Life is Art

Last night, at about 4:30 AM, I got up, got a glass of water, relieved Ralph from his cramped sleeping position with cuddle-greedy Nels, stroked and settled The Boy back down, then came back to bed. As I crawled into the sheets next to my firstborn I heard her say something. "What's that, Sophie?" I whisper (I love hearing the members of my family when they sleep-talk). "I need you," she says, her voice soft and sweet. She was talking to someone in her dream, not to me. "I want to hold you." A beat later, so soft I almost couldn't hear it: "You're my friend."

In her voice there was no begging, whining, or demand; she was the simple tender spring tendril of love.

Over the last few months I've tried to see more and more good within our seemingly endless series of financial setbacks, mishaps, and dramas. It occurs to me that if and when I can look back at our way of living as an episodic adventure - if we're ever at a place of relative financial equilibrium, more appropriate spending habits, and greater stability - I may find I've honed some traits I didn't have before. Self-denial. Discipline. Compassion. Solidarity with my spouse and acknowledgment that he is not to blame for any particular discomfort.

And on the other side of the coin, the stripping down Ralph and I have had to do and the messes we've found ourselves in have eroded or even eradicated some foibles I may have never disposed of otherwise: a sense of entitlement. The desire (or ability) to "go shopping" for recreation. Buying clothes or sundries to make myself feel better (I still find grocery and coffee buying satisfying in this way, so help me). Searching for (obsessing over?) the cheapest of something, the largest quantity. Believing that manifesting more money is any real security or particular blessing. Believing I "need" any particular material possession - or even using the word "need" to describe something I want (I don't do this at all - you can check, next time you speak with me). Panic over financial matters - gone. The desire to be rescued from discomfort - dwindling rapidly.

Still further, our circumstances have helped my family come into alignment with who I want us to be, even if at times it has been a difficult path. Example: when I had my children I seemingly also gave birth to a new fear of commodity ownership, clutter, and senseless acquisition. This new sense directly opposed the stone-cold fact that many commodities make life much easier. And perhaps more insidious, I often operated from instilled culture values of obtaining more, larger, better, more comfortable, and newer - and with children, these values can give way to a whole new world of consumerism. But these days it seems I question most any non-consumable item that threatens to come in my home. I know very few people who have true discernment in that area. Most of us have homes big enough, greed pumped up enough, and a slavish desire for comfort strong enough that we bring home whatever we can find and afford (and many things we can't). Most people I know have a room, and often several, full of things they shudder to think about moving or even taking inventory of. A local realtor I know suggested we buy the house we currently rent instead of go through the pain of packing and moving. She was half-serious.

Strained financial straits don't help with many things in my immediate and day-to-day reality: gas to run errands. Tuition due. Food. Food! Good God, our grocery expenditures. Money to go play with friends. Decent, non-smelly -nasty shoes for four people (thank God a wonderful friend helps us with Nels' clothes vis-a-vis high quality hand-me-downs). Money owed, medical attention required, and mechanical failures looming on the horizon. Entertaining and feeding friends and family (perhaps my Achilles heel of all the frivolities I am attached to).

But in many ways my life is simplified. I can be very present with my kids daily because I am not considering what I want to buy. I still get enjoyment in the thought of spending money, but it's likely to be about smaller sundries than a desire to hop on the Aveda or Gap website (fantasies I haven't indulged in for months). Today while I wash dishes I think over the things I will be able to buy on payday - items we've run out of. Cooking oil. Peanut butter. Basmati rice. Canned green beans and tomato sauce. A pound of butter. New razors. Castille soap. Cream for my coffee. Hell, coffee itself! Fresh vegetables. Lemons and garlic. Simple Green. A good dark beer.

Today my afternoon in simple. I've been cleaning while the kids slept. And the last few days I have organized my world around affording four pounds of organic beef for a group supper tonight. When I am done writing this entry, I am going to dress my kids and we will walk down to the local butcher's shop to buy it. That's all I "need", and that's all my children do, too.

In a completely non-related kind of way that can't warrant any kind of segue, this evening I realized I may be in love with Andy Serkis; entirely for his simian CG performance and his live-action mustache in the latest film - not for the man himself.

Recently I was at a group function and I got sandwiched between two C-section Mamas - that is, women who'd delivered their first babies this way and were planning / had planned future births to be surgical ones - who related their experiences. One of them professed a preference to repeat surgery should she become pregnant again, and by partial way of explanation said, "I've already ruined this part of my body [gesturing toward abdomen], I don't want to blow out, you know [gestures toward crotch] ... too!" This gave me a giggle, although part of me wondered if a great deal of C-sectioned females really believe your vagina blows out if you give birth through it. I'm picturing something like a tattered fruit rollup or one of those tire fragments you see on the freeway (and in case you were curious, mine seems to have held up rather well - in fact, has even sustained some improvements). I was content to listen for a while without comment - but the "birth choices" conversation carried on long enough that I eventually weighed in with my own experiences and opinions.

One thing I've learned from new Mamas is that the subject of birth can be controversial. Even among good friends, the tension in the room can amp up a bit when the subjects of labor, the use of medicine or drugs, safety issues, and pain tolerance comes up. I think this urge to discuss and defend fades with time, since I do not hear too many detailed birth stories from women in my mother's generation (they roll their eyes that we care as much as we do). I'm guessing that usually by the time your youngest child is in primary school your birth story / stories have been alloted to a Cliff Notes version and you've made peace with how it all went down. But in my microcosm these last few years I have heard birth stories told back to back for hours on end at these functions.

Women aren't silly, though, to care - whatever differing opinions they may have and however passionately (and occasionally ignorantly) they may hold them. Birth is as major as death and as universal, and how we give birth effects every aspect of how we nurture. There's also the subjective experience itself. Honestly, birth can feel empowering and life-changing like nothing else (it can also feel like a drawn-out, confusing torture session; a clinical procedure softened by narcotics and culminating in a pink baby swaddled in arms; or a horrible nightmare suffused with deep strains of anger and mistrust). It can feel like you climbed a mountain all by yourself - a spiritual, emotional, and physical ordeal that you kick the ass of on your own terms and under your own power. Not all women are fortunate to have this kind of birth - but at least we can all get a shot, if we choose to! Console yourself with knowing that no man has the same choice (just like, try as I may, writing my name in the snow with urine never looks as good as my husband's does. Well, kind of like that. I'll think of a better analogy tomorrow).

I have been home only a couple hours from our weekend in lovely Yakima, visiting a friend's family. I took Suse along and Ralph stayed home with Nels. Of course I called frequently, since I missed my boys. In Eastern Washington S. and I drank coffee, smoked, ate, and shopped. The boys back in PT baked bread, worked in the garden, and went on hikes (see below). Well, I left the camera at home (which meant I did not document this morning's pony ride, the procurement of which clearly puts me in the Awesome Parent category!) so of course, Ralph got all the pictures. He wins this round. However, if I can perchance hijack some of his pictures before he can post them than I win, in a very real, if trite, competing-spousal-blog type of way.


Nels is not actually floating through the universe untethered, but - a much more common occurrence - reaching for the camera.


On Saturday, helping daddy with our garden which will be eaten by deer the minute one shoot springs up.


Springtime in Fort Worden. My kids will eventually come to view the Fort with mingled feelings of horror and boredom, having spent more time there than any other place besides their own residential dwelling.

So what does it mean when you come back from them weekend to find over fifty pictures of your youngest child in your iPhoto library, all of which he is outdoors, smiling, and maintaining very serious interest in his environs?

A husband and father who gets it right.

As for me, I am simply too tired to recount Suse and my adventures in the desert - for now. Trust an update soon.

P.S. Mom and Dad, we are totally copying you guys per the phone conversation five minutes ago and watching this on DVD.

Sometimes I view my life as a series of incremental days where I work hard in my home in some sort of effort to deserve whatever particular, small goal I want for the evening. What do I want? Some things remain constant from day to day: an orderly home. Children well-cared for. Other wants vary from day to day and often involve my social or leisure life: now and then, a cocktail and movie with my girlfriends. Time at night, in bed, to sip a beer while I read. Permission to leave the home to workout or go visit with a friend. But every day, driving me most of all: wherever I may go for the evening I want a husband who, when he gets home from work, enjoys a tidy house, clean and well-rested children, and dinner already simmering on the stove. I'm proud to say most days I accomplish this last, most important, goal.

Besides the shortsighted yet repetitive nature of these efforts - even though meeting them daily means establishing very satisfying long-term benefits - what strikes me most is that the one obstacle that looms before every single one of my desires is our money, or the lack thereof. I operate constantly under an inner voice that speaks to me about money. Sometimes the voice is very frightened; often it is merely preoccupied. It seems unfair. My husband works his ass off, and the kids and I eat it all up as quickly as he earns it. It's so funny - I used to have "enough". I don't know how it was "enough" and why now what I have isn't; there could be many reasons for this perception. Back when I had enough it was before I had my children, and during the years of my career. I worked; I earned; I spent. I did not have the constant tension I carry now. Yet, this tension exists concurrently with my absolute conviction that it is a choice to live the way we do. And in this case when I say "living the way we do" I am referring to the choice of being a single-income family in a small burg with a relatively high cost of living (there are other aspects to living as we do that I'm not talking about here). Our choice for me to stay home has mostly been wonderful, but it is such a change - in every way - from where I was only a few years ago. It is funny, I suppose, to think of a college-educated female raised in a country that heralds personal power and financial gains as King, to spend so many days simply thinking on what to clean and when and what to eat and how to cook it (that last sentence fragment really, really, is 80% of my day). Sure, I pursue other things - but most of my day's goals are set on engineering the same small domestic feats, day after day.

Today I want to go out for the evening, and tomorrow I am leaving on a roadtrip. So I work even more diligently than usual, occasionally putting children in front of their favorite movie, washing the dishes that didn't get done from last night's three-family dinner, cleaning leftovers out of fridge, washing the breakfast dishes, scrubbing the oven and coffeemaker, wiping down kitchen table and walls and doing Whatever It Takes to get the laundry completely done (yes, I have achieved success in this today, another accomplishment I am proud of). Amidst all that I manage to dress myself and my children, perform rudimentary personal grooming, cuddle, read stories, make a card for and visit my husband, pick up lunch, deliver a child to and from school, kiss and hug my children many times, and return an email. Thank God the stream of emails and calls have been slow lately. Unless that means people hate me; nevertheless, for now, I am enjoying relative peace.

Speaking of enjoyment, I am currently digging David Byrne's mp3 stream, even if my silly-assed connection burps and skips now and then (note to self: consult Ralph for a fix, offering sex if needed). The current Afro-Cuban playlist was lovely to cook dinner to last night.

And now: a return to my domestic sphere. A cup of coffee. A few moments enjoying the stillness of my home as my children sleep in clean sheets and soft beds.

Today as I drove home from playschool I looked in the rearview mirror at my children and was struck by my dazzling fortune to have them in my care. In these moments, they were quiet; looking out the window, the oldest one sucking her thumb, the little one rubbing his eye. What beauties they are! And so big. I have raised them so well - so far! It is miraculous for me to think I went from having no parenting experience to learning to care for their every need to our mutual satisfaction.

My little boy's new haircut (Ralph has taken to calling him "Ningo", which we all love) keeps me enthralled. He is a little boy now, not a baby. His curls are beautiful - and no longer get tangled in his clothes. I am going to leave him with Babydaddy for a few days while I head out on a roadtrip with Sophie, Sara, and Sidda. I will miss him, and his strong arms that wrap around my neck as he says, "Mama, hold you!"

In other news, my legs and ass - and, really, every other part of my body below my next and above my feet - ache. I have started back in at my favorite exercise class on Mondays. Tuesday I went to a friend's yoga class, thinking, This will help me work out the stiffness from last night - only to be workout-raped by a very challenging hour and a half of vigorous body contortions (you've gotta love a yoga class whose sole resting pose is Downward Dog - and you are so desperate you look forward to it).

I was so worn out after class I didn't even light up my post-workout fag.

In case you've been wondering, I am not at all immune to the rising phenomenon of the upcoming film Snakes On A Plane, of which besides the official site we also have several t-shirts, a designated blog, an LJ community, at least one plaintive ballad, some baked goods, and more than a few bloggers cataloging the anticipated trailers and press releases (my all-time favorite blogger Levin's entries 1 and 2).

My point is, dear readers (and please understand I am only scratching the surface with the links I've posted above), that really all there is to be said has been said - at least until the movie comes out, when Ralph and I are first in line. You can count on seeing me sporting a t-shirt soon... when I'm less broke.

Off to Open Gym with my wee ones.

Since I know so many of you look to me for my brilliant guidance in raising small children, I occasionally feel the responsibility to impart wisdom from my now equivalent-to-a-bachelor's-degree credentials (majoring in Sophie, the Persnickety Oldest Child with a minor in Nels, the Heartbreakingly Hunky, If Occasionally Possessed-by-Demonic-Humors, Progeny) to my faithful readers. I mean, who wouldn't want to glean from the vast stores of acumen that busily grind away like so many razor-sharp cogs between my ears? Yes, I see the admiring looks my way at the grocery store as I struggle to drag my children - the hyperactive, whinging preschooler and small, sturdy boychild bellowing, "COOKIE!" and pointing exactly where the Double Fudge Espresso Snaps lie in wait - out to the car, relying on physical restraint and an imposed Zen-like trance before finally cracking under pressure and saying things like, "Can you just not talk? For one minute. Do not talk to me." or perhaps, "OK Nels, wait Nels. Nels? - we'll be home soon and you can have a snack. A snack, OK?" I know the reason not a single college friend speaks to me or hangs out with me (besides Jodi, similarly afflicted with two little ones as well) is because they are simply in awe of what I do every day. So - sarcasm aside, and in the spirit of responsibility I feel toward my loyal fans, I'm going to offer a list off the top of my head this morning...

Advice To Any Looking For It, For Parents Of Young Children:

1. Date night at least once a week with partner and no kids. This is an all-time must. Believe me, at first you may enjoy your husband / wife / whoever very much so you might think I'm lame for posting this as my Number 1 Tip. But eventually, in any and every marriage with children, things can get strained, resentful, or - worst of all - routine. Attempt to avoid the rash of divorces that hit in such an undignified manner when kids get school-age by making time to hang out, make eye contact, and even grab a little ass on eachother at the local pub.

2. Say it with me: "Benign Neglect". A child who occasionally gets time in a playpen or bedroom quietly entertaining himself, is a child who can do such things when you need him to. My son is reading (or throwing, it's hard to tell from here) books in his crib as I type this entry.

3. Cloth diaper. Not for the environment, for the skincare of your child, or the pocketbook (although all these things benefit vastly by doing so), but because it gives a sense of respect and nurture to one of the key elements in life for the young child and the Mama (or Papa) raising her. Having done it the other way for a couple years, I can truthfully say this is a far more rewarding way to start things out.

4. Sit down with your kids for a meal, preferrably the same meal, every day. Dinner is probably best because maybe everyone can be there; but if having all of you together isn't possible, find a time that you can be there for them. Use plates, napkins, and manners. Your kids will come to look forward to that time together.

5. Put the same food on the kids' plates as your own. Don't make separate meals. Of course there are exceptions, and a rigorous Food Nazi plan will backfire eventually. But it sure is lovely to not be the short-order cook Mom. And the only way to get kids to eat their veggies (or brown rice, or whatever) involves preparing them nicely and putting them on the plate, over and over, sometimes for years, before the kid finally willingly takes a bite (and often learns to love it). Ask me how I know this.

6. Nap your kids at home and respect their naptime by cleaning them up and putting them in something soft to sleep in. A child who enjoys going to bed is a well-rested, calm individual who grows confident knowing he can take care of his own sleep needs.

7. Tell them about your feelings, and empathize with theirs, always reminding both of you that feelings are temporary. "I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm not feeling good right now because I'm sick with a cold, and I'm hungry. I will feel better soon".

8. Stop comparing (yes, that includes feeling irritated or guilty in response to my list here). Stop competing. Go ahead and be a control-freak, me-first kind of Mama with your first child - for the first one or two years. Then chill out and enjoy life a little more, and quit looking so intently at other Mamas and how they do things.

9. Try to avoid punitive tone or actions when disciplining (OK - this one is a goal - hence the word, "Try"). If the kid is throwing books again while you're doing the dishes (knowing perfectly well he isn't supposed to do so), pick him up, put him in his playpen or buckle him in his carseat, and say, "Hey - I'm just going to finish the dishes and I can't do that peacefully while you're making a mess. I will come pick you up in a minute, when I'm done." Be calm, reassuring, and if possible, friendly. Go get him immediately when you're done and help him put the books back, then move on. In addition, be prepared to (neutrally) remove a toy or book or give it to another child if your own child can't take care of it respectfully. This method involves quick-thinking, a mellow-even-while-busy mentality, and the capacity to apologize later for missteps or make changes if need be. But it also keeps power struggles at bay and helps you feel good about how you speak to your children, and these benefits are huge. I also believe this is the best way to correct your children without running the real risk of damaging their self-esteem.

10. Compliment yourself and your efforts in front of your children. Really. I mean it. I don't see it happen as often as I would like amongst my friends, and it's probably one of the best things you can do for you and your family.

OK, that's it. Would love to hear your tips. Like, "Keep your fucken kids off my lawn, Hogaboom!" Oh no, wait. I meant your tips for your family.


My boy, yesterday's rainy morning, keeping it casual. He loves talking on the phone to Grandma most of all.

I love to sleep next to my husband in our bed. I like to do other things with him there, things I will never ever blog about so you can quit reading in hopes of those details, pervert. So anyway, on the occasional night when he stays up later than I (like tonight, working like a busy little beaver on his newest film involving a cardboard tube samurai, yes you heard right), or on the more frequent occurrences where he gets up with Nels in the middle of the night, I am often not able to settle completely until he's back at my side.

Half-alert as my body is without him, I am all the more vulnerable to any nightly disturbance. Case in point, tonight at about 1:30 AM Nels wakes with a very frightened little cry: "Mama! Mama!" A few moments later, hearing my husband's heavier tread in the hallway, he changes his tune: "Daddy!" Ralph is trying to tiptoe his way into our bedroom, hoping to finally come to bed and that The Boy will drift off on his own. I am now clear-headed and awake and aware this is a perfect recipe for my not-too-frequent-these-days bouts of sleeplessness. I ask my husband to bring Nels into bed with us and he complies.

Lying on my side with Nels in the crook of my arm, Sophie in between my husband and I (she is currently splitting her nights fifty / fifty in bed with us vs. the kids' room), the house is quiet and my son's body is awake but drowsy, a solid presence of contentment in my arms. I stroke him and feel soothed by the cool perfection of his skin under the palm of my hand. He softly whispers to me and I kiss him everywhere I can easily reach. He smells so very, very good. After a few minutes Ralph goes and gets a clean blanket from the dryer downstairs and lays it over the three of us in bed. In the dark I see bursts of sparks as the static electricity races through the warm folds; over and over these small blue electrical storms softly crackle as Ralph flutters the blanket into perfect position.

I am less and less sleepy as I lie there. For a while I quietly pester Ralph with a few questions. "Who manages the content for Wikipedia?" I whisper (and other geek stuff my brain mostly doesn't want to deal with in the waking hours). Nels interjects his answers as if I am talking to him, in his sibilant nighttime voice ("So Google provides the bandwidth - is that why there are no ads?" I ask; "Yesss," Nels hisses softly while my husband answers me, and on and on). After about five minutes though, I know Ralph needs to sleep. He puts Nels back in his bed and then slides back in at my side, his hand over mine, which is resting on the long, warm length of our daughter's thigh. A very short few minutes later, and Ralph's breathing matches Sophie's and the house is at peace.

I, however, am rock-solid awake. Mom-somnia. Time to get up, do some laundry and dishes, and wear myself back out so I can sleep again.

When the kids and I came home today at noon my water had been shut off. A bummer, to be sure - but I knew we were overlate paying the bill. And in our household, knowing a financial bombshell is looming is still far, far better than being surprised by one.

A sad but practical aspect of being raised po' white is that you are often very good in a crisis* (I know my life is generally not worthy of the sweeping term "crisis" - but you know, you can't even use your crapper when you're water is shut off, and I had two wee ones and all, so I'm gonna keep the word as-is here). Of course, I'm not good in a crisis if my husband is around, because he is Alpha Male when things get tough. I once saw him tear off his shirt and put it over his face, ninja-like, to dive into a burning house (the one he was renting), rescue our cat, and put the fire out. In the face of that kind of moxie, I'm usually allowed to be the fluffy-headed female.

But today, by myself with two grubby kids, diapers, and dishes to do, I knew I had to woman-up to the job. First: email my husband to let him know (two minutes). Set my kids down for naps (ten minutes). Pop over the wall next door. Fill a couple of tureens full from her hose (yes, she was aware I was doing this). Back home, heat water. Pour boiling water in sink for dishes (actually, a lovely way to clean - soaping them when your hands are just able to stand the scalding temperature). Carefully scoop clean, sterlized water out with a glass for handwashing (the kids' and mine). Cold water in toilet tank for the flush. Relax for one minute and thirty seconds before moving on to nap chores as usual. Oh, and did I mention in this brief hour and a half before I left for a birthday party I managed to sew a purse and make a card for a three-year-old?

Still, as busy as I was, it was tempting to feel a bit sad at first. I hate having to bother Ralph at work for drama. I hate getting mean phone calls saying, "Hey, are you gonna pay us our money?" So, in this preoccupied state, after I made the dismaying water discovery and emailed my husband, I went out to the car to take the kids in. I opened the door and Sophie quickly gestured to me - keep quiet! - while pointing to Nels. He had fallen asleep in the mere four minutes I'd been inside. I let Sophie out of her carseat and she slid by him, patting him gently. I held his sleep-limp, sweet-smelling form in my arms and he breathed deep, relaxed. Inside, I slid his coat off and tucked him into the crib, sighing with him as he settled.

Events may occasionally conspire to make my life difficult, but there are certain things that matter more than the rest.

* One of the behaviors that sets po' white away from white trash is that, when said self-inflicted or poverty-related crisis occurs, po' white handle it with dignity. White trash handle it loudly or, occasionally, criminally.

I don't miss my weekly sewing class. For anything. Not for childcare that cancels on me, husbands who have jobs and shouldn't take time off, personal or familial illness, nor babysitters who not only make my children cry but apparently photo-blog about it using my Photo Booth and new iMac, (to be honest, though, the kids love her even if she meanly pinches them while no one's looking). Our sewing classes are woefully limited here in Port Townsend - unless you want to sew a quilt (I don't) or make a potholder - but luckily a local seamstress in town has stepped up and committed to teaching.

So anyway, today in class we started on making patterns from clothes we own. Up until now I technically knew this was possible - but I've been a pattern-following girl most my life. I guess I've just not been impressed with the lazy Paint directions and slutty / barely-functional results I've seen in DIY sewing out there (however, this extremely lo-fi method of recon has been used many times by my husband and children). So anyway, besides slutting up a few shirts semi-successfully I have mostly stayed clear of copying or altering my own stuff. But I have these cute little chinos with a stripe up the side (my "Racing Stripe") and I'd love to think those babies could live on, even if the originals are worn and have a bleach-spot or two. Today I started drawing them up and I got to fondle them a bit, their well-worn folds and rough spots.

Soon, soon little chino - you will be cloned.

It's 10:29 AM and already I've changed diapers, washed three sets of hands several times, fed the cat, dressed us all, cooked two meals, taken my children on the bus downtown and back to visit my husband, and answered the door to a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses. With all the activity I feel I"ve been engaged in, it's unfair it isn't at least 2 PM. Today might be one of those "Enforced Nap For Three Hours No Matter How Tired You Actually Are" kind of days.

So - I've been off and on Madonna.com lately when I get a spare mo. Go ahead and laugh, but seriously - what's not to like? My favorite, absolute favorite, video of hers is 2001's "What It Feels Like For A Girl"- but heck, I like almost all of them. And as much as I enjoy watching the now almost 20-year old videos ("Like A Virgin", featuring Madonna singing from a Parisian gondola, was the shit when I was a young girl and still can infect me with an inexplicable bubblegum-and-Aqua-Net glee), I really dig the newer (older?) Madonna. These last two releases she's flaunting her lean, excellent, 48-year old ass in a Saturday Night Fever-esque leotard and she has the moves to back it up. It's catchy, too; I've had "Sorry" stuck in my head for a full day.

Nostalgic pop and danceroom flufff aside, I just bought Imogen Heap's Speak For Yourself on iTunes. I'll let you know how it turns out. I'm not the biggest fan of Frou Frou, but perhaps I can learn.

Today I rode the bus out to Fort Worden to volunteer for the Sewing booth at the 6th Annual Children's Festival of Art in Building 204 (our sign said "Stitch-Witchery", and of course we do have our share of pagans / Wiccans in this town, whereas in my hometown that particular booth would have been decorated by a hand-drawn teddy bear or Precious Moments-influenced sign chirping, "Sew Fun!").

Sometimes I say I don't like children, but I think I really do. In my 2 1/2 hour stint today, the only people who came to my booth were 7 to 11 year-old girls and then a handful of Mamas, the latter either helping their child or greedily digging for the choice fabrics and materials and elbowing a youngster or two out of their way to do so. Oh wait, there was one fellow - a tall, bass-voiced young dad who very sweetly helped several girls braid their purse handles. He was there for 45 minutes or so, I swear - it was cute.

Anyway, the girls themselves were great. I'm used to a four-year old; the attention span and common sense lack of perfectionism in these young ladies was new and exciting. It was also fun to be able to impress a throng with relatively mundane sewing skills. But the real observation of the day was how many of the girls this age seem to be straddling the fence between authentic, sweet, intelligent creatures and... fucking scary, venomous-tongued bitches. You know: the look, the eye-roll - the Voice. The younger girls were mostly still sweet: "One time, my grandpa tried to give me coffee. Let me tell you the story..." ("Nice!" I'd think). A minute later, overheard from another conversation: "Remember how Becky said last year that Hilary Duff sounded like she had a cold? And now she likes her just because everyone else does? Yeah, Becky seems like the kind of person..." prattling on ("Scary!" I'd tally, widening my eyes toward the yarn ball I was winding).

Another girl, at the booth with a friend from a school she'd just been forced to move from (a friendship, I'm sure, that will not last), was interrupted mid-task by a visit from a young, pretty, big-arsed blonde woman. The woman in question had a few comments for the girl and told her she'd be downstairs in the volunteer lounge. And after she left I heard the girl say to her friend, "... and somewhat embarassing!" primly, totally selling her mom out. "Was that your mom?" I asked. "Yes," the little princess said, eyeing me for my particular judgment. "That wasn't embarassing," I said, then turned my attention back to the blanket stitch I was doing with no further comment (I could thread a needle better and tie knots faster than these girls and that made me cooler).

The same girl appreciated my droll humor. "Good thing you didn't cut your tail ends just then or we'd have been screwed," I say, as I come around the table to help her knot the end of her braid. A pause. "I'm eleven." she says, flatly. "What?" I ask. "You just said a cuss word in front of me. I'm only eleven." "What? 'Screwed' isn't a cuss word. Geez, I almost said something worse."

Although truth be told, I am quite pleased an eleven year old girl still knows that yes, "screwed" is a bad word.

Perhaps, in retrospect, it would have been better not to spring-clean at all. I mean, here I was under the (apparently) mistaken assumption that my kitchen was at least relatively sanitary. That not only do we not have bugs or rodents but also, you know, not an eighth inch of greasy kitchen residue coating everything in the goddamn room. Well, now ever since last night (when we first cracked into the pantries) I've been wondering how any of us, or anyone else I've cooked for in the last year, has escaped foodborne illness of some sort.

OK. I shouldn't dive into gross hyperbole. It wasn't the cooking or cutting surfaces that were nasty, it was mostly the walls: a thin veneer of grease so subtle we just thought it was the paint color. Not to mention the kitchen has decades of cheap semi-gloss and caked on orange grease spots lacquered in uniform patterns. And there's that whole, soy-sauce/burst bag of catnip slurry in the upper cabinet. Yum.

I am feeling so much better now that the food is impeccably organized and my husband has worked elbow grease into cleaning the walls. I think he just thinks I got some crazy wifely cleaning frenzy on, but to me, regarding my workspace, it makes a huge difference.


It's hard to get a family photo, but if you can manage it, the sheer Hate in the cat's eyes is pretty priceless. We're all looking at: ourselves. In Photo Booth. Also good is Ralph's Molester 'Stache, which is how his upper lip always looks a few hours after he's shaved.

I've gotta see the Oscars this year somehow; mostly because I love John Stewart. And the tiny bit of the rest of the temptation is that I keep cracking up at the thought of Johnny's (may I call you Johnny?) little quip, "I think it just got a little easier out here for a pimp." (furthermore this blogger's musings on the ballot-marking by the Academy for Best Original Song gave me another chuckle).

It's so great a song of such relevant social meaning would win out, especially coming from the same hardworking group that brought us - among many, many other excellent songs - "Put Cha D. In Her Mouth", "Beatem To Da Floor", and "Slob My Nob" (Parts I and II are both pretty good).

A few years ago I was on the phone with an acquaintance who had recently moved his infant child and babymama into his home after some sort of relationship hiatus several of us thought, frankly, would be permanent. He was in the honeymoon stage of being a new little family and regaling me with the story of the first house party he had in his home and how it seemed to meld seemlessly with the apartment's new function harboring a family. He said he was walking through the house back to his guests (stoned, of course) and he caught a brief glimpse of himself. "I looked in the mirror and saw I was carrying a beer in each hand, a pacifier in my mouth, and I thought, 'Oh man, I'm a dad!'" His voice carried a lot of wonder, joy, and disbelief, and not a little fear.

Remembering this conversation now, I'm pretty sure I was on the phone in my old apartment uptown, pregnant maybe, but not yet a parent. I didn't have a lot to go off of from personal experience raising babies, but I remember I was nevertheless irked by this story. First off, how could a man who hadn't been present for the pregnancy and birth of his own child do anything but humbly eat crow for a few months? He's a dick for not being there, plain and simple. To my way of thinking then (and perhaps now), you can't take pride in being a dad because after some period of time cowering from reality you've made the generous decision to bring Baby home, and so far in the first coupla days it's going fine. Give yourself a year or so of doing the right thing and knuckling down to it, then you get props. I'm picturing a needed Boot Camp for daddies and then at some point if they've put up with it long enough and with a good demeanor they get some respect (maybe). Sure, not a generous frame of mind, I admit. It's too bad I've known a few deadbeat dads in my time, because it hasn't softened me up any.

Secondly, I confess I have a judgment against parents who party regularly in the homes where their children sleep. Now, I'm not a hardliner on this issue. God Knows my parents did it; I also know I always felt safe in their care. They weren't snorting rails of coke or gathered around some giant cock-shaped bong or anything, and they didn't leave us with Whoever so they could stay out all night. I just remember knowing they drank and, a few times, seeing them smoke pot. Fast forward to the Now, and of course I drink and smoke (cigarettes only) and do so in my own home (well, I don't smoke in my home, or at least not often... damn our current awareness of the evils of secondhand smoke!).

So - I guess it's the drugs. If I'm honest, there is a tingling sense of fear at the thought of Something Happening (a child cutting himself, a sudden violent fever in the middle of the night) and both the responsible adults in the home being incapacitated, even in a small way. To think of myself sitting in the emergency room holding my toddler while having a buzz on - even in a non life-threatening situation - turns me off. And maybe it boils down to this: I had a relatively free young adult life to blow my mind on Mad Dog, mushrooms, acid, polio pot (three things I enjoyed and one I didn't, quiz-takers!) and whatever else we could find in good ol' Grays Harbor and I did my share. But I have kids now. Someone has to be the adult in the household. Those days are over for me, at least for some time, and I don't mind at all.

I'm not even going to waste my breath further defending what works for me and my little foursome; neither am I going to go on at great length explaining that I don't hold sweeping, fixed judgments on those who are more relaxed about their substance abuse as it works with caring for young children. I haven't seen a lot of unsafe behavior from my friends, and I hope I never do; I just see some choices I don't intend to make. And as I've said before in other entries, if I could easily get my hands on some good downers I really would pop one a night to get to sleep. I guess I'm just too lazy and chickenshit to make an effort there.

Today my cold is worse. A rather nasty headache, completely stuffed-up sinuses. First came the hard part this morning: asking my husband to stay home for the day. Then comes an even slightly more difficult chore for me: not doing housework, or sewing, or any other damn thing. Easy to sit down at the computer and rant about some long-ago, near-forgotten snippet of a conversation.

Today at noon I put my kids in the car, put some gas in my van, picked up a girlfriend, and headed out of town. We met my parents at a restaurant in Shelton ("Fine Dining Just For You", and it actually was a nice little place as it turned out) and my parents bought us lunch. An hour after that I watched my oldest girl wave from the carseat while my mom and dad took her away from me for a couple nights plus change. I didn't miss her, not yet, but it had only been five minutes.

This is only the second time my daughter has stayed with my parents. The first time was a little less than a year ago and coincidentally helped us through the birth of my friend Abbi's baby in Seattle, a horrid few days for me, suffering from loss of sleep and the draining effects of birthin' adrenaline (not my own, which as it turns out is easier than holding a friend's hand through theirs) and just Seattle in general. Jesus Mother of God if anyone asks you to be with them while they're having their baby, say "No" unless it's in the same damn town you normally live and sleep in. By the way, I was never asked, I volunteered.

Back to current reality where already downgrading from two children to one feels like downgrading from one to zero - back to the footloose, fancy free lifestyle we enjoyed by Ralph and I not so many years ago. The second child is so happy to have some genuine focussed attention and eye contact he's a breeze to care for. It's easier to cook for three. It's easy to entertain one small creature, rather than two. My laundry duties are drastically reduced. Bedtime is a breeze, and suddenly I have hours of time between when the house is silent and calm and when I actually want to go to sleep.

So I lie awake for a while, finally falling asleep at 10:30 or some ridiculously early hour. I sleep well. I feel close to my husband. He's too tired to notice.

I've been reading the essays in The Bitch In The House. The book was hard for me at first. I hated the cover - the snarling "sexy" lips on the front. I was irritated by the introduction - editor Cathi Hanaeur bemoans at great length how we modern women have "too much to do in too few hours" and how this resorts in an epidemic, smoldering anger - however well denied or obfuscated - in all domestically-partnered women (with or without children). In contrast, speaking of previous generations, she writes:

At my age, my mother was in the midst of a fifteen-year interruption of her career in order to cheerfully raise four children, head the PTA and the Brownie troop, and serve our family three home-cooked meals a day, plus meet my father's every demand.

I put down the book and left it for a few weeks after reading that. The word cheerfully irritates me the most. How selfish; how shortsighted. As if a few generations ago women were less ambitious (both personally and in the working world) and just happier to settle for less - more peaceable about the mundane fate of running a home and baking brownies.

Compare this Donna Reed lens with my real mother's own testimony: how she married young in part to get out of her own mother's house (my grandmother herself spending decades in an often tempestuous, often chaotically fun household of five children she raised while her husband was off at war - and the children, my mother and aunts and uncles, suffering in a variety of ways from my grandparents' lack of a cohesive parenting vision), had a baby right away (she describes it as almost "playing house"), felt ill-prepared for the realities of young marriage with an infant, and essentially abandoned this first family to run off and play even less fun games of house with a series of other men - men who treated her anywhere from decently to downright shitty.

My mother's story and that of her first family - including my sister, seven years older than I - takes a happier turn after those first few years - but I'm not going to take the time to write about it now. My point is, it doesn't take much to hypothesize that all the women before us who certainly felt less empowered and perhaps less inclined to seek out lucrative careers still had the same shit - figuratively and literally, in diapers - to deal with as we do now, and the same temptations to overextend. Today's domesticated female complains about how hard she works juggling the Important Career while Pursuing One's Own Creative Drive and Clothing One's Child In Today's Organically-Grown-Cotton Fashions. But that's just today's version of smoke and mirrors keeping us from digging into the same domestic difficulties women have faced for years. Running a home has it's share of meaningless or repetitive tasks; then and now. Husbands want sex; wives (often) have trouble giving it (then and now). A main difference is that today's females have more choices at how to fufill themselves and keep a home. But a key few of these women, like the ones who contributed to this book, choose not to celebrate these choices and pursue what they and their partner believe is right for them - however retro or jet-setting that may end up looking - but instead focus on bitching about how overworked they are.

Still, the essays have engaged me with more content than I'd expected. I've found seeds of truth and moments (sometimes "moments" lasting years long) in relationships that are captured more eloquently in this book than in any movie or work of fiction I've consumed recently. "How We Became Strangers" sent chills up my spine - the story of the courtship and sweetness of marriage, then what the birth of the first child can do, quite suddenly, to that sacred twosome - and I recognized movements that have occurred in my own marriage.

But not much beyond the second-layer sadness and anger is explored. A reviewer on Amazon.com wrote the following:

To me, the lips painted in juicy red lipstick on the cover imply that the book is a racy provocative book; and the theme of the book, women's anger, also promises more than it actually delivers.

I believe the subject of women's anger is interesting and, despite all the bitching and nagging at others - partners, society, our parents, our children - that this anger is often aimed at, it is usually at its core self-directed. So far in the essays I've read the women have at least tentatively explored these waters. But all in all, from what I've read, the writers in this book aren't ready to commit to deconstructing their anger at Self; at least, not for more than a few paragraphs at a time.

We may be angry but we don't have to justify it by blaming society and our domestically handicapped or disinclined partners. I hope the next book I read on the subject has moved on from just expressing our anger to finding a way out of it. And I would wish the same on the women - single, married, widowed - I know who have longstanding partnerships, relationships in a rut, or who are looking for a warm body in their bed in the immediate future.

Yesterday was Sophie's 4th birthday party, at Chetzemoka Park (where we did it last year). Pegs made an amazing cake:


A bit macabre, perhaps - but two of Sophie's favorite things are skeletons and playing dead, these days.

I am not very good at throwing parties. It's a distracting venture for me. People are lousy RSVPing so you often have to make up weird math to figure out how much food to serve. Then we have the whole March thing. The weather is never something you can count on - although honestly, this was the third of four birthdays that had perfectly lovely sun. I think it's good for the kids to be outside, besides.


Caitlin (foreground) and daddy Josh (background). The three Peters girls (Caitlin's sisters Liliana and Nessa were still at the snack table) were in attendance and bundled up very well.


The oldest Peters child, licking lips after cannibalizing Skele-Cake.


The lovely Sarah, with her latest little bundle.


Rock and Roll. The Peters patriarch, looking bad-ass.


Rock and Roll, Part II. Amber, John, and Olive made it for the last part of the shindig.


Harper, looking pensive, waiting for her turn on the slide.


Nels, free-ballin' it. When Sophie saw this picture she said, "That's my favorite boy!"


Joanna. I don't know her very well, but she let me get her a cup of cider, so I may be a member of her circle of trust. I love this picture. She's wearing a superhero cape, just so you know.


Pascale (Joanna's sister) and Hayden. Nels' birth doppleganger Graham was not in attendance (home napping) but pro-4 year old Hayden showed the "little kids" how it was done.


Olivia, who has been friends with Sophie since she was 10 months old. We'll be celebrating her birthday in July.


The birthday girl Sophie. She's wearing a sweater her Grazdma knit. She got green frosting all over it. My mom washed it, and it is now drying in my sewing room.


Baxter. He likes my green hair.


Our friend Michael and some creepy dude that wouldn't say a word, but is very sweet to my children.


Leah, Michael's daughter, doing "Blue Steel."


Dwight, dog-in-attendance.

Last night I woke unexpectedly at 3 AM to Nels crying for "Mama, Daddy!". I tucked him in with me. All four of us, plus the cat. Lots of snuggles. King-sized bed. Very nice, for a while; then Nels asked for a cup of milk and to go back to bed.

In other news, it turns out I am a sucker for a good gimmick. Yes, I got my new iMac - the one that will stay with me, this time (I sincerely hope!). The iSight / Photo Booth combo is pretty fun for me. This is my morning so far:


The "pop-art" camera effect hides details - unwashed hair, hangover - that are best kept in the privacy of my own home.

Quiz time. The top annoying thing about drunk guys horning in on a perfectly good conversation with your girlfriend:

1. The inevitable pick-up line (even after you've indicated marital status and general disinterest).

2. The lightening-fast change from being sweet on you to suddenly "turning on you" in a slurring, aggressive, are-you-making-fun-of-me? rage.

3. Their long-windedness (even when you tell them goodbye).

For me, it's #3 hands-down. I have no problem giving a guy the blow-off (and even manage to do it nicely), I just wish it didn't take so long to close the deal.

Today is my oldest's birthday. This morning she sits on my lap and I sing "Honey Baby" by Damien Jurado to her. This was her favorite song for, oh, two years. Long before she could speak much more legibly than to ask for "first time baby" (a key line from the song) in such a little duck voice that we didn't always know what she was saying.

In my fridge sits a few pounds of lunchmeat and in my cupboard, 50 or so devil's food cupcakes. Sophie's preschool birthday meal will wait until tomorrow. And today, the weather is crummy. Cold and blustery. Last year it was cold but at least sunny, dazzlingly so. I don't remember it so much until I re-read my blog entries from a year ago. Those were good times. My friend Jodi was pregnant and visiting with her daughter Cyan; my friend Abbi was pregnant and anxious and huge and we were all so excited about her baby-to-be. I was blissfully un-pregnant and had just stopped nursing my oldest and was so proud of my Big Girl.

This year: I am still ambivalent about weaning Nels. He's done. He points at my breasts when he sees me in my bra and says, "Nees!" with this tone like, "Hey, those things are awesome for some reason that is not immediately occurring to me now! I love those things! Bring that good stuff over here, Mama!" (it's so eerily exactly how men dig breasts in that vague, Hey, can I have those in my hands or face please? way and I am not kidding in the least). I am blissfully not only not-pregnant but probably (my feelings are mixed on this too) never to be pregnant again ("You'll have to find some other man if you want to do that again," quipped Pegs the other day. My friends like to comment on Ralph's sterility). A new chapter, moving forward. My feet edge toward the threshold between raising young children and just having children.

Ralph is doing better. I think he's enjoying his job less; I think he feels pinched in some way beyond the normal juggling act of having a young family. I'm proud of how talented he is at his job and I'm also so grateful he works for a company that does good things. I honestly think it helps he and I immensely that his contributions have a greater meaning than Commerce.

Today will probably be an at-home day for the large part. I am going to take Sophie back to school tomorrow and keep her close to me today. I'm thinking after my first cup of coffee I'll pull myself together and take the wee ones on a bus ride downtown (to the new Boiler Room). It's fun looking at the weather from inside the bus, especially now that Li'l Demon Boy will actually sit on my lap in a (relatively) docile manner.

To come later today: birfday pics.