to make the best of it. which makes me sad, but it was his situation to decide about. not mine. and from what i understand he gave it back in the only way he knew how. by explaining the origins of the slurs those boys were using and why they shouldn't use such offensive language. oh and i'm sure that went over 'well.' but, good for him. he tried.

beyond that, he didn't give me too many more examples, and i wanted to ask, but didn't. i am entering the period of parenting when i cannot control and manipulate every situation and environment. those days were over so long ago, deep down i know that, it's only now that i'm fully realizing it. there won't be any nasty e-mails or angry phone calls.

he did say at one point the mouthier boys were doing something dumb with the fire and a sock. and as he sat back watching them he said,

"well, there's darwinism at work for you."

and yes, he paid for it. but he said it. and i bet that it felt good to do so. small victories.

i assumed when i sent him off on the camping trip he'd have a good time. that there'd be sun and lots of soda he rarely gets to drink and an all around good time. like planting a seed i didn't think about all the things that could go wrong, i cast him out in hope.

and things did go wrong. and he didn't have much fun, if any. but he withstood the elements and took the risk and stuck it out.

i don't know if that counts for much when you're fresh from being harassed and bullied. but it's got to count for something. there is a lesson in there. and he's learning it. and i'm learning it.

it's hard to be a parent. to shepherd and nurture these children, like little cups of soil and seeds on the porch, only to cast them out to harsher elements.

we hope we've given them all they need.

time will tell.

i suppose it already has.

x.

to my goddess daughter on the occasion of her mother's 39th birthday.

2010-07-15T09:48:00.000-07:00

this is a letter to my goddess daughter, piper, daughter to my very best friend nicole. today nicole is 39. piper is only 3. she will get this letter much later than now. you know, when she can read. and is old enough that she won't giggle at the pee parts.

and yes, this letter contains the words 'pee' and 'pubic bone' and also includes the actual act of someone (me) peeing. and if that doesn't make you want to read it then i don't know what will! but, you have been warned.

Dear Piper,

You will have lot of birthdays come and go in your life, and some birthdays are going to be milestones, like your 16th birthday, the day you turn 21 and I take you for your first drink, your 40th birthday, 65, etc. Then you'll have the birthdays that are real blowouts, the ones that come on a Friday and they last all weekend, the ones with a new love, a fabulous trip, or an extravagant party with all your family and friends.

Today your mother turns 39, on a Thursday, and as far as birthdays go it may seem like a subtle kind of passing. Just another birthday in a life full of birthdays. No big deal. After all, NEXT year she is 40 and isn't that the birthday to save the big celebration for? BUT all birthdays are celebrations whether they are the real blowouts or just a Thursday when you turn 39. Every birthday is a birthday to be cherished, every birthday offers the opportunity for something fabulous to happen, even if it isn't billed as that kinda birthday.

Piper, this story is a Thursday turning 39 kinda story. There is no flash, no fireworks, ponies, or big bands, just a thing that happened. A thing that should be known by you because it illustrates how awesome your mother is and how lucky we all are to have her in our lives, how very lucky I am. Just another day in a life of days, but one that is so very important and needs to be told and to be known.

Now, at the time the story takes place I was about to and then did give birth to the Duke of Fun. And while we all know what she ultimately decided, at that time, your mother was not sure at all about having children. She and your father had met and been together for years at that point, but it seemed children were a distant idea if one at all. Your Grandmother had different ideas, though, and had hoped that because your mother was going to be part of my birth it might start a few balls rolling in that direction. Especially since your mother and father had recently, very seriously, been talking about getting married.

Well, in hindsight, perhaps this was not the birth to do the convincing.

As it turns out, the birth did not go smoothly at all, and after a very intense 36 hours, a baby, and a lot of bleeding later I was headed to the hospital. Your mother found herself sitting in my home after the ambulance left, waiting to follow me to the hospital, wondering if she’d ever see me alive again. I cannot imagine how she must have felt.

Piper, your mother was amazing. She came to the hospital, slept on the floor, and didn’t leave my side for 72 hours. She changed the newly born Duke of Fun and carried him and rocked him to sleep because I couldn’t sit up to do it myself. She interpreted my needs and fielded questions from the medical staff because I wasn’t able to do it myself. Then when I discovered I couldn’t move or feel my legs due to pubic separation from the birth, she got up every few hours all night long and put them back up on the bed because they would slip off and I couldn't do it myself.

Oh, I had the Duke's papa around to help and my family, but they were taking care of all the other business of me nearly having had died from the birth. It took a village to get me up and running, and your mother was by my side every step of the way.

She did all the errands needing doing to get me back home. She shopped and cooked and cleaned and was just *there.* There when I was sent home with a newborn, a catheter, and a walker. (it would be two weeks before I could walk without it) There when it was time to care for the Duke. There when it was time to deal with my catheter and when it was time for me to eat and to sleep and to try and get comfortable.

We were both 25. How incredible that we were so young.

What I remember most, however, happened nearly a week after arriving home. I had just nursed the Duke back to sleep and thought I finally felt well enough not only to sit up, a recent accomplishment, but also to make my inaugural trip to the actual bathroom. The midwife had paid a visit about an hour earlier and had removed my catheter so I felt ready.

It took me some time, but I managed to sit up and steadied myself on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake my baby or topple forward. This was a 30 minute endeavor at the least. I managed to hoist myself up on my walker, and knowing there wasn’t anyone home but your mother and me, I didn’t even attempt at putting on pajama bottoms. Like I could have if I wanted to.

I got to my bedroom door and so far so good. I could hear your mother in the kitchen and it sounded like she was mopping or sweeping. I left my room, and with the aid of the walker was nearly out of the living room when I realized, to my horror, I wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom in time.

Right there in the living room I peed all over the wood floor. And not just a little pee. The kind of pee that comes after having been impeded by a catheter for nearly a week. The kind of pee that comes from finding an outlet in a finally upright body. The kind of pee that would feel fabulously liberating at last if it didn’t happen to be happening in the living room all over the floor.

I started to call your mother’s name and I swear the first syllable hadn’t left my mouth before she was there, crouched before me, with a big towel.

Without a word she wiped my legs down to my feet, moved and wiped my feet, and then the floor.

“Do you still need to go?”

“No.”

“Come on, I’ll get you settled back down.”

Then she helped me back to bed and settled me down next to the Duke.

“Hey, thanks.”

And she turned to me smiling, as if it really was no big deal, and said “No problem. Are you hungry?”

Piper, may you know this kind of friendship in your life. May you have someone who is so graceful and kind and giving. When the shit hits the fan, or the pee hits the floor, may you have someone who will be there, without a word, and with a big dry towel. Someone who will dry you off and settle you back down. Someone who loves you that much.

May you have a friend like the friend I have in your mother. Because those are the very best kind of friends to have.

Love,

Aunt X.

love.

2010-07-09T09:51:00.000-07:00

there's a quote from one of my favorite movies, The Mexican...

Samantha: I have to ask you a question. It's a good one so think about it. If two people love each other, but they just can't seem to get it together, when do you get to that point of enough is enough?

Jerry: Never.

yep.

what is it about love that turns us into crazy people. any love. not just relationship love, but oy, isn't that the big one...friendship love, family love, love love love love.

when you let someone into your heart, or they are just there from the minute you draw your first breath, there is this assumption of safety, freedom, peace. oh, there are all those things, sure, they exist, the assumption is when we believe they will always exist. and then they don't. and that's enough to make anyone crazy.

when someone knows your heart they know you. and that works for the good in so many ways. but when everything goes pear shaped people don't often exercise restraint in what they know of your heart. not when they know how to get to you. not when they know how to drive home a point. make you understand. make you listen. make you make you make you...when everything goes pear shaped and they want you to know how badly they hurt they forget you hurt badly too.

the intentions are so pure. so intent. but what's that path to hell paved with again?

and what is it i say about love that hasn't been said or written about or sung about? nothing. except that when you love you are better for it. that love is infinite and cannot be contained, that you cannot run out of it. ever. that love elevates and inflates and it's like that house carried away by balloons in the movie, Up.

the trick is not letting the heart do it all. to carry the whole load. because the heart is not designed for that. it needs someone to do the heavy lifting, and that's where the head comes in. the problem with this partnership is that the head is just not as fun to party with. the head doesn't let us forget the hurts. the head doesn't let us forget anything. not like the heart. and what is the heart without the forgetting? not as much fun that's what it is.

you've never heard anyone say 'follow your head' have you?

i love the heart. i love that it can get shattered and broken in two and yet, and yet it forgets and jumps right back on. like a voracious beast wanting ever more. forgetting. it's such an amazing resilient part of us. a warrior in the world of body parts.

in the past year of few resources i've been fond of saying i don't have much but i have love. love to give. love to receive. lots and lots of it. an endless boundless resource. and with love i am the richest girl in the world.

but that fucker love breaks my god damned heart on the regular. because there are days i wish my love was enough for the people around me, and it isn't. it cannot save anyone. and there are days i wish that the people who love me wouldn't choose to hurt me, but they do. it cannot protect me.

but we are humans. and we all get our hearts broken. and people who love us hurt us. sometimes even the people who are supposed to love us first and the most and forever. and as hard as it is to believe, it's nothing personal. it's just the cost of doing business as a human.

the trick is to protect your heart as best you can without walling it off.

and to remember the opposite of love has never been hate, it's indifference.

so as long as you love each other, even if you can't get it together, you will never get to enough is enough. you will find a way. even if that way is walking away. because love exists even if you aren't standing side by side. and maybe it takes your whole life to figure out and maybe it doesn't.

just remember when someone is in your heart, and you are in theirs, time doesn't matter. proximity doesn't matter.

just remember when someone is in your heart, and you are in theirs, to tread gently and kindly. even when it is so easy not to. and fun not to. yes fun to be ugly and hurtful. because lashing out stitches up our own pain so nicely, doesn't it?

just remember this is your one beautiful life. and theirs. and hate takes up so much time. so much energy. takes.so.much.

x.

i never promised myself a rose garden.

2010-07-07T09:38:00.000-07:00

new york magazine recently published this article about how people with kids loved their children but hated parenting. how parenting was so very hard some days, with little joy. and the prevailing theme seemed to be how these parents thought that having kids would make them happy.

okay, now, the first part of that is NOBODY can 'make' you happy. you can be happy with other people, but being happy comes first and foremost from within. the minute you deviate from that you are screwed.

all right, so back to the article. i found it to be very honest. here are these parents, and they cannot believe the drudgery of parenting. they cannot believe how little they are sleeping, how little fun they are having. etc. etc. etc.

about how maybe they expected something...different.

i am so very happy to say i am not one of these people. not because i am perfect, but because i am not. and i never expected my kids or my parenting to be either.

so this post will be a celebration of sorts. a celebration of ME as a parent and the few things i did right, lucked out on, or forrest gumped my way through to make parenting something i enjoy doing. (you know, for the most part. and i definitely let you know when it's not!)

(these are specific to my situation and not meant to cover EVERY set of circumstances for birth or relationship. i fully realize not every mother gives birth, that not every birth is vaginal, and that not every set of partners are opposite sex.)

okay, so let's start with the birth. given my own lifelong interest and 'professional' experience in the field of birthing i feel qualified to say that that's where the illusions begin. women like to imagine the birth going smoothly and serenely without complications. yes, there will be pain, but that's okay. because A) you're either going to choose drugs to make it go away or B) you are not. either way you are smug in the knowledge that it will be 'handled.' and yes, you know there will be the moment you yell at your partner for getting you into this mess but it will be a funny story later. etc. etc. etc.

birth is pain. it is soul tearing incredible god bargaining pain. there is NOTHING in this world that prepares you for this pain. by all means, read the books and take the classes, because it's worse when you don't have a fucking clue. but even with a clue? even with drugs (i don't know first hand, i was smug #B, but i've attended enough drug births to have knowledge. there is still some amount of pain somewhere. really. believe me.)

and when you are staring at you partner who did this to you? their face is a dumb stupid face just sitting there while you are being cleaved in two by the universe. why in the hell are they smiling! there is not one reason for them to be smiling. and looking at you all lovey dovey, telling you you are beautiful. yeah. come a little closer. i'll show you beautiful on the next contraction. give me your hand mother fucker.

eventually this passes and they are your love again. and with this, you shouldn't tell them what you were really thinking. and eventually there will be the baby (oh i've glossed over a lot, and i haven't even mentioned the 'ring of fire' because, well let's just cut to the chase. eventually there will be a baby.) but before that there will be sweat and pain and blood and piss and unnamed fluids and shit and vomit and it will be like a long weekend at a frat house before you're done. without the benefit of drinking. and the smell. they never mention the smell in the books.

but then you have a baby. and that makes it all worth it. every.single.time. and there may be those of you who wonder why anyone would go through that ONCE let alone MORE THAN ONCE knowing what they know? because, believe it or not, you forget. or, you just don't make it as out to be as bad as it was. because it ceases to matter when you want a baby.

so the first thing i did right was be part of a whole lotta births before doing it myself. and not those sweet light filled hippie births either. the real reservoir dogs kind. which is good because as it turns out quentin tarantino could have written the script for my first birth.

i was under NO illusions. lucky me.

the thing i lucked into was nannying and babysitting. always good work for a young woman trying to figure out what to do with her life and job situation. babies, toddlers, kids, you name the age i did it. not only did i get a lot of experience with children, i saw what they did to their parents, to the house, to the car, to the pets. i saw the stickers that don't come off pasted all over everything, the marked up bedroom walls, the trashed cars, the traumatized pets, and the inevitable empty glass of wine left by the television, on the kitchen counter, by the bed. i saw the relief on the faces of the parents when i showed up and they practically ran out the door and knew my OWN relief when they showed up and i was the one running.

plus, there is NOTHING like taking care of other people's children to make you appreciate your own so very much more. even if you haven't had them yet. and just because that's harsh doesn't mean it isn't true.

i was under NO illusions. lucky me.

the thing i forrest gumped my way into was the father of my children. okay, that sounds weird, but true. because i consciously chose to have a family with him doesn't mean that it was the only possibility of me having had a family. i lucked out. see i've been wanting to have kids since i was 12. not trying to, mind you. just wanting to. but considering the father of my children was not the only person i have had ever had sex with, and sex creates babies (for the most part) i consider it quite lucky INDEED that it ended up being him. for that matter, i'm sure there's a group of individuals out there who consider it quite lucky INDEED that it ended up being him as well.

okay, so this article suggested that 40% of the fights couples have are about their kids. we've had ONE fight about our kids. and that was before the first one was even born. and it had to do with the penis. so of course he thought he was right, but i knew i was, so...

i have always been pro non circumcision. i won't go into the whys because it doesn't matter to you what i think about it and because i don't care what you do with your own penis or those of your kids. BUT if we had a boy i was adamant he NOT be circumcised. considering we never knew the sex of the duke before he was born made this a somewhat abstract argument. the father of my children did not want his boy to be uncirc'd for all the reasons a man of his generation wouldn't. i felt like i had the knowledge and facts to back my position up and he felt like he had the experience with the penis to back his up, so it was an impasse. a BIG one.

then he talked to his friend/longtime housemate about it. a man without kids mind you, but with, um, let's say with a much broader experience of the penis than either of us and he said something to the effect of, well...we don't need to get into it here. BUT he was VERY pro non circ and the father of my children was convinced and that was that. (and if you're reading this and remember that and know who you are thank you thank you thank you. you solved a BIG problem. and um, i'm sure my boys will have cause to thank you when they are older, too. ;) )

other things i lucked into;

1. support. years and years ago i stumbled on a group of mothers on-line. it sounded creepier to say that out loud then. now it's pretty common. and this has evolved into a very tight knit, loving, supportive, somewhat exclusive group. oh my god when you are a young mother and the days are long and the years are short and vodka at 8 am is starting to look like a good idea there is NOTHING like have someone to instantly bitch to, cry to, rant to, rave to, brag to, etc. and have the possibility of *at least one* out of the group who has been there say, "i have been there. you're gonna be all right." especially at 3am. especially when you are at your worst. especially when parenting has pulled you into the abyss and you forget tomorrow will come and that this too, shall pass. especially when you forget that. AND to remind you that parenting is sometimes about so much more than children. that it's everything. and not everything. this is a good lesson.

i tried finding it in real life, but the women in san francisco were so bent on showing each other up in how gender neutral liberal additive free organic cotton they could be they forgot to be kind to each other. and the women in santa monica didn't raise their own kids. so they were never around. the nannies were around. the nannies did not speak english. and they certainly didn't want to speak to me. the women where i live now were, well i don't know where they all were? i don't live in a neighborhood, and the preschool the boys went to didn't engender or encourage socialization between the parents. drop off, pick up, stay in your car at all times, no helping in the classroom, no parent's nights. i loved this preschool but i couldn't pick out a kid or a mom from a line up to save my life.

2. homeschooling. while this is a HUGE commitment, and it takes a lot to find other families we mesh with, etc. just by homeschooling i've eliminated two of the hugest issues facing parents of school age kids. getting kids up and out of the house for school on time and intact, and homework. my kids don't have to get up and out and we don't have homework. no fight before school, no fight after. i feel like the luckiest sillymortalmama around. and i didn't even consider these two things when deciding to home school. i think i was just thinking, "thank god. no PTA."

3. my family and friends. well, they've always been supportive. no nagging mother in law about what i'm doing wrong, sisters who respect my parenting decisions even when it's different from theirs, friends who never said a word about my choices. even when they knew, for example, that the boys were still nursing at 3. never a word. at least they didn't say it to me. so thank you for that.

4. starting a blog as early as i did. because if you're not laughing you're crying. and because admitting your shortcomings to the whole wide web has a very cathartic effect. i am not a perfect person or a perfect parent. i remind myself of this by telling these stories to you. so thank you for listening, because it has always meant more than you know.

parenting is rewarding, yes yes it is. tremendously. and there are enough people and media to tell you this. books, television shows, movies. boy they make it look so great sometimes. and it is. but parenting is also hard. and anyone who tells you anything else *without* mentioning this part is selling something. read the books and get the advice. listen to those who have been there, take all of it with a grain of salt. just remember that this is YOUR journey. yours and your child's. and your child is all that matters. and how you parent your child is up to you. and no one else. so be brave, don't be afraid to try and to fail and to try again. and on the days that it's hard don't be afraid to cry and don't be afraid to embrace the imperfection, don't forget that you are not perfect. and you are not supposed to be.

don't forget that tomorrow always comes. and that this too, shall pass.

and above all, don't forget that you were meant to be your child's parent. and that they are so very lucky to have you. and you are so very lucky to have them.

x.

when life hands you lemons make dark chocolate pudding with caramel cream and pistachio praline.

2010-06-21T10:25:00.000-07:00

recently two people who are very near and dear to my heart, my person, my life announced that they were separating. what is it about a couple announcing their separation that makes one feel like a little kid again. sitting on the front step, chin on knees, wondering what happened, but knowing it won't ever be the same again.

and it's funny because if you're not in the relationship it's always so "sudden." this is so "sudden" we say...when for the people *in* the relationship it's not sudden at all. and often a long time coming.

so what do you do with information that hits you out of the blue and changes a LOT? well for me, this time at least, i made pudding. because the thing about dessert is that while i don't care for sweets, i love to make them. because making dessert so often means following the recipe to a T or it doesn't work. so there is often little room for interpretation, for your own input, which when you are feeling adrift is a wonderful sense of peace and calm, an anchor.

dark chocolate pudding with caramel cream and pistachio praline is actually three recipes put together at the end. so it seemed a good, long, methodical project.

first i made the pistachio praline. which is as easy as pie AS LONG as you are patient enough to wait for the sugar and water to bubble WITHOUT stirring it and WITHOUT being impatient and stirring in the pistachios before it reaches that perfect shade of dark amber. sometimes easier said than done. OFTEN easier said than done. oh, and be careful of that burning sugar. when the pistachios are coated with the boiled sugar quickly spread the mix before it hardens.

leave it alone and let cool.

next i made the pudding, chopping chocolate and whisking cream and waiting for all of it to come to a bubble. then you mix cornstarch and water together to be set aside and added later. and then you stand by the stove and stir, and stir, gently, waiting, and it seems nothing is happening. the chocolate melts so slowly, you don't think it will ever melt wholly into the milk. the minutes tick by. you want to stop it's so boring, but you don't. you don't because the milk will burn or the chocolate will stick. so you stand and gently stir. and stir.

and just when you thought you've been so pulled in by the repetition that it will never be different, everything happens at once! the chocolate and cream starts to bubble furiously! you have to RE-mix the cornstarch and water because the corn starch has hardened at the bottom of the bowl and separated from the water. how did that happen you ask? it happened because you forgot how corn starch and water can get when you leave the mix sitting for too long.

meanwhile the chocolate is bubbling away, you are RE-mixing the cornstarch and water, you get it liquid again, you add it to the chocolate in the pot and then you've got to whisk this constantly to ensure it doesn't burn or stick or clump and your arm gets tired and you thought you had it all ready to go but it happened so fast even though it seemed to take forever.

then, then when it's ready you pour the pudding into separate dishes, dividing it evenly, trying to make it smooth so it sets that way. but there's always a little that has set before you get to it. and that dish of pudding is clumpy when the others are smooth. a casualty of the process. because you had the choice to put it all in one bowl to chill but you decided to separate it. you wonder if it would have been easier just to keep it together. but you like it this way. even the non perfect bits.

leave it alone and let chill.

making the caramel cream is much like making the praline, only instead of adding pistachios you need to add cream to the bubbling, just-turned-the-perfect-shade-of-dark-amber sugar. and when you do, adding the cold cream to the hot sugar, it's unexpected, jarring, so it boils up something fierce and it's best to give it some space, to back your hand away while using your very longest spoon to stir. but do keep the spoon in there, you need to keep stirring. even if it's hot, even if a bit got on your hand. you have to keep stirring it until the hardened caramel bits have dissolved. and they will dissolve. just give it time.

leave it alone and let cool.

then fold it into freshly whipped cream. and, well, you know, let chill. always make space and time for the cooling and chilling. and, well, you know, don't be impatient with this step. especially not this step.

when it's all done, and it will all get chilled and done, it always does, top the chocolate pudding in the dishes with a dollop of the caramel cream and top that with bits of the pistachio praline.

in retrospect i would have done things differently. the pistachio praline could really use a pinch of salt, i knew that at the time, but i followed the recipe just to see. i should have added the salt.

and i let the hot pudding sit too long in the pot while i futzed with the dessert dishes. i should have had those ready. because as i futzed, a bit of the pudding cooled too much and congealed. and the last dish of pudding wasn't very pretty.

i could have whipped the cream more. i knew it was too soft, but again, the recipe. it didn't say stiff peaks, so i didn't do stiff peaks. and sure enough, when i folded in the caramel it loosened the cream considerably. chilling it in the fridge helped, but it wasn't the same. i should have followed my intuition.

but when i put it all together and gave the pudding to my husband, to my kids, they all had nothing but wonderful things to say. they couldn't get enough. they loved every bite of it. and only i was the wiser of what i could have done differently. deviating from the recipe and making it better, at least in my opinion. because sometimes we're lucky enough that it works out that way. not always, but sometimes.

i know that when people separate it's a decision that they don't take lightly. and i respect the choice. the people. and i am more often than not proud of people being able to take that tough step. most of us have been there. we know it's hard, but so much harder to ignore it.

and it's not the end of the world. not for them and not for *us.* because as much as we feel like making it about us, because we hurt too, it's not. we deal with it but it's not about us. unless you are in the relationship you have no idea. none. even if you've known them forever. it doesn't matter. unless you are one of the two you can never know.

i have learned that the 'bad' things that happen in life aren't personal. that life is just a continuous strip of, well, living. and everyone goes through it. everyone. and we have our role in it, in our own life, and in others. we take our places and we live. and life just goes on like that.

what's personal is that sometimes, sometimes what we are doing needs to change. it just does. and it's just a decision we make in a life of full of decisions. meaning, it doesn't have to make or break us. like deciding whether to divide that pudding into separate dishes or to keep it all together in one bowl. we get to decide.

and we hope it works out.

and we hope others will respect our decision.

and we hope. we hope. we hope.

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2010-06-01T09:51:00.000-07:00

this is a totally indulgent post. please indulge me.

as the duke gets older i find that he is beginning to enjoy the things that i enjoyed at his age, the books the movies the music. not all of them, but some. and this is an odd little deal. because on the one hand i am happy to enjoy these things again, some of them never forgotten, some of them i'm enjoying again after decades. but on the other hand it feels a little strange. like whoa, where did all the time go? who is this young man with the deepening voice beside me and why does he keep calling me mama?

we watched 'stand by me' together the other night. and every kid (all of those 'kids' now my age) who came on the screen the duke wanted to know who he was. what was he doing now? did he stay acting?

oddly, he was particularly taken with corey feldman. he was also taken with, not so oddly, river phoenix. what were they doing now? did they stay acting?

i know every generation produces their own troubled child actors. the ones that burn bright and then out. the ones that just burn out. but why does it seem my own generation has produced so many? does every generation feel that way? is it the excess of the 80s? which is a silly notion that it would be any 'worse' than any other decade because you needed the late 60s and all of the 70s to produce the 80s.

and i remember loving these stars, too. but having to scrape up money to buy the magazines for information or wait for mtv news breaks. because it was their first time around there wasn't anyone who 'knew.' and there certainly wasn't google.

i wonder if the fascination with my youth and its entertainment will stick with the duke? i don't know much about the books and movies and music of his generation because we are just starting the journey. but if it's anything like the youth driven and generated for youth entertainment of the past 10 years i'd just as soon tell him to take a pass and wait for something better. god i sound old but that's the truth.

i'm nostalgic more than usual lately. it's a gift and an affliction. but there was a lot to love about my generation. they don't make music like that anymore. the movies had a sweeter edge to them. the bullies were more buffoonish than actually dangerous, and the girls still wore clothes.

oh don't get me wrong, there are a couple of recent 'teen' movies that come to mind when i think about good ones. 'superbad' for instance was superawesome. but why do i still think of that movie as being made for people my age? says the girl with a mclovin' id in her wallet. i know, don't be jealous.

but i suppose this happens to all parents. this nostalgia mixed with the ever happening moving forward present. this isn't anything new or even particularly interesting. it's just one more step on the path. but a step nonetheless.

all that being said, the duke looked up corey feldman and learned he's not really acting much these days. briefly touched on his pal, corey haim and his recent death. while i know the top stories of the two coreys, i took up the research and was surprised to learn that corey feldman had 15 #1 movies in a row. weird. he's also some long time recording artist. and here i just thought he was one half of the two coreys. i think when he was enjoying his movie star fame i was just too old to care by then because the movies were still for teenagers. though we are only 4 days apart in age.

the duke learned that river phoenix died. which is such a simple gathering of words for what that really meant at the time. all the subtext of his death is lost on him at this point, though. it's a bit like kurt cobain. he loves nirvana and obviously knows kurt died, but unless you were there and conscious of it happening, well you just don't get the impact. i did. living in seattle i remember it like it was yesterday. he asks me about it, like a it's another one of my stories to tell. but telling it doesn't come close to what i remember feeling about it.

river phoenix was a far far different actor than corey feldman. in a whole different orbit. and i appreciated everything i saw him in. and he impressed me. and i wanted him to fall in love with me. and i was sad when he died.

i wonder what the duke's generation will bring? certainly it seems filled with the two coreys of the world, less so anyone of river phoenix's caliber. but i wonder. he's 13. the world is open to everything right now. anything could happen. and, it usually does.

so it is in this spirit i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen. i know, you must indulge me yet again. but it's worth it.

x.

two weeks notice.

2010-05-28T09:26:00.000-07:00

so yesterday afternoon a call came that was going to bring to a close a long and sometimes painful chapter of our life here at the big red house. i've been waiting for this call for so long. and when it came it said i had to wait two weeks more.

sigh. fuck. sigh. i was sitting on the bleachers, once again, waiting for the duke's game to start. and you know that feeling you get when your heart sinks? when the sigh is so deep you might run out of air before it's over? the feeling of being so trapped in your own moment? when you actually say, out loud, "I CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE." emphasis on the "I CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE."

and then your husband turns to you and he says, "of course you can." and then he brings you a cheeseburger. because he knows that a cheeseburger is the only substance on earth that can right you and pull you from a spin.

okay, well, that's *my* life, but i'm sure you've had those moments.

and so i sat with this moment for a moment. i mean, what can you do if all you can do is nothing? when you have to dig deep and you don't know how much further you can dig? when you reached china so so long ago and the terra firma has run out? it's just you and your fucking worn to the nub shovel?

and i was sitting there, feeling very unkind. feeling like i did not want to choose grace about this. that i wanted to rage and cry and be as upset as i have a goddamned right to be. i have done this! i wanted to shout. i was done with this!

and then, because the universe has a giant crush on me, i thought about my friend stacy. she just popped into my head. and i thought about a moment i had with her so long ago. not the same as this moment. but similar enough. and it threw me a rope.

i was living on the border at the time. writing bad poetry, drinking too much, catching babies. and the moment in particular came at 3 am in the clinic. and it found me washing a bloody plastic sheet. and grumbling mightily about this fact. i was washing a bloody plastic sheet because it was the sheet that protected the mattress during birth. and on the border birth came with a lot of blood. always. and since i wasn't the primary midwife on the clean up was left to me and the other assistant(s).

so, i'm washing this bloody plastic sheet. and i'm complaining about it. because i'm tired. and because i am young. i mean i'm old enough to know what i'm doing is blessed, and sacred. and young enough to still complain about it.

and when you're the one left washing the bloody plastic sheet you often find that the sink isn't nearly deep enough, the water is never hot enough, and the sponge is never big enough. it's a loathsome task anytime of the day, monumental at 3 am. and it's tempting to cut corners. who would blame you? what if i only washed the part with the blood? and not the bottom where it never got dirty? and it's covered with another sheet anyway, it would still be clean, but quicker. it didn't need to be sterile. etc. etc. etc.

and then i hear my friend stacy pipe up. oh, now a word about my friend stacy. i love her. forever. she is awesome and beautiful. she's funny and snarky and intelligent. i've not tested the theory, but i have a sneaking suspicion the peace love community minded mama she is could hold her own in a barroom brawl. she has a place in my heart with a reserved table and an always freshly prepared drink. but at that time in my life? yeah, not so much. and i know the feeling was mutual. i don't know *exactly* why for her, but if i had to guess she probably noticed my giant propensity to be a total jackass. and i noticed she was a gemini. which was enough for me.

apparently i can only handle geminis if i sleep with them or marry them. i mean really, it was the only thing to bridge the ginormous fucking gap in understanding. (at the time, mind you. i'd like to think i've evolved. don't quote me on that.) and since i was pretty sure i wasn't going to do either one of those things with her that was that.

so back to 3am. and i hear stacy say, "you know, it doesn't matter how big or small or great or awful the job is, any job that needs to be done is worth doing well. even if you're tired. all work is important. all work is worth our best effort."

i just looked at her. probably hating her for saying that. because even then i knew she was right. and i will tell you what, that is something that has stuck with me all these years. and is a tool in my parenting arsenal that i count among my most treasured. i cannot count how many times i have said the same exact thing to my own grumbling children. any job that needs to be done is worth doing well. all work is worth our best effort.

all work. even the work of swinging at the end of the same rope you've been swinging on for what seems like forever. being patient is work. keeping your head up is work. having faith is work. it doesn't matter how long it takes because it takes as long as it does and you just have to do it. and why not do it with some amount of your best effort. with some grace. that's what stacy was telling me all those evenings ago. and that's what i remembered last night.

i can count so many things in my life that i didn't want to do, or to have happen. that i wished were different, less hard, less painful, less heartbreaking, less work. my first childhood, my first time, my first marriage, my first son's birth, the last minutes i spent with my friend jenny, the last conversation i ever had with my father. this last year. this last year. this last year. this last week. yesterday afternoon.

and i'm still here.

because you do it. you dig deep. and you hope like hell the sink is deep enough, the water hot enough, the sponge big enough. and sometimes it is and sometimes it isn't. but in the end it doesn't really matter because that's just how it is. because this is your life.

and if you're lucky, if you're lucky like me you have the best family, the best friends, the most awesome support. if you're lucky like me you are impoverished only in what really comes to matter so very little, but the richest where it makes the most difference. and where it matters most.

so i think i got this. again. still. and hell, what's two more weeks when you're already the luckiest girl in the world?

x.

i may have spoken too soon. quel surprise.

2010-05-10T11:50:00.001-07:00

so as it turns out the tests i had made contact with some alien life form within my person.

they were vague and suspicious enough findings and descriptions of what was seen to necessitate further testing. and to make me think that someone's building an avatar like world inside of me.

i know this is all vague and weird, tell me about it! but the real story is long and boring and filled with medical jargon and this is already bordering on TMI and who really wants to hear about it in the first place, right? but i felt that since i started with the last post i had to update with the more current and correct information.

and that's all i know. which, as it turns out and per usual, is not a whole hell of a lot. LOL!

in other news i will share the following scene from this morning with you because life is just as humorous and charming as always around here.

me; hey, weird. i noticed you have a little bite mark on the same spot on the neck that i do?

PAPA!; yep. so you're probably thinking what i'm thinking about what's causing it.

me; vampires.

PAPA!; uh, fleas.

me; oh. yeah. that too.

x.

lucky.

2010-05-05T08:52:00.000-07:00

so my last horoscope suggested that the week ahead was going to be filled with AMAZING GREAT LUCK! like it was basically saying get ready girl and hang on tight because you are going to be blown.away.

so naturally i was thinking i'd win the lottery!!! or get a hold of a bad clam and lose 20 pounds in a weekend!!!

you know, the good kind of luck. the LUCKY kind of luck.

but the thing about luck is that sometimes it's about what *doesn't* happen. but that's not what you're thinking when you're imagining instant wealth and bathing suit season.

and that's where my girlie parts come in.

you know whenever anyone is all up in your grill and you hear 'uh oh,' that that's not good. not during happy fun time with your partner and especially not when you're at your girlie doctor for a check up.

but last week, you know DURING MY INCREDIBLE LUCK WEEK that's exactly what happened. i got the 'uh oh' from my doctor. and i was sent for tests the.next.day. and was told my doctor would call.me.right.away with the results. and she gave me a 'chin up!' before i left.

all of which, in my mind, did not bode well.

so i went to the test. and any time a pretty lady in a dimly lit room with soft colors and nice music is inserting something that hums and seems to be designed with ergonomics in mind into the squishier bits of your person and you're not drunk and you didn't pay cash up front for it then you know you're in trouble. that this clearly isn't a 'dear penthouse forum' moment but a dear god don't let me die moment.

so then i waited for the doctor to call. on wednesday. then thursday. i called the office thursday afternoon. nothing. except the doctor will call you! then i waited friday. i called late friday morning. the DOCTOR WILL CALL YOU! then came the weekend. do you know how hard it is to wait ON A WEEKEND for this kind of news?

by sunday i was sure i was done for and making deals with the devil.

then fate stepped in.

and on sunday night wingman woke me up in the middle of the night with doubled over stomach pains. whimpering, clammy, the whole nine yards. i had him lie flat. palpated his tummy. and right below and to the right of his belly button it was taut and painful.

the appendix.

so i had him stay in bed while i went down stairs to prepare to go to the hospital should we need to. worrying. and when i went back up he was fast asleep. so i let him sleep while i spent the rest of the night wide awake listening for him. worrying. hoping it wasn't the appendix. figuring it was. because we have a family history you see.

when the duke was three months his father came down with a bad stomachache that lasted for days. it wasn't the appendix because he didn't have pain on the right side. but we didn't know what it was.

by the time he finally got to the doctor he was sent to the hospital. and it WAS the appendix! and it had burst. but see his appendix was 'retrocicle' and in the WRONG spot. so there was no way to really know. and he is pretty stoic about pain. but now it had burst and was sitting near and/on his organs just being all infected. much like the present oil spill. not only do you have the problem at hand, now everything around it is affected.

and as a result he had to have a surgery that, worst case scenario, could a) kill him, or b) necessitate removal of parts of several organs or whole organs depending on the extent of the damage.

i was told to prepare for the worst case scenario.i had to a sign a paper that said i understood all this. i was 25 years old. with a three month old. it was not a good week.

long story short, he lived. and the infection had created its own bubble, and it was shielded from the other organs. and he was ultimately okay.

but i read this kind of thing runs in families. the appendicitis thing. so naturally when i have those 3 am signs and symptoms right in front of me i go right to worry. the next morning wingman slept later than usual and had some appetite, but not much. the pain never went away and the pain never got worse. he had no fever. he said he felt 'okay' but he just seemed off. i kept asking did you go to the bathroom, did you eat something weird, yes he went to the bathroom, no he didn't eat anything weird, we ruled out everything. and i worried. do i take him in? because it would have to be the hospital because he has no private pediatrician right now. (long story) and you don't go to the hospital for appendicitis if he's not presenting with symptoms for appendicitis. because they think you're a freak. they think you're one of those moms.

and i did that with the duke. i was one of those moms. 5 years ago. at three in the morning. same thing. but the pain was so bad. and i was so worried. his father lucked out. would my children?

and OF COURSE it was constipation with the duke. and i didn't care that i was one of those moms because he was okay! but, i'm a little concerned about making the same mistake. twice. at the same hospital, with another child. you know, lest they have some sort of 'list' i get put on. the moms who are freaks list. because the first time it's a whew! and the second time it's the list.

later that morning i went to the mailbox, full of worry, and when i came back wingman was hopping about saying he had just 'been to the bathroom' and his pain was GONE. he looked absolutely fine. back to his old self.

OF COURSE he was.

so i called my doctor. and couldn't get through. so i just said fuck it. what if there was something wrong with me? sure, that would suck. but not as bad as there being something wrong with my kid. and whatever it was, if there was something wrong with me, well it would just be what it was. i simply could not worry any more.

then tuesday morning came and i didn't hear from my doctor. and i didn't worry so much as wondered. and, you know, thought it fortuitous that i *just* did my annual update of the play list for my wake a few days before. because i'm just that kind of 'non worrier.'

then i went to baseball and when i came home there was a letter. from my doctor.

Dear Sillymortalmama,

Your test was normal. Please come back in a year.

Signed,

YOUR ASS OF A DOCTOR WHO TOLD YOU 'CHIN UP!' AND SAID SHE'D CALL BUT SENT THIS LETTER INSTEAD.

and it was dated last friday. which meant she knew five days prior and i didn't. five days of unnecessary worry and countless years off of my life with the stress.

which just goes to show you two things; a) it doesn't help to worry, and b) i need a new doctor.

besides, i had a boyfriend who right after we dated found his true romantic calling with OTHER MEN and HE navigated around my girlie parts with MORE EXPERTISE and KNOWLEDGE than this doctor did. good lord it's like she missed that course in school. or never saw a freakin' chart.

so, the good news is wingman is fine. and i *am* going to die, just not for another 40-50 years or so.

well then.

i guess i did have an incredibly lucky week. just like my horoscope said i would.

x.

wherein i find out i still have it. sort of. or not.at.all.

2010-04-28T14:26:00.000-07:00

so i'm at the library the other day to pick up a bunch of books i have on hold.

i run in and grab the stack and head over to the self-checkout kiosk.

i've got them all stacked and ready to scan when i happen to look up. and right there at the next self-checkout kiosk is a handsome man. and he's looking at me. and he's smiling.

okay, so you have to know that at my library i rarely see a male person who a) isn't a little boy or b) an adolescent boy or c) an elderly gentleman. occasionally i will see a harried father with a preschooler or two. oh, and there is a male librarian there, but he hasn't been around much. in fact, i saw him working a bit in the produce section at the grocery store recently. but, that's neither here nor there.

so. the handsome man is smiling at me.

and i automatically smile at the handsome smiling man.

and then i look behind me to see who he's smiling at. (yeah, i'm smooth like that. probably because i learned how to interact with the opposite sex from three's company.)

and there is no one there.

oh. (face the camera and give them a wide eyed stare.)

so my smile gets a little bigger and i'm thinking to myself how nice it is to be out of the house, standing here, with a handsome, age appropriate man smiling in my direction.

and we're smiling. okay, this sounds like it's going on like an hour, but really it's just split second kinda smile.

and then he looks down. and his smile stops. and then he gets this pinched look on his face. so i follow his smile down. to my stack of books.

oh.

dear.

god.

my stack is made up of no less than ELEVEN dr. wayne dyer books AND a metric ass load of teen anime/manga. (cue the laugh track.)

okay, in my defense i have to say that i've been thinking about 'intention' a lot. what it means, the power of it. and dr. wayne dyer has a book called the power of intention. and it's something he talks about a lot in his other books. so i got that book and a few others to try and find a quote of his i remember liking. and then i remembered a story he told about a woman and a bag of stones. and i can't remember if it was in his recent books or his older ones. so i got a few more to try and find it. and on top of that, i was picking up the duke's holds. and he is on a HUGE anime/manga kick lately. HUGE. so. there.

i can only imagine what it looks like to him. like i am NOT a good candidate for ANYTHING. like i spend a LOT of time alone. wishing i wasn't. relying on the good dr. and media created for japanese teenagers to tell me how to get out of it, and what to do if i do get out of it. and that i'm probably more often than not covered in cat hair.

i look up to see him walking away really fast.

and even though it's not like it really matters because it's not like we are actually going to meet or date or anything i STILL want to shout "these aren't mine! okay, some of them are! but there's a good explanation! it's not what it looks like!"

but i don't.

because that would be awkward.

even for me.

x.

if you happen upon a home schooler in the wild.

2010-04-21T10:43:00.000-07:00

the majority of people i meet are polite and genuinely curious. and i appreciate the interest and the discourse. this is not for those people.

if you happen upon a home schooler in the wild.

1. do not assume they're all christians. they aren't. some of them are even pagans. and do not assume that just because they home school AND are christians that they are conservative. and not all of them dress up for role playing situations/occasions. some of them do. but not all of them. no two home schoolers are alike. you can actually tell us apart if you actually look at us.

2. do not assume all home schooled kids are 'geeks.' because they aren't. and besides, geeks are really cool people. and you shouldn't call someone that unless they've earned the privilege.

3. do not assume all home schooled kids are 'geeks' who can fix your computer. don't ask.

4. do not automatically start quizzing the home schooled child. they actually do not know everything. even the stuff you think they 'should' know. especially stuff you think they 'should' know. they actually forget stuff they've learned or never learned it in the first place.

5. do not act all smug when a home schooled child can't answer your quiz/question. you look like an ass and it proves nothing. except that you have the ability to make yourself look like an ass.

6. please don't ask the home schooling parent about 'socialization.' ever. really. don't. to you it's curiosity or concern, i get that, but to a home schooler it's like nails on a chalk board. like a tired old worn out myth that just won't go away. it's like saying to a parent, "you've obviously made some whacked out choice and now you need to justify that choice to me."

7. do not assume the misbehaving home schooler is just 'under socialized.' does your child misbehave because they are 'adequately socialized?'

8. do not assume that just because a person chooses to home school that they welcome 'your' opinion on home schooling. i don't automatically give you my opinion on your public/private school choice. because that would be rude. if you're not asked then don't tell.

9. do not ask, "huh. how does THAT work?" when someone tells you they home school. because it's rude. ask me how i know.

10. do not assume that because a home schooler is at home that they are available at the drop of a hat to pick up your slack in the busy day. on call child care, drop ins for coffee, long phone chats about NOTHING, after school pick up, etc. etc. etc. i want to help you, and i want to visit, and i will talk to you if you need me, but i am busy too. you know, teaching.

11. do not assume because a home school parent is home all day that his/her house will be sparkling clean and smell like fresh bread. because, you know, she's home all day. because it's not. ask me how i know.

12. do not assume that because a home schooled child goes back to school that the 'experiment' failed. life moves and changes. nothing is written in stone. and just because a person makes a bold, out of the norm commitment does not mean that it's forever. except for sarah palin. unfortunately she seems to be the exception.

13. do not say to a home school parent, " i should just pay you/get you to home school my kid." as a part jest/part serious proposition when your kid is failing academically or socially at school. what makes you think in a million years i'd want to/would? home schooling is a lot of work. it's not a matter of just folding another child in. like putting up the third seat in a minivan. but if you want some help, please ask. i don't like to see any kid fail if there's something i can do to help, or something i can recommend.

14. do not assume that because a parent home schools that they have endless patience and are saint like or perfect in their parenting. this would not be a correct assumption. oh, some of them think they are. but they'd be wrong. i know that i am not. and i do not have endless patience. i'm just a parent who made a choice. just like you. and being a parent is tough work . so if we all cut each other some slack, and ask questions and observe rather than make snap judgments, then we'd all be way better off.

x.

the old heavy petting threat gets them every time.

2010-04-19T10:12:00.000-07:00

okay, i've hinted at this but it's really happening now. the duke is becoming a teenager. and i am not the first mama to go through this, i know, but why is it everything our own children do seems like a one way ticket into no man's land? from teething to girlfriends every step feels like i'm making the one giant step for mankind. bringing you all in is my way of phoning home.

and while i've decided to approach this whole phase with humor and an open mind, some things, while age appropriate, simply will not be allowed in this house. and no, i'm not talking about 'twilight.' thankfully, he's not all that interested. whew.

let me set the stage.

last week at wingman's baseball game we were sitting in the stands. me on one side, my husband on the other, the duke in the middle. and my husband (he needs to be re-named for blogosphere purposes. i haven't come up with anything, so for now he's 'my husband.' wow. lucky him.)

okay, so we were chatting and just being. we were not being overly loud or obnoxious. hard to believe, but true. i do have manners and exercise them. you know, when i need to.

so then we hear the duke pipe up

"shhhh. people can hear you."

"what are you talking about?"

"don't talk so loud."

"we are not talking loud and no one is listening?"

"shhh. it's embarrassing."

really? WTF?

oh. yeah. and so it begins.

i knew this day would come, i just hoped it wouldn't. you know, because i'm so awesome how could i ever be of embarrassment to my son. right?

so i tried to ask him what it was that was so embarrassing about my/our behavior. and he didn't have any kind of concrete answer. just us talking, you know, me being me. so naturally i began to rib him a little, and at the same time to seriously tell him it could be worse. you know, pointing out the things i *could* be doing to really embarrass him. you know, other than just being me.

and it just got worse for him. because of course actually TALKING about it is just as terrible and even worse than it happening when you're that age. i know that. but i wasn't talking about it loudly, i was just trying to have some discussion on this new development. and i have a right to address accusations and grievances levied against me. parenting is a two way street, he's not the only one who's allowed to make a case. then i heard

"shhh! stop! you're.embarrassing.me!"

okay. i'm done.

"hey, sir, you brought this up. here. and now. and now you need to listen to ME. i've spent a LOT of years working on accepting who i am and being fully okay with who i am. and that's not as easy as you may think it is to do. and i don't change myself based on the people i'm with. i'm me. and i like me. and you may be interested to know that there are a lot of other people who like me and who actually want to spend time with me. and i appreciate that you're going through some hormonal shifts, i get it. but i am not going to change who i am or stop being who i am because you suddenly can't accept it. and if that's really the case, that i embarrass you, then you can choose to sit somewhere else."

"okay. i'm sorry, mama."

to which my husband added

"yeah. and if you don't knock it off i'm going to pull your mama onto my lap and start making out with her right here."

"PAPA!"

god. it is so hard to be young. how do any of us make it out alive.

x.

if you think this is really about pants then you'd be wrong.

2010-04-13T11:23:00.000-07:00

so i have this pair of white pants that i love. they are like those mythical pants from the books and movies. no matter what, when i wear them they are perfect on me. and by 'no matter what' i'm talking about weight and weight fluctuation. these pants give me curves where i want them and eliminate them where i don't. no matter what, they make my ass look perfect. and that is not a brag, that is a fact. and i think we all need to go easier on ourselves and praise ourselves more. so i'm just callin' it like i see it. and i love them for that.

so, the pants. they're white. and i'm not a fan of white. if it's a shirt it gives me some kind of sickly pallor, if it's pants i just know i'm going to sit in something, spill something, etc. and red wine? oy.

so i rarely wore these pants. even though they were perfect on me. yeah, that's how we women like to do things. well, this women.

and this was dumb so i started to wear them more. like i had to make myself wear them. and every time i put them on i loved them all over again, but i was terrified of spilling wine, food, etc. on them. but the more i made myself wear them the more i got comfortable with the fact that i did actually have the capability to keep myself clean in a social situation.

and the more i wore them the more i loved them. and the more i loved them the more i wore them. garden parties in the out of doors! a kegger! a baby shower wherein i managed to break my toe and catch my hair on fire and win the drinking contest i was having with myself BUT did not get one SPECK on my white pants! and then i started getting cocky. and smug. look at me in my clean white pants knocking back the red wine and getting nary a drop on myself.

my talents are endless.

and then came easter.

i was wearing my white pants. flitting about, plating all the appetizers before everyone got there. and then making bellinis when the guests arrived. pouring red wine. look at me with these drippy oven roasted tomatoes, watch while i make this bellini (peach juice, for those of you who don't know, is incredibly staining. weird, right?) hell i even made pea soup with a FIVE YEAR OLD HELPING ME in my smug white pants. pea soup. using the immersion blender and everything. not a drop.

god i'm good.

i thought this as i was putting the mixed berries on the pavlova and running my mouth about something. sipping at my red wine. look at me in my smug white pants.

and then it happened. one errant, terribly full to bursting juicy blueberry broke from the others and like it was in slow motion as it started to roll down my leg. all.the.way.down. on the white pants.

it was a mess. oh sure, it's not like it looked like a scene out of carrie or anything, but it wasn't pretty.

after all those times, the garden parties, the wine, the soup, etc. and it was the blueberry that did me in.

which just goes to show, sometimes it really is the little stuff. sometimes it's not what you think will happen, but what you never consider. because you've gotten cocky, or smug, or just because it was time. and that's how life is.

which brings me to the ball.

my husband and i don't fight. not because we are perfect (because we are not perfect) or scared to, or we don't know how, we are just REALLY lucky enough to both have good communication skills. and THANKFULLY smart enough to remember to use them. whew. skills which have come in especially handy this past year. and seriously, this last year has been so very hard i'm amazed that we aren't at each others throats. all.the.time. because it would be so easy. but, we aren't. thank you god we are not.

BUT

but a few months ago there was a situation. and it started with a yoga ball. and it ended in a standoff of mega proportions. the likes of which have never been seen in this house. and it ended quickly (sort of, i mean in the grand scheme of things) and ultimately with laughter.

BUT

and you know what i'm going to say.

it had nothing to do with the ball.

the ball was the little thing. even after dealing with the big BIG stuff for so long and jumping every hurdle, making everything work out of so very little, hanging on by a thread some days, it came down to a fucking yoga ball.

fucking yoga ball. he was the one who ordered it for me and was inflating it for me. and i was looking at this ball and it was way too small. and he tried to convince me it was the same size as my old one it was replacing. that he had checked and made sure to get the same one. and i would not believe him, and i would not budge because i'm not stupid that is not the same size by any measure. i did a lot of pointing and emphasizing of certain words.

it turns out when you inflate a physical therapy grade yoga/pilates ball you have to do it slowly. like over a period of a day or so. and this piece of information was not relayed to me, or i didn't hear it. (the jury's still out on that one) so yes, it was the same size, or would be *eventually.* but it wasn't then. not yet. but since i didn't know this, i just saw it being small and not the same size at all.

so from my perspective i'm right and he's wrong and why is he trying to convince me of something that simply cannot be true? and from his perspective i've lost my fucking mind over a yoga ball. which, to be fair, was true. i did. and it was not pretty. and then came the freeze out. which i'm really really good at. some people yell, some people throw things, i give the freeze out.

good lord. stress is a killer. and sometimes you don't realize you need a reliever until you are losing your mind over a yoga ball. yoga. ball. and no, the irony is not lost on me.

so what do the blueberry and the ball have in common? does any of this make sense? maybe. it does to me. because the blueberry and the ball are what happen when you're busy just trying to get through the day. living. they are the little things you don't count on.

everyone always worries about the big stuff of life. and the what ifs the big stuff brings. but the big stuff isn't all that hard if you really think about it. not really. because you see it coming. (or you don't but you quickly adapt) you make plans. you work at it. you're given a chance to figure it out.

but the blueberry and the ball are the little things you never see coming. until they're staining your favorite white pants or creating the biggest standoff you've ever had with your husband.

and you don't know it until you're in it and you've got to just figure your way out of it without making the little things bigger than they are. and without 'creating' more little things.

and part of this is about not getting too smug in your perfect white pants, and part of this is about how to learn how to take a step back and ask questions, even if you "know" you are right. especially if you "know" you are right. one minute of jumping off your high horse can do wonders. it's like a miracle cure.

and part of this is me telling you that if you have something that you love and that makes you feel good don't hide it away because you're afraid it will get dirty. or ruined. or broken. or lost. drag it out and wear the hell out of it, use it up and enjoy every moment of doing so.

life is just too god damned short for anything less.

x.

DFTU.

2010-04-08T10:22:00.000-07:00

so i've been thinking about the word weltanschauung lately. mainly because it's such an AWESOME word to look at and probably sounds really good spoken in its native tongue.

anyway, weltanschauung is defined as: world view; philosophy of life; a framework through which to interpret the world.

when your life is very different than you thought it would be, or was even a year ago, six months ago, how you perceive life, your own in particular, becomes very very important. in some cases, not only for survival, but for being able to adapt to and enjoy it in some measure. however small. for being able to move forward.

some people just have a world view without really knowing where it comes from, some people pick something by which to define or craft their world view. religion, the way they were raised, what simon cowell throws down on american idol. some people can't figure what the hell i'm talking about when i say 'world view' and that's okay too. (see me after class. maybe i can help.)

for instance, some people craft their world view based on what you 'shouldn't' do. sort of the 7 deadly sins outlook. I SHALL NOT HAVE; wrath greed sloth pride lust envy gluttony. a list of don'ts telling them what they can do. now, i don't know about you, but living by a list of don'ts doesn't sound like all that much fun. not to mention seems a little, well, pre packaged. processed. not a lot of room for free will and creativity. and hell, some of those 'deadly' sins look pretty darn okay to me. right?

and since we're on the subject, why isn't 'being an asshole' on the list? the 8th sin if you will. because it seems to me that THAT is more of an issue and causes way more problems than the rest of the sins. just sayin'.

okay, and then you have the people who don't live by the 'don'ts' but rather the 'cans.' as in they have some particular thing they can do. some talent or creative ability. and that defines them. and subsequently their world view. they can do something, can demonstrate something, can put a really great title on their business cards, can always pull it off. i seriously envy these people because i don't have a particular talent that really defines me. and it seems like it would make those business cards i want to print up for myself a little clearer if i did.

sure, i 'can' write but i mostly write about myself. that's less talent and creativity and more 'abject self absorption.' and which should probably be filed under one of the 7 deadly sins at some point.

then there are people who define themselves and subsequently their world view by their general 'got their shit togetherness.' and by 'define' i mean they don't 'need' to define anything. and if they do, it's just icing on the cake. they are a mash up of the kind of person directly above with the added element of effortless fabulousness. these people are pretty much capable of anything. they always look good, their house is always clean, they have some special talent and creativity, a title to put on a card, and, i suspect, if you got close enough, they would smell like vanilla.

i am not those people.

i spend great swaths of the day in drawstring pants or pajama bottoms, far from camera ready, my house isn't always clean, and i can pretty much guarantee you that i don't smell like vanilla.

BUT

if you invite me to dinner i will ditch the drawstrings and put on a pair of kick ass heels, if you come over i will clean my house for you, if you sit at my table i will cook for you, and i always answer the phone. even at three in the morning. especially at three in the morning.

in short, i love you. that's my talent.

oh jeeze not in the 'i love you! now gimme some jewelry!' kinda way. but in the way you love someone just by being there in their life, even if you don't agree, the way you love someone when you say namaste, even if it's just at the end of yoga, the way you love someone when you put a plate of food in front of them, the way you love someone by drying their tears from 3000 miles away, or say a prayer for them when they need it.

it's there, you only need to call it forth. let it prevail. always.

which ultimately brings me to my weltanschauung. my world view. how i have to see my world so that i can be in it and be the best person i can be and ultimately project that out. because as i have come to learn, sometimes your special gifts and talents and creativeness aren't enough. sure, they are 'enough.' always. but when push comes to shove and you really need to rely on something, well, perhaps there's room for something more. that bit of extra padding when the fall gets a little rougher than usual.

so, you know those bumper stickers that say WWJD. what would jesus do. or WWJJD. you know, what would joan jett do. or president obama, or peter pan, bukowski. take your pick of who you would ask to emulate in a difficult situation to get to an understanding and take action.

well, my weltanschauung is the bumper sticker i've come up with.

which is WWXLCD.

the answer to which is,

DFTU.

don't fuck this up.

with all that i've been blessed with and have, with all that i am able to do, which some days is not much, and others all i can do is ask for help and receive it with a grateful and humble heart, with everything i just need to NOT FUCK IT UP.

which some days is a hell of a lot harder than others. not fucking it up just means no matter what, deep breaths, move forward, keep calm and carry on. love as much as i'm able and know how to say thank you and mean it. because i really really do mean it.

if i can just take each day as it comes, one day, this day, and move through it and DFTU then that's what i can do. and i'm happy. and i'm good. and i think that spreads, and in some small way, at least in this little corner of the world, it makes a good and positive difference.

that's my story and i'm sticking to it.

got weltanschuung?

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2010-03-26T10:40:00.000-07:00

since the beginning of the year the boybarians and i have been doing a study of school lunch offerings in america. it has been nothing short of FASCINATING and HORRIFYING. seriously.

further, our study has taken us all over the world to see how school lunch gets treated outside of america. and i must tell you, it is treated well. very well in a LOT of places. in fact, based on our studies of what is offered where, i've decided i would very much like to be a french nursery school student, aged 4. dude, those kids eat WELL.

not so much here. school lunch in america is in a critically poor state. we need revolution, change, and quick. in short we are harming our children and setting them up for a lifetime of nutritional FAILURE. in length, the powers that preside over how the school lunch program is administered make it a morass of paperwork, rules, guidelines, etc. and so forth and so on. they have taken the act of feeding children and broken it down into a complicated matrix of boxes that must be ticked. it is not about food, it's about the administration of funds, preservation of supply chains, cutting costs where ever possible, and percentages of 'nutritional elements' that must be met. i put that in quotes because i've seen these lunches, and nutrition isn't the first thing that comes to mind.

enter jamie oliver and his food revolution. a new series on ABC friday nights. and it's good. he's been working on revolutionizing school lunch in the UK for the last 10 years and he's bringing his mission here.

he's mouthy, presumptuous, pushy, judgmental, and he uses the word 'crap' to describe food. but he is right on and comes full force from a place of love. love for children and real food. he is committed and he's awesome to watch.

plus, he doesn't just want to come in a make a media splash for his own gain and then leave. he wants to teach people about real food. what it is and how to cook it. because if you know how to cook even one or two dishes you can branch out. and seriously, that's sometimes all it takes. something as simple as just knowing about what foods are and how to prepare them. it's about education and support. because a lot of people never learned how to cook even the basics, and because of that must *rely* on prepared foods. and that is sometimes passed down generation to generation. could it really be as simple as teaching a few cooking techniques? jamie oliver thinks so and i agree with him.

i grew up poor and ate well. because there was real food and cooking in my home. with pots and pans and knives and spatulas. and i am not suggesting that junk food and 'crap' food don't have a place in the world. because good lord we know i do love the cheeseburgers and have been known to crave 'crap' and indulge in it a time or two.

BUT everything in moderation, right? and daily school lunches with all their sugar, fat, salt, and carbs, day after day, 180 days a year? every single day. no, that's not right. not at all. not to mention the children who are having school breakfast, too. two meals a day filled with sugar, fat, salt, carbs. 180 days a year.

look, i know i'm lucky. i home school and my kids get to make their own lunch every day. we have the time and resources to make it delicious and healthy.

but just because my kids don't go to public school doesn't mean i don't care about the kids who do. quite the opposite. just like i support all the school bonds and levies that come my way, and am all too happy that part of my property taxes go to support the public schools, i want to support the change that needs to happen in the public school lunch programs across the country.

i know there are a LOT of people trying, working on this very issue. and have been for a long time. affecting change where they are. good people, smart people. but let's face it, jamie oliver is huge and if he can get this the attention it deserves fast and now, then more power to him. because this needs to go nationwide. and there isn't a second to lose. because we are losing people we love to diseases borne of bad nutrition. and it starts when you're young. and it's perpetuated in the schools. and we need to change that. now.

it is that spirit that i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen. please know, it's 43 minutes long, so watch it when you have the time to spend. because it's worth it, and it's important. and please, watch it with your kids.

Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution Fridays 9/8 c ABC.

x.

why i love baseball.

2010-03-25T11:00:00.000-07:00

you must understand those are words i never thought i'd type. but, it's true.

i've never been one to like or understand sports. in theory, sure, but in person? like playing or watching? not so much. maybe it's my ADD (self diagnosed, which is the best kind of diagnoses in my opinion) or my lack of coordination, but sports just weren't ever my thing.

i especially never understood baseball. maybe it was the tempo of the game? slow and boooooorrrrrriiiiiinnnnngggg, like the golf i used to watch with my grandpa. and it may also have had something to do with all that math, statistics, averages, blah blah blah. slow and complicated. wow, fun. sounds like a former relationship i was only TOO HAPPY to ditch.

so imagine my surprise when the duke hit me with wanting to play baseball all those years ago. not that we aren't an active family, but sports? especially as organized and intense as little league baseball? he had tried soccer the year before and didn't seem especially into it. he tried basketball and the same was true. and to me, those were the exciting sports! but, baseball?

of course i signed him up and of course he took to it and lo these many years later he's still playing and enjoying it. (as an aside, wingman plays too, but i'm focusing on the duke for this one.)

and watching him play is one of my favorite things to do. i am proud of his dedication and commitment to being a good team mate. i am proud that he continues to improve, and that he continues to ignore the crap that can come about when a bunch of boys the same age hang out together.

oh i know, i have complained about the time commitment, the other parents, the coaches, the cold, the proximity some of the best cheeseburgers on earth and my battle to ignore them, mostly, about the mouthy kids, about the nepotism, and the politics, and joke about carrying and flask, and so on and so forth.

BUT

that's just me being my charming self.

what i love about baseball is watching a team develop. despite all the differences and the politics and the posturing and the popularity of some and the lack thereof of others, there becomes a moment on the field when you see this group of boys and they become a team. and for a moment, or a few strung together, life becomes simple again. a group of boys with a common goal, basic and slightly primal, working together. cohesive. communicating. because it doesn't happen if they don't. getting a job done. a bat, a ball, a base. and they will win or they will lose, but for awhile, it just becomes all about the journey.

a few years ago we were lucky enough to go to spring training in arizona. and while the boys trooped off for games i was happy to lie about at the hotel and do...nothing. but they forced me to go to one game. i groused, (silently) but i went. and, i LOVED it.

it was warm, the day was as fine and blue and soft as you could want, my kids were having the best time, and i got to drink beer and eat a ball park hot dog. and we were close enough for the game to be interesting. now this, i thought, this is nice. too bad it never happens like this at the duke's games.

but the other day it did. the first (mini) game of the season for the duke. oh sure, the sun only came out between gusts of icy wind and the occasional parting of overhead clouds, and there was no beer and no professional ball park hot dog. but there was a moment when the clouds parted and the sun was shining and i realized that i was doing something i really really love to do. after all these years. watching my boy grow right before my eyes on the field, watching a team come together, the rest of us in the stands. enjoying the game and the day.

baseball is as simple or complex as you want it to be. it's changed so much since it was first invented, and, yet, in the grand scheme of things, so very little. and that is its charm right there. it's just as you remember it. and that is such a comfort these days.

i wonder at the country and where we are headed. so much division and vitriol, a lack of a common focus. i worry for the youth with access to so much technology that basic communication skills are ignored in favor of the instant and right away. that cohesiveness for some lasts as long as a text, an IM, or a thread on facebook. and then that's it. on to something new. that because of all this technology you don't really have to 'maintain' an actual friendship any more. that the screen is enough to bond people.

and i worry that people don't journey together anymore towards a common goal. and even if they do, that those goals are ever changing based on what's being offered at.that.moment. that it's all about the end product. that it seems every person is out for themselves, and we are passing that along to every younger generation. that things are so instant there isn't time enough to develop real relationships anymore.

so yeah, i love baseball. it slows things down and brings the simple to focus. it's familiar and timeless. even if it's just for part of an afternoon. and especially so on those few days in may and june that are so sunny and perfect they just want to make you weep. especially baseball with my boy who all too soon will no longer be a boy. it is, and has been, a magnificent gift.

now if they only sold icy cold beer at the snack stand. because an icy cold beer would go PERFECTLY with those cheeseburgers. hey, it's a free country! (for now) and a girl can have any dream she wants, right?

x.

missing.

2010-03-18T00:01:00.000-07:00

there's a young mother of a child my child's age missing from the town next to me. her child goes to school 4 miles from my house. her child is missing, too.

the van was found partially submerged in one of the many waterways in this area. there are bodies of water and wooded areas and roads being searched. they are somewhere or they are not. and there are a lot of puzzling clues that don't seem to fit. or they do. and then they don't. she's at fault, or she isn't.

it's a funny thing about being missing. it's almost as if time has stopped for the person(s) missing. and yet it goes terribly on for those who remain. and sadly, entertainingly on for some.

where does one go when they're missing? are you missing just because you can't be found? is there something more? what is it? we wish we could just ring up the missing and ask. we hope we get the chance to ask.

what i have learned from the past five days of her being missing is that missing sucks. it sucks for those who are left behind, those who are searching, those who are questioning, those whose job it is to find the missing. but i've learned it especially sucks for the one who is missing.

i've learned that when you're missing, EVERYTHING is fair game towards finding you. your past and all its glories and heartaches, your recent triumphs or troubles, the suspicions and opinions long held by your neighbors, family, friends come to the surface. things you should never know people are thinking about you are everywhere and now everyone knows. your boss your neighbors your family your friends your community your kid's school the teachers the parents the lunch ladies they all know what others have been thinking. what you did in your past before now.

when you're dead, people only say mostly glowing things about you. they forget the past and they forgive the errors of your ways, the missteps. they may even embellish it a bit towards the positive.

but when you're missing, when you're missing people don't do this. they do the opposite. they play arm chair detective about the past relationships, the failures in judgment, the tattoos the drinking the life lived as lives over time are and every aspect of it comes to light. becomes important. they are clues. and we whisper them over fences and type them in the comments section of the new sites and smugly repeat them in articles and on the local news.

whoever you worked to become falls away and you are just the sum of a lot of parts. and not in a good way. your past is not a long and winding path to the person you've become, it's just a bread crumb trail to this inevitable fuck up.

when you're missing, at first it's sad and scary. there's a flurry of activity. where are you!?! and then it becomes your fault somehow. at first they say 'oh she could never.' and then they start listing the reasons why she probably did. innocent then guilty. guilty as all her past sins. because if it's your fault it can't happen to us. why are you doing this !?!

and i have to think that we don't wish the missing person malice. i have to think this is protection. for us. those who are not missing. because it could happen to anyone. couldn't it? it could happen to you or your kid it could happen to your neighbor your sister your friend.

oh, but not if we didn't have this suspect past. not if we don't buy wine in the big bottles or run around with friends with tattoos. not if we don't love the wrong people or grow up in the wrong town. well then, yes. that's different. yes. that's not us. we aren't her. so it couldn't happen to us.

i check the news every day. many times. i think about her and the boy. i hope she wasn't drinking and driving with the boy in the van, which is one of the theories. and by hoping that i fall victim to that which i am speaking out about. sigh. i am silly and mortal. still, i worry. i try to imagine that it isn't the worst case scenario. i try not to silently judge with the little bit of information at hand. i try to remember she is a silly mortal too. and i am glad for these few days when the weather's been fine, brisk, but sun shining. worried at the cold nights. worried for her and the boy.

where do you go when you go missing? and hell, what happens if you come back? what do you come back to? will you come back?

i don't know why this woman is missing. she just is. and i hope for her and i pray for her. and for the boy. may they be safe. and may things work out for the positive. and i just hope that if i ever went missing those who knew me would be kind. would understand that it wasn't of my own doing and use snippets heard here and there, or witnessed, as trial and jury and verdict.

because i've made a lot of mistakes and missteps, possessed suspect judgment and employed whacked thinking, i've been wrong when i thought i was right, and i have made a mess of things a time or two.

and i would hope that people see that those aren't bread crumbs to the inevitable fuck up. that they are steps on a path to who i am today. evidence not leading to an 'obviously' bad conclusion, just evidence of a life lived. and sometimes lives are messy and some of us just work everlong to pull them up and forward.

if i ever go missing may the world be kinder to me than it is being to this woman. because while all of it may be clues, and those clues may add up to fault, right now it's still her life. her one beautiful life. and the boy, his life. his mom. and we should be more mindful. facts, not judgment. until we know. and even after. even after we know, regardless of the outcome. of fault. be mindful. because unless you've walked in those shoes, you just can't ever know. you can't.

god help us who meet trouble on the path. and save us from those who find out about it.

x.

love and loathing in the pacific northwest.

2010-03-15T08:57:00.000-07:00

i enjoy reading the local news sites on the interwebs. mainly because this is where i live, but mostly because the comments section is so hilarious, heartbreaking, and typical.

i like to joke about where i live and call it my (red)neck of the woods. i say that with love AND loathing, which i find to be a fabulous combination that cannot be applied randomly.

i live in a beautiful area. gorgeous and heart stopping in some cases. and while it's funky and mostly a tear down to some, my own particular little spot and abode makes me happy. and is especially beautiful this time of year.

BUT

there are things about where i live that make it less than ideal. for me. community wise. and i didn't consider this before we moved out here. had i considered it before i don't know that we would have. who knows. we're here now.

so.

lately there is a lot of good, and good news going on locally. a new store in the town two towns away that is selling only locally grown produce, dairy, and meat, and locally made products. essentially a year round farmer's market indoors. that's pretty cool.

in the past decade since i've been here i've seen a walking trail put in right in the middle of the retail hub of the county. a beautiful and enjoyable and scenic walking trail. long enough and diverse enough to be worth it. with wetlands, and big trees, and salmon, and it goes right by costco and you don't even see it.

i've seen bridges and roads re-done to better encourage and protect the salmon streams that run through our county, and no less than three new parks built in my town alone.

i've also seen the library levy FAIL by a huge margin because there are 'other things to worry about more.' don't get me started on that. we lost hours and vital resources at all the libraries because of it. i wrote the letter of my life to the editor about that one and would have written more but the profanity. oy. like a runaway toyota i put both feet on the brakes of profanity but it wouldn't stop coming. so, naturally i kept the subsequent letters to myself.

we also don't have a trader joe's. still. it's TWO THOUSAND TEN PEOPLE! i've lived here TEN YEARS! and NO trader joe's. i consider THAT a failure of epic proportions.

but what we DO have are plenty of sexpresso stands. which, as some of you may already know, i like to keep my eye on. oh jeeze, not literally, but the whole thing just makes me giddy. it's like a carl hiaasen novel come to life. i love how people get so up in arms about it. those who think it's okay, those who think it's the devil's handiwork. mostly i love considering the safety and the practicalities, and lack thereof. i've said it before and i'll say it again, i don't have anything against women taking their clothes off for any reason, if it's consensual it's your own business. BUT

all that steam and hot liquid, all that exposed flesh. it's just an accident waiting to happen.

so when there's an article or a letter to the editor about a new stand going up or just the existence of them, as you may imagine the comments section always makes for a good read. the two camps get going and you just can't stop them.

the people who are *for* think that the people who are *against* are all 'repressed middle aged women who used to be fun but who have let themselves go and are now bitter.' the people who are against always drag out the 'what if this was your daughter you pervert wacko in god's name why in the samhell do you need to see boobs and butts while you get your morning coffee?' argument.

but what i really love are the gems. the comments that really have nothing to do with the debate, but just because somebody wants to make them. these are usually made by people you've seen before. the serial commentators who seem to treat the on-line local news comments section as their own personal social networking site. maybe they couldn't figure out facebook? or they don't have enough followers on twitter? but they are always there and they always have something to say about 'everything.' and by 'everything,' i mean 'themselves.' because while they relate their comments somewhat to the article, it's usually just all about them.

so this last most recent article was no exception. but there was one comment that just made me laugh out loud because while it was all about the commentator and not about the actual debate at hand, it was so perfect, and summed the whole thing up in a nutshell.

'fasteddie' wrote, and i quote, "The best times of my life were when naked and around other naked or semi-naked women."

nice.

and therein lies the rub, pardon the pun, of the whole argument. you're up against a lot when you try to argue against women getting naked for business purposes and men paying for it. coffee or all the otherwise. there's just too much there. biology, history, whipped cream being sprung from a can.

that being said, and all kidding aside, i really sincerely hope i don't ever go missing from this town or get into the kind of trouble that would put me in the news. of course for the obvious reasons, but mostly because people are cruel and terrible about other people when given half a chance.

recently a young mother and her son went missing and the comments section was mostly positive and full of prayer and hope. mostly. because a lot are just awful.

and then you get this, "There is more to this story but you can kind of read into the lines. First of all, this lady has a tattoo. I wouldn't be surprised she is into drugs and some drug deal went bad. Why do she and the son have different names. She does not come from any stable family background."

yeah, because tattoos equal drugs, and male dominated patriarchal naming practices equal a stable family. right. i know it's almost as tiresome to be irritated about that kind of viewpoint as it is a tiresome viewpoint to have given the time we're in, but i'm irritated nonetheless. and as i said, unfortunately comments like that are not atypical. and says a LOT about the place where i live. and the people i live around.

do you see now why i was so upset at the library levy fail?

and it makes me angry about and sad for the closed minded asses of the world, especially those who live here, where i live. and for my children who have to grow up around them and their kids. and for my community whose future depends on them.

but mostly it just makes me miss fasteddie.

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2010-03-11T10:56:00.000-08:00

when i was about 4 years old i got lost at the oregon museum of science and industry. i was with my mother and father and older sister. i went into a bathroom while they waited outside. the bathroom had two ways to get in and out and i went out the way i didn't come in. and no one was there. and no one came. and i was never taught, or didn't remember, that if you're lost just stand still and someone will find you.

so i did what i thought i should. i left the museum and somehow found our car and stood by it. in the rain. for a really long time. while everyone inside the building panicked and locked the entrances and searched for me. when they finally thought to come outside and check, there i was. next to the car. in the rain. and my mother and father grabbed me up and hugged me. and then my dad spanked me.

there are all kinds of ways of being lost. when you're little and when you're big. and i don't think there's anything wrong with being lost, as long as you have a few tools. the ability to be patient, don't panic, keep breathing, and above all just stand still until someone finds you. really, just stop. someone will find you. always.

it is in that spirit that i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen.

and if any of y'all do this to me, i will cut you. LOL! no. seriously. y'all gotta phone. use it.

keep in touch!!

x.

this life. right now.

2010-03-04T10:57:00.000-08:00

it's easy to wake up in the morning to the sun and the birds and believe that it's a new day. and that anything is possible.

and then your feet hit the floor and the day begins. and that day brings what it brings.

today is filled with pain and heartache and brokeness for some people i care a great deal about. and that breaks my heart. and it reminds me. and humbles me. because while i am having my own problems here it's easy to forget the bigger picture. and the bigger picture is that if you are lucky to have love you are lucky enough. if you are lucky to have your family near you and healthy you are lucky enough. if you are lucky enough to have a brain that's working and a heart that isn't breaking then you are lucky enough.

nothing else matters in this world. nothing. not houses or jobs or vacations or things or the lack thereof.

i forget to be grateful. i forget to be open. i forget this is my one beautiful life. i forget that i am the luckiest girl in the world. sometimes i forget. i am silly that way. mortal.

and sadly, sometimes it takes seeing the pain and destruction in the world and another person breaking down to remind me to stop and be grateful. for all of it. the good the bad and the ugly. because in the face of the alternative, and there are a LOT of alternatives, it's all beautiful. it's all good. and i am lucky enough.

be good to yourself. be good to others. this is your one beautiful life, right?

x.

it's all fun and games until someone gets lukewarm vinegar in the eye.

2010-02-16T14:51:00.000-08:00

okay, so while i was outside and messing about with some weeds i somehow picked up this wicked little rash on my face. that was a week and a half ago. it's going away but good lord the going is SLLLLLOOOOOWWWWW. then last night i went to tuck the duke in and kiss him good night and WHAM! his rock solid head smashed right into my poor not as rock solid lip. and now i have a dark contusion to go with the rash.

i could go on, because there's more. there's always more. but i'll spare you and tell you a little story instead.

it begins with me deciding that what i needed was a little beauty 'pick me up.' something to make me feel better, beautiful in the midst of feeling decidedly not. something to put a little shine on the chrome.

it also needed to be easy and quick. so i decided on a hot oil treatment for my hair. having never done it before i reviewed some sage advice and went to it.

now, it should be said that beauty treatments and me don't go exactly hand in glove. more like fist through windshield. me being the windshield. i'm a fairly low maintenance kinda girl. i can put on the dog when i need to, but mostly what you see is what you get. all that messing about doesn't come naturally to me. so when i get into that kinda territory the results are anyone's guess. and often make for a painfully hilarious story. or, you know, just painful.

one day i'll tell you about my one and only foray into waxing. i cannot give you any more details, specific or otherwise, than that right now but i will say it.was.not.pretty. there were burns involved. and peeling. i missed work. i may or may not have re-evaluated my relationship with god. hell, i think i MET god. just thinking about it makes me nervous.

excuse me. (deep breath in...)

i need a moment. (let it out slowly...)

okay. (deep breath in...)

that's better. (you're safe now...)

anyway, so i grabbed the warmed olive oil and the industrial sized bottle of white vinegar and headed for the bathroom. please, just take that sentence at face value and let's move forward. so, i rubbed the olive oil through my hair and wrapped it in a towel. i read a magazine for the wait. so far, so good.

now. i don't take showers. i take baths. i was told to do this in the shower but the shower is all the way in the back bathroom and i don't like showers.

huh? what's that you say about foreshadowing?

so i filled up the tub and per the instructions i was supposed to 1. wash out the oil 2. rinse with water. 3. on the final rinse dump about a cup of the white vinegar on my head with the shower running overhead and then rinse THAT out. easy. oh, and make sure my eyes were closed. so yeah. easy.

yeah.

the oil coming out was fine. i shampooed and rinsed that out. then for the final rinse i went for the cup of the vinegar. i was using the rinsing pitcher so i just eyeballed it and poured it in. and then dumped the pitcher over my head. and then the shrieking began.

okay, the shrieking was all in my head. good lord me shrieking in the tub would bring at least 3 boy humans and all the cats to the tub. no way. if i can cure a kidney stone with copious amounts of beer and the tub in the middle of the night and not wake a single soul then i can handle this. the tub is like my own private idaho. what happens in the tub stays in the tub and is my business alone. no witnesses.

OH! MY! GOD! did it BURN!!! i thought i had my eyes closed!! but in a split second my right eye felt like someone poured their lifetime's supply of radium in it. and i guess it was a little more than a cup of vinegar, too. a LOT MORE. and it was cold and smelly and did i mention THE BURNING!?!

so then i tried to overcompensate by filling the pitcher and rinsing my eye with warm water. which in the process brought open the other eye. and because i couldn't really see with one eye burning and all my god damned hair everywhere (OMG!!! WHY DO I HAVE SO MUCH HAIR!!!) i missed and then rinsed all the, by now lukewarm, vinegar that was on my hair right into both my eyes.

JESUSCHRISTO!!

and re-cue the internal shrieking.

i don't know how but i finally got the eyes flushed and the hair rinsed. i managed to haul myself out of the tub. i managed to only mostly feel like a lab rat whose experiment had gone horribly wrong.

so now i have two red eyes, vaguely blurred vision, and hair that smells like my kitchen the night before easter.

beautiful.

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

2010-02-12T11:28:00.000-08:00

Dear Universe,

You've been fucking with me for awhile now. And this most recent chain yanking you've been doing is just lovely. Because what girl doesn't like to be attacked on her vainest level? But as you can see you haven't bested me. I'm still standing. I still get out of bed every morning. Everyone around me is still warm and fed and happy and enjoying life. You haven't won. And you won't. Though I suspect that's not what you're after. I suspect this is all about some kind of 'lesson.' Fine. I get it. I can do this.

So give me your best until you're all worn out. And you'll see I'll still be standing. Because I know a secret. Do you want to know what it is? I'm going to tell you anyway.

The secret is that you can fuck with me all you want and I will never give up because I know just how good it's going to feel when you stop. And that's good enough for me.

Yours,
the girl

p.s. The other part of the secret is you need to have kick ass music around if you're gonna kick ass.

it's in this spirit i present to you this week's moment(s) of zen. kick out the kids and turn it up. and you're welcome.

(it's got a glitchy pause at the beginning. give it a few seconds.)

x.

a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. step #1; get out of your chair.

2010-02-09T09:33:00.000-08:00

a few weeks ago the duke was NOT having a very good morning. you know the kind, nothing is working and so it's easy to snap and snip at those around you.

now, when a nearly 13 year old acts like this it's easy to remind him of his age and tell him to start acting like it and not like a 3 year old.

it's easy to yell at a nearly 13 year old who acts like this. to be incredulous. to be mad. to force the behavior away. with consequences or opportunities taken away.

but i know yelling doesn't work. and whether you're nearly 13 or 3 or 38 no one likes to be yelled at. especially if you're already having a bad morning. how does that help?

so that morning a few weeks ago i was watching him rant and rave and just plain have a bad day. and i remembered that occasionally when he was a little kid he would do the same. and i didn't yell at him or try to force the behavior away with consequences or opportunities taken away. when he was little and something was 'up' with him i would re-direct. get creative. i'd 'work' at finding a solution. i wouldn't just sit at my desk and yell at him to stop.

if he had a full blown tantrum (rare, but it would happen) i wouldn't shout at him to stop or leave the room and tell him to come get me when he calmed down. i would grab a pen and a piece of paper and i would go sit next to his mad little shouty self right there on the ground and just start writing down what he said. eventually he would be curious and stop shouting and ask me what i was doing. and i would tell him that if he's that mad, mad enough to shout and freak out, then i should pay attention to what he was shouting about. and he would stop shouting and just tell me what was wrong and watch me write it down. then i would give him the paper. and then we were done.

this of course DID NOT always happen. there were times i could NOT muster it and we both had to take a break from each other. the duke was a challenging and headstrong child. and i am a silly mortal mama. one day i'll tell you about the box of popsicles i threw against the wall. not one of my finer moments. to his credit the duke just laughed at me and told me to use my words.

but i always tried, then. at least i always tried. and i can honestly say that as my children have gotten older i've gotten lazier in the 'trying' department. because sometimes it's just easier to 'make' them behave than to figure it out. to keep sitting and holler from your desk rather than get up.

but, it was time to get creative again. so i got up from my desk and i went to the art shelf and i grabbed some sparkly penguin stickers that were lying there.

then i went and sat next to the duke. and i didn't preface anything or suggest anything, i just started talking. 'when you were little, you were nervous about your first few days of preschool. so one day i grabbed a sticker and put it on your hand. just like this.'

and i took a sparkly penguin sticker off the sheet and stuck it on the back of his hand.

'and that way, you could look at it if you were feeling nervous or missed me and it would remind you that i was thinking of you. and if you were having a bad day the sticker always made you feel better when you looked at it. and as time went on you decided that we had to put the sticker somewhere else because it would come off of the back of your hand when you washed or played in the sand. so i started putting the sticker on your sweatshirt or vest and you would get a whole collection of different sparkly stickers until it was time to peel them off and wash the sweatshirt or vest. and this went on for a long time. until one day we didn't think about the sticker. but by then you loved preschool so much you didn't 'need' the sticker.'

and then i got up and went back to my desk.

and the day passed much smoother than it had started. we did school, had a walk, ate dinner, etc. just another day, uneventful.

and later on that evening, when the day was finally finished and the duke was getting ready for bed, he came to hug me good night. and right there on the back of his hand was the sparkly penguin sticker.

i don't know how to parent a teenager. any more than i 'knew' how to parent a baby or a toddler or a preschooler. but i do know i can't buy into it being some great mystery any more than any child at any age. i'm just going to do it the way i've always done it. i'm just going to figure it out as i go along.

i do know that getting up out of my chair and going to them should always be the first step. the rest will follow.

(oh. and i slipped the penguin stickers in my purse just.in.case.)

x.

it's all right to cry. but not to shake your money maker.

2010-02-04T16:03:00.000-08:00

Dear Marlo Thomas,

Okay. I know I always make fun of you and your whole 'Free To Be You And Me' deal. But really, you just made it too easy. Beyond that I have a lot of reservations of how the 70s panned out in terms of the collective parenting of that decade's youth. To which, you so creatively contributed. But that's a conversation for later. Preferably with a well trained therapist.

I have to say that while looking back now I can totally appreciate your message, but at the time it just confused me as I grew older. Because I didn't want to wear a hard hat or be a cop or race motor bikes. What I wanted was to wear short skirts and high heels and big hair and dance in music videos. Where was THAT in 'Free To Be You And Me?' Because if it was there, I didn't see it. Where was *I* represented in that whole egalitarian switcharoo stew?

And Marlo, you must know that it took me a long time to understand that as a young woman it was 'okay' for me to want to do shake my money maker in music videos. You know, for lack of a better term lo these many years later. To want to do that MORE than want to wear a waist belt and do a bunch of heavy lifting. While being a slightly suspect career path in general, I had to learn that it was 'okay' that the only factory I wanted to join was the C & C Music Factory. Union involvement optional.

I am not suggesting I was irreparably damaged, but damn girl I had to dance on a whole lot of speakers to work that out of my system. Have you ever danced on a speaker, Marlo? Yeah, they aren't so sturdy some of them. But I did it. Because we all need to learn how to rise up and bust out of the shackles and the confines and labels of our youth.

All that aside, I am writing you today to let you know how the afternoon passed in my house. My oldest boybarian spent it baking banana bread in the kitchen while his younger brother painted a picture of roses in the other room. And all I could think of was you. Well, after I smugly filed away that whoever the Duke ended up with couldn't accuse me of coddling him and therefore rendering him useless around the house. Damn right, bee-yotch! You'll get your home baked banana bread and you won't have a THING to blame me for! (Note to self; teach the Duke how to do the laundry. soon.)

Okay, so yeah, after *that* then I thought of you and your 'everybody gets a trophy because you're ALL #1!!!' approach that pretty much summed up the parenting creed of the decade in which I was born and bred. Which I then quickly blocked. And instead went for thinking of your message in its purest form, and for what it's boiled down to for me. And for how I see it, and practice it.

And that is how in my house it's not 'weird' to anyone that a boy would bake or paint a 'pretty' picture. Any more than it's not 'weird' that a pregnant mother would push her own stalled car out of traffic just because there was nobody to do it 'for her,' and because nobody stopped to help. So she pushed it herself. And nobody was surprised. That life is for living and experiencing and DOING free from consideration of what sex or gender you may have been born to. And in my house everyone's free to 'be who you are, just let others be who they are, too.' Okay, so it doesn't roll off the tongue like what you came up with, but you get the picture.

So, thanks. Thanks for being the first to expose me to how the world should just work. You know, if it worked perfectly. Always. (Except for the "dancing" thing. But, in your defense, I do believe that was an interpretational difference. I mean, look at Flashdance. She did both. But she had the whole 'Pittsburgh steel town girl' thing going on. Being from a California valley town previously known for cheap jug wine just doesn't have the same cache.)

Oh, and thanks for Alan Alda. 'Free To Be You And Me' was the first exposure I had to him, and hot damn I've been in love ever since. M*A*S*H just solidified that. Wasn't that the BEST show? Sigh. I'm only sorry I don't have a third son to name Hawkeye Pierce. Right?

Be well and give my best to Phil. You know, when AND IF he gets his break from all the housework and KP duty. Kidding!! Ha ha ha! Oh, Marlo. This has been fun.

Yours,

this girl