It keeps you on your toes, right? While we've been under major construction at the actual bricks and siding and oh.my.effing.god. drywall casa de Any, I've also been working with Cat of Rent a Geek Mom to make some changes around my internet home.
Change is hard for me and I'm going to miss this lovely little place where I set my words down with such care for four years. But, Cat designed a beautiful little room of my own over on Wordpress. So, if you're still subscribed to this feed through blogger, please come and visit me there (http://anymommyoutthere.com) and re-subscribe. We don't live here any more. Hope to see you soon!
Love and sunshine,
Stacey
Monday, August 22, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Winning at BlogHer
Okay, okay already. BlogHer. I fail at blogging. I think I may be the very, very last out of what? 4000 attendees? to blog about it. There's a point in there somewhere about finding your own path and blogging for you and only worrying about expectations that you have for yourself, but I'll be DAMNED if I can find it.
BlogHer was lovely. San Diego made my favorite places list in a heartbeat.
(This is the only picture I took on the entire three day trip. The view from our hotel room.)
I read my post-BlogHer posts from the last two years and smiled at how much the same I feel. Amazed. Inspired. Overwhelmed. Insecure. Joyful. Happy I went. Thirty six hundred women (and men, but mostly women). That's a lot of women in one large, vaguely boat-themed mega-complex. A lot of intetions. A lot of reasons for attending. Different goals. Different objectives.
In a crowd that big, the truth is that not everyone is going to like the cake. But worse, not everyone is going like me or seek me out or think that I'm fun or interesting or worth talking to. And that is okay. I go to BlogHer because it challenges my personal boundaries and forces me to see, really see, a small part of the huge world of women making shit happen for themselves and for others. And because I like to write and be surrounded by writers I admire. I go to BlogHer because I have friends there and I love to spend time with them. It's that lofty and that silly.
So yes. I felt inspired. I felt lost. I felt terrified to walk into a room. I felt left out. I felt fulfilled. I felt joyous and tired and silly and fascinating and boring. I felt insecure. I felt confident. It depended on the moment, the group, the crowd. Sometimes, it depended on the person standing next to me or whether someone smiled from across the room.
But I found my joy and my reasons for going, as I have the last two years, in hugs and quick moments and smiles and nods and stolen conversations. In being surrounded by brilliant, motivated women with something to say and a platform from which to say it.
Highlights for me?
Voices of the Year and the Community Keynote. Every year, this takes my breath away, but this year, it about killed me with equal parts astonishing happiness and fear because I had the opportunity to read my post Listen. I did it, though. Stepped onto that stage in front of thousands (!) (I'll never say that again!) and read my own work. That hour and half burns so brightly in my mind. The crowd. The jumbotron. The nerves (not fun). The pinch-myself-to-be-among-them talent of the women who read with me. Pure magic.
You can link to all the readers from the transcript of the keynote. Every single one of those thirteen women was amazing, but I will point you to two that I had not read before the keynote. Lori's The Red Underwear and Alexandra's When Someone You Love Has A Blog.
The LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER Salon. This was a new event this year created under the brilliant direction of Ann Imig, one of my favorite people in the whole world. People had an opportunity to read their work in an open mic forum. I cried. (Damn you Zakary, Kate and Varda.) I laughed until I cried. (Damn you, Joy, Deb and Erin (who read Dead Vagina Walking. Do. not. miss.)) Beautiful.
Epic lunch at JSix Restaurant. HUGE thank you to San Diego Momma and Morgan B. of Little Hen House. Amy of The Bitchin'Wives Club and I about came to a fork duel over heirloom tomatoes soaked in golden balsamic vinegar.
Dinner at La Fiesta. Margaritas and deep conversation with women I love from afar. Perfection. This is really kind of an excuse to link to my adored roommates and might-as-well-be roommates because I squishy, puffy pink heart love them: Renee (@butwhymommy), Issa (@issascrazyworld), Zakary (@zakary), Galit (@Galitbreen), Kate (@bigpieceofcake), Jen (@froglette79), Kim (@moseyalong) and Joy @parentingmyth Christy (@lilwelshrarebit) Chrisy (@CSquaredPlus3) and Megan (@meganterry01).
I love this picture. No idea what we're talking about, but don't we look like it's the most interesting thing ever?
I go to BlogHer because every year I meet someone like Galit, whose writing I adore, and talk to her for an entire breezy, music playing, lights softly shining walk from a restaurant to the Marriott. And because I said I would tear up if I told her one of my favorite parenting quotes and then I did tear up and she didn't laugh at me.
The other day, Kate and I discussed what it means to disagree in the context of BlogHer. Of course we all love, dislike, feel moved by and feel disappointed by different things. Discussing those differences of opinion honestly without hurt feelings or misunderstanding is hard. Especially - yes, I'll say it - for women.
She wrote something that made me sit up and say, yes, (and hopefully she'll forgive me for reprinting it here).
"If you hear one single thing that grabs hold of your heart, confirms your own ardent beliefs, and makes you want to be a better person...it's a win."
If I weren't completely lazy and overwrought by the very idea, I'd link to all of the astonishing and beautiful women and men I hugged in San Diego. [[Oh.my.god. Fine. I can do twitter handles. @scarymommy @GDRPEmpress @waitinthevan @smacksy @annalefler @thebitchinwife @magpiemusing @countessmo @walktherope @ohjennymae @backpackingdad @headlessmom @wendiaarons @squashedmom @kristenhowerton @sandiegomomma @littlehenhouse @inpursuit_of @redneckmommy @mrlady (WHO LOOKS NOTHING LIKE TANIS, I SWEAR!!) @mrsloulou @alexishinde @ohnoag @edenland @bonstewart @sweetandsalty @bhockeyjesus @neilochka @avitable @looneytunes @debontherocks @bernthis @justanothermom @elainea @jenbshaw @reneejross @missbritt @cecilyk @mommynanibooboo @heatheroftheeo @onecraftyellie @thepanicroom @oldtweener @momofali @honestandtruly @amazinggreis @twentyfour @thatkristen @phdinparenting Now I'm all stressed out that I missed someone.]]
Consider my heart grabbed. It's a win.
BlogHer was lovely. San Diego made my favorite places list in a heartbeat.
(This is the only picture I took on the entire three day trip. The view from our hotel room.)
I read my post-BlogHer posts from the last two years and smiled at how much the same I feel. Amazed. Inspired. Overwhelmed. Insecure. Joyful. Happy I went. Thirty six hundred women (and men, but mostly women). That's a lot of women in one large, vaguely boat-themed mega-complex. A lot of intetions. A lot of reasons for attending. Different goals. Different objectives.
In a crowd that big, the truth is that not everyone is going to like the cake. But worse, not everyone is going like me or seek me out or think that I'm fun or interesting or worth talking to. And that is okay. I go to BlogHer because it challenges my personal boundaries and forces me to see, really see, a small part of the huge world of women making shit happen for themselves and for others. And because I like to write and be surrounded by writers I admire. I go to BlogHer because I have friends there and I love to spend time with them. It's that lofty and that silly.
So yes. I felt inspired. I felt lost. I felt terrified to walk into a room. I felt left out. I felt fulfilled. I felt joyous and tired and silly and fascinating and boring. I felt insecure. I felt confident. It depended on the moment, the group, the crowd. Sometimes, it depended on the person standing next to me or whether someone smiled from across the room.
But I found my joy and my reasons for going, as I have the last two years, in hugs and quick moments and smiles and nods and stolen conversations. In being surrounded by brilliant, motivated women with something to say and a platform from which to say it.
Highlights for me?
Voices of the Year and the Community Keynote. Every year, this takes my breath away, but this year, it about killed me with equal parts astonishing happiness and fear because I had the opportunity to read my post Listen. I did it, though. Stepped onto that stage in front of thousands (!) (I'll never say that again!) and read my own work. That hour and half burns so brightly in my mind. The crowd. The jumbotron. The nerves (not fun). The pinch-myself-to-be-among-them talent of the women who read with me. Pure magic.
Fabulous photography by Kim of Mosey Along.
You can link to all the readers from the transcript of the keynote. Every single one of those thirteen women was amazing, but I will point you to two that I had not read before the keynote. Lori's The Red Underwear and Alexandra's When Someone You Love Has A Blog.
The LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER Salon. This was a new event this year created under the brilliant direction of Ann Imig, one of my favorite people in the whole world. People had an opportunity to read their work in an open mic forum. I cried. (Damn you Zakary, Kate and Varda.) I laughed until I cried. (Damn you, Joy, Deb and Erin (who read Dead Vagina Walking. Do. not. miss.)) Beautiful.
Epic lunch at JSix Restaurant. HUGE thank you to San Diego Momma and Morgan B. of Little Hen House. Amy of The Bitchin'Wives Club and I about came to a fork duel over heirloom tomatoes soaked in golden balsamic vinegar.
Dinner at La Fiesta. Margaritas and deep conversation with women I love from afar. Perfection. This is really kind of an excuse to link to my adored roommates and might-as-well-be roommates because I squishy, puffy pink heart love them: Renee (@butwhymommy), Issa (@issascrazyworld), Zakary (@zakary), Galit (@Galitbreen), Kate (@bigpieceofcake), Jen (@froglette79), Kim (@moseyalong) and Joy @parentingmyth Christy (@lilwelshrarebit) Chrisy (@CSquaredPlus3) and Megan (@meganterry01).
All photography by Kim of Mosey Along.
I love this picture. No idea what we're talking about, but don't we look like it's the most interesting thing ever?
I go to BlogHer because every year I meet someone like Galit, whose writing I adore, and talk to her for an entire breezy, music playing, lights softly shining walk from a restaurant to the Marriott. And because I said I would tear up if I told her one of my favorite parenting quotes and then I did tear up and she didn't laugh at me.
The other day, Kate and I discussed what it means to disagree in the context of BlogHer. Of course we all love, dislike, feel moved by and feel disappointed by different things. Discussing those differences of opinion honestly without hurt feelings or misunderstanding is hard. Especially - yes, I'll say it - for women.
She wrote something that made me sit up and say, yes, (and hopefully she'll forgive me for reprinting it here).
"If you hear one single thing that grabs hold of your heart, confirms your own ardent beliefs, and makes you want to be a better person...it's a win."
If I weren't completely lazy and overwrought by the very idea, I'd link to all of the astonishing and beautiful women and men I hugged in San Diego. [[Oh.my.god. Fine. I can do twitter handles. @scarymommy @GDRPEmpress @waitinthevan @smacksy @annalefler @thebitchinwife @magpiemusing @countessmo @walktherope @ohjennymae @backpackingdad @headlessmom @wendiaarons @squashedmom @kristenhowerton @sandiegomomma @littlehenhouse @inpursuit_of @redneckmommy @mrlady (WHO LOOKS NOTHING LIKE TANIS, I SWEAR!!) @mrsloulou @alexishinde @ohnoag @edenland @bonstewart @sweetandsalty @bhockeyjesus @neilochka @avitable @looneytunes @debontherocks @bernthis @justanothermom @elainea @jenbshaw @reneejross @missbritt @cecilyk @mommynanibooboo @heatheroftheeo @onecraftyellie @thepanicroom @oldtweener @momofali @honestandtruly @amazinggreis @twentyfour @thatkristen @phdinparenting Now I'm all stressed out that I missed someone.]]
Consider my heart grabbed. It's a win.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Let them eat cake
Well, hell. I thought I was going to write about BlogHer finally, but instead I'm writing about cake. NO. Not that cake.
Saige turned six today. She woke early, blaring with entitled excitement that was impossible to resist. She wanted her hair in a bun. She wanted enchiladas for dinner. She wanted - well, maybe, possibly, might there be SIX presents because she was SIX YEARS OLD?! She wanted the white rainbow cake she saw at the grocery store (thank all that is holy because we all witnessed what happened the last time I tried to play cake).
We bounced through the day fulfilling wishes. What parent doesn't want to make such reasonable wishes come true? We played with friends and got ice cream and opened presents and brushed the hair of new little princess ponies. I groused at Matt about the strawberry cheesecake he procured before he left for work because what part of "white rainbow cake from cheap grocery store" sounded like weird adultish cake made out of cheese to you? But whatever, we'll make do. I'll make cheese fun. There are always sprinkles. I made enchiladas while they watched a new movie and served them outside on the picnic table as requested.
Leaving the enchilada and joy-filled children at the table for a moment, I pulled the cheesecake (? WTF, Matt) out of the fridge and placed six bright candles in the strawberry topping. I stepped out the door, the cake balanced on one hand, matches clutched in the other and my camera around my neck, to find Saige and Quinn waging a milk-spitting war that had already covered the table and their clothes. Milk dripped from the bun in Saige's hair.
"But now you can't have cake," I said in such a stricken tone that they didn't even protest. They just sat down in the puddle of milk on the picnic table bench.
I guess I'm a really strict mother. We have places in our house that are for children, where couches are for jumping and toys are left strewn and broken things left behind are quietly picked up and thrown away without recrimination. And we have places that are mine and where, for my sanity's sake, everyone is expected to follow my rules. The table rules are non-negotiable. We sit properly. We ask nicely. We try one bite of everything. Anyone who spits, throws, deposits, mashes, hides or otherwise plays with food is DONE. It's important. And that's final.
So we lit the candles and sang happy birthday five times. (Nate really, really likes happy birthday.) Saige blew out the candles and made a wish, but she didn't get a piece of cake. Garrett and Nate had cake and Saige and Quinn did not.
I know some parents will think that I was wrong. That it's cruel. It's possible that they are right. I don't know. Is it more important that Saige has a beautiful memory of her sixth birthday or is it more important that I am consistent and rules are rules? Do we argue that children are children and they get excited and spit milk? Or do we argue that children need limits? That they must understand that no spitting doesn't mean no spitting except on your birthday when I really want to give you cake?
We could argue parenting choices all day and we'd be missing the soft, sapling-green heart of it. If you cut away the bark to the wick, you would see me sitting at the table after bedtime under the champagne light of our dining room chandelier. There is a piece of cheesecake in front of me, but I'm crying too hard to eat it.
I don't always want to be the one who ends the fun and says no cake. But I'm their parent. It's important. And that's final.
((This is so reflective, I find myself needing to say that we had a lovely day. And Saige and Quinn handled their consequences very respectfully. I was really proud. It just struck me as a moment in parenting.))
Saige turned six today. She woke early, blaring with entitled excitement that was impossible to resist. She wanted her hair in a bun. She wanted enchiladas for dinner. She wanted - well, maybe, possibly, might there be SIX presents because she was SIX YEARS OLD?! She wanted the white rainbow cake she saw at the grocery store (thank all that is holy because we all witnessed what happened the last time I tried to play cake).
We bounced through the day fulfilling wishes. What parent doesn't want to make such reasonable wishes come true? We played with friends and got ice cream and opened presents and brushed the hair of new little princess ponies. I groused at Matt about the strawberry cheesecake he procured before he left for work because what part of "white rainbow cake from cheap grocery store" sounded like weird adultish cake made out of cheese to you? But whatever, we'll make do. I'll make cheese fun. There are always sprinkles. I made enchiladas while they watched a new movie and served them outside on the picnic table as requested.
Leaving the enchilada and joy-filled children at the table for a moment, I pulled the cheesecake (? WTF, Matt) out of the fridge and placed six bright candles in the strawberry topping. I stepped out the door, the cake balanced on one hand, matches clutched in the other and my camera around my neck, to find Saige and Quinn waging a milk-spitting war that had already covered the table and their clothes. Milk dripped from the bun in Saige's hair.
"But now you can't have cake," I said in such a stricken tone that they didn't even protest. They just sat down in the puddle of milk on the picnic table bench.
I guess I'm a really strict mother. We have places in our house that are for children, where couches are for jumping and toys are left strewn and broken things left behind are quietly picked up and thrown away without recrimination. And we have places that are mine and where, for my sanity's sake, everyone is expected to follow my rules. The table rules are non-negotiable. We sit properly. We ask nicely. We try one bite of everything. Anyone who spits, throws, deposits, mashes, hides or otherwise plays with food is DONE. It's important. And that's final.
So we lit the candles and sang happy birthday five times. (Nate really, really likes happy birthday.) Saige blew out the candles and made a wish, but she didn't get a piece of cake. Garrett and Nate had cake and Saige and Quinn did not.
I know some parents will think that I was wrong. That it's cruel. It's possible that they are right. I don't know. Is it more important that Saige has a beautiful memory of her sixth birthday or is it more important that I am consistent and rules are rules? Do we argue that children are children and they get excited and spit milk? Or do we argue that children need limits? That they must understand that no spitting doesn't mean no spitting except on your birthday when I really want to give you cake?
We could argue parenting choices all day and we'd be missing the soft, sapling-green heart of it. If you cut away the bark to the wick, you would see me sitting at the table after bedtime under the champagne light of our dining room chandelier. There is a piece of cheesecake in front of me, but I'm crying too hard to eat it.
I don't always want to be the one who ends the fun and says no cake. But I'm their parent. It's important. And that's final.
((This is so reflective, I find myself needing to say that we had a lovely day. And Saige and Quinn handled their consequences very respectfully. I was really proud. It just struck me as a moment in parenting.))
Saturday, August 13, 2011
I'm just a girl
I strongly disliked a post I read today (it's an older one, published in June) on ForbesWomen. I disagree and look at this miracle of modern technology. I have a forum from which to spout my own opinion on the subject and I don't even write for ForbesWomen. Hell, I don't write for CafeMom. Little ole me, a stay at home mother of four in Spoe-KANE Washington. How pink magical bubblesque is that?
The author disparages "blogs for women," which she defines at first as large media outlets directed at women such as BlogHer and CafeMom (ForbesWomen?), but goes on to include "mommyblogs" and "recipe sharing sites" in the wide swath of her disdain. In fact, by the end of the confusing diatribe she strays rather far off point and reaches the conclusion that all blogs written by any women on any subject other than the ones she deems worthy (they remain undefined) are "morally indefensible."
She bases her argument against blogs for women on three key points, as any good argument, we all learned in basic essay writing, should stand upon a three-pronged support.
1) They are limiting in their viewpoint in that they universally focus on appeasement and fantasy. All targeted writing is limited in its viewpoint from tech writing to pet writing to food writing to parenting writing. Reading the subtext, (oh yes, I can do that, actually) I believe what the author intends to say is that those that consume writing directed at women or focusing on traditional women's issues are 'way too totally dumb y'all' to seek out other opinions or think critically about the shit often shoveled in opinion and culture sites of any kind.
2) They are hypocritical. I'm not sure I am understanding the hypocrisy beyond the very first sentence. I'm certain it's because I'm too mired in appeasement and fantasy to comprehend a good point when I see one. Or maybe it's the author who fails to understand hypocrisy because this reads more like a list of things she finds annoying in online women's culture. Certainly, there are hundreds, possibly thousands, of annoying blogs written by and for women, but that doesn't make them hypocritical. One example of a hypocrite might be a woman who makes a living posting on the internet about how boring and banal it is for women to discuss women's issues on the internet.
3) They do not exist in reality because they withdraw from the real world where men exist. This only works because the author defines her own world as the real world. I adore the websites for women and by women that I read precisely because they discuss and analyze in an honest way the real world that I navigate every day. There are plenty of men involved and complexities of all sorts, but the issues at the center of my current reality revolve around raising children and finding time to challenge my mind in a busy, home-centered life. The fact that this is not interesting to her does not make it unreal.
I do find fault, at times, with the pervasive cultural idea that disagreement or argument between women is "unpleasant" and that we must all get along and support each other. I'll defend critique and the unpopular opinion. I'll defend both your right to state it and its merits, where I find them.
I find none here. All I find is intellectual elitism at its worst. Declaring one's own interests and prejudices less "morally indefensible" than another person's - or woman's - interests is the intellectual equivalent of mocking sports fans on their way to a game with their faces painted as you glare at them down your nose though your opera glasses. Attending an opera on a given night over a baseball game doesn't make you better in some grand life plan. No more than reading and enjoying sites aimed at cooking or mothering or scrap booking makes one less than those that enjoy music sites or news sites or political commentary. Nor do any of these individual interests define us a people.
I'm disappointed in this lowest common denominator style of commentary.
Let's identify and celebrate brilliance by women in writing, in media and in culture where ever we find it. Let's be our own worse critics at all times, but when we do let's be specific. Don't tell me that an entire genre of women's writing is worthless. Don't identify a subculture as worth less than the subculture with which you identify most closely. You lose all credibility the minute you do it. Tell me that a specific trend, a specific argument in popular use, a specific piece of writing is wrong or trivializing for xyz reasons.
For example, I abhor the Forbes article for the following reasons:
1) It fails to acknowledge the wide spectrum of interest, debate and creative accomplishment taking place across social media platforms aimed at women.
2) It crosses, in my opinion, the line of constructive analysis or critique and instead mocks a stereotype of a subculture.
3) It misses the inherent value to be found in connecting with people with similar interests without regard to physical distance or gender for that matter.
When will all of these women's sites - ForbesWomen included - stop trying to make me mad and focus on making me think. I don't find that sites targeted at women are diminishing the presence or contribution of women on the internet, but SEO is certainly dumbing down the conversation so far that it's hard to see it from here.
Painting "blogging women" with one color for page views or for your own amusement is just laziness. Yes, even at ForbesWomen.
The author disparages "blogs for women," which she defines at first as large media outlets directed at women such as BlogHer and CafeMom (ForbesWomen?), but goes on to include "mommyblogs" and "recipe sharing sites" in the wide swath of her disdain. In fact, by the end of the confusing diatribe she strays rather far off point and reaches the conclusion that all blogs written by any women on any subject other than the ones she deems worthy (they remain undefined) are "morally indefensible."
She bases her argument against blogs for women on three key points, as any good argument, we all learned in basic essay writing, should stand upon a three-pronged support.
1) They are limiting in their viewpoint in that they universally focus on appeasement and fantasy. All targeted writing is limited in its viewpoint from tech writing to pet writing to food writing to parenting writing. Reading the subtext, (oh yes, I can do that, actually) I believe what the author intends to say is that those that consume writing directed at women or focusing on traditional women's issues are 'way too totally dumb y'all' to seek out other opinions or think critically about the shit often shoveled in opinion and culture sites of any kind.
2) They are hypocritical. I'm not sure I am understanding the hypocrisy beyond the very first sentence. I'm certain it's because I'm too mired in appeasement and fantasy to comprehend a good point when I see one. Or maybe it's the author who fails to understand hypocrisy because this reads more like a list of things she finds annoying in online women's culture. Certainly, there are hundreds, possibly thousands, of annoying blogs written by and for women, but that doesn't make them hypocritical. One example of a hypocrite might be a woman who makes a living posting on the internet about how boring and banal it is for women to discuss women's issues on the internet.
3) They do not exist in reality because they withdraw from the real world where men exist. This only works because the author defines her own world as the real world. I adore the websites for women and by women that I read precisely because they discuss and analyze in an honest way the real world that I navigate every day. There are plenty of men involved and complexities of all sorts, but the issues at the center of my current reality revolve around raising children and finding time to challenge my mind in a busy, home-centered life. The fact that this is not interesting to her does not make it unreal.
I do find fault, at times, with the pervasive cultural idea that disagreement or argument between women is "unpleasant" and that we must all get along and support each other. I'll defend critique and the unpopular opinion. I'll defend both your right to state it and its merits, where I find them.
I find none here. All I find is intellectual elitism at its worst. Declaring one's own interests and prejudices less "morally indefensible" than another person's - or woman's - interests is the intellectual equivalent of mocking sports fans on their way to a game with their faces painted as you glare at them down your nose though your opera glasses. Attending an opera on a given night over a baseball game doesn't make you better in some grand life plan. No more than reading and enjoying sites aimed at cooking or mothering or scrap booking makes one less than those that enjoy music sites or news sites or political commentary. Nor do any of these individual interests define us a people.
I'm disappointed in this lowest common denominator style of commentary.
Let's identify and celebrate brilliance by women in writing, in media and in culture where ever we find it. Let's be our own worse critics at all times, but when we do let's be specific. Don't tell me that an entire genre of women's writing is worthless. Don't identify a subculture as worth less than the subculture with which you identify most closely. You lose all credibility the minute you do it. Tell me that a specific trend, a specific argument in popular use, a specific piece of writing is wrong or trivializing for xyz reasons.
For example, I abhor the Forbes article for the following reasons:
1) It fails to acknowledge the wide spectrum of interest, debate and creative accomplishment taking place across social media platforms aimed at women.
2) It crosses, in my opinion, the line of constructive analysis or critique and instead mocks a stereotype of a subculture.
3) It misses the inherent value to be found in connecting with people with similar interests without regard to physical distance or gender for that matter.
When will all of these women's sites - ForbesWomen included - stop trying to make me mad and focus on making me think. I don't find that sites targeted at women are diminishing the presence or contribution of women on the internet, but SEO is certainly dumbing down the conversation so far that it's hard to see it from here.
Painting "blogging women" with one color for page views or for your own amusement is just laziness. Yes, even at ForbesWomen.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Stepping back, moving forward
I'm having trouble with my BlogHer post this year. So much and so little to say. I wrote this half on the airplane to San Diego and half in a bathroom fighting my terror before I read at Voices of the Year. Does that count? Honestly, I think it's all tied up together. The BlogHer experience. Writer's block. My need to let go of this intense time mothering babies and move forward with some things of my own.
Quinn stands at the very end of the diving board. The swim coach waits patiently four feet below him, patting the target spot on a white flotation noodle. "Right here, Quinn," she encourages. Behind him, a college kid who assists with the swim class crowds close. So close. Not touching my tiny boy in his shark swim trunks, but there is no escape back to the ladder. He doesn't cry, but his whole body is braced backward like a balking mule. The scattered parents on the side of the pool call out to him at intervals.
"You can do it."
"Come on, Quinn."
I am silent. He is the last one to jump. I can see from the far side of the water how scared his is. His arms are rigid. His face set in a worried frown. But he won't cry. He's in the big kid class with Saige and Garrett. My lip hurts where I chew on it to keep from contradicting the swell of encouragement. You don't have to jump. It's okay. Come and sit in my lap and I'll wrap you in a towel and kiss your baby cheeks.
The assistant crowds him from behind. His eyes lock on the noodle and I see his body language change. He leans forward and jumps. His head surfaces to applause and cheers and his smile is radiant. "Yay!" Nate claps, standing in front of me. "Yay! Kin did it!!"
**************************
The wind rustles and the pines speed by on the steep banks of Lake Roosevelt. There's no word for the blue of the deep, glacial water. The surface, before we weave our peace-shattering way north, is mirror still. There might not be not a soul in all the world but our small boat party and the ospreys calling on the shore.
I sit backwards with Nate's head buried in my shoulder. My eyes lock on the large inner tube pulled behind the boat by one slim rope. It has three "seats" in front and a place for someone to kneel at the back. One slim rope. A little rubber raft with handles. It skims the water, jumping the wake back and forth. Riding the edge of the wave before it spins over the top and settles back into the middle of the wake. We draw a loop pattern back and forth across the lake. My five and barely four-year-old children cling to the handles, except when they let go with one hand to wave wild thumps up signs in the air.
Faster. Faster. Thumbs up. Faster.
I bite my tongue not to scream. Stop! They'll flip. It will hurt. The water is so cold. Which one would I swim to first?
They laugh and laugh and laugh. Thumbs up. Faster.
******************************
"I can do it."
"Okay."
"Don't hold it."
"I'm not."
"You are."
I am. Okay. Okay. I let go and step back and he carefully rearranges the pedals, places his foot on the raised pedal and pushes. He steers erratically, jagging towards the street and then corrects and sails down the sidewalk.
Too fast, my mind screams, too fast. The concrete. The street. The gravel.
"Use your brakes." I try to keep my voice steady. "Stop at the corner." He hits them too hard and bails off the side. The bike crashes to the ground and he hits his feet and then his hands.
"Are you okay? Garrett? Are you okay?"
"Did you see me? Did you see? I did it all by myself!"
*******************************
Don't you see them, momma? Don't you see? How tall they are? How brave? How confident? How beautiful? The job description changed while you were busy holding them tight and keeping them safe. It's time to step back a little. Time to let them jump, flip, fall. I suspect (I hope) it will hurt me more than it ever hurts them.
Quinn stands at the very end of the diving board. The swim coach waits patiently four feet below him, patting the target spot on a white flotation noodle. "Right here, Quinn," she encourages. Behind him, a college kid who assists with the swim class crowds close. So close. Not touching my tiny boy in his shark swim trunks, but there is no escape back to the ladder. He doesn't cry, but his whole body is braced backward like a balking mule. The scattered parents on the side of the pool call out to him at intervals.
"You can do it."
"Come on, Quinn."
I am silent. He is the last one to jump. I can see from the far side of the water how scared his is. His arms are rigid. His face set in a worried frown. But he won't cry. He's in the big kid class with Saige and Garrett. My lip hurts where I chew on it to keep from contradicting the swell of encouragement. You don't have to jump. It's okay. Come and sit in my lap and I'll wrap you in a towel and kiss your baby cheeks.
The assistant crowds him from behind. His eyes lock on the noodle and I see his body language change. He leans forward and jumps. His head surfaces to applause and cheers and his smile is radiant. "Yay!" Nate claps, standing in front of me. "Yay! Kin did it!!"
**************************
The wind rustles and the pines speed by on the steep banks of Lake Roosevelt. There's no word for the blue of the deep, glacial water. The surface, before we weave our peace-shattering way north, is mirror still. There might not be not a soul in all the world but our small boat party and the ospreys calling on the shore.
I sit backwards with Nate's head buried in my shoulder. My eyes lock on the large inner tube pulled behind the boat by one slim rope. It has three "seats" in front and a place for someone to kneel at the back. One slim rope. A little rubber raft with handles. It skims the water, jumping the wake back and forth. Riding the edge of the wave before it spins over the top and settles back into the middle of the wake. We draw a loop pattern back and forth across the lake. My five and barely four-year-old children cling to the handles, except when they let go with one hand to wave wild thumps up signs in the air.
Faster. Faster. Thumbs up. Faster.
I bite my tongue not to scream. Stop! They'll flip. It will hurt. The water is so cold. Which one would I swim to first?
They laugh and laugh and laugh. Thumbs up. Faster.
******************************
"I can do it."
"Okay."
"Don't hold it."
"I'm not."
"You are."
I am. Okay. Okay. I let go and step back and he carefully rearranges the pedals, places his foot on the raised pedal and pushes. He steers erratically, jagging towards the street and then corrects and sails down the sidewalk.
Too fast, my mind screams, too fast. The concrete. The street. The gravel.
"Use your brakes." I try to keep my voice steady. "Stop at the corner." He hits them too hard and bails off the side. The bike crashes to the ground and he hits his feet and then his hands.
"Are you okay? Garrett? Are you okay?"
"Did you see me? Did you see? I did it all by myself!"
*******************************
Don't you see them, momma? Don't you see? How tall they are? How brave? How confident? How beautiful? The job description changed while you were busy holding them tight and keeping them safe. It's time to step back a little. Time to let them jump, flip, fall. I suspect (I hope) it will hurt me more than it ever hurts them.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
The entire world is cooler than me and also more organized
I've reached half written post level: CRITICAL. Red lights are flashing on top of my crappy laptop but I keep wandering off because there's this one really important thing that I haven't done yet and I really should pick up that dry cleaning ...
I'm going to BlogHer in two days (make that tomorrow morning) and I haven't packed and I don't own any cocktail dresses and it's my third year and I'm still scared. So, ahem, if you're going, this isn't one of those posts helping you with any of that. However:
1) I'll be in San Diego in two days (make that tomorrow) & I've never been to California.
2) BY MYSELF. AS IN WITHOUT MY CHILDREN. ON MY OWN. WITH MY OWN BED.
I'm pretty happy about that second point. You know those friends you have that agonize about trips because they can hardly bear to leave their children? Or maybe you are one of those people? God bless your sweet little hearts. That's not me. I can barely wait to leave their dirty little asses (LITERALLY) behind. I mean that with love.
More seriously, I am (There is no adjective for the depth of my emotion. fantastically?) honored to be a Voice of the Year at BlogHer this year. I'm one of 15 bloggers reading at the Community Keynote. I've been in awe of the Community Keynote for three years and I'm just slightly, braggily proud of the fact that I've nominated a reader every year. In 2009, Issa read her thought-provoking post about her uncle. Last year, Marinka killed us all dead (of laughter, not literally, although I sometimes wouldn't put it past her) with her post Fantastic News!, which I nominated. (Yes, I am going to keep reminding you.)
And I won't lie. I longed to write something good enough to put me up on that stage. This year, I'll be there. (Thank you, Marinka!!). AND, oh yes, I did maintain my unbroken nomination record. MomoFali will read a post I adored from the first moment I read it. And Bon will read a devastatingly beautiful post that both Neil and I nominated (But I'm taking 70% credit because I nominated it first. Petty, but true). Corny alert: I'm floored to be reading in the same CK as Bon. I started reading her blog before I started my blog and I idolize her dreamy, descriptive writing.
Are you going to San Diego? Are you already there because I am so very untimely with my posting that it's practically moot and the conference is all but over? Come find me. Say hi. I suck at small talk (truly), so hit me with something deep & personal. Tell me you weren't able to have any more kids after your last and it hurt because I've been struggling with that all year. Tell me you've had miscarriages too. Tell me that you don't know what to do with the rest of your life. We'll chat all night.
Oh! And also! The Serenity Suite. It's a really great place for chatting. Heather and Ellie are the lovely ladies in charge and you can read all about it and who is hosting. Spoiler! Me! I'm hosting. Thursday from 9-10 p.m. and Friday morning from 11-12. I would love to see you there.
***********************
In other non-blogging news:
1) They plumbed the new master bathroom last week and now the entire rest of my house lacks water pressure and hot water. I find that to be a problem. Matt and Scot (contractor) and Jim (plumber) stood around a few days ago "brainstorming" and I made the mistake of wandering through the room. They were all trying to explain it to me with words like "air pressure" and "leak in the vent" and "insulation." Dear God, I don't care if tiny firebreathing dragons need a better supply of magic mushrooms to make it right. Let's just order those damn things in, okay? Excellent.
2) I can't have the tile I want for the shower because apparently they make it but NO ONE ACTUALLY SELLS IT. Yes, I am aware that my problems are privileged, first world problems that rank in the "no one gives a shit category," but JESUS. If you're going to make tile and put it on the internet for me to see could you possibly also SELL it.
3) Quinn turned four. I have about fifty half-written, sobby posts about that. Instead, let's look at my cake disaster prowess, shall we. New motto: When life gives you a crumbling, cake disaster from hell, make cake cocktails. Because everything looks better in a cocktail glass.
Surprisingly, this is not a tutorial on how to successfully remove a cake from a pan. What tipped you off? (This picture cakesonifies why I hate baking. And crafting. And anything else that is supposed to be easy and pretty and actually requires "tips" and "patience" to pull off.)
You are impressed. Admit it. I swirled chocolate and vanilla frosting together. It's hard to contain this kind of genius, but somehow I manage to contain it and even hide it most of the time.
I'm going to BlogHer in two days (make that tomorrow morning) and I haven't packed and I don't own any cocktail dresses and it's my third year and I'm still scared. So, ahem, if you're going, this isn't one of those posts helping you with any of that. However:
1) I'll be in San Diego in two days (make that tomorrow) & I've never been to California.
2) BY MYSELF. AS IN WITHOUT MY CHILDREN. ON MY OWN. WITH MY OWN BED.
I'm pretty happy about that second point. You know those friends you have that agonize about trips because they can hardly bear to leave their children? Or maybe you are one of those people? God bless your sweet little hearts. That's not me. I can barely wait to leave their dirty little asses (LITERALLY) behind. I mean that with love.
More seriously, I am (There is no adjective for the depth of my emotion. fantastically?) honored to be a Voice of the Year at BlogHer this year. I'm one of 15 bloggers reading at the Community Keynote. I've been in awe of the Community Keynote for three years and I'm just slightly, braggily proud of the fact that I've nominated a reader every year. In 2009, Issa read her thought-provoking post about her uncle. Last year, Marinka killed us all dead (of laughter, not literally, although I sometimes wouldn't put it past her) with her post Fantastic News!, which I nominated. (Yes, I am going to keep reminding you.)
And I won't lie. I longed to write something good enough to put me up on that stage. This year, I'll be there. (Thank you, Marinka!!). AND, oh yes, I did maintain my unbroken nomination record. MomoFali will read a post I adored from the first moment I read it. And Bon will read a devastatingly beautiful post that both Neil and I nominated (But I'm taking 70% credit because I nominated it first. Petty, but true). Corny alert: I'm floored to be reading in the same CK as Bon. I started reading her blog before I started my blog and I idolize her dreamy, descriptive writing.
Are you going to San Diego? Are you already there because I am so very untimely with my posting that it's practically moot and the conference is all but over? Come find me. Say hi. I suck at small talk (truly), so hit me with something deep & personal. Tell me you weren't able to have any more kids after your last and it hurt because I've been struggling with that all year. Tell me you've had miscarriages too. Tell me that you don't know what to do with the rest of your life. We'll chat all night.
Oh! And also! The Serenity Suite. It's a really great place for chatting. Heather and Ellie are the lovely ladies in charge and you can read all about it and who is hosting. Spoiler! Me! I'm hosting. Thursday from 9-10 p.m. and Friday morning from 11-12. I would love to see you there.
***********************
In other non-blogging news:
1) They plumbed the new master bathroom last week and now the entire rest of my house lacks water pressure and hot water. I find that to be a problem. Matt and Scot (contractor) and Jim (plumber) stood around a few days ago "brainstorming" and I made the mistake of wandering through the room. They were all trying to explain it to me with words like "air pressure" and "leak in the vent" and "insulation." Dear God, I don't care if tiny firebreathing dragons need a better supply of magic mushrooms to make it right. Let's just order those damn things in, okay? Excellent.
2) I can't have the tile I want for the shower because apparently they make it but NO ONE ACTUALLY SELLS IT. Yes, I am aware that my problems are privileged, first world problems that rank in the "no one gives a shit category," but JESUS. If you're going to make tile and put it on the internet for me to see could you possibly also SELL it.
3) Quinn turned four. I have about fifty half-written, sobby posts about that. Instead, let's look at my cake disaster prowess, shall we. New motto: When life gives you a crumbling, cake disaster from hell, make cake cocktails. Because everything looks better in a cocktail glass.
You are impressed. Admit it. I swirled chocolate and vanilla frosting together. It's hard to contain this kind of genius, but somehow I manage to contain it and even hide it most of the time.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
With
"Hold my hand," I say to Nate softly. It's awkward to drive with my right arm bent backwards around the seat and my fingers clutched in his drool-slick hand, but he quiets. His mind-piercing shrieks calm to snuffling sobs and he takes a shaky, stuttering breath. In a few minutes, he is asleep and I pull my aching arm back around to the front, turn up the music, sip my coffee and place my hand back on the wheel.
A flash of memory cuts through me and it hurts. I remember an afternoon driving Saige and Garrett and a newborn Quinn to some destination. Toddler class? The store? Quinn screamed in that five-alarm-fire newborn squawk that induces a fight or flight response in every mother. Garrett threw an epic fit about a shoe, I think, that he wanted off or on or backwards and Saige, ever the opportunistic tantrum thrower, sensed weakness. Or possibly safety in numbers.
I briefly lost my mind. I reached around from the front seat and swatted at my two toddlers' feet. Hard. And then, I pulled over and cried. This is not one of those confession posts. "I swatted her hand and curled up into a little ball under the table and died a thousand deaths from grief and guilt and misery." No. I was positive that, having given up a child that I couldn't parent a mere month before, some black-clad government official was going to leap out at me at the slightest mistake and snarl about unfit mothers while taking away the rest of my children. I was positive that losing my temper was "not okay" in the grandest of senses. In truth, it happens. It's not the best reaction; but under normal circumstances, I think most parents repair the relationship and move on.
I don't know when it started with Nate, this hand holding, but he must have been quite young. I can't remember when it didn't work to soothe him and let me focus my (one-handed) attention to a task. It probably began at story time when we are all tired and his demanding baby antics wreaked mayhem on my bedtime routine. He would plop himself in my lap, pull at the pages, block views until every single person in the room screeched manically including me.
I can't see. Stop it now, it's okay. He's in my WAY. No, Nate. I can't see the pictures. No! Don't hit him. Nate, sit beside me. Nooooooooo. One night, I met his eyes and said, sit here, baby, hold my hand. It worked, but not because holding hands is some magical solution to parenting temper tantrums. It worked because I am a calmer mother now than I once was. I am more regulated.
"Be with your child in his emotional storm," my favorite attachment psychologist advises. "Be with whenever you can, take charge whenever you must."
Being with, for me, especially for the hard emotions, anger and fear, is a skill that has grown with experience.
I have changed so much as a mother and as a person in the last six years. I am steadier. More centered. I understand (though I don't always remember) that being with a child in an emotion is a function of staying out of the storm yourself. Every time I handle Nate with ease and patience that I didn't possess four years ago, I am grateful for the wisdom that comes from practice and time and heartbroken just a bit for my first babies.
I was a good mother then, but I'm a better mother now. But then again, I'm a better mother to all of them.
If you throw a fit about leaving the park, you will not get to play tomorrow. You will sit on the bench, I tell her. Saige scrunches up her mouth and chokes down the scream in her throat. Will you hold my hand to the car? she asks me. I will. / Quinn crumples to the ground in toddler agony over a moth that is. not. coming. inside. my. house. I'm sorry, bubba. I want to hold your hand, he sobs. / Nate shrieks for the red Candy Land man because only the red one will do, but Garrett will not give it up, possibly because he likes to see me die of pierced, bleeding eardrums. I'm fed up, impatient and short, ready to put the entire game away. Nate, Saige coos, seated beside him on the dog-haired covered carpet. Nater, Nater, do you want to hold my hand? He takes her fingers with his sweaty little paw and lays his head in her lap while I sit at the table and cry fat, disbelieving tears into my steaming coffee cup.
I think it's going to be okay. I think maybe I'm doing alright. After all, she never swats at his feet.
It's scary. I'm reminded daily that one person's story about personal growth is another person's story about their crazy bitch of a mother. That's generationally required, right? Tell me it is. They have to have something to blame it all on, don't they? How have you grown as a mother?
A flash of memory cuts through me and it hurts. I remember an afternoon driving Saige and Garrett and a newborn Quinn to some destination. Toddler class? The store? Quinn screamed in that five-alarm-fire newborn squawk that induces a fight or flight response in every mother. Garrett threw an epic fit about a shoe, I think, that he wanted off or on or backwards and Saige, ever the opportunistic tantrum thrower, sensed weakness. Or possibly safety in numbers.
I briefly lost my mind. I reached around from the front seat and swatted at my two toddlers' feet. Hard. And then, I pulled over and cried. This is not one of those confession posts. "I swatted her hand and curled up into a little ball under the table and died a thousand deaths from grief and guilt and misery." No. I was positive that, having given up a child that I couldn't parent a mere month before, some black-clad government official was going to leap out at me at the slightest mistake and snarl about unfit mothers while taking away the rest of my children. I was positive that losing my temper was "not okay" in the grandest of senses. In truth, it happens. It's not the best reaction; but under normal circumstances, I think most parents repair the relationship and move on.
I don't know when it started with Nate, this hand holding, but he must have been quite young. I can't remember when it didn't work to soothe him and let me focus my (one-handed) attention to a task. It probably began at story time when we are all tired and his demanding baby antics wreaked mayhem on my bedtime routine. He would plop himself in my lap, pull at the pages, block views until every single person in the room screeched manically including me.
I can't see. Stop it now, it's okay. He's in my WAY. No, Nate. I can't see the pictures. No! Don't hit him. Nate, sit beside me. Nooooooooo. One night, I met his eyes and said, sit here, baby, hold my hand. It worked, but not because holding hands is some magical solution to parenting temper tantrums. It worked because I am a calmer mother now than I once was. I am more regulated.
"Be with your child in his emotional storm," my favorite attachment psychologist advises. "Be with whenever you can, take charge whenever you must."
Being with, for me, especially for the hard emotions, anger and fear, is a skill that has grown with experience.
I have changed so much as a mother and as a person in the last six years. I am steadier. More centered. I understand (though I don't always remember) that being with a child in an emotion is a function of staying out of the storm yourself. Every time I handle Nate with ease and patience that I didn't possess four years ago, I am grateful for the wisdom that comes from practice and time and heartbroken just a bit for my first babies.
I was a good mother then, but I'm a better mother now. But then again, I'm a better mother to all of them.
If you throw a fit about leaving the park, you will not get to play tomorrow. You will sit on the bench, I tell her. Saige scrunches up her mouth and chokes down the scream in her throat. Will you hold my hand to the car? she asks me. I will. / Quinn crumples to the ground in toddler agony over a moth that is. not. coming. inside. my. house. I'm sorry, bubba. I want to hold your hand, he sobs. / Nate shrieks for the red Candy Land man because only the red one will do, but Garrett will not give it up, possibly because he likes to see me die of pierced, bleeding eardrums. I'm fed up, impatient and short, ready to put the entire game away. Nate, Saige coos, seated beside him on the dog-haired covered carpet. Nater, Nater, do you want to hold my hand? He takes her fingers with his sweaty little paw and lays his head in her lap while I sit at the table and cry fat, disbelieving tears into my steaming coffee cup.
I think it's going to be okay. I think maybe I'm doing alright. After all, she never swats at his feet.
It's scary. I'm reminded daily that one person's story about personal growth is another person's story about their crazy bitch of a mother. That's generationally required, right? Tell me it is. They have to have something to blame it all on, don't they? How have you grown as a mother?
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Window shopping
It was dark and that made it infinitely more frightening. The taxi driver dropped us off at the end of street so narrow that the small car could not go any further and pointed forward with a wave of his slim brown hand into ever more narrow and less well lit alleyways. The stores were open, crowded places honeycombed into every crack and crevice, jammed so full of merchandise that removing one thing might bring the whole city down like a delicately balanced grocery store display. Lights were on. People walked. But there seemed more men than woman and more shadows than lights.
The dark changes everything. It might have been a friendly scene in the sweaty daylight. It might have been enchanting.
We wandered forward, our white faces and heavy packs marking us "other" if not "targets." There wasn't any turning back. It was one of those precipice points of travel. If we found the little hostel tucked back here in the ancient, labyrinth streets of Marrakesh, this was a grand adventure. If we had to spend the night on the stifling street in the questionable dark, it was a dangerous disaster.
We found it. A tiny, arabesque arched door tucked into a niche gray with grime led to a tiled white entry hall too narrow to turn around in. We bumped each other aside with our bulky packs and laughed, glad to be inside. A winding tile stairway spiraled up, up, four floors with our packs brushing the walls on each side and the sweat running down our soaking backs beneath the heavy load. And then through another arch and we were on the roof. A cool breeze kissed us on the cheek. Lights and arches and minarets spread out in every direction, a fantastical rooftop city. A fountain sang softly. Moroccan tile paved the roof with blue and red detail.
Our room was to the left, behind a painted wooden door with an old fashion skeleton key. Four bunks, but we had it to ourselves tonight. Other young travelers lounged on embroidered cushions in the common space, smoking or drinking, writing in journals.
We ventured down and out again into the now friendly winding alleyway. No longer alien, but home base, our street, the key tight in my sister's palm. We found a tiny convenience store. One row of shelves stocked with batteries and toiletries rose to the ceiling above the proprietor's head and a cooler full of coke sat at his feet. Cold cokes in hand, we retreated to the rooftop oasis to sip and laugh and congratulate ourselves on braving the travel gauntlet to this tiled gem tucked high above the market alleys of Marrakesh.
The next day, we window shopped, gaping for hours at stunning Moroccan tile and textiles, spices, gold and silver work. It was a bustling shopping district, not at all intimidating when the bright, unrelenting sun banished the sinister dark.
************************
Yesterday, thanks to a fabulously dear friend, Matt and I had an entire day to ourselves to shop for our addition. We looked at tile and flooring options and fixtures, but in my secret, fabulous sunny day to ourselves heart, I was window shopping. I wanted to find the perfect antique leaded window to set as an architectural detail in an interior wall between the shower and our new master bath.
The whole day, wandering through a few antique and "upcycled" furniture shops, flipping idly through tile sample boards, sipping a glass of wine in the intimate garden of a local restaurant that is only open for these brief three months of summer a year, reminded me of days past. When we parked in front of Brown's Building supply, I saw row after row of outdoor bays stacked with windows pulled from demolished 1920s houses. Patience, I thought, it's here. It could be here. There were lots of leaded glass windows. They were broken or bent or too large or too small. Except for this one, covered in cobwebs and poorly painted white many years ago. Matt had to balance six or seven huge windows upright in the bay so that I could slide it out and fall in love.
For no reason at all, or maybe for many reasons, tile and sunshine and free time, I've been thinking of Marrakesh ever since we wrapped our treasure in a blanket and loaded it in the car. There is nothing like finding the perfect gem, hidden out of sight under the grime.
Speaking of gems, have you discovered pinterest.com? It's sort of a social media sharing site except that you're sharing digital inspiration boards. I'm just getting started, but I am head over heels in love. This is my master bath board. My home page with all of my boards is here. But I'm new at it and my boards are sparse; go and get lost in other people's inspiration.
The dark changes everything. It might have been a friendly scene in the sweaty daylight. It might have been enchanting.
We wandered forward, our white faces and heavy packs marking us "other" if not "targets." There wasn't any turning back. It was one of those precipice points of travel. If we found the little hostel tucked back here in the ancient, labyrinth streets of Marrakesh, this was a grand adventure. If we had to spend the night on the stifling street in the questionable dark, it was a dangerous disaster.
We found it. A tiny, arabesque arched door tucked into a niche gray with grime led to a tiled white entry hall too narrow to turn around in. We bumped each other aside with our bulky packs and laughed, glad to be inside. A winding tile stairway spiraled up, up, four floors with our packs brushing the walls on each side and the sweat running down our soaking backs beneath the heavy load. And then through another arch and we were on the roof. A cool breeze kissed us on the cheek. Lights and arches and minarets spread out in every direction, a fantastical rooftop city. A fountain sang softly. Moroccan tile paved the roof with blue and red detail.
Our room was to the left, behind a painted wooden door with an old fashion skeleton key. Four bunks, but we had it to ourselves tonight. Other young travelers lounged on embroidered cushions in the common space, smoking or drinking, writing in journals.
We ventured down and out again into the now friendly winding alleyway. No longer alien, but home base, our street, the key tight in my sister's palm. We found a tiny convenience store. One row of shelves stocked with batteries and toiletries rose to the ceiling above the proprietor's head and a cooler full of coke sat at his feet. Cold cokes in hand, we retreated to the rooftop oasis to sip and laugh and congratulate ourselves on braving the travel gauntlet to this tiled gem tucked high above the market alleys of Marrakesh.
The next day, we window shopped, gaping for hours at stunning Moroccan tile and textiles, spices, gold and silver work. It was a bustling shopping district, not at all intimidating when the bright, unrelenting sun banished the sinister dark.
************************
Yesterday, thanks to a fabulously dear friend, Matt and I had an entire day to ourselves to shop for our addition. We looked at tile and flooring options and fixtures, but in my secret, fabulous sunny day to ourselves heart, I was window shopping. I wanted to find the perfect antique leaded window to set as an architectural detail in an interior wall between the shower and our new master bath.
The whole day, wandering through a few antique and "upcycled" furniture shops, flipping idly through tile sample boards, sipping a glass of wine in the intimate garden of a local restaurant that is only open for these brief three months of summer a year, reminded me of days past. When we parked in front of Brown's Building supply, I saw row after row of outdoor bays stacked with windows pulled from demolished 1920s houses. Patience, I thought, it's here. It could be here. There were lots of leaded glass windows. They were broken or bent or too large or too small. Except for this one, covered in cobwebs and poorly painted white many years ago. Matt had to balance six or seven huge windows upright in the bay so that I could slide it out and fall in love.
For no reason at all, or maybe for many reasons, tile and sunshine and free time, I've been thinking of Marrakesh ever since we wrapped our treasure in a blanket and loaded it in the car. There is nothing like finding the perfect gem, hidden out of sight under the grime.
Speaking of gems, have you discovered pinterest.com? It's sort of a social media sharing site except that you're sharing digital inspiration boards. I'm just getting started, but I am head over heels in love. This is my master bath board. My home page with all of my boards is here. But I'm new at it and my boards are sparse; go and get lost in other people's inspiration.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Sip locusts
You know how your mom told you that you'd understand some day and you thought, no, no I won't because you're mean and I'm not going to be mean, so there? Because you were twelve and kind of horrid?
Well, when I was little, long, long ago in a kingdom far, far away ... . No. Seriously. When I was a kid, my mom drank a diet soda almost every day and the musical pop of that can opening and that sweet, forbidden liquid fizzing into a glass of ice was like a homing call for my sisters and I. We'd crawl out of the woodwork and beg and whine and plead.
A siiiiiiiiippppppp? Just one siiiip? Pleeeaaaaasseeee? Moooooo-oooooom? Just one?
And she was all, no. Like it was nothing. Just no. Go away, even.
I thought my mom was mean. I still remember feeling, deep in my soul, how mean and selfish she was. She had that whole beautiful glass of fizzy pop all to herself - and not even just one - oooohhhh no, she could go and get another one out of the fridge any time she wanted - and she wouldn't give us a teensy, weency, tiny, little sip.
Mean.
Mom. Here you go. You waited almost forty years, but here it is. Sit down. I was wrong and I now understand. I'm so sorry I judged you.
I like icy cold ice water. I like it crystal clear with an unsullied straw. My favorite is from Starbucks because it's triple distilled and as clear as clear can be. But I swear on all that is holy and pure, the minute that green-aproned barista hands me the glass of icy cold goodness, it starts.
I dirsty.
No, I'm thirsty.
Momma, I'm thirsty. No, me.
I sip. I sip! I SIP!!
They're like locusts. Viscous, water-hungry locusts who are incapable of taking a sip from a straw without back-blowing gag-inducing crumbs of everything they've eaten for the last three hours into it. Why is there always spittle that hangs between their nasty little lips and the straw? Why can't they just drink with a constant upward pull, why must they snort shit back down?
Why can't they drink from their own damn water bottles that I packed carefully so that I could keep my water separate and pure and unclouded by demonic backwash?
Why, mom? Why? Is my own glass of water too much to ask? The floaties. They ruin it. I'm so sorry for every drink I sullied.
And they're sneaky. I looked away for like a second and one of them has darted in for the sip like a buzzard. You see Nate. I see a harbinger of clear water doom.
Oh, I know. Cute baby saying "cheeeeessse." Look closely. I'll make it very large for you. Uh huh. Snot. Also, granola bar, on his left cheek. BOTH OF WHICH ARE NOW IN MY WATER.
Ew. Dammit.
Well, when I was little, long, long ago in a kingdom far, far away ... . No. Seriously. When I was a kid, my mom drank a diet soda almost every day and the musical pop of that can opening and that sweet, forbidden liquid fizzing into a glass of ice was like a homing call for my sisters and I. We'd crawl out of the woodwork and beg and whine and plead.
A siiiiiiiiippppppp? Just one siiiip? Pleeeaaaaasseeee? Moooooo-oooooom? Just one?
And she was all, no. Like it was nothing. Just no. Go away, even.
I thought my mom was mean. I still remember feeling, deep in my soul, how mean and selfish she was. She had that whole beautiful glass of fizzy pop all to herself - and not even just one - oooohhhh no, she could go and get another one out of the fridge any time she wanted - and she wouldn't give us a teensy, weency, tiny, little sip.
Mean.
Mom. Here you go. You waited almost forty years, but here it is. Sit down. I was wrong and I now understand. I'm so sorry I judged you.
I like icy cold ice water. I like it crystal clear with an unsullied straw. My favorite is from Starbucks because it's triple distilled and as clear as clear can be. But I swear on all that is holy and pure, the minute that green-aproned barista hands me the glass of icy cold goodness, it starts.
I dirsty.
No, I'm thirsty.
Momma, I'm thirsty. No, me.
I sip. I sip! I SIP!!
They're like locusts. Viscous, water-hungry locusts who are incapable of taking a sip from a straw without back-blowing gag-inducing crumbs of everything they've eaten for the last three hours into it. Why is there always spittle that hangs between their nasty little lips and the straw? Why can't they just drink with a constant upward pull, why must they snort shit back down?
Why can't they drink from their own damn water bottles that I packed carefully so that I could keep my water separate and pure and unclouded by demonic backwash?
Why, mom? Why? Is my own glass of water too much to ask? The floaties. They ruin it. I'm so sorry for every drink I sullied.
And they're sneaky. I looked away for like a second and one of them has darted in for the sip like a buzzard. You see Nate. I see a harbinger of clear water doom.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Restraint
Hampton Noodle has a whiffle ball addiction. It's all well and good and I certainly don't mind keeping him in whiffle balls, but unfortunately, Nate and Quinn are also partial to the damn things. I have probably purchased three hundred whiffle balls in the last year. Hampton can crunch them in one exhuberant crunch, which never fails to cause ceaseless wailing from the toddler set unless I can produce an uncrunched whiffle ball, pronto.
I'm very strict with the children about taking balls from the dog and vice versa. Nate is well aware that if he gets his hands on the ball first, the power lies in his corner. Hampton can track a whiffle ball for hours. He's a passionate whiffle ball hunter.
The hunter stalks its prey. (The ball is under Nate's hand.)
"What this? You want this?" Nate feels powerful, but our fearless dane has more patience and a longer attention span than a two-year-old. Oh, I will get that, small one of the no touchy-touchy, and when I do I will CRUNCH it and MUNCH it.
You are kidding me right? I know you're watching me, yelly woman with treats, but technically he put it down. I didn't take it from him. Crunching it would be fully within the rules at this point. I call foul. I want a line judge.
It's not even looking now. The small screechy one that can not be knocked over is finished with it. It is playing with a PENGUIN.
I'm whiffle crunching with my eyes.
For all my bitching, he's a very, very good eighteen month old puppy. (Yes, I let him have the ball.)
(We found the dog park. Great suggestion. He loves it and so do the kids. It's usually deserted too, which is a bonus.)
(He still sucks ass on any kind of leash, although he's an angel and stays right with me if he's loose. We tried the head lead thing. He is, um, very good at walking, well hopping, on his hind legs while wildly tearing at the evil contraption on his head. We'll keep working on it.)
Soon they are going to start asking me about tile and color and shower design. Scary and exciting. Scariting. I managed to move the children temporarily into the nursery-that-is-not-going-to-be-a-nursery-any-more and to take down all the gorgeous artwork that made the Snow White room special to me. All, that is, except for the photo border. I will do it, but there will be crying, both over the fifty adorable photos of them in their baby glory and because you have no idea how hard it was to get the damn thing up there!@!
Matt thinks it looks like a scary face. I think it didn't look like a scary face until Matt said that and now I will be afraid of our house growing teeth and eating me, Amityville Horror style, at night. As if I were not already scared of the dark.
I'm very strict with the children about taking balls from the dog and vice versa. Nate is well aware that if he gets his hands on the ball first, the power lies in his corner. Hampton can track a whiffle ball for hours. He's a passionate whiffle ball hunter.
The hunter stalks its prey. (The ball is under Nate's hand.)
"What this? You want this?" Nate feels powerful, but our fearless dane has more patience and a longer attention span than a two-year-old. Oh, I will get that, small one of the no touchy-touchy, and when I do I will CRUNCH it and MUNCH it.
You are kidding me right? I know you're watching me, yelly woman with treats, but technically he put it down. I didn't take it from him. Crunching it would be fully within the rules at this point. I call foul. I want a line judge.
It's not even looking now. The small screechy one that can not be knocked over is finished with it. It is playing with a PENGUIN.
I'm whiffle crunching with my eyes.
For all my bitching, he's a very, very good eighteen month old puppy. (Yes, I let him have the ball.)
(We found the dog park. Great suggestion. He loves it and so do the kids. It's usually deserted too, which is a bonus.)
(He still sucks ass on any kind of leash, although he's an angel and stays right with me if he's loose. We tried the head lead thing. He is, um, very good at walking, well hopping, on his hind legs while wildly tearing at the evil contraption on his head. We'll keep working on it.)
********
Soon they are going to start asking me about tile and color and shower design. Scary and exciting. Scariting. I managed to move the children temporarily into the nursery-that-is-not-going-to-be-a-nursery-any-more and to take down all the gorgeous artwork that made the Snow White room special to me. All, that is, except for the photo border. I will do it, but there will be crying, both over the fifty adorable photos of them in their baby glory and because you have no idea how hard it was to get the damn thing up there!@!
Matt thinks it looks like a scary face. I think it didn't look like a scary face until Matt said that and now I will be afraid of our house growing teeth and eating me, Amityville Horror style, at night. As if I were not already scared of the dark.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Together you and I
Stop! everything! Vague, annoying angst forgotten. Attempt at beautiful imagery and examination of self bumped down.
My children and the children of my closest friends in this crazy motherhood ride are in Dolly Parton's new music video. Dolly Parton! For a total of .00001 seconds at about 2:42 so do not blink, I kid you not.
The glory belongs to Amy. The story, because I know you are all on pins and needles, is that she adores Dolly. Their relationship has reached a very personal basis, though I'm not sure Dolly knows it yet, and when Dolly called for home video of people holding hands to be considered for inclusion in her new music video, Amy leaped to action. The rest of us, Elise, Kristina, Meggan and I, (A lovely circle of women and support and friendship that I consider the biggest treasure of my childbearing and young children raising years, excepting, of course, my actual children. Sometimes, actually, it's a tie.) rolled our eyes and griped. Get them all together? All thirteen of them? Naps! Schedules! Chaos!
But Amy nagged and moaned and bitched, ah, I mean persisted, and so we gathered in the boulevard one cranky afternoon and yelled at them until they stood in a marginal line for five seconds and I actually captured it with my mediocre filming skills. (Oh yes, that's my videography in a Dolly Parton video thank you very much.)
This is the original clusterfuck of a video. I can't imagine why Dolly didn't keep my piercing, bossy voice in her lovely video.
That night, I went, a trifle grumbly-like, to follow the instructions and upload the video and found that we had missed the submission deadline by twenty-four hours. I also found that we were supposed to be in front of an historic monument, but directions not being my strong point and Amy's deep happiness on the line, I fudged the boundaries of "historic" Manito Park a bit and hit submit.
I about died yesterday when I heard Amy screaming from ten blocks away that our kids were in a Dolly "fuck.ing" Parton video. I tried to maintain my facade of measured indifference, but it is so freaking cool! OMFG! I called my mom. She hasn't called me back. MOM. So I'm telling you.
I hope you have friends like these women. I hope my children have friends like them over the course of their lives. I laugh louder and love harder and enjoy my kids more and live my life better for having them at my side. There's always a net to fall into and a hand to hold and a smile to share. Disappointments sting less and successes taste sweeter. Humor shared is funnier and life is a blast. It's so much fun.
In the immortal words of Dolly: They stop the rain and make the sun shine.
My children and the children of my closest friends in this crazy motherhood ride are in Dolly Parton's new music video. Dolly Parton! For a total of .00001 seconds at about 2:42 so do not blink, I kid you not.
The glory belongs to Amy. The story, because I know you are all on pins and needles, is that she adores Dolly. Their relationship has reached a very personal basis, though I'm not sure Dolly knows it yet, and when Dolly called for home video of people holding hands to be considered for inclusion in her new music video, Amy leaped to action. The rest of us, Elise, Kristina, Meggan and I, (A lovely circle of women and support and friendship that I consider the biggest treasure of my childbearing and young children raising years, excepting, of course, my actual children. Sometimes, actually, it's a tie.) rolled our eyes and griped. Get them all together? All thirteen of them? Naps! Schedules! Chaos!
But Amy nagged and moaned and bitched, ah, I mean persisted, and so we gathered in the boulevard one cranky afternoon and yelled at them until they stood in a marginal line for five seconds and I actually captured it with my mediocre filming skills. (Oh yes, that's my videography in a Dolly Parton video thank you very much.)
This is the original clusterfuck of a video. I can't imagine why Dolly didn't keep my piercing, bossy voice in her lovely video.
That night, I went, a trifle grumbly-like, to follow the instructions and upload the video and found that we had missed the submission deadline by twenty-four hours. I also found that we were supposed to be in front of an historic monument, but directions not being my strong point and Amy's deep happiness on the line, I fudged the boundaries of "historic" Manito Park a bit and hit submit.
I about died yesterday when I heard Amy screaming from ten blocks away that our kids were in a Dolly "fuck.ing" Parton video. I tried to maintain my facade of measured indifference, but it is so freaking cool! OMFG! I called my mom. She hasn't called me back. MOM. So I'm telling you.
I hope you have friends like these women. I hope my children have friends like them over the course of their lives. I laugh louder and love harder and enjoy my kids more and live my life better for having them at my side. There's always a net to fall into and a hand to hold and a smile to share. Disappointments sting less and successes taste sweeter. Humor shared is funnier and life is a blast. It's so much fun.
In the immortal words of Dolly: They stop the rain and make the sun shine.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Scenes
It's a beautiful afternoon. Our six week reprieve between the capricious winds of June and the large metal key in the bolt sound of the heat thudding on in late August. Door locked. Sentence begun. Summer over.
The kind of afternoon I'll cry for the loss of someday, fingering old pictures with my spider-veined hands and wondering where it all went and why it was in such a hurry. Why I was in such hurry?
Quinn bends upside down, hanging backwards from a bike rack. He is kitsch-cool in his shades and overalls and Spiderman flip flops. He has something to him, at three years old, god help us. An innate likability and poise. An understanding of his space in the world and how his ripples affect others. It could go either way with him, there is deep goodness and cruelty.
Saige swings across the purple monkey bars still in her soccer camp shorts and yellow t-shirt. She makes it back and forth three times before she looses her grip and lands steady on bent knees. She has practiced for a year to reach level 'astonishing' in monkey bar proficiency. That is Saige. She either wants it so badly it drives us all insane or she can't be bothered. Please let her want school. It could be a nightmare if she wanted it to be. Can you major in monkey bars?
Silly mother worries, I scold myself. She will want something, eventually. School isn't everything.
Garrett twirls in the sparkling droplets of the splash pad fountain. He is the exact opposite of Quinn's studied awareness. He spins free and fast, unconscious of his existence in relation to others. He is uninhibited and outgoing, but in that loose, overeager way that can bring rejection's hammer crashing down hard. My heart constricts for him, watching at a distance. He'll be hurt and it will be the thing to love most about him. Quinn will stand behind his wall and watch others scrape their skin trying to scale it.
A biplane purrs overhead, drifting, almost stationary, and Nate signs at me "airplane! airplane!" His designer-bedroom-blue eyes thrill. The sticky juice of the apple he eats whole drips off of his chin and stains the front of his shirt. He even likes the cores. I have to fish the seeds and stem from behind his puppy-sharp teeth. I sit beside him in the lotus position on our perfect patchwork towel, marketed for summer in some ridiculous seasonal catalog.
If you watched from the hill on the other side of the baseball field, you might think how relaxed and serene I look. My red highlights rich in the sunlight. My eyes on the pines on the ridge behind you. You never know what you're really watching, do you? You might be surprised.
It's a lie. I'm terrified. My stomach flips and the back of my tongue goes dry in surges. I sip a tall recycled Starbucks cup of ice water at my side to force moisture down my cottony throat. There's nothing for it but to live my summer, ride the waves of adrenaline and drink my water and my children down in big, thirsty gulps.
I'm scared whether the answer is yes or no. Some day soon, I'll tell you the question.
For now, you tell me, since I need distraction, are you always as you seem?
The kind of afternoon I'll cry for the loss of someday, fingering old pictures with my spider-veined hands and wondering where it all went and why it was in such a hurry. Why I was in such hurry?
Quinn bends upside down, hanging backwards from a bike rack. He is kitsch-cool in his shades and overalls and Spiderman flip flops. He has something to him, at three years old, god help us. An innate likability and poise. An understanding of his space in the world and how his ripples affect others. It could go either way with him, there is deep goodness and cruelty.
Saige swings across the purple monkey bars still in her soccer camp shorts and yellow t-shirt. She makes it back and forth three times before she looses her grip and lands steady on bent knees. She has practiced for a year to reach level 'astonishing' in monkey bar proficiency. That is Saige. She either wants it so badly it drives us all insane or she can't be bothered. Please let her want school. It could be a nightmare if she wanted it to be. Can you major in monkey bars?
Silly mother worries, I scold myself. She will want something, eventually. School isn't everything.
Garrett twirls in the sparkling droplets of the splash pad fountain. He is the exact opposite of Quinn's studied awareness. He spins free and fast, unconscious of his existence in relation to others. He is uninhibited and outgoing, but in that loose, overeager way that can bring rejection's hammer crashing down hard. My heart constricts for him, watching at a distance. He'll be hurt and it will be the thing to love most about him. Quinn will stand behind his wall and watch others scrape their skin trying to scale it.
A biplane purrs overhead, drifting, almost stationary, and Nate signs at me "airplane! airplane!" His designer-bedroom-blue eyes thrill. The sticky juice of the apple he eats whole drips off of his chin and stains the front of his shirt. He even likes the cores. I have to fish the seeds and stem from behind his puppy-sharp teeth. I sit beside him in the lotus position on our perfect patchwork towel, marketed for summer in some ridiculous seasonal catalog.
If you watched from the hill on the other side of the baseball field, you might think how relaxed and serene I look. My red highlights rich in the sunlight. My eyes on the pines on the ridge behind you. You never know what you're really watching, do you? You might be surprised.
It's a lie. I'm terrified. My stomach flips and the back of my tongue goes dry in surges. I sip a tall recycled Starbucks cup of ice water at my side to force moisture down my cottony throat. There's nothing for it but to live my summer, ride the waves of adrenaline and drink my water and my children down in big, thirsty gulps.
I'm scared whether the answer is yes or no. Some day soon, I'll tell you the question.
For now, you tell me, since I need distraction, are you always as you seem?
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Gifts
I've never had a two-year-old without a newborn.
It weighed on my heart, yesterday, celebrating Nate's birthday. My thoughts refused to wrap around it. I pulled the precious overalls that Garrett wore to his second birthday party from the drawer and thought, oh no, Nate's too small. They were too small for him. I rocked him with his bottle before his nap and remembered how I unceremoniously yanked all bottles and most rocking from Garrett and Saige and then Quinn months before this.
I'm done, I justified in my head. The new baby is coming and these simple tasks can't take this long.
It was fine. They are happy, loving children who exhibit few emotional scars from their mother's speedy refocus on a new baby, unless you count endless whining and a Scooby Doo obsession as emotional scars, which if you do, I can't help you. I am wearied by talk of how to set schedules for not-so-small babies. Wearied. That is not to judge, I understand the angst and fear. But I can't get there from here. Children are not so fragile in my mind that I will sacrifice my afternoons to their crying or my mornings to their whims or my dinner hour to their pain-in-the-ass finickiness.
He cried for fifteen minutes and it broke my heart. Really? Because I usually think, good. Get yourself nice and tired, sweet thing, and then take a really good nap.
I am a good, good mother, but after the first four months of life, it is hard to break my heart. Crying doesn't even come close.
Yet, hypocrite that I am, my new two-year-old is still The Baby and he gets a bottle before he sleeps and sometimes even rocked and cuddles. Why not? There is no newborn screaming in a bouncy seat to drive me forward. Nate has had a zero entry into toddlerhood. That is the gift of his place in this family, I suppose.
My other children, no less babies at the time, had an experience closer to being pushed off of a diving board without a life jacket. Maybe it is my own guilt that leaves me impatient with waffling and tip toeing.
Maybe it is. Each family works in its own way, I firmly believe that. One mother's agonizing over crying and sleep has its pros and its cons just as my "put on your big kid diapers and get over it" attitude has its pros and its cons. Happy children are the product of so many different styles.
There are consequences to The Baby status as well. We sat down after dinner, our faces sticky and our stomachs stretched with cake (A Costco sheet cake. With copy errors. In my continuing quest to make every one who visits here feel like an excellent parent.) to open Nate's two presents. One from each grandma. Matt and I planned to take him out for the evening by himself - a family tradition on each child's birthday - and our budget, which is ample but rigidly observed, did not have room for both presents and an outing.
His gifts were few, but the chaos was as large as ever. The bigger kids had to be beaten back from the paper with warnings and then threats and then sharp, tired words. Nate couldn't get a turn with his new bike and he gave up and went back to his favorite toy - an electric guitar beloved for its ability to drive me stark raving mad in 2.5 seconds or less.
It worked.
I snapped under the pressure of the fighting and the mess and the frosting-slick hands on my couch and my rug and the constant recorded strains of "Love Shack." We put Saige, Garrett and Quinn to bed with more barked commands then cuddles and kisses.
Half an hour later, wandering through the park that winds on either side of the river flowing through downtown, I found my center and my remorse. Many, many times a day, I am overwhelmed by the joy of our large family, but at least once a day, I am overwhelmed. Grenade like questions and requests and demands launched at my head with unnecessary repetition and volume bombard me until I crawl into my bunker and wait for the barrage to pass or worse take the offensive and charge, machine gun mouth crackling.
Nate held our hands and begged between us. "A-GAIN."
One. Two. Three. Whhhheeeeeee.
"A-GAIN!"
We swung him over and over, across the bridges, bright with blooming flower baskets, past the ducks quacking for fried treats and around the antique carousel. Children swarmed its gilded tigers and giraffes and ostriches like ants at a picnic. Nate buried his head in Matt's shoulder. "No! No hoss. Whhheeeeee?"
One. Two. Three. Whhhheeeee.
A simple gift. Of time and unlimited swings. We don't play this game often as a family. The demands for turns grind us down. The inevitable screaming child on the ground dampens the most enthusiastic laughter. The rules that must be set in advance exhaust us. One time. For each of you. If you cry, you will miss your turn.
One. Two. Three. Whhheeeee.
We walked into a restaurant just after eight thirty. Unheard of, but he was full of chatter and light still, waving to each table as we wove to our seats. We ordered him a lemonade and talked while he sat in Matt's lap and colored between sips, fixing his beautiful gray-blue eyes on mine.
"Dirsty. I dirsty, momma."
Oh, the life we would lead if we had chosen this. Long dinners. Unlimited swings. Uncounted gifts.
He vibrated with exhausted excitement, pattering up our walk with his bow-legged baby run. The gorgeous evening light hung by a thread in the maples. Nate tried to tell me something all the way home. He started in the car and he said it still, climbing our front steps. His stub fingers wrapped in a tight grip around the railing. I repeated him with different inflections, puzzling his desire in my head.
"IFIE-SAY! IFIE-GARE! IFIESAY. IFIEGARE. MOMMA!! IFIESAY! IFIEGARE!"
Nate's eyebrows drew together in irritation when I missed his meaning. Elise distracted him for a moment as she left, but then he was off again on his baby quest and he climbed half way up the stairs before I got it.
"I find Saige. I find Gare. I find Saige. I find Gare."
They all slept, sprawled and sweaty, and Nate was loud, but content to peer into each baby face in turn. "Nigh, Kin. Nigh, Say. Nigh, Gare." Before I settled him into his crib beside them.
I whispered it after him. "Night, Nay. Night, Saige. Night Garrett. Night Quinn. Good night, my babies, I love you, I'll see you in the morning."
One, two, three, four, whhhheeeeeee.
Gifts uncounted.
Thank you, Jen. I couldn't find these words and she said "just start writing." The best advice is always simple.
It weighed on my heart, yesterday, celebrating Nate's birthday. My thoughts refused to wrap around it. I pulled the precious overalls that Garrett wore to his second birthday party from the drawer and thought, oh no, Nate's too small. They were too small for him. I rocked him with his bottle before his nap and remembered how I unceremoniously yanked all bottles and most rocking from Garrett and Saige and then Quinn months before this.
I'm done, I justified in my head. The new baby is coming and these simple tasks can't take this long.
It was fine. They are happy, loving children who exhibit few emotional scars from their mother's speedy refocus on a new baby, unless you count endless whining and a Scooby Doo obsession as emotional scars, which if you do, I can't help you. I am wearied by talk of how to set schedules for not-so-small babies. Wearied. That is not to judge, I understand the angst and fear. But I can't get there from here. Children are not so fragile in my mind that I will sacrifice my afternoons to their crying or my mornings to their whims or my dinner hour to their pain-in-the-ass finickiness.
He cried for fifteen minutes and it broke my heart. Really? Because I usually think, good. Get yourself nice and tired, sweet thing, and then take a really good nap.
I am a good, good mother, but after the first four months of life, it is hard to break my heart. Crying doesn't even come close.
Yet, hypocrite that I am, my new two-year-old is still The Baby and he gets a bottle before he sleeps and sometimes even rocked and cuddles. Why not? There is no newborn screaming in a bouncy seat to drive me forward. Nate has had a zero entry into toddlerhood. That is the gift of his place in this family, I suppose.
My other children, no less babies at the time, had an experience closer to being pushed off of a diving board without a life jacket. Maybe it is my own guilt that leaves me impatient with waffling and tip toeing.
Maybe it is. Each family works in its own way, I firmly believe that. One mother's agonizing over crying and sleep has its pros and its cons just as my "put on your big kid diapers and get over it" attitude has its pros and its cons. Happy children are the product of so many different styles.
There are consequences to The Baby status as well. We sat down after dinner, our faces sticky and our stomachs stretched with cake (A Costco sheet cake. With copy errors. In my continuing quest to make every one who visits here feel like an excellent parent.) to open Nate's two presents. One from each grandma. Matt and I planned to take him out for the evening by himself - a family tradition on each child's birthday - and our budget, which is ample but rigidly observed, did not have room for both presents and an outing.
His gifts were few, but the chaos was as large as ever. The bigger kids had to be beaten back from the paper with warnings and then threats and then sharp, tired words. Nate couldn't get a turn with his new bike and he gave up and went back to his favorite toy - an electric guitar beloved for its ability to drive me stark raving mad in 2.5 seconds or less.
It worked.
I snapped under the pressure of the fighting and the mess and the frosting-slick hands on my couch and my rug and the constant recorded strains of "Love Shack." We put Saige, Garrett and Quinn to bed with more barked commands then cuddles and kisses.
********
Half an hour later, wandering through the park that winds on either side of the river flowing through downtown, I found my center and my remorse. Many, many times a day, I am overwhelmed by the joy of our large family, but at least once a day, I am overwhelmed. Grenade like questions and requests and demands launched at my head with unnecessary repetition and volume bombard me until I crawl into my bunker and wait for the barrage to pass or worse take the offensive and charge, machine gun mouth crackling.
Nate held our hands and begged between us. "A-GAIN."
One. Two. Three. Whhhheeeeeee.
"A-GAIN!"
We swung him over and over, across the bridges, bright with blooming flower baskets, past the ducks quacking for fried treats and around the antique carousel. Children swarmed its gilded tigers and giraffes and ostriches like ants at a picnic. Nate buried his head in Matt's shoulder. "No! No hoss. Whhheeeeee?"
One. Two. Three. Whhhheeeee.
A simple gift. Of time and unlimited swings. We don't play this game often as a family. The demands for turns grind us down. The inevitable screaming child on the ground dampens the most enthusiastic laughter. The rules that must be set in advance exhaust us. One time. For each of you. If you cry, you will miss your turn.
One. Two. Three. Whhheeeee.
We walked into a restaurant just after eight thirty. Unheard of, but he was full of chatter and light still, waving to each table as we wove to our seats. We ordered him a lemonade and talked while he sat in Matt's lap and colored between sips, fixing his beautiful gray-blue eyes on mine.
"Dirsty. I dirsty, momma."
Oh, the life we would lead if we had chosen this. Long dinners. Unlimited swings. Uncounted gifts.
He vibrated with exhausted excitement, pattering up our walk with his bow-legged baby run. The gorgeous evening light hung by a thread in the maples. Nate tried to tell me something all the way home. He started in the car and he said it still, climbing our front steps. His stub fingers wrapped in a tight grip around the railing. I repeated him with different inflections, puzzling his desire in my head.
"IFIE-SAY! IFIE-GARE! IFIESAY. IFIEGARE. MOMMA!! IFIESAY! IFIEGARE!"
Nate's eyebrows drew together in irritation when I missed his meaning. Elise distracted him for a moment as she left, but then he was off again on his baby quest and he climbed half way up the stairs before I got it.
"I find Saige. I find Gare. I find Saige. I find Gare."
They all slept, sprawled and sweaty, and Nate was loud, but content to peer into each baby face in turn. "Nigh, Kin. Nigh, Say. Nigh, Gare." Before I settled him into his crib beside them.
I whispered it after him. "Night, Nay. Night, Saige. Night Garrett. Night Quinn. Good night, my babies, I love you, I'll see you in the morning."
One, two, three, four, whhhheeeeeee.
Gifts uncounted.
Thank you, Jen. I couldn't find these words and she said "just start writing." The best advice is always simple.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Oh, Idaho
I malign you so.
(Southwest shore of Lake Coeur D'Alene.)
But you are really beautiful, for about four days every summer when you deign to be warm enough for mammals to survive.
And if it's too cold to swim ...
(Trust me on this, it's always too cold to swim. Nate fell in head first and I had to fish him out; I couldn't feel my legs.)
(Nate mentally projecting: WTfreezingF was that? My head. Went under the ice water! Did you take off your shoes before you ran in? You did, didn't you? (I didn't, they were already off. I swear.))
...there are always s'mores by the fire.
Lest you think we live this fabulously all the time, no, no. No. We live this fabulously when Elise's parents come to visit and rent a gorgeous house on the lake for a week and we crash their party for a day. (THANK YOU!)
In general, we live with a lot less stunning blue water and soldiering pines and a lot more whining and dog vomit.
And construction.
Last week.
This week. Progressing nicely, right? Soon I begin to bombard you with color and decorating questions because I'm clueless and, somehow, Million Dollar Design on Bravo is only adding to my difficulties. Why is that? Could it be because they buy chairs that would consume my entire budget? Bravo? Not helpful.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
School's OUT for SUMMER
Oh, was yesterday the first day of summer?
Because I thought it might have been renamed "The First Day of Wallowing All Over Your Mother Until She Wants to Scream While Whining About How Hungry You Are" when I wasn't paying attention.
No? My mistake. Well, if they're still taking votes. I vote "NO." Thank you.
Are you mocking me right now? Maybe.
It's a good thing they're cute.
Truly.
Comments are closed. We are dog-gone-to-the-lake tired. Hope you all had an excellent, non-whiney start to your summer. xo, S
Because I thought it might have been renamed "The First Day of Wallowing All Over Your Mother Until She Wants to Scream While Whining About How Hungry You Are" when I wasn't paying attention.
No? My mistake. Well, if they're still taking votes. I vote "NO." Thank you.
Comments are closed. We are dog-gone-to-the-lake tired. Hope you all had an excellent, non-whiney start to your summer. xo, S
Monday, June 20, 2011
The door in the blog
Packing up books and pictures makes me nervous and sad. Memories of moves and goodbyes stall the process and directionless anticipation revs my emotions, even though there is no move, no change but letting go of old rooms and making emotional room for new.
Matt finally sent my sniping, bitchy self to Walm.art.
On the highway on-ramp, a homeless man held a cardboard sign. "Hungry. Desperate. Help." I saw him and glanced down at the sticky, gross center cup holder where I normally toss change just as the light turned green and a huge glass of water spilled on the floor of the van. I'd set it there with no lid or holder. Its tipping and spilling was the most obvious, preventable event in the world. Like hunger. Or desperation. I couldn't pick it up or pull the car over or do anything except accelerate onto the highway because I was eating an ice cream bar. Chocolate dark chocolate. With my left hand.
The needle of my speedometer, when I check it, stayed buried below zero, even as I accelerated past fifty for the merge. Right at that moment, the cable snapped and I wanted to cry because I'm on my way to Walm.art eating ice cream and he's hungry. Mothers in Libya screamed in my head and the tall pine trees lining the highway berated me about heavy metals and poisoning and global warming. Must I eat for pleasure, not hunger, and drive about, killing things with my careless, blind consumption?
You wouldn't believe why I was driving to Walm.art. The irony of it would cause a blog supernova and there would be nothing left of this site but a sucking black hole. It would bust the top off of the irony meter. The little door of this blog would open and a bald dancing circus man with curly chest hair and a handlebar mustache wearing a wrestling suit would wheel out with his huge hammer and his tall iron-o-meter bell. He'd smash that black-as-night, heavy-as-death hammer down on the platform so hard that the metal riser would send the bell flying off of the top and into the sky where it would knock down all the stars. Like dominoes.
It makes me want to beat on the metal side panel of the world screaming, "slow down!"
"Slow the hell down. You're going too fast. Don't you know the speedometer is broken?"
Fortunately, there's no speedometer on life and stars can not be displaced by mere mortals. Trips to Walm.art end and children are still there when you get home and there doesn't have to be a point. Even if there is a point, it's acceptable for it to be an ironic point. Isn't it? Maybe the point is to see the homeless man and care about the trees and hear the screams.
The trick is to let it all matter without drowning in it. Every single needle on every single pine, trembling like whiskers in the wind. Otherwise, none of it matters, and that can't be right, now can it?
****************
Comments are closed. And yes, the nursery and the Snow White room are bare now, after making me smile for six years. What tipped you off? My teenage angst about the endless pointlessness of it all? ;-)
Matt finally sent my sniping, bitchy self to Walm.art.
On the highway on-ramp, a homeless man held a cardboard sign. "Hungry. Desperate. Help." I saw him and glanced down at the sticky, gross center cup holder where I normally toss change just as the light turned green and a huge glass of water spilled on the floor of the van. I'd set it there with no lid or holder. Its tipping and spilling was the most obvious, preventable event in the world. Like hunger. Or desperation. I couldn't pick it up or pull the car over or do anything except accelerate onto the highway because I was eating an ice cream bar. Chocolate dark chocolate. With my left hand.
The needle of my speedometer, when I check it, stayed buried below zero, even as I accelerated past fifty for the merge. Right at that moment, the cable snapped and I wanted to cry because I'm on my way to Walm.art eating ice cream and he's hungry. Mothers in Libya screamed in my head and the tall pine trees lining the highway berated me about heavy metals and poisoning and global warming. Must I eat for pleasure, not hunger, and drive about, killing things with my careless, blind consumption?
You wouldn't believe why I was driving to Walm.art. The irony of it would cause a blog supernova and there would be nothing left of this site but a sucking black hole. It would bust the top off of the irony meter. The little door of this blog would open and a bald dancing circus man with curly chest hair and a handlebar mustache wearing a wrestling suit would wheel out with his huge hammer and his tall iron-o-meter bell. He'd smash that black-as-night, heavy-as-death hammer down on the platform so hard that the metal riser would send the bell flying off of the top and into the sky where it would knock down all the stars. Like dominoes.
It makes me want to beat on the metal side panel of the world screaming, "slow down!"
"Slow the hell down. You're going too fast. Don't you know the speedometer is broken?"
Fortunately, there's no speedometer on life and stars can not be displaced by mere mortals. Trips to Walm.art end and children are still there when you get home and there doesn't have to be a point. Even if there is a point, it's acceptable for it to be an ironic point. Isn't it? Maybe the point is to see the homeless man and care about the trees and hear the screams.
The trick is to let it all matter without drowning in it. Every single needle on every single pine, trembling like whiskers in the wind. Otherwise, none of it matters, and that can't be right, now can it?
****************
Comments are closed. And yes, the nursery and the Snow White room are bare now, after making me smile for six years. What tipped you off? My teenage angst about the endless pointlessness of it all? ;-)
Thursday, June 16, 2011
You love, you learn
Ten years ago yesterday, I held Matt's hand and watched Australian surfers bite it in the unforgiving surf off of the coast of Bali. We thought owning a feral dog was a big responsibility. I thought being married involved a lot of laundry. I didn't want any children.
Seven years ago yesterday, we had moved into this disaster of a house in a little town on the edge of the world also known as the Border of Idaho. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to live here. Flights were so expensive. You had to fly to Seattle to get anywhere. It was cold. In June. And I was pregnant with our first baby, though I didn't know it yet. And I would lose him, though I didn't know it yet. It would hurt like nothing had ever hurt before. Though I didn't know it. Yet.
Six years ago yesterday, I spun in an unbelieving circle in the middle of our rented house on the very edge of the island of Saipan. The Pacific crashed into the cliffs four hundred feet below me and I wondered how on earth we ended up back here? The boy growing inside of me was five months along and the girl growing inside of her mother on the exact opposite side of the world was seven months along.
Yesterday evening, I sat in a pew right back in that much maligned (and now much adored) Border of Idaho town and watched the same little boy and girl graduate from Kindergarten. I would have told you - right up until 7:20 p.m. June 14, 2011, when I burst into tears and had to hide my face over a slide show featuring Billy Dean's Let Them Be Little and their forty-five or so bright, little faces - that Kindergarten graduation was a ridiculous concept and events for children after 7:00 p.m. were obnoxious and why in the HOLY HELL does there have to be CAKE at every.single.freaking.event.for. children.in.the.history.of.children.
But oh my God it was cute. It would have been cuter at noon, but I concede that it was cute and maybe even worth it.
Keep on keeping me humble, universe. If I can give up Bali and learn to love the Border of Idaho, I should know never to say never to anything. Congratulations, Saige and Garrett, on your graduation from your first of two years in Kindergarten. There was no prouder momma in that church embarrassing herself by weeping over cheesy country songs than me.
Seven years ago yesterday, we had moved into this disaster of a house in a little town on the edge of the world also known as the Border of Idaho. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to live here. Flights were so expensive. You had to fly to Seattle to get anywhere. It was cold. In June. And I was pregnant with our first baby, though I didn't know it yet. And I would lose him, though I didn't know it yet. It would hurt like nothing had ever hurt before. Though I didn't know it. Yet.
Six years ago yesterday, I spun in an unbelieving circle in the middle of our rented house on the very edge of the island of Saipan. The Pacific crashed into the cliffs four hundred feet below me and I wondered how on earth we ended up back here? The boy growing inside of me was five months along and the girl growing inside of her mother on the exact opposite side of the world was seven months along.
Yesterday evening, I sat in a pew right back in that much maligned (and now much adored) Border of Idaho town and watched the same little boy and girl graduate from Kindergarten. I would have told you - right up until 7:20 p.m. June 14, 2011, when I burst into tears and had to hide my face over a slide show featuring Billy Dean's Let Them Be Little and their forty-five or so bright, little faces - that Kindergarten graduation was a ridiculous concept and events for children after 7:00 p.m. were obnoxious and why in the HOLY HELL does there have to be CAKE at every.single.freaking.event.for. children.in.the.history.of.children.
But oh my God it was cute. It would have been cuter at noon, but I concede that it was cute and maybe even worth it.
Keep on keeping me humble, universe. If I can give up Bali and learn to love the Border of Idaho, I should know never to say never to anything. Congratulations, Saige and Garrett, on your graduation from your first of two years in Kindergarten. There was no prouder momma in that church embarrassing herself by weeping over cheesy country songs than me.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Yes, your child is totally normal(er than my children). Which isn't saying much.
The top parenting question/issue that I am asked about - aside from how on earth I get four children five and under to sleep twelve hours a night in the same room, which I keep telling everyone is because I'm wicked. No one believes me, but it's absolutely 100% true. I eat children after 7:00 p.m. - the second most asked about issue is the relative normalness of various p.en.is-related behaviors.
"You have three boys," the question goes, "are they, you know, all over themselves the way mine are?"
"Isn't he too young?"
"Do you think something's wrong?"
So, okay, I'll go there on this fine, quiet Saturday morning. (Hey, at least it's not Sunday. Bolt of lightening. Stacey ducks.)
Let me put your collective minds at ease. Yes, no, no. Yes, it's like their pe.ni are very powerful magnets and their hands are made out of metal. No, there's no too young; I don't think something is wrong; I seriously doubt your son is depraved. Based on the behavior I have observed over the past almost six years, whatever is bothering you is totally and completely normal.
Taking my family as a standard for normal, which may or may not be wise.
Here's my short list of debatably normal behavior: (JUST TO BE CLEAR THIS LIST IS INTENDED AS A GUIDE FOR PARENTS OF CHILDREN UNDER SIX. UNFORTUNATELY, I FEEL THAT DISCLAIMER IS NECESSARY FOR SOME OF OUR BLOGGING COMPATRIOTS WITH INAPPROPRIATE BOUNDARIES AND ALSO FOR OUR GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS.)
1) Wince-worthy pulling, stretching, pinching, knot-tying, manipulating, fondling, mauling, turning inside out, squishing, etc. I know. I don't think it looks like it's meant to do that either.
1a) Public display of any of the above behaviors.
2) Unnecessarily rubbing it on things or sticking it into things.
3) Having it appear from the pants in a little hand in awkward situations including the grocery store, the park, music class and a Christian school recital.
4) Dropping trou suddenly and without warning to present an "owie."
5) A small baby who enjoys wet wipes in a way that makes you go "hmmmm" or giggles during wiping.
6) A medium sized baby batting away your hand to prevent you from fastening his diaper so that he can proceed with any of the above behaviors obstruction free.
7) Touching each other's parts with fingers or other objects or creating a game wherein everyone touches the same object with their p.eni.s.
7a) The same. In public. Of course. While you're trying to complete a bank deposit.
8) Having to say in any number of embarrassing public locations, "we don't touch our p.eni.s here; this is not an appropriate place for touching our p.eni.s; please put your pe.ni.s away until you are in your bedroom."
9) Hysterical laughter at the mention of the word p.en.is, v.ag.ina, bottom, butt, poop, pee, etc., etc. Usually after screaming it loudly at each other. Probably in a public place. I mean, is it really funny if you're not humiliating your mother?
There, you see? I'm pretty sure that whatever you are experiencing is completely normal. For a child under six. For all other men, see your "penal" code.
I put the dots in pe.n.is so that google searches involving the words "children" or "boys" and "s.ex" terms don't land skeevy per.verts here. I would appreciate it if you would do the same in the comments. Isn't it a wonderful world? ;-)
"You have three boys," the question goes, "are they, you know, all over themselves the way mine are?"
"Isn't he too young?"
"Do you think something's wrong?"
So, okay, I'll go there on this fine, quiet Saturday morning. (Hey, at least it's not Sunday. Bolt of lightening. Stacey ducks.)
Let me put your collective minds at ease. Yes, no, no. Yes, it's like their pe.ni are very powerful magnets and their hands are made out of metal. No, there's no too young; I don't think something is wrong; I seriously doubt your son is depraved. Based on the behavior I have observed over the past almost six years, whatever is bothering you is totally and completely normal.
Taking my family as a standard for normal, which may or may not be wise.
Here's my short list of debatably normal behavior: (JUST TO BE CLEAR THIS LIST IS INTENDED AS A GUIDE FOR PARENTS OF CHILDREN UNDER SIX. UNFORTUNATELY, I FEEL THAT DISCLAIMER IS NECESSARY FOR SOME OF OUR BLOGGING COMPATRIOTS WITH INAPPROPRIATE BOUNDARIES AND ALSO FOR OUR GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS.)
1) Wince-worthy pulling, stretching, pinching, knot-tying, manipulating, fondling, mauling, turning inside out, squishing, etc. I know. I don't think it looks like it's meant to do that either.
1a) Public display of any of the above behaviors.
2) Unnecessarily rubbing it on things or sticking it into things.
3) Having it appear from the pants in a little hand in awkward situations including the grocery store, the park, music class and a Christian school recital.
4) Dropping trou suddenly and without warning to present an "owie."
5) A small baby who enjoys wet wipes in a way that makes you go "hmmmm" or giggles during wiping.
6) A medium sized baby batting away your hand to prevent you from fastening his diaper so that he can proceed with any of the above behaviors obstruction free.
7) Touching each other's parts with fingers or other objects or creating a game wherein everyone touches the same object with their p.eni.s.
7a) The same. In public. Of course. While you're trying to complete a bank deposit.
8) Having to say in any number of embarrassing public locations, "we don't touch our p.eni.s here; this is not an appropriate place for touching our p.eni.s; please put your pe.ni.s away until you are in your bedroom."
9) Hysterical laughter at the mention of the word p.en.is, v.ag.ina, bottom, butt, poop, pee, etc., etc. Usually after screaming it loudly at each other. Probably in a public place. I mean, is it really funny if you're not humiliating your mother?
There, you see? I'm pretty sure that whatever you are experiencing is completely normal. For a child under six. For all other men, see your "penal" code.
I put the dots in pe.n.is so that google searches involving the words "children" or "boys" and "s.ex" terms don't land skeevy per.verts here. I would appreciate it if you would do the same in the comments. Isn't it a wonderful world? ;-)
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Random
I have much to share, but first, nonsensical, trivial crapola that makes me happy!
I love throwing things away. Related: I'm making excellent progress on the great addition purge of 2011. The sewage and electric are in, we've passed all inspections to date and the footers are poured. Onward, HO! (That's pirate for "let's move this bitch forward," not for "Stacey, you ho, keep purging.")
The Bachlorette. I'm completely hooked this season. Who's with me? High quality entertainment. My favorites so far are Bentley and William, except William lost all cred with me this last episode when he wasn't all "listen bitch, you said roast, I roasted, bite me with the tears already." And then Bentley uttered my new life anthem right before he left the show, a development which really kills it for me: "I'm gonna make Ashley cry, hope my hair looks alright." Pure chocolate truffle filled pleasure. Oh and Ashley's "my heart is like, totally broken," was a close second. Oh yes, I mock. COME ON. These are adults! Living in the same world that we live in! Some of them have jobs and make money. How am I not a millionaire by now?
My ship is like, totally going to come in one of these days, I hope my hair looks alright.
I'm done. What? You're not watching? You have better things to do with your life like, oh I don't know, pluck a stranger's errant nose hairs? You are like, totally missing out. That is all I have to say about that (and it was plenty, I know).
And now: Things that are actually worth your time.
1) The Spokane LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER videos are up at the national youtube page. I hope that you'll watch them. For me, they were equally stunning the second time. (Spokane starts with "B-R-E-A-T-H-E" and runs through "A Revelation of Sorts." After you've watched Mindi read "Diagnosiverary," you are going to want to visit her here and help her reach her goal in the quest to fund childhood cancer research.)
2) This lovely lady had cancer surgery a few weeks ago. The awesome Tracey at Just Another Mommy Blog had the idea to send a bunch of people to visit and leave her comments cheering her along on her road to cancer recovery. I completely dropped the blog ball the week of her surgery and it sucks; so please go and leave a comment and tell her that we think she is incredible.
3) Maggie. You all know how I adore Maggie and her writing and her too-cute-for-school baby girl, Ever. She wrote a short story, My Year in Mississippi, and it's in Story Bleed magazine. We're just waiting for the novel, Maggie.
4) A super long time ago, Shannon asked me to mention the book Mile Markers by her friend Kristin Armstrong. I can't recommend it because I only run when chased by something with sharp teeth and even then not very fast, but that is okay because Shannon recommends it beautifully. I know so many of you are runners - because you are insane and also no longer my friends on account of that whole "exercising" thing - and I think you'll like her post and the book.
5) This post is gorgeous. (And bonus: Heather just had a beautiful baby girl.)
6) Speaking of gorgeous posts, BlogHer 2011 Voices of the Year submissions are open. Don't miss the chance to honor your favorite writers this year by nominating their work. Also - and I absolutely mean this - write to me and let me know if you wrote a post that you'd like nominated. It is so hard to keep up with all of the fabulous writing that happens over a whole year. Help me get your favorite writing up there!
Alrighty then. I think that's a wrap.
I'm gonna make Hampton cry, hope my hair looks alright.
I love throwing things away. Related: I'm making excellent progress on the great addition purge of 2011. The sewage and electric are in, we've passed all inspections to date and the footers are poured. Onward, HO! (That's pirate for "let's move this bitch forward," not for "Stacey, you ho, keep purging.")
The Bachlorette. I'm completely hooked this season. Who's with me? High quality entertainment. My favorites so far are Bentley and William, except William lost all cred with me this last episode when he wasn't all "listen bitch, you said roast, I roasted, bite me with the tears already." And then Bentley uttered my new life anthem right before he left the show, a development which really kills it for me: "I'm gonna make Ashley cry, hope my hair looks alright." Pure chocolate truffle filled pleasure. Oh and Ashley's "my heart is like, totally broken," was a close second. Oh yes, I mock. COME ON. These are adults! Living in the same world that we live in! Some of them have jobs and make money. How am I not a millionaire by now?
My ship is like, totally going to come in one of these days, I hope my hair looks alright.
I'm done. What? You're not watching? You have better things to do with your life like, oh I don't know, pluck a stranger's errant nose hairs? You are like, totally missing out. That is all I have to say about that (and it was plenty, I know).
And now: Things that are actually worth your time.
1) The Spokane LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER videos are up at the national youtube page. I hope that you'll watch them. For me, they were equally stunning the second time. (Spokane starts with "B-R-E-A-T-H-E" and runs through "A Revelation of Sorts." After you've watched Mindi read "Diagnosiverary," you are going to want to visit her here and help her reach her goal in the quest to fund childhood cancer research.)
2) This lovely lady had cancer surgery a few weeks ago. The awesome Tracey at Just Another Mommy Blog had the idea to send a bunch of people to visit and leave her comments cheering her along on her road to cancer recovery. I completely dropped the blog ball the week of her surgery and it sucks; so please go and leave a comment and tell her that we think she is incredible.
3) Maggie. You all know how I adore Maggie and her writing and her too-cute-for-school baby girl, Ever. She wrote a short story, My Year in Mississippi, and it's in Story Bleed magazine. We're just waiting for the novel, Maggie.
4) A super long time ago, Shannon asked me to mention the book Mile Markers by her friend Kristin Armstrong. I can't recommend it because I only run when chased by something with sharp teeth and even then not very fast, but that is okay because Shannon recommends it beautifully. I know so many of you are runners - because you are insane and also no longer my friends on account of that whole "exercising" thing - and I think you'll like her post and the book.
5) This post is gorgeous. (And bonus: Heather just had a beautiful baby girl.)
6) Speaking of gorgeous posts, BlogHer 2011 Voices of the Year submissions are open. Don't miss the chance to honor your favorite writers this year by nominating their work. Also - and I absolutely mean this - write to me and let me know if you wrote a post that you'd like nominated. It is so hard to keep up with all of the fabulous writing that happens over a whole year. Help me get your favorite writing up there!
Alrighty then. I think that's a wrap.
I'm gonna make Hampton cry, hope my hair looks alright.
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