Yesterday, without preamble or warning, my daughter went downstairs, found a document on my desk, and carefully wrote her name twice in pencil. Then came up to show me. I was impressed. We'd practiced her name a bit, now and again, but never in earnest on my part.


OK, this is pretty damn good for an almost-four year old. Of course, the half-circle on her "P" is on the wrong side, but you can't be perfect (don't worry, she got a beating for it).


Fun and games in the bath. And what's with the weird hats?

Well, we almost had one of those perfect vacations if you're talking about the balance between Partysville and "Oh shit, remember our normal life?" I got all my Christmas cards out (sixty of 'em) before we left. No one forgot anything, everyone was gifted and speaking for myself, I stayed within our gift-buying limits reasonably well. The family got on fine. There were no extended family brawls, no one puked (or even cried, much) in the car and we all liked my sister's new beau (instead of having a lot of awkward, tense silences around him - which can be fun in their way too of course!). Before we took off last week I also remembered such niceties as taking out all the garbage, completely cleaning the fridge (half the shelves are duct-taped so that was nicely gross to do), and bringing the cat along (who got a lot of love from all of us instead of being left behind to be cat-sitted), and I even stopped our mail (Oh, the cleverness of me!) for the duration. Gee, we are almost not a half-assed family.

I mean, sure - we came home to an absolutely drained bank account and I had 166 mail messages (none of them spam) to catch up on and I am honestly not sure how we're going to eat over the next six days (probably my current biggest worry. Oh well. Grab another late night glass of wine!) and attend our friends' fancy New Year's ball as well as the 80's prom / spa date in Tacoma I am invited to on the same day.

God, even the stuff I get to bitch about is pretty nice to think on.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year - and may your season extend for just a bit longer. If you want it to, that is.

Yesterday's breakfast with the Suse:


Manners, child! We went to Cafe Mango in Cannon Beach. One of those places with a snooty menu, snail's-pace service, high prices, and goddamn it - not even a bloody mary to be had (even though the full bar winked at me from across the room). Sophie and I each had crepes. Despite what the above picture indicates, she is actually charming to take to eat - unlike Nels who eats everything in sight then starts in chewing on the table or screaming, "No!" in a commanding voice, just for fun.

We hit the 'rents place about 4 PM. After satisfying homecooked fare, my parents hung out with the kids (who were sleeping) while Ralph and I went to see Narnia. I confess I had to titter a bit when I saw this:



If you don't laugh when you see a centaur, well, you probably won't get why I do. Anyway, I would have rather watched King Kong (the Hogaboom clan is a bunch of Peter Jackson dorks) but just didn't have three hours of late-night movie watching in me.

This afternoon as soon as my parents headed back up to their humble burg, we hit Seaside and the Aquarium. This particular aquarium has a creepy, vaudeville feeling to it (as compared to our own marine stewardship model here in PT). However, our daughter has been talking about this particular venue for a year straight so, in the interest of family-traditions-everyone-does-even-if-they-hate-them, we hit it, Hogaboom style.


The Pacific Octopus was bizarre, unworldly, and beautiful. In the true spirit of tourist-attraction cruelty the aquarium allows this octopus nothing in the form of shelter so it is forced to be exposed to the gawks and prods of yokels such as myself. There is a sign reading, "Don't Touch the Octopus", although I simply cannot imagine someone actually voluntarily reaching in to this creature's lair. For one thing, it is massive - probably about 12 feet long if the tentacles were stretched out - and it has a look of evil alien intelligence. My oldest child was politely concerned about the grabbing potential of the creature, and no wonder.


Sophie's favorite creature, however, is Victor (forgive the shitty nature of the photo - we were using a camera phone and there is a pane of glass in between the wary child and the sea monster therein. This lady took a better photo, BTW).

Anyway, Victor is the 28 lb. much-beloved (and now mummified) lobster of the Seaside Aquarium. His claws are almost as long as my child's arm. Oh, and speaking of reaching into the tank of a scary sea animal? Victor's demise, sadly enough, had to do with just that. Ten years ago some drunk dude was peering in the tank and thought, "Hey, free lobster!" He tucked the thing under his arm and ducked out into the parking lot. In the ensuing high-speed chase the poor thing's shell was cracked and he died a day later.

Long live Victor.

My haul this year:


A. Tracing paper from Folkwear ala me Mum
B. "Instant Afro" and "Monkey Nugget" gums, pirate band-aids, and kitty shotglasses from my sister Jules
C. Pinking shears from my brother Billy
D. Leopard-print socks from my dad
E. French press coffee-maker and insulated coffee cup from my husband
F. Homegrown tea (and I don't mean that euphamistically) from my mom

I know all you dear readers are wondering what my favorite present was this year - but you must also know I can't possibly publish that here for risk of hurting feelings (Psssssst! It's the pinking shears!).


The doll I made for Billy (surrounded by, of course, tiny booze bottles - another family tradition).


Mama loves Sophie.


Nels loves fruitcake.


Sophie loves Haystack Rock. In fact, the other morning, she demanded we all start calling her "Haystack Rock". Creepy!


Nels, a mere apprentice in Haystack-Rock-stalking, searches the beach for crabs and sandfleas to eat raw.


"I go nowhere without me likker!" Yar, matey! Dear reader, I wish you could understand the magnitude of the wind we were walking against in our several-times-a-day outings. After a week of this, the kids have sand-scars etched in their cheeks.


Dogpile! Mama buried underneath.


Back at the cabin, my father contemplates best hiding spot for his Christmas bucket o' candy.

Christmas morning. We are going to get a late start today because a few Christy bastards in our group are attending morning services a block away.

My son woke early this morning (5:30 AM) so at 10:30 I take him into the bedroom, put him in soft clothes, and lay down with him in the bed. He pulls his face close to me, flutters his eyelashes, and gradually his breathing establishes a rhythm. I lay next to him awhile, enjoying the silence in the home (we've been a party of nine for the last 24 hours) and breathe deep.

If there's anything that smells better than my children's breath, I haven't come across it yet.

For those who are absolutely petrified at the thought of severely limited purchasing limits for Christmas presents (as explained in previous posts, we do a $5 Christmas), check out this year's loot:


The "dog" to be auctioned off to lowest bidder.

12:13 PM and my sister and beau have walked in the door. It's present time!

Another fixture in our Cannon Beach vacation is the Pig 'N Pancake. It's one of those family-owned, decent food, decent prices, excellent service, and bafflingly-renowned-because-it's -pretty-shitty coffee kind of places. The restaurant is literally a stone's throw from our driveway.

Today was my second P 'N P breakfast since we've been here, and included all nine of us. As we mounted the steps to the front door, this fat couple hustled in, practically vaulting over car hoods - clearly wanting to beat us in the door. They had absolute tension on their faces that they might have to wait any longer than was their God Given Right to wait for "covered 'n' smothered" hashbrowns. I was completely irritated as I always am at people who try to cut you off without making eye contact, especially when the time savings involved are almost nil (waitresses at the P 'N P will be throwing your food down in front of you almost before you've unfolded your napkin). Later, after we'd placed the order and were entertaining the kids at the table with crayons and Grandpa's tickling, I headed to the restroom and saw this couple already had their breakfasts in front of them. Everything, and I mean everything on their plates was covered in a quarter-inch of butter with inches of syrup delta to boot. My stomach clenched in agony just looking. When I walked back by a mere five minutes after peeing and washing my hands I see the female of the duo is leaning back, wiping her face, and her plates are clean. She looks like someone famished, satisfying a thirst, spent. I feel slightly ill, depressed, cranky. I cannot imagine having that kind of appetite. Well, at least not for breakfast food at the Pig 'N' Pancake anyway.

The weather is worse this trip than it was last year. The wind and rain are so ferocious that an umbrella is more of an impediment than anything else, a gust of wind transforming it into an upreaching claw and throwing you around the sidewalk. We are prepared, though, the kids most of all with their spendy coats and boots and their rugged spirits for adventure. Me however, with the weather as it is, I'm more into this kind of R & R:


Tonight I got about 16 episodes of Law & Order out of my system.

The cottage we stay in is a real treat for the following reasons:

1. Better cookware than my house. Non-stick pans that actually... don't stick! One of those skillet-thingies you plug into the wall.

2. A dishwasher. Mother of God, a dishwasher!

3. So much toilet paper we could never, ever run out. Oh yeah - the luxury of paper towels, too.

4. Actual TV, with actual cable.

There's other fabulous shit like the scenery, cute little shops, no sales tax and that whole "We pump your gas for you, Miss!" - but it's obvious to me the largest gains of my vacation are in the domestic sphere.


My brother + camera + Sophie's favorite carnivorous plastic reptile.

On the shortest day of the year I am driving my family on 101 S to a little town just below the Columbia River in Oregon. The rain is torrential. Sheets of it flow across the highway, a roadway already treacherously curved, steep, and riddled with log trucks and a small, gravelly shoulder.

The rain on my windshield is amazing. It isn't like rain at all: even with the windshield wipers turned on as high as they can go, it still appears as if someone has turned a hose on full blast on my field of vision. I am in the driver's seat, biting my lip and completely tense; my children and husband, seemingly oblivious to our plight, sing and munch on snacks. Nels shoves entire prunes in his beak and points at the bag of dried fruit, "Mugh!" ("more!"). This trip has been all about the discovery that a good vacation is a snacking vacation.

We stop at Seaside at a Safeway. In Cannon Beach, where we are headed, our grocery options are expensive and rather scarce. I pick up ingredients for tortellini and meatballs, and staples such as milk, hot cereal, and the inevitable bananas. The rain is still pelting us but the kids are in a great mood.

Into Cannon Beach and one street south of the downtown strip we take a right. The cottage has a new porch and a new roof. The combination for the key box is the same. I remember last year as we stood on this porch, negotiating our key. Someone was on a loudspeaker testing it out. Of all things, they were mooing. I was crazed from hunger (still nursing two babes) and thought I was hallucinating it. Still maybe do think that.

This morning at 10 AM I awoke to find my mother standing over me. She's watching Sophie and I sleep. She hovers. She has some sort of satisfied smile, like a big fat bear contemplating a helpless honeycomb. I am not quite wake-ready. I snuggle into my daughter and pull her close to make room for another body. My mom gets in the bed and tugs Sophie over to her, whispering about french toast and breakfast sausage and are you ready to wake up? But Sophie snakes her hand up my mom's sleeve and sucks her thumb and won't quite budge. My mom is persistent. Offering to carry Sophie downstairs. Wooing her. Finally, Sophie's eyes open, she sighs, and she climbs out of bed, sleepy-warm and ready for a hot homemade breakfast.

I get the distinct impression my mother "harvested" her grandchild this morning.

At first, I didn't really believe you were gone. I thought it was only a matter of time before you came back to me. I mean - my life might be hectic, but you were mine to count on. I knew you'd come back. I needed you here with me.

But you know, you were in my life over a year, and yet after those first few months I guess I took you for granted. All those car trips... Shared memories, laughter, always something unexpected. Even when the kids were bitching and fussing you could make them smile, just with a song. Whatever my mood was at the time, I found something in you that I needed. Depressed. Joyous. Contemplative. Spastically happy. You were there for me, one-hundred percent.

And now that we're in the holiday season, it's even worse. I am thinking of you more and more lately. I want you back, but I know now you are gone. This morning I had a painful memory: Christmastime last year, at the cottage in Cannon Beach. You were at the kitchen table, playing music for everybody. No one's taste was overlooked. You were the life of the party.

I can't believe you are really and truly gone.

Farewell, iPod. Wherever you are*, I hope you are finding happiness.

* Thank you fucking meth-head who stole it out of my parked van in driveway! You truly suck, big time.

My family throws a $5 Christmas, and has done, the past several years. The "rules" (which everyone but my grouchy-arsed father seems to break) are simple: an anonymous drawing provides each family member with the one corresponding person whose gift must not exceed $25. For everyone else, the limit is $5. Easy-peasy.

Of course, there are always the few panicked emails or calls from family who either don't know enough or don't care enough to pay attention to our little foursome (Billy, that's you this year, apparently). I often cobble together a list of possible items - a long list, so there can still be surprises - to help out those struggling to buy for us.

Well, today I was asked to come up with my suggestions for my husband and this is what popped into my head:

$5
Burt's Bees Bay Rum - soap or aftershave (he loves this stuff!)
socks (he likes argyle)
underwear (34 - 36 W, or size Large)
photo paper (for printing)
dried fruit or other relatively non-perishable healthy food (for work)
small earrings
seeds for planting / gardening stuff
hand ointment (knuckles are dry and cracking)
travel coffee mug

$25
jeans (34 X 32/34) - casual pants, not work pants
long sleeved or short sleeved t-shirts / casual shirts
pajama bottoms

Of course, double-seated elastic waist Dockers are good too (Simpsons in-joke, doy!). Anyway, typing these out made me feel a fondness for my husband. Back when I was working and we didn't have kids I used to spoil him by buying him all this stuff. It's sad to think now I have no financial power of my own - and anything I buy for him comes out of the family coffer which has nothing to spare (Example. "Hey, do you like your new jeans?" "Yeah honey, they're great - too bad our power is getting shut off tomorrow!").

Fuck.

Anyone reading this who wants more Ralph info email me - my email is kelly AT hogaboom DOT org!

If it wasn't for milk, peanut butter, and bananas, I don't think I would have two children. They'd be mere facsimilies of children: wispy ghost-like creatures. Those three items compose roughly half their diet. Sure, sure, you may come over for dinner and observe the four of us at the table: silverware, cloth napkins, homemade fare in all food groups, delicate cucumber salads and teriyaki chicken standing by. However if you were to observe regularly you would see that three days out of five, the kids pick at or selectively nosh on only part of the dinner. An x-ray view of their taut, puppy-like tummies would reveal: Milk. Peanut butter. Banana. Half a cubic centimeter of room remaining for any particular dinner dish.

But you know, should those items not be available, the children can show remarkable resources at feeding themselves. Example. An hour ago I came upstairs to find The Boy eating oatmeal out of the garbage can. He looks at me: "Hung-ee!" Whoops. Bad Mama, yet again.

Last night I lay next to my son to help him sleep. He is happy to snuggle against me, but still awake. His voice softly sings, speaks to me in a language I don't understand phonetically, but hear in my bones. I smell his curly, blonde head, still damp from the bath. I stroke his forehead and remember reading that babies' fontanels heal at 18 months. 18 months! My youngest, my baby, no longer has a soft spot. His head is hard as my own, and I trace it under my fingertips, musing. I remember reaching down and feeling his head as I gave birth to him - just a few feet away, downstairs.

Hours later, I lay against my husband under quilts. We are on our left side and I am spooned behind him, stealing his seemingly endless reserves of bodily warmth. His right arm is draped backwards over me and his hand rests comfortably on my ass, and everytime I move he gives me a pat or a squeeze. He is only a few breaths away from waking up and trying to take sexual advantage of me, I can tell. I can smell his body, and it's lovely. I think of how easily he wakes - for me, for the children - when I ask him to. In this moment I love him for his ability and willingness to be vigilant for the family. I love his strength, which he will not always have, his strength for us.

In the morning: Sophie has joined us in bed. It is 8 AM and Ralph and Nels have left for early morning errands. My daughter moves close to me and sighs. Her hand funnels up my sleeve. I know when I get out of bed she won't wake crying, she will lie and wait for me to cook breakfast (polenta!). She and I will have a lovely morning together.

Can you guess who got a shitty camera phone?


Date night and shopping for in-laws. Free coffee at Suzie's for the first PT citizen to name where this photo was taken.


Sexy bag of fertilizer, stage left.


"I'm not wearing pants."


Self-portrait. Is there anything cuter than my daughter's upper lip?

So, world: prepare yourself for many agonizingly boring self-conscious photos ala LJ.

This morning I had many friends and friends' babies over for a playdate and I was once again confronted with my deliberate choices, and their occasional opposition to what I want for myself and my friends. Example. My choice: last night and this morning I chose not to clean in a freakish rampage, nor "make" my husband do it all, either. Another choice: the truth is, I don't really have "enough" for company in large numbers. Enough good dishes to serve. Enough toys for a ginormous tribe of kids. Assy coffee and today, no cream for it. No milk in the fridge.

Well, besides the milk part, I support myself in having "less". Several months ago we deliberately reduced our kitchen accoutrement significantly because, simply, we weren't using it. A friend went so far as to call my deliberate downsizing "risky". As if my life and limb were offered up in having less.

It's true: I don't want to be the lameass whose home feels like it's been scrimped on. I want people to anticipate generosity, warmth, and fullness when they come over. But I also don't want to justify or apologize for (to myself or anyone else) my "meager" hospitality - or the second-hand nature of my clothes, or cars that make odd screeching and chirping sounds, or the occasional appliance that sits in my driveway for a few days. I take responsibility for my choices and part of that means I don't need to explain them everytime I see someone doing something differently. Besides, everyone feels insecure, to some degree, over their material possessions and how those possessions (or lack thereof) are interpreted by their own microcosm. Every homemaker feels this. The only thing that makes me different than some of them is the fact my decision to have a "smaller" lifestyle is a conscious one that I employ daily. I have opted out of the need for more, better, bigger, nicer. I am trying to make do with "what is". And I'm accepting the social cost (whether it's all in my mind or not).

My moves to a more sparing lifestyle are showing up in ways that are even less fun for me. Example. I have two bras now, and they have seen better days (they're each about 2 years old, in fact). Well, yesterday neither one was clean and dry so, for the first time in my life since probably 6th grade, I didn't wear a bra at all (I wore one of those goofy camisole things - you ladies know what I'm talking about). I'm depressed a bit, because you know? I don't care how many holes my clothes have (well, I don't care much), but I want a good bra. Last night in bed I tell my husband my feelings. At first he sympathizes, "Awwww..." then he pauses and asks, "Were people checking you out?" I could see where his train of thought went: from Man, that sounds like a bummer for her! to, a couple seconds later: Hey, were her breasts moving around under her shirt a lot?

I guess it's nice to know that with relative financial hardship comes a bit o' slattern that my man will always appreciate.

Despite a lack of sleep, family drama, and general bad habits, I am almost entirely un-sick. I got lucky. Or perhaps it was my "medication" I self-prescribed on my date with Cyn last night - a hot, gingery-and-garlicky rice bowl followed by a walk up to our local favorite pub and a big lemony, boozy toddy (Maker's Mark). I am totally serious: that'll cure any cough, and get you feeling better about the world in general, too.

My son isn't so lucky. This morning he has a small cough and is just a wee bit peaked-looking. I am one of those old-fashioned dorks who thinks a little fresh air - followed by a good rest at home - is good for illness. So at 10:30 I take him and my friend's girl for a walk. They carefully punch their shoes through iced-over puddles, deeply satisfied by the muffled crunching sounds at their feet. Nels speaks up authoritatively: "Walk!", or "Carry!", depending on his fickle mood. And when I pick him up, I ask my friend's girl to carry my coffee. They pause at the end of the trail to throw rocks in the bushes - Nels remembers this from over a month ago on the same walk with his sister.

After my friend has taken her daughter home, I head to preschool to pick up Sophie and, since it's her last day before Christmas break, she has a goodie bag to bring home with her. There is a warped little heart ornament made of that crazy cinnamon / applesauce / glue (ah, the concoctions that we learn of after becoming parents). It smells lovely and goes on our "tree" (about 14" tall, miniature with pink lights). In Sophie's bag there is also a cookie and a monstrous "gingerbread house" - an insane-looking graham-cracker structure (overlaid on a small milk carton - clever!) complete with, of course, tons of candy. God, the sweets this time of year. It's off-putting. Of course, I don't really mind it for my kids' sake. I'm the parent here; it's up to me to set boundaries on sugar (even as their eyes glaze over and they wave their hands in the air and moan zombie-like for any confection they see). Before nap each kid gets one piece of candy at the table and I put the house on the shelf out of sight. I will probably show it to Babydaddy for cuteness' sake - then destroy.

12:48 PM and I haven't eaten at all yet. Low-blood-sugar crash, expected. Time to nosh.

The weeked finally caught up with me. I am sick today. Last night I kept waking feeling feverish and coughing my chest out. This morning I am having dizzy spells. My overacheieving, crazy self is trapped in a body that is saying, "Slow the fuck down!" and is willing to back it up by putting me out of commission.

My husband is home today, caring for the kids and me. I am so glad he is able and willing to put our family first. By being home he is saving me from days or even weeks of being sick. Besides his tender care, my favorite healing strategies: tea, movies, knitting (super-secret Christmas stuff). I got The 40 Year Old Virgin for this evening and I only h0pe Ralph is willing to snuggle with me and watch it (he doesn't sit still for movies very well).

Today I call a girlfriend and ask how her day is going. To her credit, she tells me the truth. We end up in a twenty-minute phone call touching on the subjects of mild depression, financial hardship, and impossible housekeeping standards. She is feeling overwhelmed, and - more notably - guilty at her "lack of competence" for feeling overwhelmed. Her self-depreciation is the hardest thing for me to hear, but also the thing I know I can't talk her out of.

When my girlfriends offer up their reality to me I feel very honored. I don't know if they all know this. Oftentimes there is simply not enough time - or rather, not enough space from our leg-clinging screeching brood - to fully acknowledge the bonds of friendship formed as we knit our lives together. It is still precious to me even as it flows in the daily current of my life.

Over the last year my sense of community has become fierce. I have support. I have friendship again, after many years of considerably less intimacy. I have women in my life - women stronger, funnier, and more interesting than I ever have before. At one playdate alone this morning we exchange Thank You cards and invitations to get-togethers; stories of the tense "discussions" had with husbands over unequal contribution. A friend tells me there may be reconcilliation in their recently-split partnership. Our due-any-minute-now friend (Baby #3!) shows up with her two girls in tow and a shorter haircut that sets off her glow. Another friend asks to borrow my knitting book and takes it a block away to the print shop to copy a pattern. Still another Mama is hosting a Christmas event in a downstairs room and has provided snacks, a craft, wrapped presents for boys and girls, and a table full of hand-me-down good-as-new toys, shoes, clothes. I score coordinating Christmas sweaters and, back upstairs, pass one to my girlfriend who has a son the same age as Nels. We agree on matching outfits for the boys for a date later this week. Yes! Go ahead and laugh. You know, that's exactly the kind of thing I would have made fun of only a few years ago and exactly the kind of thing that gives me a kick now.

I enjoy walking the streets of my little town and passing women whose children I have knit or sewed for. I can say, "Hello! How are you?" with real warmth because I enjoy these women. At home now, tidying up the living room, two moms stop by simultaneously - one to give me a shirt to mend, the other to pick up her recipe book I borrowed to copy the lovely chocolate ganache recipe she brought to last week's baby shower.

I have made fun of the domestic life in the past with scorn for the type of lame-ass who finds this sort of shit interesting. Now that I'm here it's very sweet indeed. And by the way? All our handcrafted, hand-scrubbed, hand-me-down or baked items go over very well with the husbands, children, neighbors, and bachelor coworkers who are on the receiving end.

I've had a lot of space this weekend. It feels so odd.

Despite what these two days were supposed to entail, for at least half of the duration, my son and I were not having quality time. He was being a shit. Yelling, pointing, demanding. I started getting out with him as much as I could between projects: a couple walks, time at the park, a steamed milk. For Nels, when we go out, he is a doll. He's a party man, basically. He wants other kids, runaround time. At the very least, some quality time at a cafe with a spoon and hot, creamy foam in a cup.

Since yesterday afternoon he has been all sweetness and smiles. This morning he and I went to breakfast with Cyn and he ate all my toast and flirted with the restaurant patrons.

I can't fall asleep easily without my husband. Two days with only half the shuteye I'm used to, and it's taking its toll. My throat and nose have that stinging scratchiness. I haven't been smoking in weeks; at least that's not a factor. I am also lonely. Too much energy. My home is tidy; laundry pile tended to and put away. Yesterday I made three different dinners for friends and friends' families. All my weekend project goals, accomplished.

Thank goodness, I have had a few girlfriends extend invitations to parties or playdates. Making room in their lives for me and my son. It feels very generous on their part.

It can seem deceiving. Suddenly, you get tons more done. The tempo is relaxed. No husband to feed, no adult needing his time to converse, take a shower. No piles of Man Laundry on the floor. Rent whatever movies you like; knit on family Christmas Project away from prying eyes.

Of course, if it was my *real* life, I'd get lonely. In fact, last night I couldn't fall asleep without Ralph. I was up until 1:30 AM when he finally reached his destination. After I hung up the phone and turned off the light, I remained wakeful. My bare feet paddled the bed in search of his. I awoke at any disruption - the dryer buzzer going off.

Still, the remaining Hogaboom tribe plunges on. Projects today include taking the family van in for an overdue brake job, compiling my project for my girlfriends' up and coming gift exchange (you wish I would say more, don't you Super Secret Santa buddy!), and mailing off my sister's birthday package. I elected our goofy local taxi service as a means to get home after I dropped the family van off. The mumbling, asthmatic cab driver loaded up my son's carseat as I dropped the keys off in the Les Schwab office. Nels' first cab ride. He was impressed.

The weekend trip my husband is taking to his parents' house has snuck upon me. Suddenly it is here: my husband is packing up instead of taking our Friday date with me. I kiss my daughter goodbye in the front seat of the pickup truck, plying coloring books and her favorite toy lizard into her hands. I hold my husband and breathe him in. I can't bear to watch them drive off; I will drive off first. My son plays inside with his Friday night babysitter and I, unsure of what to do with myself, head uptown.

I am unsettled, jittery. My two dear ones will be in a car over a mountain pass for about seven hours. I am always wanting "me time" but now that it is here, it is ringing in my ears and I can't quiet it. I stand with the other Friday night losers in front of the New Releases section at the video store. I rent two titles; nothing complicated, dark, sexy, or depressing. Easy fare. I head downtown for Japanese takeout and a coffee. I place my dinner order then wander out on the sidewalk, unable to stand the thought of loitering in the restaurant alone, hands empty of those to hold. Coffee in hand, I walk.

Halfway down the block to peek in the fabric shop window I recognize it; fear. I am afraid if I let them go, and let myself be entirely separate, I will lose them. I will be punished for my lack of vigilance, my selfishness in being Just Me again, if only for an evening.

Naming the disquiet helps me. I know it; I am vulnerable. There is nothing I can do but release them. I will probably never be over those creepy, unsettling thoughts of car crashes or sudden illness. But I can never truly own them anyway. For a brief moment it is unbearable that I should love three beings so very much.

A couple hours later and I have returned and taken the evening bath with my son, wrapped him in PJs and quilts for bed. He misses his father. He cries in his bedroom, rattled at the loss of his daddy-bedtime routine. I miss it too.

The phone rings and I snatch it up. It's a phone company survey. It could be my life this way; enough lonliness to fill up each and every evening.

Dear Uptown Dog Owner,

You have been a thorn in my side for a few years now, but until this morning I have given you the benefit of the doubt and suspended my wrath, feeling higher-minded than to hate on someone for something so minor. However, today I am ready to make a teensy request on behalf of myself, my family, and my friends:

Quit leaving your dog's shit in public areas.

It boggles my mind that you don't pick up your dog's shit - which to many animal-loving groups is just common sense. Are you telling yourself you don't need to monitor or dispose of your dog's shit because we are in the Pacific Northwest and the rain simply whisks it away in seconds? First of all, here in PT we get about 19" a year, hardly enough to wash your dogs' leavings out of our courtyards and public trails in a speedy manner. Secondly, it seems only common courtesy that in an area for public recreation - like, oh, say the toddler park where this morning my unsuspecting daughter feel prey to a mountainous pile of steaming foulness - you would assume that perhaps some foot traffic might hit that park on the same day or shortly thereafter the dog squatted. Clean it up. Duh.

I have long accepted the duty of motherhood in watching where my children walk and my stroller rolls. My eyes watch like a hawk for cracks in the sidewalk, piles of shit and trash, and dirty heroin kits (so far, rarely seen in this town). But I'd appreciate you doing your part for public hygiene and enjoyment (I'm skipping directly over the disease potential, landscaping issues, water pollution factor, and bad reputation you are providing more responsible dog owners with).

You're on notice. If I see your dog in the act and see you unaware (or feigning lack of awareness) I will march up to you with one of my plastic bags (kept at all times for my child's cloth diaper), and perhaps a little educational pamphlet if you are too dumb or inexperienced to have figured this out for yourself.

Thanks, and on behalf of those who don't like stepping in your dog's shit, or cleaning it off their children,

Kelly

Labels: L2A

Last night I had a dream my girlfriend had been taking anti-anxiety meds called ANTZAC (etched into each flat, black, ominious-looking pill) to get through her day. She kept these in a candy tin along with other medications and a stray button or two. It was hard to tell the difference between them all. On her invitation I downloaded a few onto my desktop, thinking I would pop one when my feelings got too real - only to discover, of course, that if you download a pill you don't have a "real" pill, only a virtual facsimile.

In another dream I was riding the bus and we went over a very treacherous trail on the bluff. I was holding onto the outside of the bus, stagecoach style (this was the norm of busriding in my dream - don't ask me why) and I came very close to flying off the vehicle and onto the rock-torn surf hundreds of feet below. A numbness after the experience of almost dying.

In another dream I had a horrible fight with my mother. This does not happen in real life. But in dreams it does; demons unleashed.

Now this morning my girlfriend IMs me. She and her babydaddy are fighting. Days of anger, resentment, barely-patched over reprieves before the battle begins yet again. I wish I could infuse her with my strength, my feelings: "It will be OK". Yes, it will. She and her family may survive intact. Life is tough with young children. You're in the foxholes. I survived it, twice. I emerge fiercer, stronger... scared and more humble, less sure of "security" than I've ever been.

Keep fighting the good fight.

I just found out my grandmother passed, an hour ago. I knew she was declining. I was not there when she died.

When my mother's mother died, we were there. We'd been there for a week as she declined further in her stroke-induced coma. And the night she passed, I dreamed I'd talked to her. When I awoke on the morning of July 4th I knew she was gone; my mother entered the room and told me it was so.

I was less close to this grandmother. The last time I saw her, my first child was only a couple months old. My grandmother had moved in with her boyfriend and their home was humid, very hot, and cluttered. Quite a difference from the tidy home I'd known her to keep on the visits of my childhood. She was beginning to tread the path of dementia; as she held her first great-grandchild on her lap, she had trouble remembering who had birthed this baby and what it meant to her.

I have no living grandmothers remaining. In this moment, the thread of matriarchs begins with my mother; joins with me, and ends with my daughter.

Lucy has passed. I wish I'd known her better.

I can count the times I've laid down with my children for their naps as very few. I don't like to slow down during the day. And I never wanted to have to lay down with my kids to get them to sleep.

But today I kept Nels up until two, way past his nap time. He and his sister have been running around all in a dither about the season's first snowfall - "Snoooowww!" they chorus together at the window. Michelle and I clean them up from lunch and she settles Sophie in my bed; I take Nels into the kids' room and hold him, speaking softly. He is too tired to fall asleep easily on his own. I pull him close to me and lay down on the bed together. He is clutching his Madeline doll to his chest; laying on his stomach, breathing softly, sighing. His naked back and shoulders nestle into the soft folds of the first quilt I ever made when Ralph and I were courting, years ago. Watching my son he is all curls and roundness. His cheek forms a ridiculous convex curve, full of sweetness and softness.

I watch his eyelashes flicker. They are reddish-brown and blonde at the base, just like his father's. They droop, close. Flutter. I stroke his perfect skin. A small mole on the left shoulder blade. Ash-blonde and yellow curls at the nap of his neck. He sinks into sleep.

My golden boy.