Today was rough around the edges. After being jilted for a playdate and the corresponding company and distraction it would afford me and my (almost-throttled-by-9 AM) kids, I decided to head out of the house in hopes I could change the horrible inertia of the morning. My destination: the Farm for a little veggie harvest (kale and red lettuce) and some pool play. The pool there is in a greenhouse and is about fifteen feet in diameter, 3 1/2 feet deep, and wonderfully tropical. Plus it doesn't matter if you've got the Berpuba Triangle, if you show your boobs getting into your swimsuit, or if you even have a swimsuit at all, because it's a pretty au naturel scene out there as I have explained before (my shit was tight on all accounts, though). Anyway, I had two non-swimming kids to wrangle which was a pain in the ass, but for the most part it all went great - except for the nasty and extra "earthy" evidence of a hair clot that floated by midway through our swim (hair wads gross me out more than almost anything else). Anyway, when I finally was tired of carting my little ones back and forth like little monkeys, it got tricky: getting the kids out of the pool, dressed, and please God Nels stop throwing stuff in the water almost undid me. I lost it in small but ferocious episodes. I grabbed hair; I shook the little bastards. I hissed in their sweet little conch-shell ears. I left with my fangs bared in feral anger at my progeny. I buckled them in their seats then headed to the kitchen and grabbed some popcorn for them to make amends.

Well, we got home eventually and, for one of the first time in months and months, I could not wait until I got the li'l devils into their beds and pried them off me. A girlfriend showed up and, besides bumming cigarettes and kettle corn off her, I was mostly a wretch. I just couldn't handle "it" today. The children themselves were, after the post-swimming incident, not particularly difficult; it was I that couldn't rise to the occasion. I felt guilty, soul-sick, and listless. Add to my difficulties in feeding, parenting, and remaining civil to them: I could see all the dirt and grime on my floors and surfaces, detritus that irritated me more and more as the afternoon went on and I felt my bare feet getting gritty and my energy waning and my life deflating with a flat and agonizingly long "Pffftttttttthph!"

Contrary to any ideas about hiring housework, asking the Husband to do some extra chores, or just "relaxing one's standards" (this from my mother), the only real solution to hating one's dirty home is to clean it oneself. Sweeping. Mopping. Folding. Wiping. Washing. Tidying. This last is almost the worst. Why should I have to carry a cast-off musical shaker or such through eight rooms to it's rightful place, the only break in the endless tedium of this duty being the possibility you will come upon something you haven't seen in so long as to forget it exists? Oh wow, there's the little bookshelf tab that I thought had been missing, and such. Did I mention I carry stuff back and forth in my own home one million times daily?

I have often told myself my children do now and would grow to appreciate my housekeeping, as relatively rigorous, but by no means anal-retentive, as it is. I tell myself they feel peace falling asleep in and waking up to tidy, clean, dust-free rooms and fresh sheets. If someone were to tell me it completely doesn't matter how orderly I maintain my home or how lovingly I craft family dinners, I would probably fold in on myself like a black hole. The importance and moral soundness of my efforts are the only things that keep me trudging along, daily.

Well, that and "Strangers With Candy", my new favorite TV show. Speaking of which... !!

Maybe Ralph can do the dishes tonight as I sit on my ass and enjoy my most recent viewing of depravity.

So, I arranged myself a day off this morning. Except it won't really be a day off. When I return at 2:30 PM after my jaunt to Bainbridge Island (with two girlfriends, meeting my mother, and featuring my favorite fabric store) I will then have to pick up my children, bring them home, ready them for their naps, struggle to get them asleep, then the minute they are asleep I will have to do the normal household duties (chores I am skipping now to write this), make dinner, and hopefully get some time in to sew. I will confess I spent a few minutes this morning wading though Nels' outgrown boyclothes for my friend Becca - which put me in a brief funk. Can I please have one more baby so I don't have to let go of them?

Yes, going through the clothes is a trip. I am sorting them quickly to pass them off to my girlfriend on her way over, and I feel like I'm being forced to rush through Nels' babyhood all over again! A beautiful sky-blue crawler from Gena, whom I've lost touch with. A seersucker bubblesuit from Amy Folkers, one of the only hand-me-downs I used from her. Some of my early sewing I'd completely forgotten: a white chenille coat with blue glass buttons. A few pieces of the Euro clothes Cynthia and Pegs brought back from their trip to Denamrk. So many, many sets of sleepers and pj's: a soft white cotton one with little fish and aquariums on them - for some reason, a favorite of ours. Way, way back to before Sophie was born: a footed cotton jams printed with cartoon animals, given to me by my first baby shower at the PT Presbyterian church as a surprise. I remembered the tears in the eyes of the pastor's wife as she told me of the joys of parenthood.

Nels the baby. My memories of breastmilk and snuggling and the sweet smell of his head and how he would put his toes in his mouth, wide-eyed, as I changed his diaper.



Between the clothes and dropping my son off at a friend's and I am struggling with remorse and sadness. For maybe his third time in his life, he doesn't want me to leave him. My husband reports yesterday Nels had the same sadness as Ralph left him at Abbi's. It's clear he wants more time with us, and me in particular.

I suppose I have the luxury of feeling guilty for the handful of hours this week The Boy is not with my husband and I. The funny thing is, I have always prided the four of us on being able to survive without one another exclusively, and I've also appreciated our social natures. And right now, even though I know I "deserve" this time without my children, and although my girlfriend is a great help to offer to sit them (I am favoring her with some sewing in return), I just feel like a heel for leaving my boy. I have his tears on my hoodie; perhaps by the time they are dry I will feel more settled.

I hate to admit it, but HTML (oh, excuse me Ralph, I mean CSS) can be cool (click on it, fool!).

As I type this I have about forty-five more minutes of a six-hour babysitting stint: my good friend Abbi's almost-four-year old Liv. Right now the girls (having beachcombed, coffee-shopped, pizza-dined, trampoline-jumped, kiddie pool-splashed, and bathed) sit on the couch under the kitchen fan, reading stories to one another. Nels is sleeping. I'm planning on tidying up and tuning up my sewing machines and getting a break.

I am especially proud of my feat with Nels: putting him down for a nap without the use of a cage. See, Nels is a party animal. Not only can he stay awake for almost as long as he wants to, he can do so sporting a great mood and in a state of high energy. Add this to his very sweet cuddling desires when you actually do get him horizontal, and you've got a tough nut to crack when trying to convince him to lay down and go to sleep. But since the first night of his toddler bed I have lucked out, usually having either Ralph's help (Ralph reports on his first night that he got out of bed eighteen times, only to be ushered back over and over) or a car nap transfer to keep him from escaping out his free-standing bed. Still, we have been determined to get him in that bed. We know more than a few parents who kept their child in a crib until the kid was bulging out of it; we know even more parents who lay down with their kids for however long it takes reading, cajoling, and arguing. Not for us.

So today, even "handicapped" with an extra child and with more than a few bathroom calls and naked kids in the pool and naked kids on the trampoline, I determinedly keep The Boy at bay, back to his bed. It only takes a couple iterations before he gives up the ghost, cries piteously (though sleepily), and falls asleep.

Today was Sophie's last day of Vacation Bible School (a two-and-a-half hour morning stint each day this week). She didn't seem to enjoy it nearly as much this year. Perhaps part of the issue is that she is bone, dead, fucking-arse tired from all the extra kids we've been having around the house. As we sat with our lunch and listened to the songs (annoying, tinny-sounding contemporary tunes played from a small CD deck and given insufficient volume for the shy children to sing along to) she rubs her head against me and sucks her thumb. I stroke her back through her little japanese-patterned cotton dress. Nels ruthlessly hunts down every stray M&M on snack plates and succeeds in winning them by a flirtatious smile.

Changes for The Boy, too: he had his first night in his "big boy" bed. For spatial reasons (my children share a room), it isn't a standard-sized bed, but a toddler one. His bed is the cutest damn thing ever. And a sight easier to lower a child onto.

Thus ends our baby stage of life. Or so it seems now. The crib remains in a corner of my living room as I have not yet discovered a discipline technique for Nels better than picking him up and putting him in a time-out (he can climb out of his prison, but never does - cowed as he is by my Goddess-like power). My children sleep side-by-side with the occasional midnight wakeup and request for "Milk, please!"

I don't want to move out of Port Townsend. As much as I bitch about this town's funky personality, as annoying as the high cost of living is or the PC White Privilege scene irritates me; or the hidden wealth pretends it's not there; or the surliness of the local businesses give you shit if you shop there and bitter, vitriolic shit if you don't (there are notable exceptions to all these abovementioned bitches, of course); and it is always windy and I can't even find somewhere to get my kids decent, affordable underwear - anyway, as much as all that stuff is fun to complain about there is too much I am not willing to relinquish.

There are my friends. I have many. I love them and they have propped me up through some heavy shit. I love the coffee shops; I love the movie theatre. There is the smell of the sea and the hikes on Fort Worden and my husband and I parking in the hospital parking lot and talking while watching the lights over the town and far away on Whidbey Island. There are choices here: choices in what food to eat, what groceries to buy, and what video store to rent from. There's the physical locale - I challenge you to find a more beautiful place to live (without forcing me to learn another language). And yes. There are my friends.

My mom calls me today and gets dragged into my domestic crisis (I really can speak at a frighteningly fast pace when it's something I'm fired up about). She is great to talk to because she cares, she will listen, and she advises. We are in agreement on many things. Yes, we have to do what's best for the family and, to a somewhat lesser extent, Ralph's career. Yes, I have set up a wonderful community here for myself. Yes, I could make friends anywhere and could survive in any scene. Perhaps our time here in Eden is over. Perhaps we overstepped our luck to think we could live here, as a single-earner family, and stay for any length of time.

But my son was born not fifteen feet from where I sit. We brought Sophie to this home on her first day in this world. I miscarried in this house, in the bathtub upstairs, with my husband hovering by, worried. I have scrubbed these floors on my hands and knees and fallen into bed exhausted, many a night (even more often I have also stayed awake long past the witching hour and padded through the rooms, barefoot, as my whole family slept). I walk and bike and bus where I need to go (and sometimes I get in the car to drive just a few hundred feet - hell yeah). We have two duck ponds, we have the beach, we have trails in the shade softened by pine needles and loamy earth. In the summer we have a kick-ass hotdog stand and a Drive In and new and exciting flavors at the ice cream shop.

No matter what occurs or where we go, I say a prayer of thanks for my friends and community here. I thank God for my healthy children, the strength of my marriage, and my husband, whose familial loyalty and energy are really inspiring to witness. And I am stronger than my circumstances can overcome. Upheaval may come sooner than we'd anticipated and it may be unwelcome, but it is a necessary fact of life that forges us stronger in the fire.

My husband loved, loved, loved having extra women and babies in this house. Last night he donned pj's and t-shirt and was positive he could settle baby India back to sleep. She is a tough nut to crack when she doesn't want to give over, though. I watched as he bobbed and rocked, sang in a singsong sweet whisper, gently swayed and soothed, then finally said, "I will punch you right in the face!" and pulled the baby's head back to his shoulder before turning to face a blank corner of the room in hopes to bore her to Dreamland.

For me, by the end of our two bouts of back-to-back company (seven of the last nine days), I am ready to have the house to myself again. Young babies are stressful; not because they are fussy or hard to take care of but because their Mamas suffer through sleeplessness and irritation and backache (yes, I'm talking about you, Jodi and Kelly!) and they simply won't let you help them much. It seems to be a universal law.

Todays joys: fabric shoping, my crack-like addiction of sewing; date night; mopping floors (yay!).

• We had to actually implement and enforce a strict, "No Beer or Coffee for Nels" policy (hey, at least it worked).

• Both children can repeat verbatim:
So Dre. (What up Dogg?)
We gotta give 'em what dey want (What's that, G?)
We gotta break 'em off somethin' (Heck yeeeah!)
And it's gotta be bumpin' (City of Compton!)

• They can act out the entire film Nightmare Before Christmas perfectly (indicating proportional number of viewings).

• Sophie occasionally says "fuck".

• Nels picks his nose and eats it.
  

I can't help but think Bruce Springsteen busts out some pretty sexy music. Today as I clean house I'm singing along to "Prove It All Night" (a song featured on Kyra Sedgwick and Kevin Bacon's Valentine's Day playlist, BTW - don't ask my why I know this) before the live version of "Fire" comes on. Then something from Nebraska (downer!) which makes me think of the movie Indian Runner and that I want to see it again (we are a pro-Viggo household).

In fact, I have music on so loud I've locked the doors to my house so no one can surprise me belting out "Promised Land" while I scrub my toilet. Sometimes I honestly think the happiest moments of my life are singing while on hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor, steaming cup of coffee nearby and sunlight streaming through the windows.

1. The stitch-it kit ($23) and four-pack discount ($10) -- I'd have to pick from my favorites of veggies, pirates ahoy, tattoo, western, kit(s)c(h)en, under-the-sea, and chinatown patterns --from Sublime Stitching.com.

2. The vegecol moisturizing cream ($13) from Aubrey. Now at the local co-op!

3. A steady line on the Valhalla Coffee ($13/lb) my girlfriend Kelly brought me (the lucky minx lives within reasonable driving distance). Let me tell you, the only thing cooler than great coffee is great coffee with a really rad hand-drawn viking on the label:



4. Sushi at BISH ($20).

5. The Life Aquatic: Studio Sessions featuring Seu Jorge (iTunes exclusive) ($10).

5. My Stich-N-Bitch book back from Rachel (free).

6. My last cigarette which was stolen yesterday - you know who you are - (priceless).

I am so conflicted on the church / kid thing. Coupled with the anti-Christian sentiment of this town, I'm feeling bitchy right now. So, why not blog it all before I can regret it, or temper my words? So yes, be warned. And um, my Unitarian acquaintances (you know who you are!), I can tell you already this post is going to irritate or offend you (you could save yourself time and re-read my rant from over a year ago, which essentially remains unchanged). Please remember this blog is about ME and not YOU. You stuck-up, NPR-listening Volvo-driving elitists! Just kidding, wuv woo!

Anyway, today was the first day of Vacation Bible School at our church (eerily, I even ran across last year's nemesis, a woman I hadn't seen since). I say "our church" with a brief head-hang because we haven't been attending much lately. The primary reason for this is that for many months my son was absolutely terrified of the nursery worker (she is a little intense), and my husband was in the position of wrangling The Boy in the Cry Room while trying to listen in - not quite the family experience we were looking for. Well, we went back again and thankfully our son dealt just fine and Ralph and I got to enjoy most of a service together and my daughter not only loved church but remembered several rituals from months ago (say it with me: cute, yet creepy!). We'll probably be attending more often now. As long as I'm not too hungover. Again, kidding!

Here's my first - and to my way of thinking, perfectly legitimate - beef: I don't know if I want to raise my children in the church. I am very threatened by the church and it's power - still - even though I am a happy member. I could go into all the reasons why I'm threatened, but I don't wanna (you probably know most of them anyway). The bottom line is I'm a Christian, and I think a lot of Christian material is best suited for adults. Yes, really! I guess in a way I equate Bible study and a lot of Bible passages with R-rated movies (and yes, I do fucking screen what my kid watches, PT Co-Op Playschool Mamas!). In addition, I was raised outside the church entirely and a part of me wants to cling to that intellectually-free upbringing and questioning. I didn't set a toe in one until age eight or so, visiting with friends. I got to look at the Bible as a silly work of fiction, for years - a good place to start, in my opinion. I didn't have to sort out any perceived brainwashing or weirdness. Today's anti-Christian voices have so terrified me of the possibility of brainwashing my child on spiritual matters I am now almost too scared to share anything at all (and that is a result of my hippie-upbringing pantywaistedness as well!).

Now, I could take the easy route many of my peer group do and either A. avoid any organized religion whatsoever, or B. go to a club where the theological content is so watered down as to constitute merely a "spiritual gathering" (see Unitarian Universalism, the seven principles of which are summed up by "be nice to one another" and "seek out your own truth" -- all very nice, by the way). I've been inundated with a lot of the members of such groups over my seven years in PT and they've left a yucky taste in my mouth. I just don't know if I could sit through some of the malarky I know I'll experience (as I type this I'm actually getting too tired to rant further, sadly). Of course, over the years I've managed to get over my fear and loathing of the conservative-voting pro-life homophobic crowd entirely - people I bump asses with at my own church and have learned to love despite our differences. Maybe I'm ready to step up to the challenge of loving the Smug Liberals (all of whom I imagine my ballots match exactly, I'm sure - it's the attitude of superiority and righteousness that get to me).

Sometimes I've considered joining our family with more than one church. Because on one hand, a looser spiritual community would provide the community, setting, and open-minded nature I'd like my kids to experience. On the other hand, there is the awkward fact I believe in Jesus, I'm not embarrassed of it, and I'd be happy if my kids did one day too. Since I was given the freedom of a very open mind while growing up, I want to provide the same for them. Perhaps I should invoke other communities and other rituals to give them comfort? And hide them from my church? Really, would some weird begat-so-and-so verbiage at my present church be worse than the intellectual snobbery and theological vaccuum I might expect elsewhere?

Am I being way to much of a bitch about this? Have I really had such nasty experiences? Consider the female friend who dropped my ass like a hot Christ-potato when she found out my husband and I went to a Protestant church (anyone reading this who knows me: have I ever once preached, lectured, or done anything creepily-Christian to you? I thought not). Consider a very close girlfriend who in my presence cut my Christianity dead in the water when confronted twice by anti-Christian townie bimbos. In the latter example, these same two (separate) incidences would have never occurred had the group mentioned been Eastern or non-Christian. Listening to someone mock your faith sucks. Something the Smug Liberals don't experience as much as I have to.

Yes, yes, I know. Backlash. I know all about it because at one time I was as anti-Christian as you could get without actually stoning anyone. And even now, no one is more irreverent about my sweetie Jesus or is less threatened by a good philosophical discussion than I.

The bias just gets old around here, that's all. Add it to my own confusions and feelings about my own childhood, and I pretty much don't know what the hell I'm doing for my kids.

For many months after my son was born I had this running joke with Ralph, although I don't think he thought it was funny. "Which kid is your favorite?" I would ask as we drove in the car or watched them sleep. Before he could answer (he never did pick one) I'd say, "Mine is Sophie!" I mean, I loved my new little newborn and all, but he just wasn't Sophie. He was soft and cuddly and smelled like milk but he had no personality.

I'm not sure when he caught up in my esteem but I really couldn't choose between the two of them these days. Nels has a charm that is so solidly Nels he couldn't be emulated in any way. He has a tenacious cheerfulness that manifests itself both in his happy moments (the umpteenth time during the day he fishes some food out of the trash and brings it to me and I scold, "Nels, we don't eat out of the trash!" and he says, "OK!" and wheels around to put it back) and his sad ones (after literally any disappointment if he's crying I can say, "Nels, you need to hold it together, OK? Mama will hold you if you want," and he will belt out, "OK!", pull his lip in, and regain composure).

Unlike Sophie, Nels seems to have very few experiences of guilt, fear, worry, or conscience. What he has instead is a willingness to "follow the rules" if I'm willing to enforce them. And with my two children I've gleaned two basic responses to the threat of Getting Punished - one child, upon being caught in naughtiness, will send up howls of remorse or scurry away, knowing the inevitable disciplinary measure is on it's way. The other child will as quickly as possible try to get the most mileage out of the seconds he's got left; one more drink of Mama's beer, one more stomping on a bug, before his gleeful tour of Naughtiness is brought up short. Yeah. Nels.

I have heard parents of one child debate over having another, absolutely positive they couldn't love the second as much. That is such a non-issue I could call it bullshit, except the people expressing that fear genuinely believe it. I am pretty sure if I had twelve children in a row my life would have just been filled up each time. The heart moves over to accommodate one more, and before you know it you have another person you feel you couldn't survive without.

My girlfriend Kelly and her one-year old son are in town visiting for a few days. I am currently postponing my smoking break as she struggles to get him to bed. She is a real champ; that boy doesn't want to surrender to sleep. Ever. I've known some tough nuts to crack in my day, but li'l Hank is a sheer force of wakeful will. I know its hard for her to be on sleep-duty around the clock but she keeps a great attitude. Bless her and all the Mamas like her.

Dear Stalking Subject,

Today, uptown, was the first time I've seen you in weeks. You were striding down the street in your typical boot-sparkin' style. Now that I ran across you I feel like you have officially christened the summer for me. I was wondering why I haven't seen you; part of it is you seem to be frequenting your haunts less often (uptown, downtown near Swain's parking lot); part of it is that I myself don't get there much, preferring to hang out in parks, at friends', and in Newtown.

Anyway, what I'm here to tell you is I feel our stalking relationship is at and end. I am just not getting the thrill I used to. Part of it is that I don't see or hear of any new exploits; part of it is a stalking relationship is just really not all that satisfying (I'm even considering abandoning stalking altogether). I hope you understand. I will always hold a fond place in your heart; but as of today I relinquish our special, if one-sided, relationship.

Oh, and by the way - happy birthday! I missed it this year.

Adios,

Kelly

Labels: L2A

My girlfriend Kelly and her one-year old son Hank are coming up for a couple days' visit. Yay and super yay! On a side topic, even if Kelly wasn't an amazing woman and friend*, I am still so thrilled at making friends with someone who has my name (I am older than her; therefore, she has my name) I feel a childish thrill thinking about it.

But I get ahead of myself. To recap the day: not to be too graphic or anything, but my husband has been home since 1 PM today with nausea, fever, and flying bodily fluids. After laying around in bed for hours, at about 7 PM he felt a little better. I am sitting up still (at 1 AM) because A. I had to do all the household chores; B. I sewed two presents for two little birthday girls; and finally, C. I am wired from doing housework freakishly intensely all day.

Housework, housework. Housework is no longer merely drudgery but rather an art, an obsession -- a passion. When I was a kid I thought there was something wrong with my parents that they could come home from work then shop for, prepare, cook, and serve a meal, and then do the dishes (about half the time; we rarely had a clean kitchen when we went to bed). I mean, I seriously could not believe they didn't stop and say, "Wait a minute, why the fuck do I have to do all this work? I'm going downtown to get a cheesesteak and you kids can just figure your own shit out." I guess a part of me understood they simply had to do laundry and pay bills and buy food, but I couldn't believe they actually did so much of the other stuff without complaining about it constantly.

Of course, now I'm on the other side of the fence and do in fact not only perform more rigorous housekeeping than my parents did, I actually enjoy it - or at the very least, the end product of my efforts. Today in addition to all the normal stuff I mopped the floors while my family slept. This makes me feel proud of myself. Floor-mopping is one of those chores I love to have done but hate doing (I guess I live my life hoping for some frisky "mop elves" to come in and do it for me). When my floors are clean it is a kind of clean that really extra good (Murphy's Oil Soap smells nice and homey and one can hope it kills relatively few brain cells).

Sometimes I want to give up on the house or to bitch and complain; I rarely do either. I like my home, knowing we have filled a house with clean children and their toys and blankets and kids' shampoo and mended clothes and good food and clean toilets and washed floors and soft sheets. And what have you earned in your life? Don't answer that; it would probably depress me in some small way, because it's probably an answer like, "A new car!", or "A dinosaur!" or something I don't have that I really want.

As much as I know you have enjoyed this random blathering, my brother just commented on my MySpace (don't even bother going there; I do nothing and am just there to hook up with preteens to meet at the skate park) so I am going to call him. He is my insomnia-buddy, always has been!

* reasons my friend Kelly is amazing: she pulls her shit together and can literally do anything, even with a wee babe, limited income, a sometimes surly and unhelpful partner, and all the shit life might throw at her. She is one of those women who when she says she's going to do something, does it (my current absolute favorite thing about anyone). She is also a hostess- and company-addict who is far, far, far to social for her own good, she's scared of nothing, she's learning to set boundaries, and she has great boobs. (sound familiar? it's me!)

Before.*


After. Do I look like a dude? (Yeah - Nels!) Note favorite hoody. I love it. I am stroking it right now. If I'm not wearing it, it's in the dirty clothes waiting to be washed and I am thinking about it.

I haven't had my hair short (boy short) in about eight years. Somehow everytime I have asked for short hair the stylist convinces me I don't really mean it and I end up with a stacked bob instead (I don't know what that is, I just made it up). Fuck that! As you can see here, I look great (note abovementioned webcam caveat). And now I can just Wash-'N'-Go! Oh wait, that's what I was doing before.

From the moment I first decided to cut my hair short (a 1995 softly-feathered Peter Cetera-esque creation executed by my best friend Amore) the fear of ending up with "dyke hair" loomed and became a kind of in-joke between me and my friends, a term which means almost nothing to me now since the handful of dykes (great band name!) that I do know do in fact have wonderful hair. I guess what we really meant by that phrase was this sort of vaguely boyish (in a bad way) permed-in-back, spiked-on-top aggressive 'do (and don't tell me you haven't seen sooooo many dykes with hair like that!) that Father Time proved was less about lesbians and more about bad hair choices. Now that the phrase doesn't really apply I'm open to a new one.

Between the kids and I the Hogabooms have been relieved of quite a bit of hair; all that's left is to shave the cat and wax Ralph's back. For now: back to babysitting Abbi's children as she gets her hair colored (aka "Brassy Whore") by the same stylist who whacked my locks.

* Don't mock (even to yourself) my webcam poses. It is actually impossible to take a webcam photo of yourself without looking very pretentious (while simultaneously "loser") so I don't try anything cute. Also, I think it's pretty sweetly vulnerable of me that the webcam points directly to the most cluttered, randomest area of our home (note especially in After picture).

Tonight I'm up late, uselessly stumbling through a variety of stupid shit online while I wait for my husband to come home (this was far and away extremely entertaining, I have to admit). I spent enough time tidying up, folding and putting away laundry, finishing dishes, straining homemade vegetable stock (very, very Big Deal), and cutting a pattern out for a coat for Suse. Now I'm just pathetic and hoping for an adult male to cuddle with for bed.

Just as I type this last sentence I hear a squeak from the baby monitor; then a cry. The Boy is awake and thirsty and asking for Mama. It's nice to be wanted.

Tonight there was finally, finally, finally that balmy note to the air letting us know yes, summer is on its way. I know, I know - I've been a PNWer most of my life, but some part of me still forgets that we have late-blooming summers. My friend Sara has been wearing "spring / summer" shirts and light sweaters since February in an attempt to get the weather to participate in the fantasy.

The four of us, along with friend Cyn, took our kids to the seven o'clock showing of Cars here at our local snooty (yet admittedly cool) movie theatre (note Euro spelling of the word "theatre", proving it really is higher class than any other theater in town). Our kids were very notty up to and including throwing things (the stylus from my husband's smartphone), wiggling (Sophie, until I finally realized she had to pee and took her downstairs to address the issue), yelling, "Oh no!" loudly (but at appropriate intervals in the film), and shitting their pants (thankfully, just Nels). I mean, we were at a family movie with a lot of other children, but I honestly felt our small corner had more disruptions than anyone else's. I expected to get glares as we left; in a tactical move we stayed until the very end of the credits and avoided such hate.

This was Nels' first movie theatre experience, so - I guess it was all and all a success.

This morning at eleven found Ralph and I readying for company: my parents, aunt Patti, and grandpa (and assorted small, useless dogs). Ralph helps me in the kitchen and the kids play relatively non-destuctively as we chop vegetables, put the coffee on, and wash dishes. My family pulls up to my yard and as I look out the window what appears to be two very old men creak out of the minivan. The first is my father, not very old at all but bald and patchy from his latest round of chemo. Happily, his rather intense facial rash has subsided and his skin looks good. Most importantly, he is feeling a lot better lately. Then my Grandpa, getting a little thick again around the middle but looking genial (he takes a "gentle blue pill") and very good for 80-plus.

My family of origin (FOO!) is a "sit around and visit" kind of family. That's what we do for fun - no board games, no museum trips, and Good Christ Heavens no hikes or bike rides. That's fine, I guess; if there's one thing that sends me to Boringsville it's hauling my ass from tourist event to tourist event, as would be the wont of many families visiting this lovely burg. Still, sometimes I feel trapped when I'm stuck with company who far prefers to sit on my couch and yak; I turn into a barnacle myself and in the meantime feel shame and paralysis at my inability to find an activity we can all do together (it never occurred to me to try to do something with the FOO until I met and married Ralph, who can sit still all of ten minutes).

Oh yes, and we eat - we eat food the Ladies / Matriarchs shop for, prepare, cook, and often earn the money to buy (Ralph is a notable exception to this familial trait since he considers these duties his as well). Today the (old) men eat burgers, chips, coleslaw, and pie and ice-cream (one of the easiest, tastiest and least expensive pies I make: the acclaimed Rhubarb Custard from Allrecipes.com). Great-grandpa takes a car nap; my father sits and talks on the couch. Practically the next thing I know the men are loading up in the minivan and heading back home, taking the little dogs with them. My mother, my aunt, Sophie and I hit the downtown for a little yarn-and-fabric groping and a coffee.

I usually find out how my mother feels about me by listening to her around others, or hearing what others tell me she says about me. When the FOO is around you'd think she was coaching her deaf daughter into talking (people who know me know I have no such problem telling a story). "Tell them about Nels puking in Swains," she demands. "Tell Patti what you teach in your sewing classes," she urges. "Tell them about the time dad had a car collision when he didn't get his fries from McDonalds!" I know in her way she is showing off her child(ren) and her grandchildren; but in a more real way she is sharing who we are to her.

My Grandpa sleeps a lot. He has a very sharp mind and is a class act. I miss the able-bodied, powerful man he was when I was a child living with them. Now he is a tiny bit hard of hearing, but when he does hear the conversation he catches every nuance of humor. He and my aunt have become "the couple" since my Grandmother's death four years ago. Whenever I see my Grandpa I remember him the day he was widowed. I remember sitting in a diner with him, and my mother, and my husband, and my four-month old daughter and I remember being stunned with the realization he was without his wife of near six decades, for the first time in his life. He has changed since her death. He is a bit vague. They were like a machine that ran well together and now the remains of the machine limp along at a brisk pace, in a way still vital and alive, but missing something. I miss her as well.

It's a short visit - as it always is with my FOO - but I am grateful as always. Death and age hover about us like a cloud and only my children do not see it. In them is the promise of life and renewal, feeding Ralph and I for years to come until, God willing, we are on the other side watching our grandchildren and great-grandchildren and we can feel life begin to ebb from us the way it is meant to and somehow know this is a good thing.

Today was a busy day. I had a morning to myself (thanks to preschool and friend Megan who watched Nels) which I filled up with sewing and chores (current fun household task: get the stench of water damage and cat piss out of our laundry room carpet). Then a two-kid pickup (Sophie's last day of preschool!), lunch date, and haircuts for both kids. Let me tell you, getting your kids' hair cut at a salon during an appointment that takes place after naps should have started is quite a challenge, but since I am Kick-Ass Mama it worked out (I accomplished it with copius amounts of trail mix and the head restraining device from A Clockwork Orange). Afterwards, an elderly woman with freshly clipped and (of course) tightly permed hair gripped my arm (why do these sweet little old ladies always have an iron-like grasp? And why don't these old ladies have their perm shaped into a giant afro with a pick sticking out instead of the obligatory Q-tip cut?) and gushed, "Your children were so well-behaved for their haircuts!"

I didn't want to piss on her parade, but while it was true my children were cute, clean, and well-dressed during their haircuts (which sometimes creates an optical illusion for "well-behaved"), and it's true my daughter held her shit together most of the time, the fact is my son was wigglier than a gummy worm on a hotplate. He also was laughing the whole time, then snorting when hair got in his eyes, and tearing at the "smock" the hairdresser tried to ply, and saying, "OUCH!" loudly (causing a few customers to glare at the poor girl trying to cut his hair) when nothing had in fact hurt him. Plus I think we left an assortment of trail mix all over the salon. I just hope Ms. Sweetheart Geriatric USA didn't step on a petrified almond and twist her ankle on the way out.

About thirty minutes ago my husband fell asleep while "putting the kids to bed" (as was the case here, Nels often puts Ralph to bed) and when I went into the room to roust my husband, I found Nels snug in the crook of his arm, talking on Ralph's cell phone. I could hear a tinny female voice saying something. Quickly I snatched the phone out of my son's grasp and put it to my ear. The Boy had called my hairstylist and apparently carried a few minutes of conversation with her.

Nicely done, Nels - but you still can't beat Sophie's 911 call of '03.

Completely independent any single incident in my life, I have decided to stop making fun of hippies. Yes, it's true. Please friends, I invite you to gently remind me of this if you see any hippie-bashing recidivism. However, my guess is I'm going to do well with my new behavioral policy; I employed a similar resolution to no longer make fun of my parents' dog, which I've kept to rather faithfully (Wuv woo Tuck! if you're reading this!).

My decision is mostly based on the fact it has been inferred by two individuals - one close to me and one not-so-close - that I'm a Hater. A Hater of Hippies. Please! No one loves them more than I. No one is more tickled to see their dirty bare feet in the supermarket, or more willing to drive slowly and carefully around their old bike trailers filled with random detritus. Most of my friends who know you would tell you I'm actually a Hippie-Lover - nay, many would even say I am One of Them (more on this later). But the fact is, my sense of humor and my comments (verbal; I've had no complaints regarding my blog yet) have apparently given some a false impression, and I'm determined to set things straight.

Complicating this issue somewhat is my (relatively) new policy in calling said individuals* Dirtees, rather than Hippies ("hippie" has a historical piece that has been by-and-by lost). I really enjoyed this phrase for a few weeks, brilliant Brain Child of mine it was. But now I have no word whatsover - no way to communicate to friends and family some of the individuals, enjoyed and disliked, whom I cross paths with. My new policy puts me in a sort of limbo when it comes to my day-to-day life; yesterday when I told Ralph, "Man, at the grocery store checkout I got stuck next to a... [mind goes blank; I'm thinking... ? ...] .... um, individual who hadn't showered recently and was wearing a Jethro Tull t-shirt with holes in the armpits." See, this is just so much more work than using a precise two-word phrase that could get the point across.

But perhaps the biggest confusion on this issue is why I should be accused of behaving like a Hater when in fact I make many similar choices to the group I'm supposedly hating on. It occurs to me as I wash the shit out of my son's home-dyed cloth diapers in the bathroom adjacent to where I waterbirthed him - while wearing a homemade menstrual pad and soaking beans on the stove - that if I hate the Dirtees, why do I follow so many aspects of the lifestyle? Why do I hang out with them? (Renee, Steph, and Mariah, I'm talking about you!) Why have I learned to cook with and enjoy TVP, Bragg's, and various nasty roots you dig out of the ground? (P.S. fuck off, Jerusalem artichokes, though!) Why do I feel a thrill of excitement when confronted with some as-yet undiscovered country of Dirtee-ness (the composting toilet at the Farm comes to mind), even if I ultimately don't choose that particular path myself? (I clean my flush commode with bleach, thank you!)

Perhaps the mystery is twofold: one, my refreshingly childlike (read = assinine) sense of humor (my current favorite thing ever is to cook ethnic food and then talk with the big phony corresponding "accent" when I serve it). I don't particularly respect any group as immune to humor (yes, this includes child porn and Jesus jokes), so why not pick on those groups I know and love? And secondly, I was raised in a bus. A hippie bus. By real hippies. I lived in that bus until I was eight. I had a bunk bed in between that of my parents (top) and my brother (bottom). I ate brown rice all the fucking time (one of the reasons I eschew it now). I have my own thoughts on a lifestlyle "off the grid" and the experience to back it up. These formative years leave me particluarly irked occasionally by the manic fanaticism invoked by a (thankfully) few "neo-hippies" who have logged precious few hippie man-hours but are sure they are on the best path - and those types are the ones whose nipples I sometimes want to tweak (figuratively and literally!).

That said, I know my policy is a good one. When it comes down to it, it's disrespectful to consistently pick on a single group, even if it's one you're included in. I suppose I am also in the group of "housewife", "Christian", "bitch", and "caffeine addict" (keep 'em rolling, folks - I'm curious). Oh, and by the way? I don't buy the, "let's not have labels" shit. Let's each have LOTS of labels and fill as many as we can.

And finally, I feel I should qualify one last thing: not making fun of hippies does not necessarily mean I will not laugh when others make fun of hippies. As I've mentioned, my sense of humor runs to general irreverance. In fact, at this point I'd really like to repeat the funniest hippie joke I've heard yet (from my quasi-hippie friend Steph), but that would be making fun of hippies, so I won't. You can ask her, though.

Shit! I am late getting started on my KICKIN' ASIAN CHICKEN! Bye for now~!

* What definition had I previously held for a Hippie / Dirtee? Well, you can read the Wikipedia article on the subject - which I find a bit dry - but to me it's sort of a big ball of random stuff that congeals to form a pretty marked set of characteristics. These will include some or several of the following: politically left (doy!), spiritually vague but earnest (as long as it's not too Christ-y!), a desire to be seen as "accommodating", non-mainstream transportation (including bumming rides), a dog on a rope or perhaps no tether at all, a willingness to eat bad food, questionable and irregular hygiene, disrespectful body hair, and use of the phrases "energy" and "right on" a lot. P.S. I qualify on several of those counts.

Sophie's a popular girl. Yesterday in two separate incidents, mothers to boys in her preschool told me their sons were talking about her. First was Ben, who has been consistently referring to Sophie as "his girlfriend" (apparently viewing Sophie and Kincaid's Siamese-twinlike relationship as open to a third party). Then Sam apparently had a dream involving three of his classmates, of which Sophie was key. After I picked her up from school I told her that in Sam's dream she was the pilot in a rocketship carrying her three classmates. I watched her in the mirror as she processed this information. Her brows beetled, then smoothed. "Yes, I was," she affirmed, then stuck her thumb in her mouth and looked out the window, very satisfied.

Highlights of my day so far:

• Chocolate cake ala-Harper's 2nd birthday (for post-breakfast).
• Something tasty that smells gross (for lunch).
  
• Briefly fondled my sewing equipment (after chores were done and before kids woke up from naps).
  
• Watched these ads (I haven't seen anything as cute as the "Network" ad in a while).
• Made fabulous Lifetime-movie watching date at Sara's for the afternoon.
  
• Made fabulous lunch date at Abbi's for tomorrow.