Life is Art

I know I posted photos of you in your underwear online but at least I asked your permission. Plus, I think you kind of enjoyed all the attention that came of it. You should know I wouldn't feel the same, nudity or no. And no, I did not "allow" you to take that picture. You took it, and I didn't know it until about five minutes when I saw it online. A photo in which I look not only ugly (which I can be), but dumb (which I'm not). And slightly wall-eyed! Thanks a lot, honeybunch.

I just watched another delightful blockbuster in the genre I like to affectionately call "Ordinary Husband-and-Father Reluctantly Answers The Call Of A Merciless Vigilante Spree To Rescue Family and American Values". Man has a troubled relationship with wife and child - yet in a series of implausible events is forced into a situation requiring lots of slow-motion automatic weapon fire, neck-breaking of bad guys, and explosions. 113 minutes later wife and child are returned safely to the arms of Alpha Male, sobbing with relief as - somehow - the whole horrid and grisly affair solves all their problems.

These movies seem to be getting more grisly and more bizarrely vengeful. And may I add I'm seeing a lot less shirtless time for the lead male - which has heretofore been my primary reason for watching them. What was that one where Jason Statham ends up half-nude, kickboxing on his back in a giant oil slick for ten minutes? Or how about an early one with Denzel Washington - for some unclear reason required to slowly strip down to his boxer shorts in the street while in a standoff with a gun-toting thug? Now that's what I'm talkin' 'bout. I couldn't MAKE up stuff that good.

I say good ol' brainless, teste-ridden action films have their place, and they need to work to keep it.

Hey, were you sick of barfy pictures of my kid(s) in their dorky homemade clothes? Too fucken bad:


And, when passed down to a baby boy, will make a good "gay shirt".

I just got off the friend with six-month-pregnant friend Jodi. Don't tell her, but I am hoping to both name her second child and convert her to the cause of homebirth. Tell me, is that too pushy of me?

"Abraham had lots of sons, lots of sons, and we are some - so let's just praise the Lord!"

I'm standing here with my hands on my little girl's shoulders watching the enthusiastic songleading by the children's church leader. She pumps her arms and marches back in front of the group of standing, singing children, making winking eye contact with each child here in the fellowship hall. I've been to a handful of Protestant churches and now know these women all have strong (if sometimes strident) singing voices and are always on key in a a gospelly ass-busting way. They can usually play guitar as well, better than your average folk strummer. I am sort of dazed that I am here. I didn't actually think I would be dropping off my girl at Vacation Bible School. I imagine the 21-year old me looking in at this scene, my life, with either a horrified or smarmy expression on her face. The whole scene: two kids, family van, and now this church camp which resembles something from a movie making fun of church camp.

To be fair, all the children here look like they're having a great time. The church is sparkling clean, the nametags carefully printed and laminated ("Welcome to the Circle G Ranch!"), and there are several adults here who genuinely look happy to be putting on this event for the kids. Five days this week, 2 1/2 hours a day. Full on hours of dried macaroni art and Jesus indoctrination. Never mind that I actually believe in Jesus. Years of fostering anti-church sentiments has made it hard for me to trust a church, especially left alone with my child.

My daughter sits next to Louise, one of the older helpers, and watches the singing. She (my daughter) has loved going to church since being an infant (well, I guess I first took her while she was still a fetus). I know she's going to have a better time here than helping me stack cloth diapers and hold her brother's sticky hand while I grocery shop. Still, she's the smallest girl there and her little legs in her little shorts dangle off the metal chair. She strokes her new nametag and leans against Louise, who she met only ten minutes ago. I afford one last raw-eyed glance at her enrapt, cautious face. Then I whisk out the door, on my way to The Boy who is squalling-pissed, needing his morning nap.

I guess it's just time to - as Margaret Cho says - Let Go and Let God.

To those who read this blog and have come to the conclusion I hate my children (I don't) or am far too overwhelmed with the simple duties of caring for them (I am) or think ONE child should be enough for everyone (that's up to you) - I offer the following anecdote:

As of this morning I have decided my 14 month old son can be left on his own to stand up on the couch and look out the window (one of his favorite pastimes) for limited amounts of time. So I'm making my pot of coffee and (somewhat nervously) peeking at him to make sure he's doing OK as my daughter eats her breakfast watching him as well. Just after I get the coffee going I look in and see he is negotiating getting down from the couch - the tricky part for a new toddler - sturdily grasping the armrests and swinging one leg to the floor while the other is looking a little high-centered. My heart flutters in my chest - although it is occurring to me lately that my son is going to be that kid who will teach me to persevere through a multitude of falls, stitches, broken bones - and I step over the baby gate and hurry over asking, "Do you need help?" My daughter replies in a sharpish voice, "No, he's got it!" and indeed, he has. He gets down, grins and bobs his head to our accolades, then heads over to the table where Sophie is eating. "I'm going to give him a bite" she says, carefully selecting a cool spoonful of her Cream of The West cereal and offering it to him.

My daughter is learning how to care for another and the process is fascinating to watch. It isn't just that it often makes my life easier to have a sibling set who plays with one another and to some extent cares for one another. It's seeing the pride my little girl feels when she demonstrates her competence in these abilities. I see it when she's grasping her brother's hand and guiding him through the park, or when she holds a new baby in her arms with her ramrod-straight posture and careful attention to the child, or when she makes up games and successfully engages Nels in them. She is proud she can do something so adult. Another surprise is she is very aware of Nels' limitations, even as they change almost daily. Last week they were in the bath together when I heard her fearful voice calling me in from the next room. I hurried in to see her with a firm, wet grip on her brother's shoulders, worried that he might fall in, explaining to me he'd slipped. She - at three - knows his physical limits and is aware of dangers he might get into. She is learning to be other-aware. These are skills she has developed that many others her age - and others a hell of a lot older - don't have.

Five minutes ago she told me she wanted to grow up and have five boy babies and take care of them. I told her that was a lot of work and she said, "That's my plan".

Good luck, little girl.

My husband is outside in our little Honda hatchback, rewiring speakers with the help of his laptop and a cheesy speaker installation site. I am about fifty feet away inside the house checking email when I get his IM telling me our across-the-street neighbors are having a snippy fight in their backyard while doing home improvement. Meanwhile my next door neighbor IMs me to check in on when we're going to go out and get a video tonight. Didn't it used to be that we all walked across our yard to our respective fences to participate in all this?

Today Jen and I take on the combo bus ride/park trip/open gym/downtown journey with four kids - our three, plus our friend's toddler Liv who we watch every Friday. Things are a little rough from the beginning. Two of the kiddos are rowdy, high-pitched, and annoying; one is a potty-training hassle and doesn't look where she's walking; and the fourth - my youngest - occupies himself at pulling fistfulls of my hair out while in the backpack and charges up steep staircases if given time out of it. We do our best to have a pleasant morning amidst the variety of challenges but by 11 AM we have had one rancid diaper change on the public restroom floor and a couple timeouts and the variety of annoying behaviors - tripping and falling, wiping noses on sleeves, clinging with their grubby paws. They are hungry, cramming raisins in their mouths, whining, mumbling, or screaming. The park has limited success at occupying them so we give up and decide to head in a caravan downtown. We finally make it down the hill past the fountain (where they crowd around doing their best to get wet and throw inappropriate items into the water) to a bakery to buy a few day old rolls for them to chew on at the bus stop. Jen is at the counter buying a roll and I corrall the three toddlers in the tiny, tiny space with the water cooler. By the time I have Chance and Liv nicely sipping their water and out from underfoot I notice Sophie has filled her glass twice and drained it and neatly returned it upside down to the counter. Gross! I help her remove it to the bussing tray and snatch one of the other kids from ambling into some annoyed laptop-toting Trustifarian's way.

Jen makes her way over and we start herding them out the door, promising them food when we get to the bus stop. "I resent them all!" she whispers fervently to me, and I almost spit out the mouthful of iced mocha I'm still desperately sucking on. Yeah. I know what she means.

One bus and twenty-five minutes later we finally, finally get home intact and unspoiled. Jen & Chance head home; the girls hold hands and we slowly make our way up the remaining hill to my home. Nels has stopped pulling my hair at least. We get home and I banish the kids into their room so I can have some space and get their lunch ready (yes, they eat all morning long, have you noticed?). A few minutes after the table is set and everyone is seated Abbi and Rosemary arrive. After lunch we walk the three out to their car and bid happy weekend. House empty of guests, I breathe a sigh of relief. Wipe the table, stack dishes, clean up The Boy. I assure a stellar nap from my daughter by telling her if she sleeps well we're going to the drive in - the first time this season.

Thank. God. I have a partner who comes home at night. I need my playtime too, you know? And someone who can at the very least take care of his own bodily functions and shoelaces and such.

My kids' beady little eyes follow my every move whether I have a spoon in hand or a banana or even an iced mocha (yes that was my little girl sneaking a sip at the bell tower, but my hands were full changing a diaper outdoors!). They are like those creepy little dolls in Barbarella with big shiny facefuls of fangs, coming after me all the time. I realized today: they will win. I am doomed. To continual compromises, admissions of inadequacy, aging, and eventually my own death.

Today I was that classless Mama on public transportation - a total of three busses - who accepts any help at unloading the monster jogging stroller and her two snotnosed monsters in and out of the bus. To be fair, I've decided I am OK with getting help from people willing to offer. I look them right in the eyes and say, "Thank you very much." It is a good lesson. I notice my child repeats it, "Thank you very mu-uch", she sings out, "see you later!" as she charges off to transfer (she knows bus #13 and #11 by name and route already). Child #2 is a different story. He makes goo-goo eyes at any female form in a subsequent seat. Just in case we get hijacked and Mama doesn't make it, he wants a backup plan. You'll go far, kid.

I have a voice inside my head. I only just discovered this because this voice isn't audible to me since I've been hearing it so long I'm so used to it: like crickets in the evening at the family cabin or - for - those living a lifestyle closer to mine - some heinous battery-operated toy your Mother bought your child and you long ago gave up the idea of getting the kids to STOP PUSHING THOSE FUCKING BUTTONS and now you just live your life completely mindless of the horrible noises it makes. And yes, that's a real example from my actual life.

So I was saying - this voice. Unfortunately and unbeknownst to me until recently, this voice and I have been a couple. This voice is the perpetrator; I am the enabler, trying to "make her happy" (or at least shut her up) by doing all she demands. Every day I doggedly scurry through the minutes and hours obeying her commands. For example: today. At 1 PM as I was running about the house during the (as it would turn out) FIFTY MINUTES both my children were asleep simultaneously the voice was telling me I not only needed to but if I was efficient I COULD:

Finish washing and drying the dishes
Clean up the table from lunch
Fold the clean diapers
Start the load of dirty diapers
And after that, wash the beach towels & hang up bathing suits
Get started on dinner
Spend a few minutes on my Daddy's Father's Day present (late, of course)
Get that interfacing and pattern together for Jen since she'd be here in ten minutes
Clean out the family van from our beach trip
Get cleaned up (i.e. halfway toward Sexy) for the Husband - a tough one since I hadn't yet showered
RELAX, EAT SOMETHING, AND CHILL OUT (yes, the voice asks this of me too)
BE A BETTER MOTHER

Do you think I could get all that done in fifty minutes? Fifty minutes I wasn't even sure I had? It's amazing I got as much done as I did. And in the meantime, here was what I was pushing to the bottom of my list:

Eat something
Poop
Take a shower
Cry

In the middle of a load of dishes, I had a little clarity: If I didn't take care of myself in SOME WAY I was going to run out of time. So on an impulse - and in an almost panicked state of mind - I decided to take time for my bathroom needs including a hot shower. As I hurried through the hallway, towel in hand, I heard The Boy cry out from his crib and I felt this sad, sinking feeling in my body: to glimpse the golden ring of Uninterrupted Me Time and see it snatched away, before my eyes! But I knew it was NOW OR NEVER and dammit, I was going to take that shower. Turns as I hurriedly washed my hair and scrubbed my body and then dried myself off and flew into my robe - he fell back asleep. Dazed, I sat down with a cup of coffee and read about 4 pages of a book before I heard him up again.*

The worst, worst part of it all, is that this voice really believes I *can* do it all. When I ponder that, I know I am up against a persecutor I can never satisfy.

This voice is a problem. I have to get to know her, what she's all about. And in the meantime, where is that fucking cabana boy who's supposed to help me with my day?

* Oh, and one more thing: I put on my CFM Frye boots, in deference to my husband. It works in a pinch.

I'm up at 6 AM with The Boy this morning, making a special Father's Day breakfast of biscuits, bacon, eggs, and fresh coffee. Normally I get to sleep in a bit while my husband makes breakfast with the kids & gets the family dressed. This morning I am resolute: Daddy gets a lie-in while Mommy takes care of everything. I'm going to hold fort until the babysitter gets here at 9 (another surprise for Ralph) and he & I go out together.

But MAN, I hadn't realized how tough it is. Mostly because I am bleary and sluggish in the morning until I've had my first eight cups of coffee. My cooking skills - honed well for dinner preparation - seem to lack in the breakfast department. I am jumpy as I gingerly peel the biscuit cardboard tin open. I slosh coffee and wipe it off the counter with my pajamas. Nels is happily going through the tupperware drawer and throwing pieces ten feet into the garbage can (good aim, son!) as I burn the bacon and trip over him to get forks and when Siouxsie wakes up I make some administrative decision that pisses her off and she lashes out in a full-on clawed assault. I pick her up to take her to her room, nudging Nels aside in the process. Both kids wailing now. I hear the door to our bedroom shut and can picture my husband throwing himself under the blankets in a desperate hope that if someone comes in they won't see him there. Good boy.

Ding! biscuits done. That's it, time's up. He's slept in a full 36 minutes. I send The Girl in to deliver his homemade card ("To A WHALE Of A Father!") and the gift I assily-wrapped at some point this morning. When he stumbles into the living room I beg for his help in setting the table. I put The Boy in his highchair and Ralph and I enjoy five minutes talking in the kitchen and getting coffee when we realize Nels is too quiet. We peek around the door frame and see he has climbed OUT of his highchair (first time ever) and is sitting on the table, happily demolishing all the bacon on the platter. I feel a small sting of pride. If bacon isn't a motivating factor, he's no son of mine.

By nine when Michelle gets here I feel we've been taking care of the babies for HOURS. We head off to coffee; the beach; the park; window shopping. Hold hands and converse with NO interruptions. It's great.


My husband in various "action poses" in his Father's day underwear. I told him I needed a "detail" shot of the front placket of the boxers and he - well - let's just say it was family humor and won't be published. Until we get a Paypal button on the site for porn, anyway.

Can I just have a moment of silence for Christian Bale?

Batman Begins was just fine.

Super-secret Father's Day plans in the works... Hee hee... Don't tell! BTW, don't think I'm not resentful about having to pull for the kids on this one.

Amidst all the things I tell myself I "need" to do (dishes, laundry, floor-scrubbing, and toy put-away), the things I really MUST do (take care of the children, feed everyone, use the toilet, etc), and the things I manage to work in that I consider bonus (email, blog, call girlfriends, Husband, & Mum, sew, design, write) - the one thing every day I consistently don't do is: feed myself.

My kids eat well. My husband eats OK. I eat nothing until dinner, where I scarf extra helpings until the LBS swoon subsides and I'm left feeling like a python who just worfed down a goat. Then a small midnight snack; sleep. Rinse; repeat. This isn't for any reason that makes sense. It's almost like a bad habit from years ago (coffee and cigarette in the morning; nothing else until noon) gone so awry and laden with so much baggage that it's become my own personal institution. Even if a normal human being can survive on naught but caffeine for half the day, a mom NURSING TWO CHILDREN (as I was for a year) and CARING for them (and sometimes more) amidst tantrums, singing, hiking, heavy lifting, wiping noses, and four-alarm diaper changes - that woman is putting herself and her kids in a dangerous and silly position not to nourish her body. And yet I do it daily.

Tuesday I ended up crying on my counselor's couch when we discussed this issue and she said the word "protein". I realized how sad it was for this poor person (me) who takes care of everyone in her family but is running on empty almost all day long. Worse than the sadness: I couldn't think of a reason why I didn't take better care of myself. And: I felt really, really stupid. After a few sniffles I said to L., "I've always been proud of myself that I don't have 'food issues' -- but it turns out I do, they're just not the 'normal' ones."

Today I broke habit and forced myself to eat not only a breakfast but a lunch - a good lunch with walnuts and avocado and spinach. It helped. At dinner (Date Night - yay!) I was actually present - as opposed to my normal SOP, inflicted with Crazy-Eye and completely scattered and unfocused on my husband's lovely dinner conversation.

So. One day where I did things better. I swear, when these kids are a little more self-maintaining I am going to go back to coffee for breakfast, hardboiled egg for lunch, and bourbon and steak for dinner. Can't wait.

... A side note. What is up with that bullshitty blue-speckled material in laundry detergent? Are we supposed to believe that's some sort of magical, whimsical encapsulation of pure mountain streams and not the same goddamn chemical composition as the effective-yet-scary white chemical? Who figures this stuff out and thinks to throw it in detergent? How do you dye specks? And what do they call it? What job description is in charge of these things? I want that position. Frolicking in great clouds of gleaming white bullshit, all day long.

the Drive-In Dress, completed:

Yeah, I rock.

Tonight we had dinner at the campground with my parents. Mum provided hobo chicken and rice and I brought the $20 salad. I don't mind getting a firm round tummy if it is all due to avacados.

Currently working on Father's Day surprises... I am in that lame position where I have kids too young to do anything for their daddy. Then I've got my own daddy, the curmudgeony soul.

An hour ago I'm stealing a few minutes at the computer working on my latest sewing-geek project when I hear my Husband and Boy coming out of the bedroom upstairs. I know: bath time is over and Nels is dressed ready for bed and looking for Mama. No words need to be spoken - dutifully, with half a shudder I get up from my perch, automatically unfastening my bra and shuffling up the steps to the usual armchair when I realize that, more or less, I am a Breastfeeding Prostitute. This is further - disturbingly - substantiated as I come through the door and see my son standing in the hallway, his head swinging back and forth with a mad glint in his eye. He sees me and laughs and lunges toward me, ham-fisted and groping, like a frat boy on Friday night. Zeroing in on the boobs. Nursing he possessively holds one or both breasts in his hands and casts a suspicious eye on anyone who looks like they may usurp his coveted position as King Tit of America.

Of course, what is probably more true is that it's the frat boys who take after the baby - they didn't get enough of it as tots and still want "mommy". Don't mention this to them as they will generally get offended and drink beer and grope tits.

In other news, I am going to upgrade my blog from PG-13 to rated R and say I finally got that Motherfucking, Cocksucking, Felching Euro-Crap Ottobre dress done about five minutes ago. It turned out more or less like it was SUPPOSED to but now I'm going to refuse to let Sophie wear it and either frame it or burn it. Longing, deprivation, and resentment.

I am also too poor to buy any more fabric to make more clothes right now. This is a real bummer and almost unbearable to even TYPE out. On the bright side my parents (but not Rotten Uncle Billy) are coming up for a few days tomorrow. I am looking forward to seeing them. Maybe my mom will pity me and buy fabric or steak or something I want.

It's only 11 o'clock and already I've run my ass all over town, cooked two meals, did the dishes, scrubbed diapers with my bare hands, stripped bedding, washed the kitchen floor on my knees, navigated several potty breaks (my own and Siouxsie's), and downed three cups of coffee. I think I might have had something to eat amongst all of that, too.

My kids are upstairs doing SOMETHING. I don't know what. I heard some screaming a while ago, but it was *happy* screaming. I'm hovering between the idea of taking them to the park or roughing it here at home. Gotta get the girl back to nap kinda early so she can be awake for tumbling class. Was seriously considering taking her to Star Wars tonight but heard there was a gruesome disfigurement scene. Now, even though my girl is able to watch total gore on her BBC dinosaur film, I guess I shouldn't rush the desensitization process *too* much, huh?

And may I just say God, God, GodDAMN Scandanavian pattern designers. I am trying to get this sweet li'l frock done for my girl and I am stuck in the mire of tiny, tiny yoke and facing circumferences. Fuckers.

My husband is drawn to Fort Worden the way other daddies are drawn to say, some cheap buffet restaurant or his favorite pair of worn-out shoes that no one else else in the family quite relates to as fondly.


There is like an eight-foot drop below this ledge, swear to God.

I mean sure, the Fort is great. There are so many beautiful things there - the shaded woodsy trails, long mellow meadows overlooking breathtaking vistas of the Pacific, the Olympics, Mt. Rainier, and yes, Canada - as well as all the *interesting* and strange humanly-built features: old bunkers, armory storage buildings, long purposeless tunnels, etc. And of course, the varieties of wildlife (squirrels, deer, weasels, otters, seals, jellyfish) including a troupe of nesting bald eagles (another feature my husband drools over!). It's just funny how often he drags us up there. But still, truth be told, I would be a very sad girl if one day his fervor for Fort Worden (which he takes the family up to AT LEAST twice a week) were to fall by the wayside.


Quick stop - sandwich for Mama, pickles and chips for Siouxsie.


Her favorite playlist.


Mama & Nels.


Another photo from Ralph's endless wallpaper project.


Drunk on his own sense of power, Nels navigates the Fort on foot.

Had Kirsten over for dinner tonight at 6. She arrived with flowers. Homemade meal, glass of red wine, then a trip to Elevated Ice Cream. That girl is into chocolate! It was lovely to have her here. She's going to get snatched up and married pretty quick by one of her suitors, and if she's not careful - a baby or two.

Working on: Siouxsie's Drive-In Dress. If I can get through the horrid-ness of Ottobre all will be well.

Today: my daughter's first haircut. And, inevitably, her second. Mama was the architect of Round One and Ashley from Today's Hair saved my ass after things went awry. On our way to Haircut #2 this afternoon my daughter struts her stuff, 30 pounds in her thug hat and overalls: "I'm going to get my haircut at the salon" (only she pronounces it "salam" which belies the cocky, knowing tone she employs). The actual salon experience was a little intense for her at first (as soon as she saw the blowdryers and flashing scissors she quickly went from renegotiating to clambering up Mama and hanging on like a lemur); but given a brightly-colored monster smock and the haven of Mama's lap it all went off very well. Ever since, she has been tossing her hair and telling all sorts of people about her haircut and suggesting they get a haircut and talking about how soon she wants to get another haircut... etc. etc.

Anyway - there is something about that first haircut that makes your kid look so BIG and yet, somehow, smaller. They are out of babyland and into figuring the world out, and they can't even pronounce stuff right. All day long I'm looking at her thinking, "Where did this little person come from?"

Friday is extra kid day. A little intense; of the four kids my girlfriend and I are herding around on Fridays two of them are potty-training. It's fun to watch these little moppets grab their crotch or ass repeatedly and to get to play the guessing game of which grab seems a little TOO urgent and then if you don't act immediately whoops! - it's a poop-your-pants moment or, somehow more annoyingly, a false alarm. Daily I thank God for my little Tuff Girl in her Tuff Girl panties, taking care of business on her own (and those are the cutest panties God has ever made mostly because of the sheer tininess of them alone).

An hour ago my husband and I are driving back from Date Night (which was lovely but - a little bit of parent cop-out - included a 20-minute grocery stop) and we come up on a hitchhiker thumbing at cars. As we watch, the car a few blocks ahead of us passes him by and he shakes his head angrily and says something angrily. I laugh a little at this strategy until as we pass him I look in my rearview mirror and see him flip us off. I mean, we would have picked him up but we were literally only going one more block. Thanks, man.

If I wasn't sick, I'd tell you all about Soapy's tumbling class today and how she bossed the older kids around. Or I'd brag about my most recent completed sewing project, complete with anal retentive seam finishes (my latest obsession - seam finishes). Or I'd grouse about how depressed I feel that my day of illness cost my family income (Ralph's, of course) - and I'm not sure how much better I'll feel tomorrow, either.

For the latest glimpse into my life, photos will have to suffice. Tonight, 8 PM, Fort Worden:

It is about 10 AM and I am sitting in the cool weather at a picnic table by myself at our Uptown Farmer's Market. Friends come and go and wave and stop by. The air is full of friendly conversation and zydeco music from a live band. I am childless for the moment - my husband is up at Suzie's with the kids - eating a fresh tamale from the Rosa's Mexi-Deli truck. These Mexican "roach coaches" are rare up here in our 99.9% caucasian community. It's one of the top ten things I miss about the redneck town I grew up in which at least has a respectable latino population - because the food from these enterprises is almost always fresh, hot, delicious, and in tiny tiny servings so you can get say, five chicken tacos for five dollars, each the size of a large silver dollar and topped with veggies and a tiny wedge of lime. The tamale I'm eating is so good I am almost having tunnel vision. I reluctantly save half of it for my husband, pecking at the fragrant masa harina bread-like crust as I wait for my family to return.

We rode the bus to and from the market today. My children love the bus. At the market Ralph and I allocate part of our small pile of cash on some fresh veggies to get us through the weekend. We savor a cup of coffee in the fresh air. We flag down the bus again and arrive home at noon to the smell of fresh-baked whole wheat bread and (thanks to the early-morning efforts of my husband) a house as tidy as a pin. My Saturday is feeling great so far.

Thirty minutes later we're in the kitchen, finishing up lunch. I'm lecturing my husband on caring for our daughter's hair, which is long and fine and which I've noticed he treats roughly: "... and make sure to gently dry it after a bath. Blot, don't rub. Treat it like old lace. It's very fragile and we need to take care of it if we're going to grow her hair long." At this we both gaze fondly at our beautiful daughter, who takes that opportunity to regurgitate a slab of warm cheese onto her plate with a splat. Cheese dispensed with, her eyes vaguely focus onto the table and she promptly sticks her left index finger up her left nostril.

Today was the worst morning I have had with my daughter.

In some ways this statement isn't true: it was only one ugly incident rather than a whole morning or day where we were at odds. However it was a bad one and although she has moved on only minutes later I can't do so as easily.

I feel lost. I call my husband to confess my failures as a mother. Again. I need to talk to him. I know it is unfair because it upsets and scares him but I can't keep my sins to myself. To do that is death, fostering a wound to fester. After talking with him for five minutes I am somehow focussed yet in a minor state of shock. I speak cheerfully and set up crayons and drinks of water and busily haul laundry and pack the diaper bag, but inside I am in despair, thinking, a year of counseling and I still can't trust myself? The more I talk about it the less I feel anyone cares. The more I talk about it the less I admire myself for "dealing with it" - because it's still happening, I suppose.

I load my children in the car and pick up a friend's little girl to head up to the park for the morning. The kids are great; the weather is lovely. I feel remote from the other young mothers around me. I wipe noses and change diapers and help little ones on the swings and the slide. I come home and help them wash hands and feed them and put them to bed.

The afternoon goes much better. I have committed to helping a girlfriend sew a jumper for herself and she arrives at one. She is relatively new to sewing but shows a lot of talent. We spend a few busy but relaxing hours together childfree (one of mine is with my Child Bride and the other sleeping in the other room). She has brought cocktails and we laugh a lot and work on a fun project. She isn't close enough for me to even know how to talk to her about what's bothering me. But it is good to have time off for a while and when my son arrives home and my daughter wakes up I am feeling better, a little bit.

Tonight is usually date night with my husband. Unfortunately, our surrogate Grandma is taking time off. I am sad. I could really use this time to sit across from him in a bar, take some deep breaths, and get out of my own head.

Nels has awakened only a few hours after being put to bed. He can't settle himself. I ask my husband to bring him to me in the armchair in the living room, lights low. My son is only partially awake and melts into my breast with a deep sigh. His hands stroke me and his eyes slant shut in bliss. I lean down into the top of his head, kiss him, take deep breaths of his milky, sweaty little aura. He smells so good it is almost delirious; like the scent of water, days in the desert... I will never get over the biological yearning my babies' smells invoke in me.

After fifteen minutes my husband lifts him out of my arms. My son's face is flushed and he is too sleepy to protest the separation. It is almost 10 o'clock and my husband and I finally have eachother to ourselves.

... today was hairy.

You'd think after arranging a meager three hours of childcare and blowing half my day and forty dollars at my favorite fabric store in Bainbridge with a friend (writing a bad check and getting in the doghouse from Husband), that I could say I had a GOOD day. But. I didn't. Instead of my normal witty and urbane comments I want to bang out spoiled, petulant, self-absorbed miseries here but I won't. I won't give you the satisfaction.

Mostly my day was hard because I A). had a hectic morning (which at least thankfully did NOT involve any slapping or pants-peeing); and B). had a tough conversation with a dear friend. My tummy hurt over that one.

P.S. One weird thing about being a wife and mother is half your identity relates to being proud your husband is taken care of better than in bachelor days but then you come home at night and end up eating cold spaghetti out of the fridge, exactly what he used to do back in the day.

P.P.S. Another thing - thank God for my own mother. If it wasn't for her, I would be out of my mind. Some day I will have to thank her instead of constantly giving her shit.