Life is Art

This morning the weather is fresh and temperate with the perfect amount of rain. A welcome reprieve after the mid-80s blasting sun of late last week. I decide to take the wee ones out on the bus for the morning. My daughter is in charge of carrying the backpack, paying bus fare, and holding the pass for the duration of our trip. At 8:07 AM the Castle Hill bus arrives in front of our home. Nels and I sit up front; Sophie takes her customary seat in the back. We are the first on the bus. As the route progresses more people get on: a couple coffee shop bums, a high school girl on her way to school, two commuters. My son smiles flirtatiously at each passenger.

Despite the peaceful bus ride, I haven't been looking forward at the road and now I am getting carsick. I focus my gaze out the front window. I'm slightly more queasy than seems reasonable and thinking, What is this? Am I hung over? How much red wine did I drink last night? I decide to bail at the first stop on Water Street. I need fresh air and food. Walking hand in hand with Sophie, Nels in the backpack, I find my two favorite downtown coffee shops are closed in the rather unpredictable ways of tourist town restaurants. We stop at the fountain to throw pennies in then head uptown.

The 1012 Coffee House. Suzie is a dear woman and my children love her. She makes us our usual - a steamed milk for Sophie and latte for me. My son toddles / crawls / cruises around the tables and magazine bar. Occasionally he makes a break to get through the screen door to the sidewalk or through the sidedoor to the neighboring tavern kitchen. Today he is molesting all the boat-reprobates in the place. Suzie's setup has indeed attracted these men, who eschew the snootier cafes in town with fair coffee and lousy service and lavender-scented potatoes. These men vary in age, young to mid-fifties, sitting overlong at small tables and not hoping for much more than good coffee, idle talk, and maybe a young thing in a summer skirt to walk in for viewing pleasure.

Two such men, fifty or so, come in and seat themselves at the one cozy booth. Nels makes his way over and leans on the right knee of one of them. This fellow reminds me of someone I worked with once and I feel an instinctive warmth toward him. He is wearing beat-up jeans, curly salt and pepper hair peeking from beneath a faded cap and he is handsome in a rugged way with a face aged by wind and sun. His square, work-roughened hands rest on top of my son's head. Nels leans against him, idly chewing on a fingertip. They stay that way for several minutes. Suzie and I grimace at one another, shiny-eyed. The two men ask me about my son. They approve of his name and his little leather cap. It's a quiet scene and a tender one. I wonder if these men have children of their own; I wonder how much they raised their own children.

It is almost time to catch the bus. If we leave now, we will have time to visit the bakery first. I thank these men for being sweet to my son and pack the kids up. We stop and get bread; the kids play at the bus stop. We board and transfer and I allow my daughter the job of sounding the bell for our stop. Home again, for a while.

What some people - even people who know me relatively well - aren't aware of, and which I keep a little bit of a secret - is:

I AM ADDICTED TO SEWING LIKE IT IS CRACK.

Which is why today, after being allowed to buy a few sewing goodies for the first time in a loooong while, I am feeling so chipper. First off was ordering the patterns for Halloween costumes and a new sewing foot for my machine (asleep yet?). Then downtown - AT my husband's suggestion - I bought these two fabrics for a simple baby quilt for a mommy who's expecting and who we are having a shower for on Wednesday:


Today I also finished a super-secret project for Abbi & Rosemary - the other mommy/baby couple we are honoring at the shower:

Yes, I am just *that* domestic. Pathetic, I know. But the upside is, make friends with me: get some barfy handmade thing you have to awkwardly find a way to donate to a thrift store out of town when you decide you hate it. And by the way, this is going to way too much trouble: I honestly don't give a damn how you use my sewing gifts. The joy for me is in making it.

You'd think after the fabulous weekend visit of Chris and his woman Liz we would have a million cool photos to show for it. Not so. We took a bunch on Chris's camera, including a rather pasty-looking set from yesterday of the two boys holding hands and running into our rather cold surf. There is, I'm told, a film Chris and my husband are working on that involves our daughter in a Wonder Woman top and some makeshift sword (of course, guys). All the raw footage is on our camera and from what I've seen it mostly involves the two guys coaching my three-year old into stunts where she falls off some steps or gets hit in the face.

We're calling our son Little Nutbrown Hare these days because after one week in the sun (yes, with sunblock on, you Nosy-Arse) he is, rather abruptly, brown-skinned and blonde-haired. He is so, so, so beautiful. His eyelashes are reddish brown and blonde at the roots. He has the best ass I've ever seen. He now says "more" in sign language at the table to ask for food. He points and goes, "huh?" if he wants an explanation. He is sweet when he nurses and only pulls his sister's hair while they're trapped together in the bike trailer.

This morning I heard some good news - a long-time friend I'd mentioned whose marriage was having trouble - well, they are doing better. It's good to hear. Really good.

My brother is so cool. He made a picture of my li'l gel. T-shirts coming soon for all her fans.

... the little SOB is officially a walker.

My son has had the motor skills and impetus to walk for a couple months now. In particular these last weeks have been hilarious because it is almost like watching an adult pretend to be a pre-walker - Nels will take a couple steps, suddenly halt as if something amazing is happening, and make a big show of lowering himself to the floor so steadily and surely as to be comical. A few adults around the place have been heard to say, "Oh come on already and walk!" although - this being the second child and we already know where walking gets us - no one is in a particular hurry.

Except for Nels, as of this morning. He suddenly started choosing walking as a preferred locomotion many times over crawling, enough that my husband commented to me, "He's walking a lot today". Sure 'nuff, this evening he's been busting his moves all over the place.

Congratulations, Boy! Soon you'll be outrunning your Dad in the big races.

Her skin smells like fresh-baked bread.

Considering no one has been injured, nothing has burned down or been destroyed, and no one has called me with news of a terminal disease or something, I guess I've had a good day so far. But barring anything really really scary or hellish, it has been bad. A hike and beach trip gone awry. Minor child abuse. No food in the cupboard for the next 24 hours. Oh, and you know that close call I wrote about the other day? Well, today it actually happened.

There is half a glass of red wine left in the bottle, and I (really really) find myself tempted to have it and lay down with the Girl for a nap. But. The scary fricken mountain of laundry that has some evil towel in the middle seeding all my clothes with mildew - that mountain - needs attention.

[sigh]. Three more hours until Daddy gets home. I miss him. It's been tough.

Just saw Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy this evening. I can't really comment on anything or risk sounding like a geek ("geek" meaning, yes I read the books). I guess I'll say three things: 1. the movie was fine - about as enjoyable as the books were for me; 2. Mos Def is really growing on me; and 3. an early scene of Sam Rockwell in this particular pair of shorts is worth my admission ticket many times over. Oh, and I guess one more thing; 4. I am oddly obsessed with Bill Nighy and will never be able to see him without thinking of Philip in Shaun of the Dead ("I am telling you, there is nothing of the man you loved in that car!" [click] off goes the car stereo).

I saw Douglas Adams in person several years ago - a couple years before he died - and he seemed like a funny, sweet, and oddly brilliant man. I barely knew anything about his work but I was glad I went to see him. It is so strange to me when people die young, they are arrested in time in some way.

So - on to my real life. Do you know how much focus, how much dedication, it takes to get to the beach - adequately provisioned - every day of the week when you have two little kids? Man! Two more days to a perfect record this week. I am purple with sunburn from a little overexposure today - whoops. That may make backpacking The Boy rather itchy and bad tomorrow. I am scared.

FRICKEN band-aid on my ring finger makes typing excrutiating. Enough for now.

Today I carried my 25 lb. son - plus however much his backpack carrier weighs - on my back for hours. Fucken hours. Uphill, for half of it. First was a hike at Fort Worden. Probably only about 3 miles total, but uphill and at a brisk pace. CK and I hiked about twice as long as the other mamas because we (foolishly) split off ahead with Nels and my friend Abbi's baby girl Rosemary (by "baby" I mean six weeks old). Our split-up was mostly due to potty false-alarms from Abbi's toddler - so she and the girls (her own and my Siouxsie) were bringing up the rear and we barged on ahead. I won't go into detail on the many ensuing wrong turns, misfortunes and final, tearful reunions except to quote Homer Simpson: "Let us never speak of the shortcut again".

I have also determined that if you *are* going to split up, it's best to keep families together and NOT to make off with a wee infink, even if it is that of a good friend. It would have been a shame if we'd had to leave her to be raised by wolves. 'Nuff said.

Anyway, I had to bust ass from the hike to get to the dentists'. My hygienist heard my story (I was ten minutes late but felt I had extenuating circumstances) then laughed and said, "Well that sounds like quite a trip! Now it's time to have a little water and relax." I'm thinking, "You're about to stick a 12-inch needle in my face. I'll relax AFTER that's over."

This afternoon my girl chose a beach trip over a nap, so a beach trip is indeed what we did. Hauled blankets, water, food out to (beautiful!) beach space. Sprayed my children in the eyes with sunscreen (accidentally!) as I chased them down before they got horribly burned by evil UV rays (which they did, anyway). More time with Nels in the pack, happy as a fat-assed little clam. A clam that grabs and pulls my hair. For their benefit I (carefully) caught a jellyfish and a tiny burgundy crab. We avoided the huge, dead, hollow eye-socket rotting crab by the pier [shudder!]. Packed up and came home, cooked dinner, got sand out of EVERYTHING. Kids to bed.

So - my body is balking at the idea of doing even ONE MORE thing tonight. But, of course, I also feel great. Funny how exercise can do that.

This morning, as happens every morning around here, I am awakened by the sounds of my son crankily surfacing into consciousness. I nudge my husband and he sleepily arises from our bed (he gets up with the kids every morning and don't think I don't thank the Lord for that extra hour and a half of sleep!). He moves down the hall and picks up Nels; moments later I here the percussive sounds of my three-year old pattering down the hallway to my room. I stretch and move to clear a space for her while she climbs up the bed and over the comforter. She slides in next to me and twines her little arms around my neck and pets my face and hair before slipping her thumb back into her mouth. We fall back asleep together. Her hair smells good and in her sleep she settles further, her little legs hooked on top of mine.

After we sleep a bit, sometimes she surfaces before me and will lift up my shirt to put her feet on my tummy, or will kiss me on the mouth in hopes of me waking. Sometimes when she wakes she is impatient and whispers, "I'm going to go see Daddy okay?" before sneaking out of bed. This morning it is I who wakes first. I sneak away and leave her on her own, her lashes dark on her cheeks, her hair spilled out in every color of honey. When I watch her sleeping like this I think of the Leonard Cohen line, "your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm". She is so strong and long-limbed, more beautiful than any daughter I could have created in my dreams.

I have often felt ambivalent about my yearling son's physical prowess and daring - he is not overly cautious and attempts hair-raising feats while strongly opposing any hindrance from his daddy and me. But we also notice he is not much phased when his attempted shenanigans go awry, and thus far - in the last thirteen months, fifteen days, and twelve hours at least - he has sustained only mild injuries. Case in point: baths. He loves to not only drain the tub and pull himself up to standing, but after the tub is empty he "runs" around in his little arena, drunk on a sense of (nude) power, heedless to the most slippery tub bottom. Despite the fact this behavior triggers fears of my second most-dreaded childhood non-fatal injury - the bashing out of little pearly teeth - so far he has remained safe. It is still a point of contention between his daddy and I, but the fact is it is too hard for me to micromanage his bath while, say, cooking lunch, taking phone calls from mean bill collectors, and keeping my toddler from setting the house on fire.

WARNING - THE FOLLOWING STORY CONTAINS GRAPHIC CONTENT REGARDING BODILY FUNCTIONS

So I often leave the little guy in the bathtub as I buzz through the hallway, picking up dirty clothes and getting his new diaper ready, etc, listening in and checking on his crazy tub activity. This afternoon after getting The Girl down for her nap I went in to collect him and was immediately accosted by a most foul odor - Mama-sirens go off - damn, he pooped in the tub! I rush over, already saddened by the prospect of my next half hour of high-intensity sanitation procedures, instead to be somewhat impressed - and relieved - to see the following had taken place (this is a reconstruction of original crime scene as I was not actually there):

1. Nels thinks, "I have to poop".
2. Nels drains tub (note: Step 2 might have actually preceded Step 1).
3. Nels deposits load of scary, scary poo in the middle of drained bathtub.
4. Nels cautiously - so as not to disturb polite pile of foul waste - moves further along tub, plays with faucet, and awaits Mama.

Do you dear, dear readers know what my afternoon would have entailed should Nels have either skipped Step 2 or trod a little freer after Step 3? Those of you who have changed a nasty diaper know that it ain't fun, but it's gotta be done. Those of you in an even smaller - shall I say "elite"? - class may have had to actually deal with the more creative problem-solving skills (and larger laundry situation) - entailed in scraping poo off of the body and/or clothes in a "one that got away" situation. And nevermind what a free-range turd floating in a bathtub requires if you aren't going to forever feel gross about your tub. As it was, I got off with a best-case scenario. Five minutes after I was in the bathroom lifting him out of the tub, Nels was fresh as a daisy and swaddled in nap-ready clothes. A couple passes with paper towels and Clorox and the tub was good to go. Not to mention, no soiled cloth diaper.

Whew - A Close Call.

In other news, I cut half my left ring finger off today in a bagel-slicing incident. I exaggerate slightly but! it was a bleeder. My husband rushed home with bandages (we had none - duh!) and rescued me. After that got all sorted out me & the Two Tinies met Jen & Chance for a morning beach trip / picnic (fabulous!). I am currently postponing housework to blog (I will regret that when the kids wake up) and hoping to get a cigarette break in soon.

Highlights:
1. Opening Day of G & T Season
2. HHS Band & Mr. White
3. Souixsie in general; but particularly catching candy, riding the bus, and reacting to the marching octopus ("It's like a wind sock, Grandma!")
4. Nels falling asleep on daddy, after staying up way past nap time to watch the parade
5. Chimacum band hand-shaking audience - so cute!
6. Cute dad friend buying our group Krispy Kremes
7. That weird fricken ape in the 4-H float
8. Grandpa + Nels = Lovefest
9. Mid-afternoon nap with my daughter
10. BBQ with my family, CK, and Dwight

Disappointments:
1. No beaver mascot as in days of yore
2. Sense of shame felt after heckling the Scottish bagpipers by making kilt-lifting motions
3. WG's lax performance at "Name That Pep-Band Tune"
4. Paige dissing us
5. Too tired to go to the midway tonight - or even get off my ass for any reason

... Pictures to follow soon.

Today is as good a day as any to think about how smart I once was and how much people respected me for my brain. It didn't work too badly, either - my brain, I mean. I could do math and chemistry and command big strong men to move gears and operate machinery. Easy. Things have changed, though. My domain has shrunk a bit in social stature and now consists of two recalcitrant children, a white-trash rental home, and (in a limited fashion) a techie geek husband. Now I am respected by family and friends for my tits, my guttermouth, and my ability to carry huge loads of children and groceries simultaneously. No one knows I have a brilliant mind. It - my mind - occupies itself keeping impeccible lists of what food to buy, how many diapers I have left, and if I can afford a cheap bottle of red wine on my daily budget. I am brought low.

Case in point: yesterday I ran into a man - incidentally, old enough to be my grandfather, although it doesn't really matter - who I worked with and at one time supervised on shift. Here I am, kid on one hip, the other child carrying a sack of thrift store loot trailing behind me clamoring for something sugar-laden, and I see him: "Oh hey... Hi, Phil!* How's it going?" A pause. "Uh, fine..." he noises, friendly smile. "Oh good!" I say, nodding, nodding, as he steers his wife toward the door. When he sees I am not budging he levels with me: "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't recognize you."

Wow. Not, "Where do I know you from?" - he doesn't know me at all. It isn't that I look so much different - I weigh the same, hair about the same length, still in jeans and t-shirt - it's that I'm loaded down with chilluns and they form this weird force field that magically transforms me into the ultimate nonentity who-gives-a-shit persona - a young mom. I couldn't possibly be from his world where decisions are made and paychecks are earned and all that important shit. He would recognize a cocktail waitress or a janitor he knew from a couple years back. Nothing against cocktail waitresses and janitors (my mother and father, in earlier lives). Just that that amazing Butt-F*ck-No-One Force Field children create is so powerful as to cloud this man's memory that I was once his boss.

I remind him gently of my name and former relevance, if you can call it that, and the conversation resumes and ends in a friendly fashion. I'm not irritated, hurt, or even surprised; this has happened before. Pretty soon I won't exist anymore, in a particular way. Maybe I should move on and become No One. But I refuse to pretend I don't see my ex-coworkers - I say "hi" and make eye contact even though as time passes many of them don't know who the hell I am, as Phil* here apparently didn't. But I know them, and they were from a life I once loved; let's leave it at that.

So, that said, here's my day. Did the dishes, wiggled the kids into clothes, went to the grocery store and then to a playgroup and fed my kids vast amounts of crackers, banana from the floor, whatever would keep them happy. Helped my three-year-old daughter with her golf swing. Kissed, stroked, hugged, and loved up both kids many, many times during the day. Made a resolution I would get a cigarette break at some point, a resolution that remains unfufilled.

Dinner: made Italian Wedding Soup with homemade egg bread. Called friend Joe and let him know - meatballs twice in one week! He was proud of me until I revealed Round One consisted of turkey meatballs - in his words: "a disgrace to the concept of meatballs."

In other news - we're gearing up for Rhody. For our family this is pretty mellow: two parades to walk in and the inaugeration of a new Gin & Tonic Season. My parents arrive tomorrow in their rig to spoil my children and buy us food. Nice. I'm looking forward to it.

* not his real name

I'm bored of myself, but I am addicted to posting, so here goes.

My Sweet Little Girl is back again. For the last 36 hours she has been the tender Souxsie we now and love. I am afraid of her know, after her week+ of terror. Tonight I sat next to her on the couch, watching The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou (excellent Wes Anderson) and reveling in her snuggling and small hand stroking my arm. Geez, she's great.

I feel like los camareros at La Isla hold a special place in my heart from our family meals at their wonderful establishment - about once a week, on average. "Uno mas margarita?" says Jose with a cocked eyebrow and a devilish, understanding twinkle in his eye. "Too spicy?" he asks next - arrogant bastard. No, it's not too spicy. Bring it on, bitch!

The couple today that sat across from us at a window were on a first or second date in their relationship. Here's how I know:

1. He ordered his food using Spanish in a loud, "important" voice (altho' obviously a gringo).
2. No wedding bands on either hand.
3. He did about 95% of the talking;

and the final kicker:

4. While the female ate (and listened) she would unconsciously put her left hand up to her mouth, partially shielding the apparently vile act of feeding her own body.

I mean, I never did behavior #4 while dating or with a guy I liked or at my own wedding even, but I understand female decorum occasionally takes that particular form ("Gee, I don't know how to actually do this thing called 'eating'!"). Yawn.

A few marriages around me are in the process of having their wings clipped. The first of many we will see. I pray to God mine is not among the casualties. Sometimes I feel so fierce and I know I will never leave him. Sometimes I feel so trapped I can't stand the misery of knowing I am bound. Sometimes, very seldomly, it occurs he may leave me. This is the only fate I have no control over. I accept this latter possibility as part of the risk of love and thank God for a husband who - at least so far - loves me and has the personal integrity to live up to our marriage vows.

I know too many people don't try hard enough. But some try harder than our society expects them to. I think about a friend whose husband is having an affair; she turned to me Friday night and said, "Kelly, you need to put your heart and soul into your marriage. Do all the hard work up front instead of putting it off." This, from the woman being betrayed. Her capacity for hard work beyond her personal pain astounds me. She is still willing to allow reconciliation for the sake of her family and what she knows there is to save. She has no illusions that divorce will solve anything - she believes your problems will follow you into the next relationship, too, unless you do the hard stuff now. Only then you'll be dragging along a kid or two and blending families. More difficulties. More heartaches. More complicated, even though in the now it can seem the simple solution to split up.

I think of another friend, a father with four grown children and two young ones. At a playgroup he addresses another father who is expressing frustration at his partner. My friend calmly but strenously advises him not to let his relationship fall apart. He says if he had to do it all over again he would've worked harder to keep his first wife. He tells us his four adult children aren't on speaking terms with him. He holds his infant son in his lap, looks his fellow man in the eye, and speaks in no uncertain terms.

Even as I write this, my friend of 21 years IMs me and tells me her husband and father of her two children moved out this morning.

So much pain. And more to be reaped in the lives of the children if these marriages don't survive.

My marriage is going well - today. And has been for a few days prior. And, in general, for the past few months as we recover from the difficulties we've had over the last year. Lately we move two steps forward and only one step back - the relapses come when we become overwhelmed with our lives and the children (those DAMN children!). But today I am in a peaceful place. The last few days my love and desire for him are as strong as they were when we had nothing together - no family, no money, no home together - nothing but a strong friendship and - of course! - lust (ah... lust!).

I have adopted a five-year plan. That is, is there anything my husband is doing now that would preclude him satisfying me in five years? And can I, in turn, hope to improve significantly as a wife to him in five years? Do I trust him that he will still have his good character as father, husband, and lover - in five years? When I think of it that way, the answers are simple - Yes. Yes, I do. Trust is, after all, a choice. And how would a marriage and family be served if instead of trust you substituted suspicion, or petty dissatisfaction, or impatience?

But in the meantime, it makes life so much easier to have a few days or real connection, of real intimacy. To have a reprieve from niggling arguments. To talk with friends who, like myself, are trying hard to make things work.

They are all in my thoughts and prayers, as my own family is as well.

This weekend was a flurry of home improvement projects. I made curtains for the bedroom, hung a new Chinese lantern, bought batteries for smoke detectors, procured a "new" stove & a "new" vacuum (thrillingly retro and lime green - I may actually acquiesce to vacuuming duties!), and the Husband dug me a new vegetable bed (prepared as the kids and I napped Saturday). It feels satisfying to get so much done, & sewing so much was icing on the cake.

Tonight our Dear Daughter pulled the most sullen, Naughty, drawn-out power play she has yet to pull. Testing just how long she can hold out against our unified demand that she make amends. As she stubbornly curled up in the chair we had designated her temporary prison, holding out for longer than I would have thought a three-year-old possible - altho' part of me was aggrieved - another part of me thought, "Good for her. That's going to come in handy for her someday." I am trying to be mindful of her little person and realize I'm not always going to rate highly in her thoughts.

I also am working on Super-Secret Project for friend... Can't say more. And no, blog-stalker - it's not for you! If you aren't going to come to the fore and admit your crush on me, I'm not going to acknowledge you with gifts and love. Deal with it.

np - the Raveonettes

A night out with friends at shed boy dive-cum-bohemian local pub Sirens. Did we leave our children with a sitter for the first "classy" part of the evening at Husband's CEO's barbecue? Did I ask my husband to drop me directly off at the tavern after our Friday night date, thereby making sure I didn't have to even set one eye on my children? Were said children in a total frothing mess as my husband attempted to put them to sleep and as I sipped my first martini? Did a full pack of cigarettes vanish in our escapades? Did I get hit on by some Vancouver guitar-carpenter sci-fi geek?

Yes, yes, yes on all accounts. And I would have been hit on by many more of a foxier persuasion had I been into that sort of thing. Men come and go, but I am all for the Girls these days.

A truly beautiful evening.

Today was a great day. The Girl slept in and I designed some <--- quick flyers to take to a playgroup while my son cheerfully dismantled the house. Spring here is feeling like summer and I notice my friends are starting to congregate and get out a bit. It's an inspiration. I have a lot of people asking me for sewing classes and I haven't quite committed to a cirriculum yet - so - I'll just do a drop-in class for now. I commited to having food and I'm not sure what that will be. I loathe baking. Maybe beer and brie or something like it.

Besides the class, I am trying to convince my husband that this weekend's project should be painting our bedroom. I'm at work on some curtains - that I started last summer! - and trying to finish those in the next couple days. That and a cheap Chinese paper lantern I have had stowed away and we have our sexy sanctuary all set. Well, as sexy as our white-trash budget will allow.

Husband is out on an evening hike with the kids and another dad. He is trying to woo dad friends to go on a big Man Retreat - so far with no luck. I was the one who suggested the retreat, but it is still fun to poke jokes about him coming home with a DIY-tanned hide and antlers on his head, etc.

Speaking of the Husband... cue: theme from Chariots of Fire: He started jogging a few months ago and over time has really worked up a regular routine. He goes most days on his lunch break. I think he and I would agree it's really paying off physically and emotionally. He lost 15 pounds almost right away which I am envious of (over the past 10 years or so and after two babies I have retain the same slightly squishy weight effortlessly, so I guess I shouldn't complain). I know it also helps manage stress as well. This year he's going to do the Rhody Run for the first time. 7.46 miles including one bitch of a hill. I'm very proud of him even if I tease him about his parachute pants and whatnot. Not because he's taken up running or is getting healthier but because he is taking the time to take care of himself. That's something that doesn't come easy to him.

Alright: time to pour a last cup of coffee and get some laundry in.

P.S. I am in love with Ian McShane. 'Nuff said.

Both kids have been running a little temperature. Sophie slept most of today, including in a restaurant, during a margarita lunch I had with a few girlfriends. Both kids have had red eyes, vacant expressions (that's the dope I have them on), needing to be held a lot. Still, sick children sure are a lot more stoic than most adults I could mention.

And speaking of that - I was privy to a great term coined by LoRo today at said Mexican lunch - "man mileage". As in any time women allow men to get away with being lame in deference to stereotypical sex roles. In this case as voiced by a male friend at a party: "Oh you know how we guys get when we are sick [i.e. less functional and more helpless than females]" and all the women in the room nod, resigned to this basic "fact". DING DING DING! We've scored Man Mileage!!!

I will have to use that one more often.
little beak.

and ends with your arms in his sink. ~ Author Unknown

Which feminist said (was it Friedan?) that a homemaker should not be called a housewife because she is not, in fact, married to a house. A noble distinction but, if we're being pragmatic, a false one. I *am* married to this house. All day long I clean it, raise my children with it, delight in its small comforts, grow weary of it and the sameness of my day-to-day life with it. I scrub the same floors, wipe down the same counters, and dry the same dishes over and over again in a way more familiar than sexual relations with my spouse. I become obsessed with it and have a hard time getting away from it.

Sometimes I miss, so much, the days where my husband was home and I worked outside the home. Not because I want to work again - I know I have the rest of my life for that - but because I got such a kick out of the pride my husband had in being a homemaker. Truth be told, he is also better at it that I, even though I have had twice as much time at it now. He had more energy than I do; he has more patience with the kids. He is also able to play with the kids without running over a million and one errands in his head.

We are so lucky that he loves his job and we both love the kids. I just wish we saw more of eachother.

Today I experimented with the Benign Neglect school of parenting. That is, I went to the park to meet some other mommies and daddies and told my daughter, "You have to play by yourself while I talk to my friends." Then I stuck my son in a swing and, when he got tired of that, threw him in the sandbox. It worked well except for my oldest, who did not have a peer to play with so was stuck inventing relatively pathetical ploys on her own ("I have a pretend baby, Mama" as she pushes an empty swing back and forth). And I overstayed my visit - by the time I left both kids were way past naptime and had commenced howling even as I packed them both up, bodily. The other moms, with their cute single-child families and new-mama ideals, looked on in disbelief as I lumbered out of the park, dragging the toddler by one hand with the squalling baby boy secured under my other arm.

One of my HUGE pet peeves these days - the little darlings keep wiping their noses on my JACKET or shirt. The youngest child I can forgive - it will be some time before he can be trained to ask for and use a tissue. During this cold season I have taken to arming myself with a soft hankie which I wield in one hand whenever I approach him - or vice versa. My daughter, on the other hand, is a champion nose-blower and even excuses herself to the restroom when she realizes she is in need; however, I have noticed lately if she's having a cry and feeling sad she finds a perverse? sweet? comfort in wiping her tear-streaked face on my shoulder. Tears I can handle; the accompanying nose-product is quite dismaying.

The result of this disturbing phenomena is that I have to change my shirt at least once a day and/or wash my coat daily. Well, either that or walk around with a snot-streak on my lapel. And come on, no one wants that.

OK. On to watch a movie about a pedophile. An under-explored subject in film, if you ask me.

Not twenty minutes ago Sophie walked into the living room where I was breastfeeding The Boy, looked in my eyes, and said, "I'm worried about you dying."

A sobering moment.

This afternoon the big event was grocery shopping. We had some fake munney that allowed me to buy some staples we needed - cooking oil, laundry soap, coffee, brown sugar, yeast. It's amazing what it takes to keep the four of us alive.

Sophie's on my lap, singing:


Today I got a fabulous Mother's Day card (a MikWright, no less) from Chris and his lady Elizabeth. How nice to be thought of!

P.S. I *heart* the widgets in Tiger's Dashboard.

Well, today was almost entirely uneventful. Church, pizza for lunch. Sewing. Yard work again. An unexpected pickup of CK in Bainbridge - Redding motor home deal fell through. Took The Girl along with me. She was in a short skirt and rain boots and was about the best thing I've ever seen.

At 8-ish I went out tonight with some moms for the second annual Mother's Day Drink at the Manresa Castle. Conversation was sticky at best. I can be such a brash arsehole sometimes - usually if I feel conversation is faltering or worse yet, boring. In this case it wasn't really either - more that the subject material was a little grim at times. Honestly, I feel it wasn't all me that was the problem. It was just an oil-and-water group in some ways. Anyway, I tried my best to liven up the conversation with my typical ribald fare - my husband in a jock strap and the like. I guess when I get home at night I should just tell him right up front what sort of dirty laundry I aired out for my friends. Poor guy.

Tonight I also met for the third time a very sweet mum who I always seem to be exceptionally obtuse when I see her. She is also stunningly beautiful in a way that is totally "my type". I mean the ones that are almost wallflowers but so sweet you want to put them on your lap and pet like a kitten... If I was wired differently a little I'd be a lesbian, but in a very non-threatening way.

Egads, what am I even talking about? Home now - hanging out with husband as he does his nightly weight-training ritual.

Working on my UFOs. Finished a scrap dress for Soapy last night. Well, it's true destination is a birthday gift for another little girl. Shhh!

Currently working on Hong Kong seams in a pair of cropped pants. Yuck!

This afternoon took CK to the ferry on the first leg of a trip to pick up her new baby - a Revcon motor home! She will be driving it up from Redding, CA on Sunday. She invited me to go - paid plane ticket and all - but the truth is, I'm not ready to leave Nels that long. Last time I was without him for 14 hours I got Nels-sick and had some form of milk poisoning, swear to God.

While on Bainbridge - with nary a dime to shop at my favorite fabric store - I bought something special for Sophie at Blackbird Bakery. My goal one day is to be able to make cookies as beautiful as these - and greet my husband at the door with a dozen of them in frilly apron, topless, with that token smudge of flour on my nose. Yeah, that's my fantasy version of housewife. Anyway - octopi are amongst my daughter's favorite animals (keeping company with greasy nasty spiders and dinosaurs) so this cookie was obviously meant for her. The following photo essay details the ensuing carnage, post-nap.


Earlier today: too broke to buy groceries for meatloaf. My husband weeps.

Currently: Husband tackles the towering yard using a combination of creative technologies including an old push-mower, an electric weedwacker (since we have no lawn mower), and a tent with child imprisioned inside. Inside I sew on a church dress for the girl while she plays in the attic. Note to self: devise some sort of long-handled kid-retrieving claw for the inevitable day she finds her way into some horrid crawlspace.

My own mother describes the feeling of claustrophobia she often felt in bringing up children. She is fond of quoting Paul Newman's Cool Hand Luke: "Stop feeding offa me!" More to the point, and more than a little annoyingly, she offers up this anecdote any time I voice a complaint regarding my life as wife and mother.

I don't find my family claustrophobic. I allow my husband, my family, and many of my friends full license in their part of bringing my children up in this world. I have set boundaries in raising them, and in turn those boundaries have been ever-shifting depending on the needs and wiles my brood displays. But even as at times I find the responsibility of children difficult, I have always found it a cop-out when parents bitch about their kids - especially in front of them (silent prayer: Lord, may I remember this tenet of parent-child respectful relations as they get older and more creative at being a pain in the arse!) simply because the burden and joys of raising children is one that parents undertake of their own free will. How lousy to bring them into this world and spend your time belittling them.

Don't get me wrong. Bitching about your children is necessary at many times in the journey together. I think there are appropriate places to vent - commonly, spouses and trusted friends. In my case I do it here, on a public website, simply because the little shits can't read yet. But already my husband and I try to deal on a professional level with them in the moment and then after, amongst ourselves, voice the feelings of disappointment or anger. Yeah, I know - an impossible ideal to keep; or at least, so say the parents who have long ago given into the temptation of being snotty to their kids.

Kids are a lot of work. If you don't put the effort in early, you end up posting their bail later. Or something to that effect. I think I - and other breeders - should be allowed to talk about our difficulties without it being assumed something is wrong with how we parent, or worse, being told we shouldn't have had them at all. After all, if I was in a 9 to 5 professional vocation and complained about the tough - yet rewarding - workload, this would be accepted as the cost for a worthy career. I would like to believe raising happy, healthy children is at least as important as kissing boss's ass all day in order to earn the car payment.

Mother's Day tomorrow - and much love to Mamas out there!

"I think my life began with waking up and loving my mother's face." - George Eliot

Welcome to my Mother's Day series of rants. Today: Episode 2.

This afternoon I shared some of my thoughts on MD with my own mother; she laughed ruefully at my observation that she is the only person in my life (besides my husband) who gives notice or kudos to my position on this planet as guardian and matriarch to one Sophie, 3, and Nels, 1. Perhaps she is trying to write a different history than the one she herself experienced?

Mothers are paradoxically pedestaled as goddesses and slapped with a special brand of sinister villainy. People (mostly men) wax nostalgically - and at great annoyance to their own wives - about the abilities of their mother to cook or care for boo-boos; meanwhile our media is filled with examples of the crippling ways mothers are prone to over-love, to martyr themselves, and to stifle true independence in their children. The talents of a mother are attributed to some divine sainthood - not the years of hard work, observation, and the remarkable resilience women show at getting their hands dirty in the shit and grit of daily life. The "uncanny ability" of our mothers to know when and where their kids are misbehaving does not come from a sixth sense of motherhood but rather a relentless learning curve of wiping noses and asses, paying attention to what matters, and getting the job done because it simply needs to be done.

One of my favorite Mom vs. Dad stories has to do with a friend whose husband won't change his children's shitty diapers - because he has a gag reflex. As our mutual friend CK summed it up, "Yeah, I have a gag reflex too - but that diaper has to be changed."

I'm glad to be a mother, if a breeder at all. Fathers may have it easier but it's really worse.

Had an extry kiddo today - Abbi's Liv. Coffeehouse; Goodwill; park to meet other mommies. Home for lunch and naps - the girls sharing a room together to sleep which was so sweet. For my efforts Abbi rewarded me with a 3 PM vanilla martini visit. She brought along Courtney and her daughter. The three of us women had a wonderful afternoon in my living room, five kids occupied at tit, nap, or videos as we discussed our hectic family lives and thriving children. Then all home to cook and care for our families.

However - I am off the hook on that account! Date night tonight. I look forward to going out with my husband for those two precious hours as much as I used to driving down to see him Friday nights, ages ago before children besieged us.

Today was a good day. Meaning: I did not belt the kids, experience a low-blood-sugar crash, fight with my husband (yet), find myself stranded with need of a bathroom, run out of gas on the Hastings hill, etc. I had enough money for pork chops for dinner and a coffee besides. In a minor and inconsequential domestic miracle my husband pulled through on hawking Playschool raffle tickets, saving the family $80. The Boy was the spirit of gentleness today, pulling my hair once and kicking me in the head with his size 5 Chuck Taylors a mere two times (nipple-biting doesn't count in the Violence To Mama category, that's just his "special way" of nursing).

The day is still young, however. It is entirely possible things could go to Hell from here.

Today I have officially given up on having a tidy, beautiful home when The Man arrives from work. The vampirish energy drain that a Donna Reed facade invokes is too much. Better to have dinner ready, kids clean and happy, with a few squeaky toys crammed in the couch cushions and a wet diaper in the sink. On level assessment I think my family benefits most by this as-yet-unannounced move to a more rested, well-blogged, fucked-off type of energy from their matriarch. Besides, my husband is simply amazing at caring for the wee ones in the evening while simultaneously cleaning their room, doing the dishes, whatever needs it. Don't take my flippancy the wrong way, though; it truly makes me grieve that I can't perform at a high level and remain emotionally present for the family; there is a not-so-buried part of me that would like my man to come home, put his feet up and get some rest.

I just want to have a small moment of silence for once again lowering my standards.

Amen.

This Sunday is Mother's Day. I think I will post a separate rant in this blog every day until then. Today I'd like to indicate to those ladies who haven't commenced birthin' that your first Mother's Day is wonderful. Everyone gives you lots of love and attention and yes - perhaps you even feel in that "sacred space" of women who have done this since time immemorial. And after that first year, you can just buy your own self something, or fight tooth and nail to go out with the other girls and get hammered on G & T's (my plan, second-year running). This will be my fourth Mother's Day, and let me tell you besides a harried husband who already busts his sweet ass for me every day, NO ONE gives a damn or recognizes my efforts this one measly day of the year except my own mother - perversely, as she too was denied accolades in her years raising us. The backbone of our society is formed by the care (or neglect) of the hard-working bitches in the house (or at work, wherever) and people can't be bothered to give these ladies one day of respect, foot-washing, ass-kissing, and above all, space to be themselves.

And by the way, buying a pithy Hallmark card counts for absolute pinky-dick.

Tune in tomorrow for further cheery editorials on M-day.

Man, the last few days I have been SCREWING UP, letting everyone down. Either by total misfortune or big blunders that are completely my responsibility. It's lame. All because I took a couple extry days at my parents'. Lesson learned, I think.

Today heard about another marriage, in serious jeopardy. This was at a parent group. Another parent with three marriages and more kids under the belt shared some experience and wisdom as well. It has had me thinking ever since.

OK, hands TOTALLY full of kids and dinner plans (for our family and another). Will write more later.

Day #2 in Grays Harbor. I have to admit, I really love it here. No one who didn't grow up here would understand. It's hard to for me, sometimes, when I'm feeling depressed, to see the loveliness here. But today outside in my mother's verdant yard smelling the budding wisteria, herbs peeking up in planters, new beanpoles set up, birds and bees visiting the feeders and tender shoots, my Boy playing in the rich topsoil as my mother weeds a garden bed... It's paradise.

Ralph is heading up to PT tomorrow and I'll have a day or two here with my kids. I'm going to cook for everyone tomorrow. I know I should get together with the couple girlfriends who live here. It seems so difficult to make the effort, though. Maybe they will read my blog and give me a call! Yes, I know - I'm a lameass.

Ralph and my father are in a techie discussion about the philosophies of futurists. It's amazing how much those two love to pontificate. They've really got it all figured out.

For the first time in well over a year - a visit with all my in-laws. The Husband's sister, her husband and their child (Sophie and Nels' only bonafide cousin!) and of course, his parents. Two cats, four kittens, a turtle, a hamster, and two fish tanks - in a small modest apartment in the Elma Arms. This was the first time I've met my brother-in-law, after about four years of marriage to Ralph's sister. He seems like a good guy. It was a brief visit. My husband's family stirs him up in mysterious ways. He is drained at the end of the day. They are wonderfully kind people and it is good to meet with them - we should do it more often. But the fact remains, it troubles him.

While visiting I saw a picture in the hallway of my husband and his brother Russ, mere months before Russ died at 16 years old. Ralph gleams at the camera in impish self-confidence. His 10-year old self is fuller and bursting with life compared to the near-skeletal boy sitting next to him, cautiously smiling at the camera. The picture fills me with a profound sadness. I don't know how that 10-year-old boy became my husband.

At my parents' home I revert to childish behavior. I am a slob about housework. I don't do my share in anything. I want to sit around, BS, drink coffee, and watch movies. My parents, oddly, don't comment on the glaring discrepancy of how hard they know I work at home and how tidy of a cook and housekeeper I am in "my" life, and how much of a leech I am in theirs.

Away from friends, I ruminate on their lives. So much going on - marital problems, struggles, selfishness, sadness. I am grateful that the Husband and I are on a truce in the now.

Enough thoughts for the night. Time for sitting up late with my brother - another immature behavior that I look forward to with relish.