Life is Art

I suspect it will be a long road until I can consider my children little people in their own right. I infrige on any concept of personal space as habitually and joyously as if their beauty was my own. I kiss, pinch, squeeze, inhale, and slobber my way all over their sturdy, shiny little bodies, from their sweet-smelling clean hair to the damp kisses to be found behind each ear. To my credit, my wee victims are at least willing and seem to enjoy it (for the time being). Still, I know I can't go on taking our physical relationship for granted forever.

Tonight I am lying next to Sophie and telling her a bedtime story (made up in my wee brain) that is so gripping her eyes widen and fill with tears; when the story resolves, her brow relaxes and she smiles softly, her eyes dark with the fancies of imagination.

We are quiet for a minute. "What's Mama's favorite part of Sophie?" I ask. I am wondering the same thing myself as I study her face - so well-known to me it seems we never existed separately.

"I don't know. I don't know what you mean. You tell me." She looks up at me, puzzled.

"Here. My favorite part of you; I think it would be your lips." I say, knocking my knuckles against her chin gently. She shakes her my hand off, then looks at me critically.

"My favorite part..." she says, as her finger reaches toward my face and she studies me closely, "my favorite part is... in here..." her fingertip slowly but inexorably pokes into the corner of my eye. "Way in here." She grasps my wrist and squeezes. Then she sits up, leans forward, and holds me close:

"I like all parts... All parts of your skeleton," she tells me, firmly decided.

I'm taking some serious ass time to rest up and get over this cold; so far, it's working. I feel almost 100% well now, which is a good thing as I have a farm workday tomorrow. So anyway, for my evenings' entertainments - since I'm too broke and / or lazy to line up a bunch of rented movies and there's only so much reading I can do (currently Rudyard Kipling's Kim) - I've been scrounging up whatever I can get my paws on. Enter good friend Cynthia who has ensnared me before with her passion for back-to-back voracious TV series viewing (our 2004 - 2005 CSI marathon season was legendary - also detrimental to my housework and annoying to my husband). Anyway, her latest (and therefore, my latest) addiction is Showtime's "Queer as Folk", which recently drew to a close and thankfully only has five seasons to interfere with my normally productive life. For those who haven't seen this show, think" Friends" in terms of mediocre yet soothingly banal writing, Afterschool Special drama, and disposable relationships; the twists are that the show is all gay, graphic and frequent in sexual content (more ass and basket than "Oz"), and features jaw-dropping irresistable beefcake like Gale Howard (yeah, I know I'm a trendy prole for liking him, fuck off). Elements like this combined and you've got a heavy base of viewers - gay males and straight females alike - sucking up the stuff like a batch of watered-down cosmos.

Yesterday I let my daughter watch about fifteen minutes of the show with me. No, there was no graphic sex in the minutes we viewed - amazingly, because that show has some smut to it - although there was some ardent kissing between menfolk (everyone kisses on TV like they mean it, which those of us in long term relationships know doesn't really happen every time we get home from the grocery store, etc). As we watched (my thumb hovering over the "pause" button on the remote if things got too wild) I was thinking of how my children are going to grow up with an entirely different concept of homosexuality than what I did. From my point of view, this is a good thing. I think I was one of the lucky ones, really - but still, it's been a messed-up thirty years. When I think back to the overt messages my parents gave me, the mantra is fixed: gays are just like anyone else, except they prefer their own sex romantically. This core belief may not be entirely true or even very relevant to your average queer; but at least it's relatively unbiased and helped me sort stuff out as a young child. I absorbed other sterotypes, though - whether through implications in my immediate upbringing or society at large. My entire life of sexual awareness I have also "known" other things about gays: that gay men were friendly, promiscuous, silly, "fun", often acted unintelligent (in that way straight girls are still trained to do so), genuinely made unintelligent relationship choices, and, at the bottom of it all, were nervous wrecks. Lesbians were mannish, clumsy, unappealing, either far too muscular or flabby and untethered in some way (no bra), aggressive, and had slightly inferior personal hygiene (where did I get this stuff? I don't know! ... By the way, any angry lesbo reading this, please do not kick my ass. I wuv woo!).

Of course, it's all bunk. My personal experience has informed me that homosexuals are just people; if they're different in any all-encompassing way, it's that confused people like myself unwittingly put them under a microscope. See, what's weird is even now when I meet a homosexual (fictional ro real) I assume two things: one, that I will see the abovementioned traits at some point, however well the individual "hides" them; and two, that somewhere, deep down, they feel rotten about themselves; a core low self-esteem that guides many of their actions (although not, in any way, their innate sexual preferences).

And that, my friend, is what I am hoping my children will miss: the assumption or projection that inside every homosexual is a self-hating individual. That somehow, every gay feels like a square peg who will never fit into the round hole. I guess I'm progressive in that I know I've got misconceptions; but in view of the difficult and muddled task of deconstructing them, I realize I'd like better for my own kids. My generation had to get past our parents' naivette or (sometimes) absolute revulsion; I hope the next generation doesn't have to work so hard.

Tonight, continuing my pro-homo agenda, Sophie and I ended up watching most of Brokeback Mountain together. OK, honestly though - this was just a coincidence; the movie was loaned to us by Ralph's coworker and beat out our copy of Night at the Roxbury (it's a friend's - he left it here, I swear!). Sophie, to her credit, took any and all gay male couples in stride and made no comment.

Although perhaps this stuff is sticking in some way. Today in the car she said to me, "Mama, I'm in love with you, because we're girls. Daddy and Nels... Daddy and Nels are in love... so they're boys." Whatever the hell that all meant, I don't know; perhaps I'm going to have to bring home some hetero pap to provide her the completely neutral, whatever-you-want-to-do-is-fine-with-us-honey upbringing we modern parents stress ourselves out in trying to provide. Next week: Sleepless in Seattle, anything with Sandra Bullock, etc.

Two facts that not everyone knows about me are as follows: 1. I am a Christian, and 2. I love Jesus movies for reasons entirely independent of my spirituality. I realize Easter has passed, but at some point on the beach this morning watching my kids run around I got inspired to bring my readers my most recent brilliant poll idea:

Who was the hottest movie Jesus?

1. Christian Bale (he's the one on the right, with beatific smile - of course). If Christian Bale were a type of ice cream, I would eat a half-gallon with a spoon straight out of the carton in a dark room then lie back on my couch and feel ashamed of myself. Heck, I feel that way just thinking about him. Nevertheless, I haven't seen Mary, Mother of Jesus, because my limited viewing of made-for-TV Jesus movies is nearly as painful as seeing photographs of modern-day zealots actually crucifying themselves. What I like about Bale's Jesus is that he looks like he has a good time; and where's the sin in that?

2. Ted Neely. If you don't know what movie Mr. Neely played Jesus in, I first say - get the fuck out!, then direct you to rent the highly-dated, but still quite fun Jesus Christ Superstar. As far as Jesuses go (please someone, let me know if I'm using an incorrect plural of "Jesus"), Mr. Neely gets points for his sweatiness, his wall-eye, and his earnestly shrill rock-operatics. In one scene during the film's only posthumous number you can see right through JC's robe and observe Our Savior is in fact a tighty-whities man (settling a debate theologians have been raging at for centuries). This is also the only song number where any member of the cast looks at all clean and / or showered.

3. Willem Dafoe. What can I say about Willem Dafoe? He gets me so hot I feel a slight turn-on when my kids watch Finding Nemo (he plays Gill, the black and white stripey fish). Seriously, though, The Last Temptation of Christ is one of my favorite books, and I do enjoy the film version even though it has many notable differences and considerably less dignity. I think this is one of the many films you get to see a fiesty, naked Harvey Keitel (if you're into that sort of thing). The David Bowie cameo as Pontius Pilate is a bonus. Creeeepy!

4. Jim Caviezel (must take care to view stills from early in the movie to judge hotness). Jim Caviezel is hot. The fact he speaks Aramaic convincingly is hot. What's not hot is how badly he gets tortured for about six hours of the movie The Passion of the Christ. But what is this, a film critique? No. This is a post relating to hot Jesus actors. Enough said.

5. Vic Garber (OK, this one is just a ringer - who on earth could consider that attractive?). Judging by the horrible, horrible clothes worn by the cast (including clownlike cameltoe pants that are anything but funny) and cruddy music I've heard from Godspell, I have yet to actually watch it. I am not adverse to seeing it, but let's just say it will have to get in line behind other Jesus films I've yet to watch. Incidentally, I guess Mr. Garber has since shorn his filthy hippie 'fro and moved on to popular TC show "Alias" these days where he is enjoying more espionage and less direct persecution from religious leaders.

6. Robert Powell. No, I haven't seen Jesus of Nazareth either (see above to #1). As far as looks go, Powell seems to share some of the gaunt horsiness evident in the Max Von Sydow version (Greatest Story Ever Told). I like a Jesus who's got a little more junk in his trunk, myself. Still, such a ringing endorsement of a blue-eyed, patently Aryan Jesus is always funny for a laff.

And with this post: 45 minutes of my life, wasted. Hope you enjoyed it, and please do weigh in.

Cyn, the kids, Ralph and I went off to the beach this morning where I discovered two things: A. I enjoy riding my bike in a skirt, and B. lots of other people do, too. My husband voiced his approval of what I was wearing before we left, but asked, "Can you ride in that?", twin notes of disbelief and hope in his voice. While at the beach, every time I met his glance he would dart his eyes shiftily away from peering up my skirt or visually fondling my ass. But that's cool; he's allowed. The weird thing was I had more than a couple older dudes stare straight at me as if in some way I was inviting - nay, challenging - them to check up on it. I don't care much either way if I'm ogled but was surprised at the attention, which bordered on grody.

Writing now, I realize this morning I was still in a sleep-and-drug induced fog coming off my substance abuse from the night before: two glasses of red wine, melatonin, and Nyquil tablets. The latter two were in desperate attempt to get to sleep despite the small miseries of sore throat and stuffed nose; discomforts that go virtually unnoticed during the day and throb painfully in the evening as you lay your head on the pillow. Today's prescription: water, rest, boredom.

The kids napped late today, both going to sleep about 3 PM after getting a post-beach bath. Sunlight filtered through the house and a wonderful breeze played at the screen door, making it impossible to worry about much. Nels woke up after a "short" (hour and a half) nap. He lay in my arms in the living room, clutched against me and whining dramatically in response to any song or suggestion I made. I held him close, smelling his salty blonde curls and watching the grace of his shoulder blades playing under the newness of his smooth skin.

Tomorrow's Monday, and my last housework day from Michelle. Passages of domestic life; some happy, many bittersweet.

This morning I woke around 7 AM completely disconnected from reality. Where was I? What day was it? What time is it? Shit, what have I forgotten to do? I am so used to getting up early and immediately setting to cooking for, cleaning after, and dressing up small children that as I slowly surfaced to the fact it was a Saturday I experienced a sharp, joyous revelation. As I lay there listening to the silence my daughter padded into the room and wordlessly slipped under the electric blanket next to me (her favorite setting is "13") and wrapped her arms around me. I realized we were the first in the house awake. My husband was in the children's room sleeping with our son.

Unfortunately, since late last night I've come down with a cold and bad sore throat. Despite this, and in hopes ignoring illness is the best policy (it's not), at 10 AM I attended a Small Business Seminar out at the Tri-Center in Chimacum for a couple hours. The grand sum of this enterprise was that I left feeling dizzy, ill, depressed, and entirely sure I did not want to attempt working for myself, or building a business, ever in my life. Good luck with that out there, Everybody Else (P.S. People-watching at free seminars is definitely worth the time spent and the nasty-ass coffee they usually have).

I also watched The Squid And The Whale last night, which has moved up to be my Favorite Recent Film I Can't Stop Thinking About. This is a good thing in many ways; Thursday's viewing of Hustle & Flow has had "Hard Out Here For a Pimp" brain-raping me relentlessly.

And with that update, it's time to sit back on my ass, drink some tea, and hope to get well enough to deal with Life In General starting Monday.

There was a moment on Saturday night, leaning up against the wall outside the ladies room at the local twentysomething pub in my hometown, when I suddenly realized I had gradually, in the last few minutes, transformed into someone else. The metamorphosis was catalyzed by a powerful magnetic field surrounding a bachelorette shower five feet away to my left. The group, which had now sprawled into a sloppy hen party, was made up of females I'd gone to school with -- girls from a more popular social standing than I. These girls may have grown up in ten years but they terrify me as much as, I suddenly realize, they used to so many years ago. On some level, I know they are just friends having a good time on the weekend (although while I watch it is obvious some of them are taking a steep nosedive into having a bad time); women beginning to start families, to consider staying home from work; women watching their best friends getting married (the bride-to-be would later be carried out of the bar in a state of inebriation so severe I found myself worried for her - she was also sporting a very large bruise on her jaw where she had fallen and slammed into a chair); women starting to hate their jobs and not know what to do about it. Despite these equalizing considerations, a very real part of me - my emotional and psychological unconscious - engulfs my logical mind, and suddenly I find I have shrunk into the socially paralyzed math-and-science nerd, clinging spiderlike to the wall and praying for the bathroom to be vacated so I can vanish from the presence of these Queen Bees. In that moment I half expect to look down and see my Highschool Self, dressed in Chuck Taylors, a flannel, and a Pearl Jam t-shirt.

It strikes me again this morning, as I slip boots on my 2-year old and haul him out of the van, that I am similarly shrinking moment by moment, out of my element and anchorless, here at the farm where I am picking vegetables. See, on Friday I started a workshare program here (a miserable first day, held by a few of the old-timers here to be the worst workday weather they'd ever had) and from the moment I arrived - dismayed at the lumpy forms of ex-hippies with dirty feet companionably wallowing in yoga poses on the floor - I have felt distinctly out of my element. It's hard to describe, with any degree of brevity, why I don't fit in here. Glaring largest in my shortcomings as an organic farmer is my complete and utter lack of know-how on any process that grows food out of our earth (I won't bother to humiliate myself here with the myriad of examples of gardening gaffes I made on my first day). A close second in my fatal faults would be my lifestyle choices and just how ridiculously out of place they would be should I choose to exercise them here. These lifestyle choices include but are not limited to: the odd cigarette (I have not had one for a week, but that doesn't mean I'm giving it up any time soon), black coffee all day long, yelling at my kids (as well as keeping them relatively clean and appropriately napped - amongst this crowd, I feel like an authoritarian old-school fifties mom), basic redneck traits that no amount of New Age living will ever rid me of, and affection for small comforts such as hot water and salt in my food. And finally (the nail in the coffin) groups such as this - the makeup of which I've become familiar with in my six years in this odd, lovely little town - always stir up my impatience with the conversational traits of the militant Liberal / Greener (despite my often identical political leanings and, I like to believe, compassionate center) and my general irreverence toward anything that one could possibly make fun of and that I am unfamiliar with (items such as, oh, a composting toilet are so ripe - so to speak - with hilarity).

Still, I have been heartened by my experience a bit - last Friday, I recognized artichoke plants and understood why a makeshift chicken coop was built around their vestiges. I assimilated terms such as "overwintering" and "J-rooting" with only a minimal of completely dumb assumptions the first time I heard them. I mixed potting soil and found myself fascinated with the eleven or so ingredients - some of them very odd indeed - and in possession of a new respect for the curious alchemy of the farmer. But despite my successes - and despite having a rather sharp mind when I put my mind to something - the fact is, I am, for the first time in many years, an unskilled and rather clumsy worker. Bottom of the totem pole, and here I will remain, and I cringe to think of the various ways I will prove this to my fellow comrades in the fields in the weeks to come.

But today, I am merely stopping by to check in regarding my cooking shift on Friday and to pick a few vegetables for my family. As I make my way back from the signup area, I feel myself wither and consider ducking back into the van and heading home. I am terrified of the group in the field fifty feet away, so efficiently hacking or digging and knowingly fanning their fingers through rich, black soil, picking out some pieces of vegetation and leaving others in some mysterious divining process. I force myself to make the long walk, then I square my shoulders and march up to the leading farmer. We talk about Friday's shift. I haven't had a farm orientation yet, I explain. Where is the food that needs to be taken home?

Sent off to another field and grateful I will not have to be part of the larger group, I head out with my son to pick, for a start, some rhubarb. Nels' moods here in our two visits, amazingly yet fittingly, reflect mine precisely: uncertainty, vague distaste, wariness. Whereas my son generally has an outgoing, independent personality he has been easily irritated and frightened and always at the moments I have felt the same way. He vocalized grumpiness and bad humor at the identical setbacks when I myself feel like giving up the process of learning a new thing.

But now, I crouch down at a rhubarb plant, part the leaves, and see it: bright red, slender, ripe stalks. For lack of any instruction or mentorship I take out my knife, cut a stalk, cut the leaf and toss it aside, then put the stalk in my grocery bag. My son is hanging back, complaining. His voice echoes my own uncertainty, What size stalk do I want? Can I just toss the leaves on the ground? I look at the rest of the plot and find that seems to be what has been done before. My confidence grows. Nels moves forward and reaches for the knife. "Cut!" he demands. Together we pick a few pounds. I let out a sigh of relief. No matter what happens, I worked my ass off for this food; and now I will be bringing it home.

We move on to kale (where again, I harvest as best I can, hoping I'm not overlooking something obvious or cutting up some random weed that will kill us all instead of a tender vegetable). While in that particular field I have another awesome Farming Moron moment: For about five minutes, I suspiciously eyeball and mistake red chard for rhubarb (hey, it's surprisingly similar in plant form). But the great thing is, no one is around but Nels - so no one sees my goofs. We gather up some chard (to cook for lunch today), then move on to leeks and parsley. Back to the van where I set my backpack up in the seat (with a pleasing heft and lovely fresh leek smell) and put my Boy back in his tennis shoes. I made it. Made it through another episode at this place where I was not eaten by wild gophers nor did I somehow set a stampede of something-or-other through the tender, handplanted shoots of some delicate whispy greenery.

By this time next month, count on me to nod knowingly while stroking my chin everytime any mentions growing food.

Briefly, what you missed:

• 1 roadtrip to my parents' house for the weekend
• 1 pool party for my kids (and my childhood friends' children) at the Y and catered lunch after
  
• 1 smashed dessert (second year in a row) for my dad's birthday party at Fisher-favorite restaurant
• 3 stitches in my son's forehead
• miscellaneous awkward hometown sightings and interactions
  
• 1 hangover

What's to come:

• 1 birthday party for Sophie's favorite boy
• a visit from kellynhank
• Indian food
• a board meeting where I will try not to kill myself in the head
• cooking for the Farm crew on Friday
• sobriety

Tonight Cyn and I went on our weekly Wednesday date night - this time to a Vietnamese restaurant, surprisingly good, in Poulsbo. I brought home a bubble tea to my daughter and as soon as I walked in, she looks up from her too-tight PJs, pouring cat food out into a bowl, and when she sees what I'm carrying she lights up like I was Santa delivering a chocolate kitten with a edible nougat-brain: "Is that bubble tea?" she beams. "Yes, it is." "I like bubble tea!" she squeals, having seen bubble tea once in her life, well over a month ago, which I at this moment realize has eclipsed any and every other meaningful moment in our lives. She grabs, sucks, shares with Nels, who experiences the surprise of the tapioca "bubbles" with remarkable aplomb. "Bubble! ... tea!" he happily giggle-sprays. The kids kill off the 16 oz. beverage (the smallest I could order) peacably between them. Out of a dozen or more flavors I chose peach so when she discussed the beverage I could hear her adorable yet hilarious pronunciation: "peacks".

(Other Sophie highlights today included the lunchtime game where she would hold up two celery sticks, one in each fist, and ask, "Which one did I eat?", apparently thinking my powers of perception are dull enough that I need the incriminating bite-shaped marks and celery strands spouting out every which way, always from the left-hand piece of celery, incidentally. Hey, I didn't watch all those episodes of CSI for nothing.)

So, last night we had a badminton tournament in honor of Sara's birthday - and although I'm not allowed to say anything, there was more than one sports injury that resulted. It got a little competitive. I had, like, four rum and cokes so I was feeling sportsmanlike, if not at peak performance. Anyway, my idea for next game? Matching poly shorts and shirt set with team logo, knee socks, and of course, wrist and head sweatbands.

I have to admit, I'm confused by the court layout issues on this Badminton Central article. Specifically Rule 1.1 - I'm pretty sure our court was larger than the forty millimeters specified here. Unless they mean something different by the unit "mm" - but in which case how can it make sense to have a net with a "mesh of not less than 15 mm and not more than 20 mm"? Then again what, no matter how intense the Japanese player looks while swatting his racket, no matter how clever the logo is (the use of a birdie for a "t" in "badminton" is rather weak), I should probably be skeptical of any so-called expert badminton site that drops the "cock" from the entity "shuttlecock". 'Nuff said.

One fundamental way I'm different from my husband on roadtrips is that I enjoy listening to the radio and he most emphatically does not. I guess, more specifically, I mess around with the radio constantly, searching from song to song. I know, I know, it sounds annoying. But first off, I can hardly stand to sit still in the car. And secondly, playing the radio is the only way to achieve any degree of surprise and spontaneity in one's music consumption (again, helping with the boredom factor).

Anyway, on my last trip I was the only adult in the car, and my kids are happy with music as long as it's loud - so I was torturing myself with the local buttrock & country stations as I drove through Grays Harbor on to home. After a few gruelling efforts that almost got the best of me (I thought I could outlast the extended version of Foghat's "Slow Ride". I was wrong.) I finally heard the strains of this song, which I suddenly realized fits into my musical category of "stalker / serial killer lyrics" (The Police's "Every Breath You Take" and Grass Roots' "Temptation Eyes" also come to mind):

I'll take my chances babe I'll risk it all
I'll win your love or I'll take the fall
I've made my mind up girl it's meant to be
Someday lady you'll accomp'ny me

It's written down some where, it's got to be
You're high above me flyin' wild and free
Oh but someday lady you'll accomp'ny me

I especially love the part where he tells his lady she's "high above [him]". Yeah, that pedestaled goddess verbage is just right before he gets that look in his eye and starts in with the unreasonable demands, the fantasies about the two of you "running away from it all", even while he fingers the loaded gun in his front pocket...

Hope you've got mace in your purse, honey.

When I think back to where I was when Nels was born, it seems like the end of one chapter in my life and the beginning of a new one - one that is even now drawing to a close. Or maybe his birth heralded even larger transitions, like a "Part III", or something. At any rate, the distance of a couple years provides welcome perspective. As I'm mulling things over in my mind I'm thinking to myself, I am so rad that I held my family together and didn't go nuts! A possible regret? Not going nuts, so I could score some good meds.

It wasn't until the moment he was born the timeline clicked up a notch. Up until then, I was just growing a larvae and mostly busy wrangling my oldest child. My pregnancy with Nels was perfect, health-wise. I did a minimal amount of medical tests, I felt and looked great, I gained weight on a traditionally healthy curve. Visits with midwives were less like seeing a physician and more like visiting a hip aunt's for a cup of tea. No "scary paper dress that scratches your tits", no undignified or uncomfortable exams. I'd show up in a sunlit cottage, pee in a cup and put a lab testing stick in the cup to read my results, then sit and talk with a beautiful woman with capable hands who'd sit crosslegged with bare feet and red toenails while we talked. I think the amazing experience of a midwifery model made childbearing a completely nondisruptive part of regular life.

I was healthy enough but toward the end of my term I felt sluggish. Once on an outing, my daughter refused to walk anymore, forcing me hike all the way up the Haller Fountain steps while carrying her. Tourists and locals swished past me on the steps - a nine-month-plus pregnant woman carrying a two year old - avoided eye contact, and did not offer to help. That was the definitive moment I was done being pregnant with a toddler to care for. I was ready to move on and have this baby, to experience life a little fuller.


When he was born, and from the minute I was allowed to stand up and get out of the heated water we birthed in, I took off, got going, and didn't stop for months. That first night I lay awake with him long after everyone else had left, gone home, gone to bed. The two of us were communing long into the night. A few hours later I got up and took him out all day. I couldn't stop moving. I weighed myself nine days postpartum and my weight was gone. I was so enthralled with and energized by my small family. I remember, a day or two after he was born, driving out to the Fort in my parents' bus. Bob Marley played on the CD player. I held my son in my sling, close to my body where he belonged. I felt like I'd known how to hold him my whole life. My daughter in pigtails and hoody snuggled next to me, proud of her baby brother and beautiful and strong. I was high. I was hooked.

Six months later I was beginning to learn about burnout. I was coming to grips with the hard, humbling lesson that to have an orderly home you sometimes sacrifice too much. My husband learned of neglect. He learned about overwork. He learned he didn't have the tools to ask for what he needed. He was jealous. He'd stayed home with the first child; I got to stay home with the second.



Through it all, the child himself was easy to care for. Busy as I was and fearless as I was, he was happy to be carried along with me and my daughter. At the same time, I asked much of her. Within months she knew she was expected to bring diapers to me or wait while her brother's more immediate needs were met. She also learned how to care for, notice, and respect other people; those smaller than her, and those larger.



I neglected some friendships. They survived, though. I fled, fearful, next door to my girlfriend's to watch movies and escape from the house I was trapped in by day. I asked for advice from my mother, having first qualified to her that my adolescent embargo on her opinions was long over. She began to trust me, and to volunteer her observations and guidance. She tells me how much she respects me for staying home with my children, a challenge she did not take up. She tells me that to be honest, she didn't think I could do it. Part of me thinks, "Aw, thanks!" Another part thinks, "You bitch!" I remain close to my family; they have informed our parenting more than any other outside source.

Today my son is weaned, sleeps beautifully, and suddenly my babymaking and rocking and nursing days are drawing to a close. My marriage survives. My integrity is strong, my love is fierce. Every day I am bolstered with the knowledge that these two little strangers continue to be just that - even as they are constant companions in my days and nights and our chemistries are forever entwined.

Happy birthday, Nels. Happy Big-Sister Birthday, Sophie. And to all a good night.

Today my son turns two years old. Last year at this time I was with Abbi all day, giddily ignoring my son's birthday in favor of crowing over her due date for her second child. Two years ago at this time I was at the new mom's breastfeeding tea at the Health Department, showing off my 12-hour old infant and glowing after a perfect birth (ed note - no need to fear the link for pictures of nasty placentas or vi's - text only).


Nels was enthralled with his butterfly birthday cake and, much like a thoroughbred rearing at the starting gate (yes, I'm reading Seabiscuit right now), had to be restrained from blowing out the candles (or diving in the cake, we couldn't tell which one he wanted to do) until we'd completed singing "Happy Birthday". The thumb on his neck is his sister "helping" him get closer to the butterfly candle "antennae" to extinguish their flame.


Snuffed. I was up until midnight making and decorating this cake. My husband ended up bailing me out on the decoration part. I think I hate decorating cakes more than I hate changing diapers. It's certainly more messy.

Gifts Nels has received so far today: alphabet refrigerator magnets, nerf football, Carhartt t-shirt, and a kilt.

Current occupation: napping peacefully after a morning and early afternoon filled with sun and friends.

I am a big fan of need-to-know basis when it comes to explaining life's grittier realities to one's children. Conversations about heavy subject matter usually occur according to the kids' agenda and don't go at the pace you've planned in your mind - so what's the point of making up a preset speech? Say you're watching a film with your preschooler and you come to the part where Bambi's mom gets nuked (or Boromir gets shot by orcs to the tune of oh, 100 arrows in the chest - depending on the cinematic choices you subject your progeny to). The child asks, "Mommy, what happened to Bambi's mom ( / Boromir)?" and fixes her dewey eyes on you. Well, in the Kelly Hogaboom School of Parenting (TM), I simply say, "She's (he's) dead." Then wait. Usually not much more, if anything, is asked. The kid processes it. The kid will ask a more pointed question later, when she's ready - bet on it.

So I don't generally overexplain and I don't operate using euphamism (in tonight's Lady and the Tramp dog Nutsy gets led off on "the long walk" at the dog pound - Sophie asked what was happening to the dog and, after struggling to find the right phrase I finally said, "He's being euthanized" - rather than the much more confusing yet oft-used "They're putting him to sleep"). But tonight, for the first time as a Mama, my child's questions outstripped my ability or interest in talking about something:

So I'm on the computer - the girl and I had just got done watching LatT and I am about ten minutes away from putting her to bed. Sophie keenly spies and sntaches up a tampon (this item had been lurking in my purse since the trip down to my parents and I believe was the same specimen my 2-year old son pulled out of my pants pocket in front of my brother). Sophie is alert, bushy-tailed, laconic and direct: "What is this?" turning a searchlight beam on me. I'm catching up on email and I don't want to explain. "It's like a blood-pad," I say, referring to the Sophie-moniker she assigned to my more regularly-used cloth pads (this is the first time tampons have been in the house for almost two years), and hoping that's a good enough explanation. "Yeah, but what is it?" she asks again, brows furrowed. "What's it called? What is it?" "It's for blood. For Mama." I respond in a thoroughly half-assed manner (I know I suck, but honestly, it wasn't the subject matter - I just didn't want to explain anything, not even what pajamas I was going to wear to bed; I was that worn out). "What is it." she says, adopting a drone-like tone that informs me she's prepared to keep at it for a while. Finally I say, "It's a tampon," fully expecting to get barraged with more questions.

But instead, lighting up as if somehow she had busted up some kind of international menstrual-secret conspiracy, she immediately yells, "TamPON!" in the most victorious fashion. Then (completely inexplicably) she belts, "You're IT!" and pokes me. A few beats later, "It is a tam-POD!" she crows, as if I was her favorite student, she'd just handed me a pop quiz, and I'd scored well.

Good job, Mama. You passed the test.

Today I spent the morning on sun-warmed sand with Abbi and the five children in our combined care. In my hands I occasionally held a child; on my back, my beloved backpack I've had since highschool, holding a water bottle and sweaters for the children if they needed them. It's still only barely spring here, so I wore layers: a swimsuit (this was the attire of my hopeful self), a short skirt, pants, a summer tee, a flannel, and my big wool hat. The wind kept me from being able to take any of these items off. But it was lovely. We had kites; Abbi and I laughed and breathed the salt-seasoned air. My son's cheeks and hair have the first sun-kissed glow of the season.

It's quiet in my home. My washing machine spins the towels and rags from cleaning up after lunch and after sandy kids. Fresh cloth diapers are folded on the changing table. The house smells good - of food, sun, and warmth.

Cooking on my stovetop is a london broil in wine. My neighbor and good friend brought us the cut of meat (generously taking advantage of a 2 for 1 sale), and my good friend Abbi gave me the dutch oven it cooks in. Also cooking: white rice with butter and marinated baked tofu for a late lunch. My kids sleep on. My daughter's intentions were to stay awake for the bread I was baking, but put herself to bed, bored with the wait. My son will wake soon; I will go into his room and hold him and he will smell better than anything else.

Cooling on my windowsill: a loaf of Amish friendship bread (the starter given to me by my playschool adult ed instructor) and two chocolate cakes for my son's birthday party tomorrow. Paige is bringing by cake decorating accoutrement tonight so I can finish the job.

My life could probably not get more domestic if it tried.

I know beyond a doubt that when I read this blog entry years from now I will be overcome with nostalgia and fondness for these days of my life. For now, I am fortunate and wise enough to pause in my hard work and enjoy what I have.

I'm trying to learn how to use my digital camera. I notice I've got cute toes.


I took the first picture while in line at my favorite local drive-through coffee. Although coffee drive-thru signs with assy-looking menus are a slight irritation to me, the coffee and service here are excellent.


Abbi helps Nels up to a Mr. Miyagi pose at the end of a log. Hidden baby in this photo as well.


Nels seemed to enjoy being astride a log as Abbi bounced him up and down, surely jogging his balls a good deal fierce. She actually, despite her efforts, couldn't shake him off.

This is the kitchen I remember growing up with since I was about ten years old. No, we generally didn't usually have a dictionary stand and tome poised at our elbows as we cooked. I don't know what that's all about in this month-old photo (said dictionary is serving under my 2-year old's ass as a booster seat for meals this weekend). The shelf above the sink holding flour crockery and measuring cups was a beautiful oak slab routed by my mother to hold serving plates. It was also, at the end of its tenure, covered with an eighth inch of rugged, rubbery kitchen grease / grit buildup. As was the rest of the kitchen.


This is my parents new kitchen, remodeled entirely of their own effort and with fundage courtesy of my Grandmother's corpse, and complete with double seamless composite sink, self-closing dual-tiered silverware drawer, and so many cupboards I could lose one of my children easily (children housed by cupboards not shown here). Note coffered ceiling and general snootiness. It's a beautiful kitchen and a joy to cook and eat in. They should be proud of themselves. More evidence:


Some kitchens have shit like this for purely decorative function, purchased at Pier One or Costco (I can't type either of those proper nouns without a gag reflex). My mother actually received this garlic braid as a gift from a friend who grew it in her garden and braided it herself and yes, my mom cooks with it. My mom also has, perched above her stove, herbs she grew, dried and bottled in little green glasses she painted the names of the herbs on:


When my husband, wannabe herb-grower extraordinaire, sees this picture, he may in fact be spurred into a vicious Master Plan to out-herb my mom. Only time will tell.

Some things do not upgrade into the new "classy" vision my 'rents digs afford. Case in point:


Last night I promised myself (and my family) I would no longer say disrespectful things about my parent's dog. The truth is, he is a good dog. But he is also (and this is one of the worst things a dog can be) a yapper. Anyway, my kids love him (Nels took him on a walk this afternoon) and he fills that hole in my parents' hearts that apparently only a floor-pissing, constantly shaking tiny canine-ish lifeform can fill.

(My father, sitting on his ass in his leather easy chair, just yelled out, "It's past four o'clock!", apparently the signal for my mom to open up and pour his first glass of wine).

Tonight: spaghetti and meatballs, roasted squash, and stuffed zucchini. For now: round up my children, who are currently sleeping off a morning of indulgence and ice cream.

It may only be 5 in the morning but I'm playing one of my favorite internal mind-fuck games, where I go over and over in my brain between two options and feeling increasingly trapped with every iteration. In this case, I want to go see my parents for a couple days. Back and forth, like a tennis match only more dull, go my justifications for making the three-hour drive:

Sophie doesn't have preschool this week (that's good!).
I might miss an exercise class (that's bad!).
The weather is perfect for a roadtrip (that's good!).
I will miss Ralph and our bed (that's bad!).
I will get fed my mom's cooking (that's good!).

And so on.

Yesterday as we drove up to Fort Worden for a Chinese Gardens hike, we looked back to see our kids holding hands. "We're holding hands because we love each other," Sophie explains. Yes, Nels "Left Eye" Hogaboom seems to be sporting a recent black eye and yes, his sister may have given it to him (we actually don't know when it occurred). But still. They love each other.





I'm feeling nostalgic for summertime and sun-kissed monkey babies. Sophie three Aprils ago in the truck, as we waited at the Seattle ferry dock to head back to Port Townsend.