Not Calm (dot com)

Ah mes oui, savez toujours delice!

::see this if you are wondering about the title::

I'm not going to lie; I was pretty pissed about the fish.  I was literally just back from camping with the girls all weekend at a place with no showers when I talked to Nathan on the phone and he told me that he was bringing a fish home.  A whole fish.  A dead fish.  A trout that some guy, some other fisherman, caught and gave to him because the kids hadn't caught any fish on the fishing trip they went on with their grandpa.  And could I come get him now?  Even though I hadn't had a chance to shower yet? 

I texted SG:

Holy shit.  The boys are coming home with a whole fish.  Their gparents took them fishing, they caught 0, and some guy gave them a fish that *I* am supposed to f'ing gut.  FML.  Can you talk me thru it? I have no idea how. Am PISSED.  Wah ;-*

Nate and I had some back and forth about What To Do with the fish.  He was perfectly willing to clean it, but pointed out to me that he's ten and not super experienced with a knife.  He suggested throwing it out, but my former vegetarian mind couldn't wrap itself around that.  No, I told him, you can't just throw it out.  I know! he said, I'll look it up on YouTube!

And, he did just that, then announced he was ready.  I got out a cutting board (which I'll probably avoid forever and should just get rid of now) and a big chef's knife, a small paring knife, kitchen shears (which he didn't use, thankfully), and my toothbrush.  I gave him a plastic bag for the guts and head and any other ickyness there may be to discard, and left him to it.  Luckily, our kitchen sink is a double wide, or whatever you'd call it.  It's big.  Big enough to fit the cooler with the fish inside, the little cutting board, and the plastic bag. 

Then, I wished him luck and went to my room.  

I was rewarded with some excellent running commentary.  The girls were playing with stuffed animals in the living room (they were playing Girl Scout Camp, it was pretty damn cute) and Nate kept yelling to them: DO NOT COME IN TO THE KITCHEN.  YOU WILL BARF.  ALSO, YOU WILL BE SCARED.  DON'T COME IN HERE.  SERIOUSLY.  WHATEVER YOU DO, DO *NOT* COME IN! TO! THE! KITCHEN!

Of course, the next thing I hear is the girls' squeals.   I may have hid in my bed with a pillow over my head.  Maybe.

By the time I came to the kitchen, the girls were back to their game and Nate was making good progress.  The fish was split down the belly side, and the guts were out.  The head was already gone, and I talked him through chopping off the tail.  Then he split it down the back, pulled out most of the bones, flipped the fillets over and did some scale removal.  True that that part should have come first (I think) but all was fine since he was frequently soaking the fish in a bowl of water and rinsing it under running water.  I only hovered with the bleach spray a little, and didn't shriek when I told him to Keep that shit IN the sink, dude.   He used my toothbrush to clean out some kind of vein.  I totally earned my mom cred by not puking. 

We got out a frying pan, some butter and the cornmeal.  He washed and dried the fish once more, then gave it a nice coating of cornmeal and put it in the pan of sizzly, already browning butter.  I took over the clean up, because I wanted to be able to touch my kitchen sink again someday.  Less than ten minutes later, he sat at the table, eating his fish and feeling really great.  He talked me into trying a bite, and it was good. 

I'm proud of that kid.  I remember, clearly, when I was ten, getting out of the shower and calling for my mom to come and blow dry my hair.  I was a good kid, but there is no way in hell I'd have been able to do what he did, even though I started fishing at a much younger age.  I just never caught anything big enough to eat.  

We talked about how it went afterward; a sort of pescapostmortem, I guess.   He told me that it was much easier once he finally got the head chopped off, because up till then it sort of looked like the mouth was screaming as he sawed at the neck.  That was when I nearly wished I'd done it for him myself, but let's face it; I'd have been freaking out and flapping around the kitchen like a great big goofy bird at one feel of squishy dead fish under my fingertip.  And, as for chopping it up?  Not happening.  Sometimes we take care of our kids, other times they take care of us. 

I didn't get any gory fish photos.  I just couldn't.  I did get tons of camping pictures of the girls, though.

 

   

Some call it brave

shells SG picked up for Willow in Monterey Bay that have nothing to do with this post, but they're pretty, and it was really nice of him to bring them to her

My kids are on spring break, and so yesterday they were home with me on my work from home day.  I actually managed to get a lot done, thanks to a magic combo of unlimited, early-morning Easter candy, movies, and Photobooth on the kids' Mac. 

At lunchtime the girls and I went to Trader Joe's to get stuff for supper and both the girls got balloons.  Sophie had yellow, Willow had orange.  We were headed out the door, and I asked them if they wanted me to tie a sliding loop in the strings so they could put them on their wrists, because they were just holding onto the end of the ribbon and we all know how *that* usually works out.  No, they said, We've got it, they said, We won't let go.

So, big surprise, we are two steps out the door and up goes the yellow balloon.  Willow is still holding the orange one, and immediately Sohpie tries to take it from her, saying, That one is mine!  Yours was yellow!  Mine is orange!

Willow's of course protesting, but Soph is having none of it.  And, watching her and listening to her, I get the feeling that she believes what she is saying.  Not because it's logical, but because she just wants so badly for it to not be her standing on the walkway, crying and watching her balloon turn into a little yellow dot overhead.  Her behavior is so rotten, though, that I'm not inclined to help her.  Instead, I help Willow to the car, put in my groceries and call to Sophie to either run in for a new one, or get in the car.  We need to leave so we can pick up Nate from an appointment.  Soph stands there in her Easter dress and flip flops, with a bow in her hair; arms crossed, foot tapping, scowling at me.  That was NOT my balloon, she hollers at me.  I look back at her, shading my eyes with one hand.  You've got thirty seconds to go get a new one before we leave, I call to her.

She spins around and back into the store wiping her tears on the back of her hand as she walks inside.  Then she's back, at my side with her new balloon, laughing.  Hop in, I tell her, we have to scram.

I watch her in the rear view mirror, being silly with her sister and the dozen stuffed animals they insisted on bringing.  It would be easy, maybe, to call her a brat over this whole balloon thing.  I mean, it was so clearly wrong of her to try and tell me that it was Willow's balloon that floated away.  It was wrong of her to try and take Willow's.  It was wrong of her to lie.  Maybe it's just because I'm her mother -- though I am honestly the type to call my kid on their rotten behavior rather than try and justify it -- but I caught her eye in the mirror and she smiled at me, nicely, and I admired her for her efforts.  It's hard to explain right, and maybe I can't, but I'm thinking that this stubborn devotion of hers will bring her some good things if she can ever learn to keep it in check.  She sure as hell won't be the girl who sits on the sidelines as life passes by.  Things won't happen "to" her, she'll be the one making things happen.  At least that is my hope. 

Cute factor is off the charts

hiccups, originally uploaded by jasonsyawp.

My brother, laughing at his hiccuping baby.

Meet Maxwell Stanley

Saturday before last, this baby made my little brother into a dad; a completely smitten and full of wonder dad who tells me on the phone that he could easily sit and hold his son all day and just *look* at him. 

I know, I said, isn't it the coolest?

There is nothing like hearing such tender happiness in the voices of the people you love.  I am so happy for him and for my amazing sister-in-law.  I get to go meet the new guy in a few weeks.  I can't wait to hold him and smell his head and send my brother and his wife out on a date so they can blink their eyes and look at each other across the table in that stunned and sort of dazed way that new parents with not enough sleep and a whole lot of love have.  

Now to talk them into blogging. . .

Play it once, Sam, for old times' sake

When I was little, maybe ten, my mom bought this old player piano from someone in Santa Cruz who lived at the bottom of a steep hill.  Or maybe the top.  All I remember is the story of how the driveway was so steep that they weren't sure the truck would make it up (or down) the hill with the piano in the bed. 

It's old.  It's a little broken.  Someone (hello late 60s and early 70s) painted it the color of split pea soup, even though the wood beneath is dark and lovely.  The keys are yellowed, but I'm sure they are ivory.  There is a cigarette burn between the two last keys on the right, and one (or more maybe) of the keys hasn't worked since it began its time in our dining room.  By the time it was in the bed of my stepdad's truck, the player parts to it were lost.  But I seem to remember a big roller that fit in the sliding wood front, so maybe not. 

A few years ago, after piano fixers patted it and just shook their heads and sighed, it ended up in my garage.  Mom took the beautiful front piece off so that it could be refinished and hung on the wall, and the rest is here, with me.  It would cost so much money to restore it that the piano people said it wouldn't be ethical to do the job and that the wood is in no shape to ever hold a tune even with a major overhaul.  Still, though, I'd love to someday strip all the old paint off and see what could be done with it.  It's so beautiful, even in its rundown condition.  Then again, I'm partial to things that are weathered and worn: old and broken windows in abandonded factories; wooden doors with peeling paint; faded and paint-peeling rowboats; beat up old 1940's pickup trucks; falling-down barns and leaning barbed-wire fences.  I nearly lost my mind when I first saw those coffee tables made out of old doors. 

My dad's cousin hates to cook, so she pulled the burners out of her stove and put in some potted plants.  Maybe I'll throw a big party, force my friends to help me refinish the piano, and then use it as a spice rack.  Or, I could put a stereo inside it.  Make it into a computer desk? 

He don't care for high-tone places

 
 

Just getting the last of the blue out of my system here.  I'm not sure what grabbed me and made me all weepy, but I spent a few days with tears in my eyes and everything was too loud and too bright and so damn hard to take. 

I'm feeling better.  At least consciously working on getting a grip seems to be helping.  I went to a big craft store on my way home yesterday and got a BOX of safety pins for the socks.   The big kids weren't here last night, but when Willow took off her socks at bedtime and I showed her the plan, she laughed and laughed.  She thinks it's a great idea, and very funny.  Today I did a little meal planning, and after work I'll pick up the stuff I need at the store.  On Friday, when I can find socks and I don't have to worry about what is for dinner, maybe I'll feel good enough to start singing in the shower again. 

I am happy.  Very happy, in fact.  Even more happy than usual, because my little brother and his wife just had a baby last Saturday.  I cannot *wait* to go see them next month.  At the same time, I've got a lot of fucking balls in the air and I'm feeling a lot of guilt over all the ones I'm dropping.  I need to find that balanced zone of knowing when to cut myself some slack and when to push myself harder.  I need to make the asshole critic in my head into a more helpful and constructive persona.  That said, when the critic really gets me down, I feel entitled to have gummi bears and Patron for dinner.  So, thanks, Critic, for the excuse to be indulgent last night.  You can have the day off today even though Willow is going to Brownies for the second week in a row without her "homework" that I was supposed to do with her.   Also, Critic, if I'm such a loser, how do you explain SG sticking around? 

Yes, I was just talking to myself in a blog post.  Whatever.

19th nervous breakdown

When I was a kid, people used to have "nervous breakdowns."  I think that the mental health care community has discouraged that term for awhile now, instead using more exact language to describe folks' states of being.  Fair enough. 

I think it's a useful term, though, even if it's not the most accurate.  I also think that if I don't make some time to get myself organized and back on top of things, I'm going to have one and it's going to be very, very bad.

Today I'm going to have my little family start doing something my uncle does.  He keeps a box of safety pins on his dresser and when he takes off his socks, he pins them together, toe to toe.  That way, they can go through the washer and dryer and back to the drawer as a little sock team.  I am embarrassed to admit the role that socks are playing in my downhill spiral.  The very idea of not having to worry much about them anymore is making me a little teary.

Baby steps.  Right?

Frames

My grandfather's Yashica - I need to have it refurbished. Hopefully will happen before they stop making film entirely.

I've been to therapists before: marriage counselors, kid counselors (with my kids, but not actually as one), individual counseling.  There was one therapist I saw off and on for awhile, Susan, who taught me the useful skill of reframing things. 

I think if you aren't careful, you can bend reframing into an excuse-making or bad-behavior-explaining tool that it isn't intended to be, but overall the reframing thing has often been what saves my ass when things are looking especially bleak.  It encourages you to look around when life is hard and go from thinking, Ack.  This really really sucks, oh poor me, to Okay, this is difficult and uncomfortable, but if it didn't happen to me, then X never would have happened.

Reframing is all about perspective.  It's when I am frustrated beyond belief with my daughter's stubborness and I can step back and see how well that trait will someday serve her.  It's when I go from berating myself about having a messy house, to recognizing that I am only one person, I can only do so much, and even though I'd *love* to have a clean house, I love more sometimes sitting and cuddling with my kids while we read books instead of working 24/7.  And, believe me, that is what it would take for me to keep my house in order.  It's realizing that probably no one but me cares when my hair looks like crap or I have zits all over my chin, because I sure as hell don't hold that stuff against other people.  It's remembering that when my almost teenager lashes out it is because he is hurting. 

Lately I've been envisioning myself as this sort of sexy, kickass, circus woman who juggles flaming torches.  It's much more fun than seeing myself as a full time working, single mom of four, who is sleep deprived and knee deep in appointments, permission slips, bills, challenging mealtimes, Brownie meetings, overdue projects, unedited photos, unwritten thank you notes, and Lord knows what else.

Granted, there are some things that are awful, that are terrible no matter how you frame them.  But, if you wanted to reframe that sort of thing in a general way, you could look at how much the hard stuff in life makes you grow.  How it makes you wiser.  How it makes you appreciate the good stuff, the small things, and the beauty in the everyday, while at the same time making it impossible to worry about trivial crap.  It often inspires you to love the people you love a little bit more, and to be more careful with the people in your life that you don't know so well.  Maybe you wonder if there is something, something you don't know about, that is causing them to be sad, too, and that helps you feel closer to everyone who crosses your path.  Even if just a little bit.    

Sproing!

I wrote about giving the girls some curls on Beauty Hacks

And I hate elevator music

We had a little earthquake here in the San Francisco Bay Area the other day, and they reported that there was no damage.  Think I should call someone about my desk chair?  The one that I peed in when the three storey office building I work in (on the 3rd floor, natch) started to rumble and shake. 

Kidding.  I didn't pee (much).  Really I said, "Duuuuuuuuuudddddde," and then I stood up and grabbed onto the scrawny wall of my cubicle (because particle board covered in grey polyester will save me from all the heavy shit about to crash down on me!) and looked into my boss' office and went "Aahhhummmmmahhhhwaaaaaaaahhhh."

It's hard to work so far away from home for this very reason.  What if I get stuck 35 miles from my kids and have to walk down Highways 280 and 85 and several surface streets in high heels, assuming I am not crushed by the total implosion ** of the building I work in?  I worried that the kids were scared, especially the girls, who are younger.  That they'd want me and I'd fail them by not being there. 

A half hour later I was so busy with work stuff I'd forgotten about it completely.  I didn't ask the kids about it that night, because, hello! bad dreams, DUH.  Instead I asked the next day, all prepared to soothe them and tell them we're okay, which is a lie because we very well may not be okay as far as seismic luck goes.  None of them felt it, though.

Why do I live in California if I'm afeared of earthquakes?  (And I am scared of them.  Very.)  Because every place has some sort of something that can kill you: fires, tornados, hurricanes, lightening, floods, venemous snakes, bad guys, improperly prepared fugu; the list is practically endless.  I know this is true, because when we were little, my brother and I used to spend hours trying to think of a safe, natural-disaster-free place to live.   We checked and there aren't any, and if there are, you could still get hit by a bus.  Might as well live here, where I can drive an hour and spend the day in a place like this

**which is different, by the way, from a partial implosion