Not Calm (dot com)

They're only little tears, darling, let them spill

Sophie is sitting on the living room floor with scissors, a long sheet of at least a hundred tattoos, and a mini spray bottle of water.  Her cheeks, chin, forehead, and limbs are covered with anchors, playing cards, mermaids, and hearts.  She's been digging into the classic set of temporary tats.  Yesterday, though, she got a Snow White tattoo from a gumball machine at the ice cream store and that one? that one is on her ass.  I sense that I will pay for my raising with interest with this girl.  I mean, if you've got tattoos on your butt before you've learned your multiplication tables, just think of all the opportunities spread before your feet!

Today was one of the rougher emotional days I've had recently.  That's why I ended up this afternoon shopping at Trader Joe's with red eyes and smeary mascara.  Something about having a well-stocked kitchen makes me feel secure when other things are wobbly, and so I really did it up.  My receipt was three feet long.  One of the things I bought was a package of cheddar cheese curds.  The guy who was checking me out (well, not ME, my groceries) scanned the cheese curds and then said to a guy working the floor, Can you bring me another package of these?  So, the other guy did, and then my guy, he opened up the package and as he scanned the three cartons of eggs I'd bought asked me if I had checked all the eggs for breaks.  Uh, yes, I did.  They're fine.  So, what was wrong with the cheese?  Was it open or something? I asked.  Naw, he said, they just looked so good I had to have some.  I need a snack!  And, then he stopped and ate some cheese, savoring it in only the way that the very, very, VERY stoned can, before turning to the girl on the register behind him and saying, Heeeeeeey, want some cheese?

She declined, and I think that really made him happy.  Because, honestly, why share the squeaky cheese if you aren't bound by some sort of oath to do so?  Anyway, it was funny to me because I was the one who looked stoned, and he was the one who was baked and snacking on my groceries with his clear and bright eyes. 

Is there a moral to this story?  Hmmmm.  I feel there must be, but it escapes me at the moment.

From Hopeline.com:

1-800-SUICIDE marks its tenth anniversary this year. It was founded in 1998 by Reese Butler in memory of his wife, Kristin who had committed suicide. The Kristin Brooks Hope Center has helped almost three million callers connect to help and hope.

   

As they enter their second decade of service to the public, continued support is needed to ensure that the confidentiality of every caller is protected. Because they are totally privately funded, they need to prove to the government that they are capable of supporting 1-800-SUICIDE to keep control of the line from being taken over by the federal government.

   

The money you donate will not only be used to pay the phone bill that connects about 50,000 callers each month to the Hopeline Network, but will also be used to pay for training of online crisis counselors who will provide the same support via online counseling. This is where the young people of today reach out for help. The success of 1-800-SUICIDE is based on individuals in crisis knowing that any personal identifiable information is kept strictly confidential.

   

The Hope Center's volunteer staff and Board remain committed to preserving confidential suicide prevention programs. Your action today assures their sustainability!

   

The Kristin Brooks Hope Center and its national 1-800-SUICIDE hotline is a great asset to our society - one of those private-sector initiatives called a "point of light." For reasons of their own, certain officials within the government tried to snuff that light. With your help and support together we can prevent that tragedy from occurring and help the Hopeline achieve success in liberating 1-800-SUICIDE from government control permanently.

Smells like preteen spirit

I just spent a nice afternoon with Lex, helping him clean his room.  We put on some music (Guster, The Rolling Stones, Camper Van Beethoven, Clem Snide, and Nirvana) while we worked, and we sang and dusted and threw away a couple bags worth of candy wrappers and empty beef jerky bags.  I don't clean up after the boys, and I am too lazy to do the forced-march clean up, (except for the shared living spaces -- that I enforce) so their room gets bad.  Really, hugely bad.  But, I've decided that enough is enough and if they are going to get allowance (which we just started formally at the beginning of June) then they've got to keep their room in better shape.   Also?  Allowance is not paid to smart-ass backtalkers, those who stomp and roll their eyes, or persons who go out of their way to make life harder than it needs to be. 

I like hanging out with my kids one on one like that.  They're so different when it's just me.  For all the preteen angst that Lex has going on, we're still comfortable together.  We make each other laugh.  We stop cleaning for a moment to crank up the music, dance with handfulls of legos and marbles, and sing along really loud: I found it hard, it's hard to find, oh well, whatever, nevermind. . . hello hello hello hello. . .  

Don't don't don't let's start

I've got a weak heart.  Or a bunch of teeny little blood clots, whatever. 

Lemme explain: last Saturday Willow wanted me to take a bath with her.  I was all for it until I looked in the tub.  When Lex was a baby, I  s c r u b b e d  the bathtub for all I was worth before each and every one of his baths.  My BABY? would be bathed only in a sparkling tub, thankyouverymuch.  Now, uh, not so much, and since the kids like bubble baths and no one likes to scrub the tub, it was grody.  Alright, so while Willow was stripping, and I was looking under the sink for cleaning supplies, I noticed that the viens on the inside of my left arm were poofy.  Think David Banner's neck when he's turning into the Hulk:
    

My arm hurt just the slightest bit, too.  Barely enough to register.  Also, the lightheadedness I've had going on and off for the past almost two years was in full force.  I grabbed the sponge and the Mrs. Meyer's and cleaned the tub, using my left hand to keep me from falling in while I cleaned and my right hand to scrub.  When I was finished, I realized that the inside of my wrist was swelling up and that I'd broken some capillaries in there.  Now it hurt more, and with the Hulk veins still popped up on just the one arm, my inner hypochondriac nearly fainted with excitement, especially in light of the fact that I've had some abnormal heart tests in the past.  I called my mom, because that is my mystery ailment MO, and she suggested that maybe I should see a doctor because what if it were a blood clot.  At this point, the inner hypochondriac swooned.   

Long-ass story short, I went in for round two of bloodwork and doctor time today, and my doctor thinks that I've got teensy little tiny baby blood clots in my arm.  Maybe.  Maybe it's something else entirely, but she totally agreed that things look Hulky and not right.  Also she thoughtfully complimented me on my muscley arms.  Somehow she is sure that it will just get better.  And I might want to keep it elevated.  Good?  I think.  I don't know.  The lightheadedness I've been having may or may not be related to my arm.  It could be my inner ear.  She has no earthly idea why I feel like I'm going to faint when all I'm doing is sitting down, though she says I do have a funky nerve thing that makes my heartrate drop by twenty beats per minute when I stand up.  (Dude, my inner hypochondriac LURVES the internets.  Just sayin.) 

Right now my inner arm is a full on freak show, and last night my whole left arm kept falling asleep, which (har har har) kept me awake.  Now in addition to having fear of huge earthquake rattling around the back of my head, I've got fear of tiny blood clots banding together and killing me dead at any moment.  There are other fears, too, (like fear of doctor making me give up caffeine and alcohol FER REALZ)  but frankly nobody has time for me to list them all out.  It's much more fun to flex, make a Hulk face, and say to the kids Don't make me angry. . . you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

No, not the movie with David Bowie

Smoke from all the fires burning in northern California has made the sky red and orange, turned the setting sun into a vibrant, hot pink ball, and hidden the hills entirely.  At first I could smell it, like a campfire, especially when I was inside my car.  I don't know if I'm used to it or if it's just broken down enough to not smell anymore, but all it does now is hang over the valley like fog that's been swept from the dirtiest corner imaginable. 

[Poorly-written, depression-related paragraph removed to spare your tender eyeballs.  You are welcome.]

Last Sunday at church, the religious ed teacher brought in a labyrinth (classical style) for the kids to walk.  It was drawn with black marker on a big, thick, white tarp that she unrolled across the floor.  She surrounded it with folding chairs, and ran a pretty barricade of yarn all around the chairs to keep people from stepping inside and onto the labyrinth with their shoes on.  After church, the kids were milling about, eating cake.  Sophie got herself a cup of decaf coffee.  I kicked off my shoes, stepped over the yarn, and walked the labyrinth a couple of times, from start to end, end to start.  Even surrounded by people, some of them on the loud side, I felt totally separate and alone as I walked the path with my hands out like airplane wings.  I don't think it's inaccurate to say that I was meditating, even though I was thinking.  It was like thinking with a brain suspended in cotton balls instead of whatever else it's usually floating in.   Funny how much clearer that imagined insulation makes everything.

I've relearned a few things this week that I already knew: people are always capable of surprising you, for good or for ill; you never know just how things will pan out; and, it is always a good idea to keep at least one foot firmly on the ground, because it's sometimes easy to get carried away when the rest of you is floating off somewhere pretty.  Also, it is important to remember to breathe.

cheer up

cheer up
Originally uploaded by jenijen

Summertime

I just realized that today is Solstice.  I'm such a bad pseudo pagan. 

Willow wanted some of the cherries I was eating, but she wasn't doing too well with the pits.  I cut a few up for her, and they looked like little valentines.

I was poking around Wikipedia for some other stuff and realized that they've got plain old dates in there, with all the events and births that happened on that day.  I'd always known that I shared a birthday with Larry Hagman and HG Wells, but was stoked to see that The Hobbit was published on my birthday, the very first ever episode of Monday Night Football aired on my actual birth day and year (ha! I am as old as Monday Night Football.  I wonder if we'll die together, too.), AND the NYTimes launched the first modern op-ed page.  Sandra Day O'Connor became the first woman to crack the supreme court's boys club, and once again this year my birthday is on the last day of summer.  My newly found birthday buddies are: Louis Joliet, Chuck Jones (rawk!), Leonard Cohen (double rawk!), Fannie Flagg, Jerry Bruckheimer, Steven King (oooooh), Don Felder (here on out I will sing: welcome to the hotel we-have-the-same-birthday), BILL MURRAY (huge celebrity crush), Anneliese Michel (poor girl), Ethan Cohen (omg!), Rob Morrow, Cecil Fielder, The Barenaked Ladies drummer (heh), Ricki Lake (w00t), Luke Wilson, Liam Gallagher, a bunch of footballers from the UK and South America, and, Nicole Ritchie (oh. my awesome list factor is tainted). 

They list deaths, too: Virgil, King Edward II, Chief Joseph, Florence Griffith Joyner, Bryan Smith (who hit Stephen King with his car -- weird that he died on SK's birthday. Don't mess the master of horror, dude.). 

Ok.  Write up your birthday list and leave me a link in the comments!  Let's see who'd have the most awesome birthday party if they could invite any living or dead people on their list. 

Happy summer.  Don't forget to jump through a fire with your lover for good luck.

Fryday

I worked in a chilly office all day and brought my lunch, so did not get outside even for a second. Then I  came home to a 93 degree, but pretty clean, house.  It's actually not too bad, except for right now with a hot laptop on my legs.  I guess that doing yoga in a heated studio just makes anything under 100 feel fine. 

Summer vacation is barely a week old, and already no one (except sometimes me) goes to bed when they should.  At 10:15 tonight I let Willow put on Martian Child.  And, yeah, the Cusack factor did help her case, but still -- she ought to be sleeping so that I can watch Juno because she's only five, not fifteen.  I bought it (Juno) a couple of weeks ago and keep falling asleep before having a chance to watch it.  This is the reason I buy instead of renting; it can be weeks before I get a moment to watch something. 

My step brother and his daughter came over the other night with her son.  He's eleven months old and wiry, like my babies all were.  He does that Spiderman crawl, on his feet and hands instead of his knees, and he's quick.  He has red hair.  He let me hold him (mmmmmmmm, baby holding) and give him a bottle.  He's got excema, and I remembered that i had an unopened thing of baby lotion that said all over the label "Even For Excema," so I put some on his poor little red knees.   To help him.

And, of course it burned like hell and he cried and whimpered and I have trouble recalling the last time that I felt so very, very terrible.  I was thinking of the time that I had a wicked sunburn on my back after spending a day watching the kids at the soccer field, and John put this aloe vera gel on my back.  It contained alcohol, and it was like fire.  I said all the bad words I know, jumped around, screamed at him (who cares about being unfair when it hurts SO bad), flapped like a bird, and got into a cold shower.  (My back still looks weird from that sunburn.)  I imagine he was feeling like that, but without the satisfaction of being able to pronounce the truly satisfying words that I was shrieking that day.

Well, Willow has finally fallen asleep.  I am going to get closer to the fan, put on my movie and do a little happy dance that Mercury is no longer retrograde. 

Meh

You know that feeling when you can tell you're getting sick, but you aren't sick yet?  Is it Pre-Sick?  A throat tickle, stingy lips, lightheadedness.  Chills.  I have been feeling that feeling, not about getting sick, but about getting depressed.  Maybe that is sick, but it's different.  I can't seem to get over it by taking extra vitamin C and sleeping more. 

Instead I am listening to sad music to try and get through it faster somehow, and then switching to more upbeat stuff when I'm too sad to stand up.  Nothing's wrong, exactly, but suddenly I just can't decide what to wear every morning, and I stand there in my bathrobe, looking in my closet for things that have never even been there, ever, but somehow I'm hoping they'll magically appear to make everything better, in only the way clothes can.  And I kind of want to run away to someplace warm, even though it's pretty hot here at the moment. 

I know it will pass, and probably return again, but I hate being at the very start of feeling like this. 

This morning I knew Willow was awake because I heard her singing.  I grabbed my camera, but just missed her, so this is a video of her command performance:

Overheard at my house

Me to the boys, while suffering through the longest full-body-shudder imaginable: Uh, don't go in the garage, when we were cleaning it out, we found (shuddering increases) poop from a rat. (at this point, I've got chills, too, and am madly brushing off my arms and legs and trying not to barf)

Nathan: Don't worry mom, it could be a family of rabbits!

x x x x x x x x x x x x

Sophie, in the kitchen on her toy cell phone while I make myself scrambled eggs with spinach:  Hello?  Oh, hai!  I can't believe it's you! *bats eyelashes*  Mom, would you like to talk to (cups her hand around her mouth so her voice won't go into the receiver) Tony Hawk?

Me: Why yes I would!  (takes phone) Hi, Tony!  Thank you so much for wearing a helmet while you skate and setting a good example for my kids!

x x x x x x x x x x x x

At the park with my extended family for Father's Day, my mom asks Lex how many songs are on his iPod:  Something like 20.  I'm really into the old classic rock, like Blind Melon and Marcy Playground.

Me: ::blinkblink::

[Really? he's got WAY more than 20 songs on there, unless he took some off.  Also, it's not the Sex&Candy song by Marcy Playground; I am not quite that laid back with my kids.  It's this one, about drugs, not sex!  This is the Blind Melon song he likes, and I still heart that video.  I was sure to snag the teachable moment and tell Lex that the lead singer died of a drug overdose.]

Seventh inning stretch

Yesterday at church, our minister was talking about sports and spirituality (that woman can make anything, and I do mean anything, work) and partway through she said, "I think it's time for a seventh-inning stretch!"  So, we stood up, stretched, and sang Take Me Out to the Ballgame.   Also, our awesome music guy played Centerfield on the piano, and not only was I not compelled to want to change the radio station, I, well, I actually sang along, and I thought really hard about clapping to those clappy bits.  I decided not to in the end, but only because no one else did. 

I was already wanting lately to go to a pro baseball game, now I really, really want to go to one.  I've never even been to the new stadium in San Francisco. 

Anyway, the kids thought that singing baseball songs was pretty fantastic, as did I.  And, I especially LOVED that after the service she handed out boxes of Cracker Jacks, which - w00t- are both gluten and dairy free!  I promise to never get preachy on you, but omg do I ever love my little church.   If you're so inclined, you can read more about UU here.

/sermon :)

So, the whole concept of the seventh-inning stretch has been floating around there in the back of my head today, because I hardly ever stop to take one and I think that if a game as slow-paced and as long as baseball sees the need to take a break, then surely the fast paced activities that make up my day call for a break or two.  Or eleven.

I'm also on a big kick to get rid of shit.  A couple of times a year our trash service will take extra crap away for free.  They do have some rules, but it's pretty much the perfect time to clean out the garage, which is how we spent the latter half of Sunday.  I even skipped yoga class.  That doesn't usually happen unless I am stuck in traffic, so this was a big Event.  Not only did we stack that garbage up at the curb (five strollers. FIVE! four of them useless and one of them too dirty to donate, though it was scavenged before 10pm, which made me happy), there were two van loads of stuff to donate to Goodwill.  I only cried once: when the covers-worn-off board book versions of Goodnight, Moon and The Big Red Barn went into the trash.  That was hard.  I miss those little chunky hands turning the pages and pointing.  I miss the baby voices filling in the words to Goodnight, Moon.  The kids are still fully capable of being sweet little things, but that's no longer the automatic setting, you know?

I suppose they make up for some of that just by being funny.  For some reason, whenever I ask them to Use good manners, please, they put on a British accent and stick out their pinky fingers.  Some of them throw around words like dainty and proper and charmed, but Sophie just tacks a phrase onto the end of every sentence.  She is wanting to say Tally-ho, but she says Charlie-ho.  Last night she said, Charlie-ho, I go to the best school in the butt universe, Charlie-ho! and when she says that, with her little pinky finger sticking up and with her British accent, you have to laugh because it is so deliciously weird.  She was doing it again tonight, saying, Charlie-ho, let's play the Wii Fit, shall we, Mother?  The girl has learned how to make the folks around her unable to say no, and THAT is what I'm talking about when I say Life Skill. 

While going through the stuff in the garage, I found some of my great-grandmother's things.  They were stored inside a duffel bag that I have had forever, one I used to bring back and forth to ballet class twenty years ago.  There is one of her billfolds covered in superfly gold sequins, a couple of gorgeous beaded handbags, a coin purse or two, and the gloves.  Oh my, those gloves.  When I think of my Great-GrannyMomma, I think of her wearing gloves always, no matter what, and of cat-eye, thick rimmed glasses, and of the clear plastic headcover she popped on when it rained.  I don't know if I remember for real her fake pink Christmas tree, or if I have put together a memory of it from photos and family stories, which say that it was up every year from Thanksgiving until Easter.  I seem to remember rose-scented and horribly waxy lipstick, and perfume that I can't name but could identify in a heartbeat.   The gloves were all in dry cleaner's bags, and these were the best of the bunch:

(feeling silly, but this won't rotate for me. oh well. just please tilt your head to the right or your monitor to the left.  sorry!)

I have to admit that it's unsettling to me that there will be people in my life, should I live to be an old woman, who will only know me as very old and who will never believe that I used to be able to turn cartwheels and run so fast. Not so different from how my almost-grown boys used to be these sweet smelling and cooing little babies, but that part of them is now pretty much unimaginable, especially to people who have only met them recently.  I think I will always think of myself as a bit of a kid, at least physically, but someday that will be the last thing that anyone thinks of when they know me  and are asked to describe me.  It's not bad, it's just that thinking about it makes me stop for a second (a seventh-inning stretch!) and think.  I can't even express it properly, obviously, but I do know that when I think of my Great-Grandmother, I never even imagine her young.  As if she never was.  Photos of her as a younger woman don't really look like her to me, but she probably didn't much recognize the woman in the mirror by the time I was born.  I wonder what things will remind my kids or grandkids or, if I am super lucky, my great-grandkids of me.  And what would Great-GrannyMomma chose for us to remember her by?  Did she think that her great-granddaughter would remember her mostly by gloves?  Gloves that I suspect she wore to cover up age spots and lessen the impression that she'd grown into an old woman. 

If I could go back in time

At Lex's graduation (which we'd all have missed if Nathan hadn't called me from his classroom to say it was at 10, NOT 10:30, allowing me (at 9:58) to call Lex's dad and my mom, and then race to the school) they played a video made up of all the fifth graders answering one of the following questions:

• Who is your hero?
• What advice do you have for incoming 5th graders?
• If you could go back in time, what one thing would you change?
• Who is your best friend?
• Who do you want to be the next president?

Lex said, If I could go back in time, I would save John Lennon*, because I really, really love his music.

Next, they gave certificates to the kids who won the spelling bee, and also to the winning debate team.  Lex was on the debate team (if you have ever met him, you are saying out loud DUH!) and his teacher read the team's closing argument.  While she read, Lex pointed his thumb at his chest, mouthing, I wrote that!  I was sitting next to Lex's dad, who leaned over and told me that his finance's brother, a lawyer -- a Harvard-educated lawyer -- had helped Lex write that closing argument.  I always make the kids do their own work, but I have to admit that the lesson Lex learned (if you're gonna have a grown up help you, pick the one who is the Very Most Qualified) is just as valuable. 

Finally, the kids got their certificates and handshakes, but not before each stopping by the microphone on the way and telling the audience one last thing.  Each kid had a promise: I promise to do my best in school.  I promise to always be kind and respectful.  I promise to clean my room. (I cheered for that kid) I promise to become an NHL player, make the All Star team, and buy my mom a penthouse in New York City.  I promise to never give up on my dreams; the easy ones and the hard ones.  I promise to have a successful life.  I promise to play in the NBA.  I promise to become a veterinarian.  I promise to eat my vegetables.  I promise to follow my dream of becoming a doctor.  It was so sweet, watching the kids approach the microphone with varying levels of excitement and dread, twisting in place while talking.  I watched the girls who'd dressed up, wobbly on unfamiliar high heeled shoes (funny how liberal and laid back I am, and yet NO FIFTH GRADER OF MINE will ever wear black, strappy, kitten heels with a too-short dress and full makeup.  OVER MY COLD, DEAD BODY). Lex said, I promise to live each day as if it were my last. He's got a bit of the romantic dreamer in him, that's for sure.

They closed by showing a long slideshow of photos taken during the year, set to music with lots of strings, and also What a Wonderful World sung by Iz Kamakawiwo`ole.  I'm a die-hard Louis Armstrong fan, but I love Iz's version just as much.  Anyway, between the music and the great shots of my very own kid (one of him from the back, bending over with his red and white plaid boxers hanging over the top of the waistband of his black jeans), and my mom getting teary, and then the big, tall dad next to me getting teary, I finally quietly lost it. 

Tonight Lex and I went to dinner at a swank restaurant:

We were there for a long time, but never ran out of stuff to talk about.  I really do enjoy his company.  My plate is grilled wild salmon on a bed of black rice, with endive, basil, strawberries and basalmic vinegar.  I nearly cried it was so very good.  I miss swank.  Must get swankier!

We sat outside and watched the sky.  The fires in the mountains south of us *you'll want to read about that here, because I can't do it any justice in this post* turned the sky orange and grey and brown all at once.  It was so striking that I kept turning to look at it.  I tired to take a photo, but even my iPhone got confused.  Look:

Honestly, I did not drop the phone into my glass of wine.  Maybe it's trying to tell me something.  Like charades, only minus the gesturing.  Okay, that would just make it a clue, really.  Nevermind.

At the end of the meal, our waitress said, Well, I don't know where you got him, but he's great!  He held the door open for me.  I gave him major praise for that one and while I was at it, I told him that there is no such thing as going Dutch.  I said that if he asks a girl on a date, he should ALWAYS pay for everything.  Really? he asked.  Really, I said.  And if she offers, you just look her in the eye and say, No, I wouldn't dream of it.  Now what movie did you say you'd like to see? 

Several times after we got back home he told me what a great day he'd had.  And it was, really, pretty great.  I wonder if he feels like I do, like it's all a little hard to absorb just yet because it seems unreal.  Didn't he just fall and break his arm in second grade?  How is he two months away from middle school?  How is he suddenly two thirds of the way grown?   

*they share a birthday

last day of school

Such a fine young man

Lex has been bugging me to take him shopping for a sports coat to wear to his fifth grade graduation tomorrow.  I told him no, because I am a grumpy cheapskate, but he begged.  We settled, finally, on a new vest and shirt.  Tonight we finally got an evening together to go shopping, and the only vests we could find were toddler sized.  There was one rack of bigger boys' slacks and blazers, and since they were all on sale, I let him try on a black suit jacket and slacks, along with a black dress shirt that came with its very own silver and black clip-on tie. 

He let me come into the dressing room with him, and I remembered that it was the very same dressing room he and Nathan and I all piled in when we shopped for the shirts and pants and ties for the boys to wear to my brother's wedding.   I ended up having to talk him into the suit jacket, because he was unimpressed with the concept of shoulder pads (I'm doing *something* right there) and he said it made him look "stiff."  But, he'd just a few minutes before told me about his plan for tomorrow morning.

Tomorrow I need to leave the house early, he told me.  C is going to get dropped off at our house at 7:30, and then we're going to go to N's house and the three of us are going to ride our old tricycles to school. Oh, I said, I thought I was going to walk you to school one last time.  Oh, he said, I thought it would be a good symbol of growing up: you know, riding to school in my dress up clothes on my old trike, but all big.  I looked at him, and I know it's not right to brag on your own kid too much, but damn I was proud.  Yes, yes it would be excellent, I told him.  Would you mind too much if I tagged along, to take pictures?  He agreed to let me, and it wasn't begrudgingly, either.  He's happy to have me come along, and I'm even happier he's still letting me.

So, that was how I talked him into the maybe just a scootch in the shoulders too big suit jacket: I told him it would look awesome trailing out behind him as he pedaled his trike. 

After we got the clothes figured out, we went to the shoe department looking for either a new pair of checkerboard Vans to replace his current one, or a new pair of Chuck Taylors.  They didn't have checkerboard Vans, just plain black and white ones, so he went with the All-Stars.  While we were looking, I found a pair of little girls' Converse that were black with cherry-print STARS on the sides, and a little pair of cherries on the toe.  W A N T !

I regularly buy my shoes in the little girls' department, but they didn't have those in my size on the shelves.  Lex wanted to ask a sales person, but I told him that if they did have them, chances were they'd be out.  He pressed the issue, and I told him that I don't need any more shoes, and that it was time to pay up and get home.  At the register, he couldn't help himself, My mom is looking for some cherry Converse shoes, do you have them in her size?

We then spent a few fruitless minutes, looking at the same boxes with the guy.  They didn't have them, which is fine, but I found it amazingly sweet that he wanted to be sure that we'd really looked before we left. 

Happy Graduation, Alex.  You are a lovely young man, I love you, and you make me proud.

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I want to rock your gypsy soul

We're only about a 35 minute drive from the beach and sometimes I think that not going every single day, even just for a short visit, is a sign that I am ungrateful, spoiled, and just plain stupid.  I will admit that over the past 27 years I've lived here, there have been stretches where I didn't go to the ocean, maybe one of them even lasted a year.  Even though it's not far, there is a whole mountain between here and there that makes it seem more distant, if that makes any sense.  These days I'm busier than I have ever been, but for me I find that the busier I am the more vital it is for me to pack in some restorative things in my everyday life, too.  I mean, I'm already spun from the busy; what's one more thing?  Busy usually brings out a little creativity, a desire to cook, the actual planning and completing of (!) projects.  When I have too much time on my hands, I don't get anything done.  I suppose if I want that to change about me then I shouldn't put it out there as how things are, but I don't envision being not busy again for a long while so maybe it doesn't matter. 

On Sunday night, after I came home from yoga class and showered and grabbed a few handfuls of pistachios, some chips and salsa, and a peach for supper, John and I took Willow to the beach to watch the sun go down.  Now, though we do live on the WEST coast, the direction in the sky where the sun sets, most of the beaches around here don't really provide for direct sunset viewing.  Usually, if you are facing the water (and if you are me), the sun will go down somewhere over your right shoulder.  The coast doesn't really always face west.  (Gwendolyn will probably have a list of beaches that do face west for me?)

Here's a shot of the faintly pink and orange sky over the lovely pastel town of Capitola:

My only complaint about Capitola is that everything is locked up tight really early at night.  We left the beach after dark because Willow made an ant hill out of sand and really, really, REALLY didn't want to leave it there because WHO would take care of her ants and what if some kids decided to wreck it (Like I just did to that other sand thing that another kid left on the beach, she cried, not seeing the irony.  (That is irony, right?  My english major days are long over with.)).  There was not a single place open to get hot chocolate (or a margarita) or take Willow to pee before the ride home.

But who needs all that, when there are FREE briquettes to be found in the sand?

I love to stand on the beach, even though the ocean terrifies me almost as much as it relaxes me.  Maybe it's those two extremes all at once that make it so appealing.  It must be a little subconsciously reassuring to stand there, mildly panicked that the whole.entire.ocean. could just reach up and swallow me in a heartbeat if it wanted to, but to fully enjoy each second that it didn't.  Each second just standing there.

I need to stop that or people are going to make fun of me.

But, doesn't the ocean seem like an exotic and beautiful wild animal?  Even though it's dangerous, we're drawn by it's hypnotic beauty and just want to be near it.

After the sun was long past set, we finally convinced Willow to come home with us.  But we had to promise that we'd be back for a longer visit really soon.

 

it's more like wrestling than knitting

it's more like wrestling than knitting
Originally uploaded by jenijen

I started off making a kerchief thing. You know, to wear on my head. But knitting into the front and back of stitches with this CHUNKY but sometimes very thin yarn was not working.

Next I put a few rows in for a scarf. But I made it too wide, and I never really wear scarves, so I ripped it out and shook my sore from gripping the needles fist at the sky and said bad words. Passionately.

Now I am making a hat. Four rows in I've got three extra stitches on my needles, but I'm pretty sure that it won't matter. The yarn is so kooky (but in a superfantastic way) that the details of how the thing is made will be covered up. Given that the arthritis (jeez, a moment of silence for my lost youth here, K?) in my hands gets worse when I knit, all I can hope is that this ball of yarn is enough to finish the hat.

If it's not, I'll probably just find a way to shrink my head.

The funny part is I'm more of a Jack Black kinda girl

Yesterday I worked from home because I have one of those stupid summer colds.  I still had to get the kids up and out, though, which meant that I had to get somewhat dressed.  I usually sleep in pajama bottoms and a tee shirt, so being dressed enough to drop the kids off just meant replacing the pjs with jeans, and not worrying about the oversized, light blue shirt with a bird silhouette stenciled in green on front.  My hair was funky, so I grabbed one of the girls' headbands -- a pink, white, and black plaid one.  Oh, and flip flops.  And, uh, no bra.

The doorbell rang at 7:30, and I figured it was C, Lex and Nate's friend who sometimes catches a ride to school with us and comes over every afternoon.  No.  No, it was a man from PG&E (pacific gas/electric), wanting to know if that Honda was mine.  Which Honda, I asked, the van in the driveway?  No, he said, the Accord at the curb.  I told him it wasn't ours and I didn't know who it belonged to. 

When we left for school, we saw all the big cherry picker trucks gathered on our street.  They're doing something with the streetlights, but I don't know what. 

I ended up getting more done than usual yesterday, working all alone in the big chair in my living room near the open window.  It was perfect outside, and I could hear the windchimes and feel the breeze.  I think if office buildings had functional windows and let people sit near them the GNP would go up.  I'd like it, anyhow. 

At the end of the day, the big kids went to their dad's, John went to a concert, and Willow and I stayed up too late playing Wii Fit.  I got it for the kids last week, but this was the first time I've had a chance to try it out.  I don't think the yoga balance should be judged so harshly, and I yelled at the trainer BALANCE IS DYNAMIC AND FLUID, DUMBASS!  At least my Wii Fit age is under my actual, real-life age.  And the board weighed me a little light, too, so that kept my annoyance in check. 

After Willow fell asleep, I watched The Big Lebowski on Hulu.com, and then I went to bed. 

Where I had a dream that proved to me that my subconcious has been secretly renewing that Tiger Beat subscription for the past 25 years.  OK -- so I was staying in this bright red hotel with pink curtains somewhere on the East Coast near a big lake.  Brad and Angelina were there, too, and she was in labour -- you know, with the twins!  They needed to get to the hospital, but she couldn't really sit because she couldn't bend at the waist, and everyone was wondering how they'd get there.  We were all in the little lounge area of the hotel, and I was talking on the phone and holding a bunch of lemons.  I put the reciever to my chest to mute it, and I said to Brad, You can borrow my Honda; it's a van!  She'll totally be able to lie down while you drive.  And he looked at me so kindly from the rocking chair where he was sitting, flashed me a smile, and said, Thanks.  I put down some lemons and fished the keys from my pocket, tossed them over, and then went back to my phone call. 

willow

willow
Originally uploaded by jenijen

the graduate

Seven years

Seven years ago today I gave birth on my couch.

It was supposed to be in my own bed, not on my couch (which was actually my mom's that I got when she bought new furniture) but I couldn't move myself there.  When labour is only three hours from start to finish, you just have to go with it.

I should back up.  I planned to have Sophie at home.  I had just my mom, my friend Karen, and my midwife Veronica there completely on purpose.  Both the boys were born in hospital, and both were inductions with lotsa drugs and epidurals.  When I was pregnant with Sophie, several of my friends had recently had homebirths, and I was rivited as they recounted their experiences to me.  I'd never seen these women so animated and passionate about something.  It was amazing; the idea that birth is an event, not necessarily a medical one, that I could be in charge of.  With the boys I gave in to so many orders that I should have rejected, just to keep from rocking the boat.  I allowed Nathan to be born early because my doctor was going on vacation.  When he was born I felt absolutely horrible that he wouldn't nurse and so clearly wasn't ready to be born.  He slept until his due date, and until then I put cold wet washcloths on his feet and tried to get him to wake up and nurse all the while crying and whispering to him that I was so sorry. 

I wanted something better for Sophie, even though if I thought about it too hard, I was more than a little scared.  A couple of things: at the time I lived about five minutes from a major hospital; (a level one trauma center with an amazing NICU that I learned about firsthand 20 months later when Willow was born) and my midwife had been delivering babies for over thirty years, often in rural villages in remote and impoverished areas with very little resources.  She was more experienced than most doctors, and also respectful enough to insist that a medical back up plan was in place.  She missed the days when she could deliver breech babies -- she said they were the most fun births -- but she also understood that birth could be dangerous and could have complications.  She just didn't believe that that is the case most of the time.  I agree with her 100%.

With Sophie, I felt my first real contraction at 3 a.m.  I think I called my mom at about 3:01.  When she arrived, the boys were sleeping (I was a single mom at the time) and I was on my hands and knees, rocking back and forth.  The first thing my mom asked was if I'd called Veronica, and I remember saying that I hadn't.  After we called her, and my friend Karen, we started filling up the "birthing pool."

Okay.  The birthing pool was really a Rubbermaid horse trough that I rented from a hippie couple in Morgan Hill.  I bought a brandspankingnew garden hose for the occasion, which was SUPPOSED to be along the lines of fill the tub up with hot water and float around while you're in serious labor.  And I know that you are all: gardenhose? w t everlovin f?  Well, the gardenhose was to attach to the kitchen faucet since I had no washing machine hookup, and the hot water would be turned on and the birthing pool would fill and then I'd get in and bob around all serene like and, you know, labour. 

The reality was that the only action that birthing pool saw was from the boys climbing around in it during the couple weeks before Sophie was born.  It was all set up in my living room, in front of the fireplace, and they were understandably drawn to it.  When my mom and I tried to fill it, we ended up just laughing (for me BETWEEN contractions only) at the piddly little puny trickle of hot water coming out of the hose.  I think that my mom pointed out that the pool would be filled sometime around Sophie's college graduation at that rate.   I could have filled it faster by spitting into it. 

I remember that I spent the whole labour on my couch, mostly on my left side.  I barfed with every single contraction, and it was hard, hard work.  My mom and Karen were incredible support, and I remember Veronica laying on a pallet in front of me in the dark with her eyes closed telling me to breathe and rest and sleep and trust myself. 

Childbirth hurts.  People who say it's like really bad period cramps are full of shit.  Okay, in my experience they are full of shit.  Maybe they got lucky and that's how it was for them.  LUCKY THEM.  It was odd to be so happy and feeling so good, while also struggling to not get lost in the very real pain I was having.  No orgasms, no happy place, no serene and vaseline-lensed reclining: it was the hardest physical work I've ever done.   There was a point where I realized that I'd made a stupid error and that there was No Possible Way I could have this child at home.  I told Veronica that I'd been wrong; that I NEEDED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL NOW.  And she checked in on me and said, Okay, it's time to push.  Apparently, when a mother says she's totally over it, she's ready to deliver.

Don't hate me, but with two and a half pushes, Sophie was born.  My water didn't break until she was coming into the world, so she was born all pink and clean and perfect.  Veronica laid her on my chest, and we didn't cut the cord for a good hour, until after all the energy she needed from the placenta had a chance to travel in.   She didn't even get (or need) a proper bath for a few weeks, and I think I sniffed her head every minute or so until she did.

After she was born, I had that thing that I'd glimpsed in other women.  I have never felt, before or since, so very capable.  Of anything.  Anything at all.  It was life changing, as dorky as that may sound.  Nothing in my life can compare, and nothing else gave me anything close to that sense of confidence, of self-assuredness.  And I can't tell you the change it is to have a baby in a quiet room, with low lights, an open door with the 6 a.m. spring breeze coming in, no IV for me or heel sticks or eye ointment for her.  There just is not as much room for wonder and magic in the hospital.  The loud overhead speakers and beeping machines and closed-tight windows and television sets really get in the way.  It was so amazing that everyone just whispered, not wanting to break the spell.

And now Sophie is this little woman.  She's snarky as hell, funny and smart and engaging.  In many ways she's a lot of the things I aspire to.   I look at her now, so beautiful and here and amazing, and I am simply floored by her potential.

Cake! liveblogged

Monday, June 2nd @ 11pm: Tomorrow Sophie turns seven, and I am staying up way too late to bake her a cake.  Not just a cake: a pink, 2 layered, confetti strewn, TIARA TOPPED, very PINK, cake. 

Of course, like anything I've attempted lately, it's not cooperating and being straightforward.  Or, maybe it is and I'm just the one with the difficult temper.  The first strike against me came with pan sizes.  Now, until I uncovered this fucking gluten problem, I was an awesome baker.  My cookies -- you want them.  Cake?  I rocked it.  Mini cupcakes, pie crust, biscuits -- I was your girl.  But I am a little sour grapes over the whole no flour thing still and haven't done very much gluten free baking.  Apparently, I'd rather stomp and pout.  Anyway, that all said, do you have a 6" cake pan?  I needed an 8" and a 6" to make the layered cake.  I've got a few 9" and some niiiiiice 8", but 6"?  No.  I did scrounge up a (probably) 7" springform pan, so I'm using that.  Also, since I don't bake much anymore, my baking powder is past the Best By date.  I don't have cornstarch, so I have to use the old stuff instead of making more. 

Okay, the challenge of live blogging baking is that no actual baking gets done.  I'm going to get this in the oven and come back.

11:15 ish: w00t

Cake is in the oven, and it's so cute and pink.  I'm worried that there wasn't much batter to go between the two pans, and that my baking powder is not activating on the liquid side.  Hopefully the heat side will kick in and I won't end up with pink hockey pucks.   But, seriously, so long as the frosting is good, the cake part can be less than stellar. 

11:40: The cake rose!  It smells really quite good and is almost done.  I think that frosting will have to wait until tomorrow.  I'll be back at 5:15 with coffee, butter, powdered sugar, and more pink food coloring.

June 3rd, 5:39 am: ugh.  Happy Birthday Sophie!

The sun is coming up.  My kitchen windows face east and I can see the pretty orange and pink sky through gaps in the tree branches.  I'm going to get more coffee and find the butter and make pink frosting. 

5:45: How does a person LOSE a set of measuring cups, exactly?

5:48: By using them the night before; washing and drying them, and then putting them away in the fridge.

6:03: Remember to not turn the Kitchen Aid on too high right after adding powdered sugar to the bowl.  It takes awhile to clean that shit up.

6:10: Feel good and sorry for yourself because you can't eat any of the butter/powdered sugar/milk/vanilla/pink! frosting.  Turn on some music and realize you need to haul ass to get the kids up and out on time.  Thank Maude that there isn't too much work email to take care of and be careful to not get butter on the MacBook.  Wonder why the shift away from first person and get over that. 

6:18: Time to frost the cake.  Crossing legs for good luck, because fingers are busy.

6:20: I am saying VERY BAD WORDS because last night I put the cakes on plates and wrapped them up and left them on top of the washer and now the cakes are fucking STUCK to the plates.  I'm going to see if I can use a big knife to get them off in one piece. 

6:23: The cakes look like shit!  But I have a magic little Martha icing spatula thing and I will camouflage and use extra sprinkles.

6:27: Birthday Girl is up and opening cards.  Heh!

6:29: It sucks to frost a cake with a messed up top.  Crumbs get in the frosting and I might be about to cry.  More coffee!

7:00  The cake is done and the end result looks like Sophie helped me much more than she actually did.  She DID help, though, with the confetti and the TIARA placement.  She was way too excited to wait to open her present, so I gave it to her, straight out of my closet all unwrapped.  I made her close her eyes.  She got a Nintendo DS, a black one which is supercool.  And, now that we are totally late, I have to light a fire under a few tiny asses.

7:13: Nathan is pissed off at me for not waking him up at 5:30.  Today one of the video games we've got on reserve comes out, and even though the store won't open for hours, I suck for not waking him up at the crack of crack.  He will not be reasoned with, and is hiding under a quilt on his bed.  I am having some good luck though, with my hair.  I took a shower after yoga last night and skipped both product and blow dryer.  This morning I woke up, and while I'm not at all one to brag, my hair was looking kinda fabulous.  I'm sure that by lunch it will be all flat and crappy looking, but so far I haven't even had to brush it.  Also?  I found five freshly laundered bux in my pocket.  Lunch money!

7:36: Nathan is not mad anymore, but my hair already looks like hell.

7:48: Birthday girl still in PJs, Lex already walked to school, but other three are huddled around Soph watching her play BrainAge.  Sophie has a tummy ache.  Uh huh. 

8:06: Headed out the door to take the kids to school, which starts in 9 minutes.

8:29: John is back from work, which means I can leave and go drop off the cooking oil I forgot to send to school with the rest of the ingredients for Sophie's class to bake birthday muffins (her dad is taking off work to come and help) and also VOTE!

/liveblogging

Maybe you will always be just a little out of reach

I bought it from iTunes last night and put it on my iPod (hi, apple commercial ending now) and listened to it while I drove to work this morning.  It made me happy.  The kids like it, too, especially Lex.

I realized I *am* feeling happier, though nothing has changed.  Maybe it's all the extra sunshine helping to fix my low vitamin D levels, maybe I got tired of being depressed.  Or, maybe it's because of songs to sing along to, and gluten AND dairy free brownies. 

Yesterday I took Lex shopping for cleats, a soccer ball, shin guards -- all that, and then we went to the new player evaluation.  While we waited for the coaches to show up, Lex went on the field to run around and kick the new ball. He wanted me to play, so I took off my sandals, and we practiced passing while running, drop kicks, goal tending, trapping, and headers.  It was so fun, even though I was barefoot and wearing a strapless bra.  (If I'm gonna be a soccer mom, I'm at least gonna go for sexay.)  Turns out all the parents remembered to show up, but the people from the league did not.  He'll have to go back and do the skill thing another time.  I was glad, actually, that I got to just hang out with my boy.  It's getting to be so rare for just the two of us to do anything.  We went to Peet's on the way home for iced peppermint tea.  Lex wanted to sit outside, so we did.  There was this guy, kinda 'normal' looking (whatever that is) with a bike nearby and a helmet on.  He was sitting alone at a table with his coffee and writing and drawing in a paper journal.  I thought about how much I love journals with drawings scattered throughout the pages, and was just about to point him out to Lex when I saw what his tshirt said: If You Are What You Eat, I'm a Redhead.

After I stopped gagging, I grabbed Lex and said we should get home.  I did NOT want to try and explain that to him, even though we talk about pretty much everything.  Once we got home, he was drawn to the internet and I was drawn to my bed.  No one else was home, and so I NAPPED.  I don't know the last time I napped.  Maybe that's why I'm feeling less like laying down in the street today.