Life is Art

I just got back from a playdate in Tacoma; yes, a three-hour roundtrip to hang out. There are just some ladies I love too much.

The only negative aspect to this trip was that my van's stock CD player seems to have partially crapped out. It read one of my home-burned CDs, but no others. Weird. So I was stuck with either this CD or the radio for listening pleasure. Now I have mentioned before my horrific habit when stuck on a roadtrip with a radio and no adult conversation. My children apparently don't mind; they did not once get offended today at hearing snippets of AC/DC, Jesus talk-radio, NPR, Chamillionaire, and that annoying song from that annoying movie K-PAX.

At least I had the scenic drive - strip malls and brown grass. Whoo-hoo.

OK, I'm going to apologize in advance: this post is definitely one of my boring smarmy daily chronicles. But still: I worked hard, and I'm going to write about it.

So today I was a Smart Mama: I planned a few hours kid-free so I could do a rehaul of their room. They've been bouncing off the walls a bit lately and I knew we could help them settle. See for me, when I am feeling stymied I love to clean or reorganize my creative space - my sewing room. The kids can't really do this; it's up to us to do it for them. I'm a big believer that kids don't need a lot of toys so much as the following:

1. well-ordered toys that all have an appropriate "home".

2. a change from time to time - yes, this may include buying toys or, as we did Saturday, getting them from Freecycle or craigslist. Rotating toys also works.

3. a careful and conscious weed-out and flux. In fact, having too many toys seems to contribute more to boredom than a few well-loved and well-tended ones.

Another upside to these practices is that their room is tidy, ordered, and fresh enough you actually WANT to sit with them and play (which they love). We Hogabooms do a room cleanup and restructure for our children every few months. It always makes everyone happier. In the interim, our kids are expected to tidy their toys up in day-to-day play. It works pretty well; they're only 2 and 4 but keep their stuff maintained pretty well. I brag that Sophie's wooden puzzles and blocks from before she was a year old still have all their pieces accounted for.

OK, smugness aside, here is what I did:

1. Moved every toy out of their room, swept, stripped beds. Wiped down surfaces with a little water and almond Dr. Bronner's.

2. Went through every single piece of clothing they own in both dresser and closet; culled every item that was either too small, too ragged, or that I didn't really like and it was time to admit that (this included some rather scuffed-up shoes). I also did a runthrough on my Rubbermaid tote of clothes the kids haven't grown into yet (and the ones Sophie is out of but Nels isn't yet into) to make sure I don't miss an opportunity to put something out.

3. Did the same process for their toys, making sure there was a "home" for each kind of toy (i.e. no jumbled general toy box).

Here is my caveat: of the culled items, I do not donate toys and clothes to the Goodwill if they are refuse. One of my top irritations is people who donate or try to sell (via yardsale) stuff that is really crap; I guess they don't want to pay to have it thrown out or they want to feel smugly charitable for donating to those who shop in lesser realms. See, you've gotta look at stuff with a fresh eye and think: is this really worth buying or owning? The scuff marks and fabric tears that have developed gradually will be glaring and obvious to a new potential owner. This is another good reason to keep few toys and clothes and keep them in good condition: you don't have to throw stuff out. At the end of the process, I had less than half my kitchen garbage full of throw-out.

4. Reorganized their space and moved their furniture. They love it when we do this. Since my kids share a room and it's a small one, so I am always thinking of creative ways to use space: for instance, today I converted the bottom shelf of the changing table (heretofore almost unused) to storing wooden puzzles.

5. Put out fresh linens on beds, re-ordered their art boards, hung a few origami birds.

After the cleanup was done I gave myself permission to merely pick up the rest of the house (rather than deep clean) then head into town for - yes - a new toy purchase. Snooty wooden food for their "new" (Freecycle) kitchenette, and dishes. Needless to say after I picked my kids up, brought them home, cleaned them up, and showed them their new kitchen, they were completely thrilled.

And it's all worth the state of near-collapse I felt by this early evening. Now I just wish someone would do the same for my bedroom.

It came up again last night: the devaluation of SAHM-hood (that's "stay-at-home Mama" to you, as if you don't already know from reading here). A couple ladies and I are journeying home from our deep-water aerobic class and discussing our children's upcoming school years. It comes up that the program director for one of our more boutique programs in town asked my girlfriend if she would "be flexible" on the dates for her child's enrollment since she wasn't a working Mama. I have had experience with this mindset myself: a childcare professional admitting she didn't feel as bad being late to her commitment to me since "it wasn't like [I] had to be somewhere or anything."

I'll skip right past the fact that discerning someone else's needs solely based on their vocation is swimming in muddy waters at best: many working professionals I know have flexible schedules; many stay-at-home caregivers have inflexible ones or at least a series of very serious commitments (think medical conditions, adoption agencies, and court dates). No, I'll move right along to the issue that really gets on my tits: the automatic devaluing of the time, effort, and feelings of the partner who cares for the family.

Are we ready, yet, to make progress in the pointless power struggle we've set up between the domestic and the labor life? Let's discuss the "one earner" issue: the dichotomy of partners, each feeling frustrated and stymied with regards to their situation. On one hand we have the workaholic dads - stressed about their jobs, missing their kids and missing out on their kids' lives and doctor's visits; too harsh with discipline when they come home, and endlessly pecking at their wife's management of the grocery bill? On the other side is the martyred female - women who spend most of their physical, mental, and emotional energy on running and maintaining a home, only to watch the family take no notice in the systems she's provided nor help her maintain them. She in turn is blinded to how tough her partner's situation is; she can't imagine a life without her kids and cannot always empathize that her partner's clumsiness in managing the children is mostly due to unfamiliarity and sadness.

Dual-earners have their own shit which I won't detail here; two of the primary issues I've noticed is a general lack of cohesion in the household minutae (therefore, a home that has no loving "center") and an inflexibility / fear when it comes to the Big Question of "Can I relinquish my role as earner?" An identity crisis not met head-on but rather jabbed at in fits and starts.

What are we really saying about the priorities of family and homelife when it is assumed that any earning commitment must automatically trump any familial obligation or schedule? With this assumption, how can we hope to create an environment of choice in how we care for our kids and how we meet our employment obligations without selling out our soul and our family life? The answer is not a bunch of state-sponsored programs with cushy benefits, nor is it a complete disregard of career aspirations while your children are young. Rather, it is for each caregiver to isolate what is important to him / her and pursue those goals with considerably less regard to pressure from employers, spouse, or society at large (included in this societal pressure is the American Dream of having all or most of the comforts money can buy). This is your family, you alone are the architect.

This subject makes me think of that corny-ass movie 9 to 5 - yeah, the one with Dolly Parton, Lily Tomlin, and Jane Fonda. The premise: three office ladies end up kidnapping their assholian boss and running the show in his stead - among other changes, instituting revolutionary family-friendly policies like flexible hours, a jobshare program, and daycare. It's kind of baffling to watch the movie 26 years later and notice the "family-friendly" is still missing from most workplaces.

Fuck the Man and fuck patriarchy.

(Now time for another bon bon).

On an entirely different note: the lovely items at Etsy are so reasonably priced I can't believe it is worth the artisans' efforts to not only make the items, but "pose", photograph, write a description for, wrap up, and ship. I am too paranoid to post the item I have my eye on (waiting for shipping information) because you bitches will swoop down and steal it from me if I do.

Have a nice day!

1. Saturday morning - afternoon: Half-day babysitting friends' child.

2. Saturday night: Housewarming party and potluck.

3. Sunday morning - afternoon: Amazing Blessingway for sweet friend.

4. Sunday afternoon, evening, and arrival home at 1 AM: Birthday party in Seattle.

5. Monday morning: playdate with friends at H.J. Carroll Park.

6. Monday evening: plan dinner and ready on stove; ditch family for deep-water aerobics with two girlfriends.

7. All day in between Saturday, Sunday, and Monday: Kelly's little personal sweatshop o' sewing.

If I was at the top of my game, I'd write very witty and urbane comments about all that shit. But I'm not, so I won't.

This morning my family snuggles on the couch still in our pajamas and relates the dreams they had last night. Surprisingly I don't remember mine. Ralph goes into his somnolent imaginings which involve a homemade Exacto knife tattoo, a renegage possum, and yes, Tom Cruise (I will leave him to post the silly details himself). Then Sophie pipes up:

"I had a dream where me and Mama and Ningo but not Daddy or Blackie went down to the docks. And there were these big sharks in the water. And Mama and Nels went down to go in the water and I said, 'Don't go in the water! Watch out for the sharks!' And then I went down and there was a boat and Mama and Nels got in. Then I got in and we were all safe from the sharks."

(Note I am paraphrasing as the actual telling of the dream took much longer and had many more speech impediments - "wakts" instead of "watch", for instance.)

Ralph says, "Well, I think Nels had a dream last night too. I woke up in the middle of the night to this [hitting the side of his leg] and 'No, Dophie!!'"

So I guess we know what our children have their secret terrors about - sharks for Sophie ... and Sophie for Nels.

Walking in the fields at the Farm with a cloth bag of fresh-harvested food on my back; the gorgeous, vaginal, flesh-colored squash blossoms hiding amongst dappled leaves.

An afternoon bath with my son; shampooing his hair. His skin is ruddy brown and his hair is every color of honey, yellow, sand and sun. The white lather is fragrant and runs down his back. His neck and head rest in my hands like a beloved, heavy cantelope; the house is quiet save for the sounds of water.

The cool smell of fresh quilts and blankets; my daughter and I read in bed until we can no longer keep our eyes open. She turns off the light and folds into my arms.

I keep making typos. Grammatical ones ("two" for "too", etc) and spelling ones. I'd like to say it's that my keyboard is set too low. We both know I am losing it.

Well, I'm going to just come out with it: today has been rotten. I decided yesterday I was going to be mellow with my children and instead I ended up in epic proportions a total Harpy Mama: lashing out at my kids, shooting dirty looks at a tourist party*, and allowing myself to get thoroughly annoyed by a certain soul who up until now I have kept from plaguing me for months.

I started out with such good intentions: a bus ride uptown, walk downtown, and back on the bus to bring lunch to my husband. Gee, what a Smart Mama! Get some nice fresh air and long walk in, plus a bus ride which the children love. My only errands: pick up CD mailers from the Post Office, sandwiches for the family, meet up with Ralph at his work. That is it. That is all I wanted to do. I wanted to do it without yelling at my kids, without grabbing their arms and lecturing them, and without feeling completely overhwhelmed and burnt out and having about eighty pissy experiences. I guess no deal.

And people, I want to support our transit system! When I go for a whole day without once using the car I feel great. And the kids love, love, love the bus. However it makes me super carsick unless it's well ventilated, especially when exacerbated by the assy "skills" of the driver (a new one) who would slam on brakes for no apparent reason (causing my 2 1/2 year old to fall out of his seat and my stomach to slosh greenly and ominously).

Oh - and I've found out over the last couple years our transit system makes route changes. A lot. So you can imagine how fun it was for me (after an hour and a half of what turned out to be Errands Del Diablo) to drag / carry my two hungry, rowdy kids several blocks and wait at a stop before noticing the stop was no longer being used. Fuck. Drag them to the proper new spot, where I consider drowning them in the fountain, consider it oh-so-briefly, but of course - witnesses. I harp on them about don't-do-this and don't-do-that then finally realize: let them throw rocks in the goddamn fountain. There is nothing else for them to do at this bus stop. If it's between that and me redirecting them (to what? a boring, grassy parkland area with a bench and flowergardens) and finally getting frustrated and KILLING them, well - no contest.

I think we're either giving our children too much food or too much sleep. They are just too powerful.

And of course, through this day, I would of course run across a particularly challenging individual who I never let get the best of me and today - damn it.

Thank God my husband has been taking care of us so well.

I need a break.

* Not because they were tourists - which seems to be reason enough for snooty PT attitude - but because they all kinda fondly watched and chuckled while my two year old climbed up a balcony and I had to run across the restaurant and rescue him (I had been trying to order our sandwiches and negotiate with my four year old and turned my back on him for a second). Thanks for looking out, people!

Out working the field, talking about recipes for goo balls *, overheard:

Hippie #1: "You know what's really good in goo balls? If you soak almonds then grind them up and mix them in. It's totally yummy."

Hippie #2: "Well, I figure since I use the nut butters I get all that and I don't have to do as much work." (Nice! Score: 2 points)

Hippie #1: "Well if you soak and grind the almonds they sprout and then you get the live element in there."

OOOhhhh ... SNAP! You lose, Hippie #2! Thank you for playing, better luck next time.

* I am assuming marijuana-less ones, but you never know.

I'm laying next to Sophie in her room, holding her close. This weekend she had lots of kid company and a busy day so thus a hard time calming after bath. I hold her and soothe her and soon she is curled up, legs intertwined, peaceful. We breathe together for a while and my mind wanders. Then:

Sophie: "Mama, you know what crab's mouths look like?"

Me: "What?"

Sophie: "Crab's mouths. You know what crab's mouths look like?"

Me: "Um..."

Sophie: "They look like pinchers. Like this." [Soft, clopping sounds as she snaps in the dark. I am speechless.] "I'm going to have a bad dream where I'm on the beach and I'm barefoot, and I'm running and there are crabs buried with only their mouths out and they bite me on my feet."

[Silence]

Me: "Sophie, that's really scary."

Sophie: "Yeah well, I guess I'm going to have that dream."

One of the disappointing facts about life is that when some of the funnest stuff is going on it is a big challenge to get my blogging in. Take the last few days. On Thursday, a visit from girlfriend Kelly and her son Hank. Then this weekend: a visit from my girlfriend Jen and her two kids Leif (6) and Cassidy (3). It's been musical beds here and you never know where you might find a kid.

Jennifer and I have known one another twenty-one years. We were inseparable for the first decade of that. We grew up, went our separate ways (she to various forms of work, boyfriends, and time as a Deadhead; I to college) but have never lost touch. Now that we both have two young kids, challenging marriages to redheaded boys, and a bleak family financial scene we have so much in common - a relatively low common-denominator way of life. However: put together, four of the most beautiful little trinkets to behold who literally keep us laughing so hard we might pee our pants.

It didn't take long for Leif and Sophie to take to one another. Overheard:

Leif (to Sophie): "When we grow up are you going to marry me?"
Sophie [very, very sidelong look and long pause]: "Yes."

As I type this my husband is leaving with the kids. While the Mamas slept in (Jen still doing so) he got four children up, washed, fed, and dressed, and is now heading out to the park. As he left he said, "I am awesome." I have to agree.

Add to this Thursday night when he stayed in with three kids and rocked crying baby Hank to sleep so his Mama could get a night out.

Seriously, if you're a Mama, you want to be my friend. My husband puts out in ways that really turn a girl on.

This afternoon my kids insisted on Death Cab For Cutie's "Plans" and since Ralph was late coming home and I was out of ideas we fired it up. I used to love that album. I've heard it so many goddamn times now. I'm sure my children know every lyrical nuance and drumbeat to "Soul Meets Body" better than any pop scenester out there. So during the song "Marching Bands of Manhatten" after the line, "Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole" Sophie pipes up: "Mama, Sauron's the big eye in Lord of the Rings!"

Sauron drips into your heart through a pinhole. SO TRUE. I must post this profound thought to http://lembasbread.livejournal.com/.

Joking aside, feel free to browse / join / make fun of very real LOTR livejournal fanship such as Legolas' secret diary, the LOTR icon community, and of course the inevitable slash.

You ever have one of those things that hangs over your head and infuses you with shame? Sometimes for years? A shame that runs so deep yet subtle that you do not act, you do not make amends, you do not repair or approach the situation whatsoever? You live with this guilt so long that even on the day circumstances change it remains, almost untouched, a faint yet disgraceful smudge on your heart and so deep you're not sure if it will ever dissipate?

Today I mailed off the last payment to our midwives. Oooh, did I have a baby recently? Um yeah - just over two years ago. I am not going to go into the details of last-minute medical care changeover, insurance shenanigans, billing errors, and Hoga-drama that enabled these wonderful services to go so long unpaid. I won't go into the details because no matter what there is no excuse for it to have taken two years to pay this off. Besides, despite the paperwork and trouble revolving around the financial aspect of my son's birth, there were months, and I mean months, that I was either passive or pushing the issue aside as I struggled with all the other shit we struggle with.

Now, there are some bills I don't give a damn about if I'm late or on top of. But this is not one of them - because the truly humbling thing is I'm so pro-homebirth and rabidly ready to deliver the litany of praises for these women and what they do - but I didn't pay them, so how much, really, is my lip service worth? Well today, I finally have finally earned the right to feel one hundred percent OK about my transaction with the care providers who did more for me than any others I've had.

It occurs to me now, and perhaps could have alleviated a tiny bit of my internalized disgrace for these past months (year +) - that our insurance paid 80% of the birth cost. So I guess the lovely, lovely ladies who helped me did, in fact, get paid most of what they should when they should've. It helps to know this - only a little.

P.S. I am still an asshole.

*** SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT ***

Today my mother turns fifty-seven! Fifty-seven years young! She is currently on the road in California with my father, her father, and the little lap dog thingy they take everywhere with them! Readers, please do me a favor. Email her at deafman01 AT comcast DOT net and tell her what a fabulous human being her daughter is* and how you read her daughter's blog and I told you to email her. I'm serious. Do it. DO IT. You can't read any more until you do it.

*** END OF SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT ***

OK, In return for your help in commemorating my mother's birthday, I'm going to write a special piece to help further you, my dear reader, in answering mankind's elemental burning question of: "How Can I Find A Get-Rich-Quick Internet Scheme Without Showing My Ass Online?" And as you've probably guessed, my money is made by: my blog.**

OK, so maybe I don't have the best blog you've ever read. Perhaps you'd like a little more of the following: A. your name mentioned; B. photographs (or at least drawings) of me naked; C. snarky comments about people you know in Port Townsend; or D. links to photographs (or drawings) of sexy naked celebrities. But I must point out you are in fact reading this right now, so you must like something here. Besides, Ralph informs me I get something like 7,000 visits a month. That's a lot! Someone is reading this! Why do they never write me? What kind of desperate acts do I have to perform before someone realizes I am desperately lonely and need attention?!?

Just kidding about that last paragraph. Anyway, as a gift to you, dear reader, who aspire to have as successful and fun a blog as mine - here is my current blog policy, summed up as well as I can write it while simultaneously hiding from my children and hurrying along to earn my cigarette break:

Write every day.
Make the time. Sit down. Write every day. Write every day even if it's crap (it often will be). Even the crap serves as a record of your life, one you will later appreciate. Also, writing every day increases the chance of obtaining and keeping readership (there is some study that backs this up but there is also a possibility I just made up that particular truthiness).

Write every day: but actually write.
Links to articles, other blogs, or mere photograph posts should be very limited or entirely avoided. P.S. these types of entries are not only boring for readers but also less rewarding to read back on as an archival record. Needless to say, this kind of stuff does not hone writing skills or develop a tone for your body of work.

Don't write what you think, write what happened.
First of all, writing what happens hones your writing skills. Journalling your day is also interesting for you to read later. And it is by far more interesting for your readers (especially if they are from your area or know who you know). And of course, when you write what happened, your own thoughts and biases and philosophies will emerge, anyway.

If you find yourself writing a big ol' paragraph about how you think such-and-such or some theory or philosophy you have - let me tell you, this is some of the most boring shit I have ever read online. People do this all the time and seem to think others might find it interesting (hint: if you aren't making money or being asked to write books - they don't). Now, this doesn't mean the people writing these yawner blog posts aren't interesting. This means there is a very good reason that philosophical discussions are most exciting when the physical checks and balances of eye contact, nodding, eye rolling, aggressive staredowns, or loud, deep sighing through the nostrils can inform each conversational partner.

Think it through.
Adopt a pristine, crystal-clear policy on when to use names and how to tell stories with the degree of anonymity that will work for you. This not only covers your ass but, once again, hones your writing and develops a tone to your blog.

The first (-ish) rule of blogging: don't talk about blogging.
The silliest stuff I ever read on blogs are self-aware blogs. Don't tell us why you started your blog. Don't tell us how it makes you feel to be blogging. Don't talk about what people have said about your blog entries. Another typical death-knell: a long treatise where the blogger informs the readers why they deleted their LJ account for Blogger or how there was "a certain person" reading their blog and they have moved blogs so that they can discuss such-and-such more freely. JESUS, we don't care! Probably three people are reading this! And now, possibly, only two!

There is a lot more to write about than blogging; that's why you started blogging in the first place, remember?

Take responsibility.
You may get negative feedback for what you post, especially if you aren't posting the talky boring shit I've discussed. Write what you really think and be prepared for anyone to read it (your pastor, your parents, your spouse, that blog-stalker you were trying to avoid). Be prepared to re-evaluate your policy, but don't be in a hurry to. My policy: no one has to read this. If you read my blog, you are looking through my windows - don't be offended if you don't like how I look in my panties. That said, it is never my intention to hurt feelings or humiliate, and I'm open to reconsideration regarding my entries.

Don't "Dear John."
A blog is not a way to communicate with a specific individual about a subject you're having difficulty with. A joking reference or two is fine, but don't use blogging to communicate to someone specifically in lieu of confrontation, or to tell your story "your way". This is cowardly, silly, and most readers can sense it when it's going on and - for this reader at least - it's creepy.

Wrap it up gracefully.
This is perhaps my greatest weakness as a blogger. My excuse is that it's hard enough to make time to blog and by the time I'm winding up an entry my kids have probably fucked something up or something is smoking on the stove or the kids are smoking on the stove. But still, I aspire.

A good finale to a blog post will wrap up what you've been writing about. It can't be too non-sequitur, can't use anything like, "Whatever" or "LOL" (don't ever use LOL in my presence unless you'd like me to punch you in the face) or "Oh well". Don't barf out your next action after leaving the computer monitor: "Guess I'll go do the dishes!"

Don't put your own efforts down.
If someone tells you they like your blog, listen to why. Tell them thank you. That's enough. And keep writing.

Time for that cigarette! Oh well.

* Please don't tell her that in a panic I almost paid our water bill with her credit card, simply because I have the number and was stuck at home with napping kids and couldn't make it to the Public Works dept. Let's just keep that between us, shall we?

** Absolutely no money is made by this site whatsoever. Ralph tells me if I put ads on it I could probably haul in $2.17 / month, though. THINK about it!

Sophie (watching me change my shirt): "I like your breasts."
Me: "Thank you."
Sophie: "Mama, do you still have them full of milk?"
Me: "Oh, not anymore."
Sophie: [pause] "Well, it sure looks like it."

It's possible for a smart Mama who has interests of her own and a brain of her own to feel like a slave.

Today we got up, cleaned up, loaded the kids and went to church. Wrangle kids - Nels hates the nursery staff, Sophie wiggles in the pew. Finally, somehow, Ralph and I are seated next to one another and able to hear an entire sermon together (yay!). From church directly to the grocery store (I had to formulate the list as we drove and while our kids were vying for my attention a-mile-a-minute). Then home where I unpack and put away groceries than simultaenously do the dishes and cook a meal (pizza with fresh mozzerella, carrot and celery sticks, Annie's Goddess Dressing), then clean up as my husband gets ready for his five-hour movie project. Husband leaves. Kids need to be wrangled, cleaned up, and put down for a nap. Sophie and I have a lie-down and I get a 10-minute snooze before waking to go downstairs, pull some laundry, and continue sewing on Ralph's pants (which are quite laborious) before Nels wakes up. Get kids cleaned up, dressed, call friend, head to fair. Wrangle two naughty children who want to go EVERYWHERE and on EVERY PONY RIDE / BOUNCY CASTLE in sight. Grab two plates of barbecue to take home. Pack kids in van, then home. Wash dishes yet again, clean kitchen, beg kids to not make messes or fight, shuck corn, roast garbanzo beans, butter bread, cook peas, pour milk, set table. Husband is late. Comes in and apologizes, whips kids into shape for dinner. Thank you.

Midway through dinner I feel devastated, tired. Sad. I didn't get to half the projects I wanted to do this weekend. Ralph's pants aren't done. The kids need their toys and clothes to have a go-through. I haven't had a date with my husband in a couple weeks. It feels like all I do is think about food, plan meals, buy food, carry food, put food away, take food out, wash, chop, scrub, slice, and assemble food. Wash dishes, put away dishes. Set the table. Set the table. Set the table. Three meals a day. Put food out. Thank God the kids actually eat it and they and my husband compliment it. Then - feel guilty when Ralph clears the table. You think I'm done with food? No. The fridge is full of food. Food to eat, to pack for Ralph's lunches, to throw out. Fridge needs to be cleaned. Garbage taken out. Compost. Recycling. Kids want a bedtime snack. Ralph leaves the lunches I assemble in the fridge and forgets them.

The kids somehow are not eating so much as sucking energy out of my body. I replenish by vegging out in the bed, watching crap on DVD, and drinking cold beer and turning off my brain. My brain is no more.

I miss you, brain.

I am depressed about this lack of a digital camera thing. Or rather, we had one, and a certain someone in my house (he is around my age but wears a pair of balls) left it out in the weather and... kaput. Anyway, for the past couple months I've been either forgoing pictures, taking them with Ralph's assy Treo camera, or - and yes, I am not kidding - holding my Mac up at something and using the iSight.

Opportunities like today are what make it hard, though: we went to the Jefferson County Fair.* Our first trip of a few this weekend, since we got the season pass (which features Sunday Beef BBQ, sorry purple-ribbon cows!) and are going to drag our sorry-ass family out there several times before it's all over. Tonight was just a "warm up" touring various displays of animal husbandry (ever noticed most of those 4-H livestock girls are knockouts? Is it the goat milk or what?), touchingly crafted feline bungalows in the piss-smelling "Cat" building, and "a ribbon for everyone!" kids' artwork features (P.S. don't comment on the overabundance of ribbons to the director of the Art Dept - he has no sense of humor). We barely had time to skirt the creepy, hilarious, or just plain sad vendors with shelves and shelves of tie-die articles or polyester trucker hats or "genuine Native American" crap. And every year I vainly hope some booth mix-up (deliberate or not) will put the Beef Council next to the vegans next to the JeffCo Republicans next to the PFLAG next to the pro-lifers. Then I could walk by and nod and then awkwardly smile, then frown, then smile again! and one last disapproving frown.

My special love is the fiber arts. The quilts, the knitted goods, the denim purses. One very sweet display of the wedding dress, bridesmaid gowns, and mother of bride suit the bride herself sewed. And the food - displays of various baked goods, all preserved behind glass with one very happy fly entombed with many generations' supply stale sugary goodness. The last glass case of goodies included a cake shaped, I think, like a cheerleader but with frosting teeth that were so horribly rendered I had to leave the area because I was doubled over laughing.

Tomorrow will be trickier: the sunshine will reveal the bouncy castle with screaming, red-faced kids and pony ride in all it's glory and my daughter will be apeshit to ride and participate in everything and the elephant ears will be smelling divine (three weeks and counting with no sugar) and I will have hands that smell like goat from the petting zoo and the odd pedophile will be casually strolling about. But! We plan to enjoy ourselves nevertheless. And maybe even beg, borrow or steal a camera to share with our readers.

Oh and one other thing: tonight Sophie bottlefed a baby nubian goat named Levi (like this, but in a less "pagan god"-like pose). This whole display was so cute I had tears in my eyes. Or maybe that was the goat-smell, I'm not sure.

* I'm probably going to regret saying this, but there are some assy aspects to this website. I'm sorry if the webmaster, who is probably someone I know, is reading this. One offense I notice is that one of the headlining bands on the "entertainment" page is repeatedly misspelled as "MuchMore County" when it seems very obvious from their flock of giant, giant cowboy hats that their name is in fact "MuchMore Country" (yes, the running together of "MuchMore" seems deliberate on the band's part). Listen, Jefferson County Fairgrounds: errors and typos on a professional website are a big turn-off, people. P.S. don't go looking for typos on MY SITE because I am merely a BLOG, thank you.

So, I am all tuckered out. Mostly from caring for my relentlessly active kids, finishing a mountain of laundry, housecleaning, sewing, and making three family-sized servings of beef enchiladas this evening (my enchiladas are Kind Of A Big Deal - the recipe is here if you think you are awesome enough to make them). Oh, and I forgot to mention I started out my day meeting up with Abbi and our four children for breakfast at the Bayview. As Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman said, "Big Mistake!" When we got the tab I think someone in the waitstaff had written in the margins next to Nels' breakfast: "Get the fuck out." I couldn't tell for sure, though.

Tonight I am having to acknowledge I am getting really irritated with some of the people in my periphery. I was at a gathering recently where (I shit you not, because I timed it) for well over fifteen minutes the entire conversation was dominated by discussions on items people bought, the items' merits, and the incredible savings the purchases entailed. People, I would like to tell you that today's Wife & Mother has more on her mind than what she's been programmed to care about (commerce); I guess not. In this discussion the price tags and utalitarian nature varied, but the subject was endless, boring, and vacuous: better living through purchase power. I actually went off on my own to play with the children on purpose I was so disenchanted.

In juxtaposition to this I have been given the Almighty Scepter of Finance in my household (Ralph passed it to me a few weeks ago) and have actually been enjoying the power. Most of the enjoyment has not been in the choice frivolous purchases (new shoes for Ralph, a sewing machine for Sophie) but rather creating a dorky spreadsheet (I used to get paid to do that!) with color coding and stuff. Going back to my bitch in last paragraph: I guess, really, I understand what it's like to think about what to buy and to peruse catalogs and to lust after material goods. God knows I have done the same in the past. I guess I just want have catty or amusing conversation about our lives, not stoke the fires of consumer-lust.

And in other news: Sophie's toe is looking great - so great I almost feel silly how upsetting the whole incident was for me. We didn't go to our Farm workshare today because I am still interested in keeping her dressing clean and that place is a commune of filth and disease and nary a clean linen to dry hands with. Tomorrow: checkup with the doctor.

This morning I spent several minutes cooking with, feeding, cuddling, and reading to my son. Then I came downstairs for an errand and while down there he found the garbage, pulled out wet coffee grounds, and spread them all over the kitchen floor, which my husband took the care to mop yesterday.

When I saw the mess I couldn't believe it. There is no doubt in my mind he knows he shouldn't do this. But I didn't swat his bottom, handle him roughly, or speak to him in a mean or "big" voice, or even scold him, really. I put him in his crib and told him I was going to clean up the mess. I cried a little but not for affectation - it's just that his disregard for my rules and his disrespect hurt my feelings sometimes. Then I remember he is only 2 1/2 and the best thing I can do is A. model self-respect, and B. take charge of the situation, handle it as best I can, and not play "victim" around him. And there's even a larger lesson here: no matter what, for anyone in any case, I cannot control or expect respect from others. I can only hope for it and experience pain when I am disrespected.

Sometimes I long for the "baby days" of my children's lives - where they truly did not know right for wrong and when it never would have occurred to me to be a Harsh Mama. Those days are gone and, in truth, opportunities like this are just another lesson in learning gentleness and acceptance.

After the mess was clean I went to him, looked him in the eyes and said, "No more messes with the garbage, OK?". Then I held him and breathed deep.

Good Mama.

Forget all that stuff about difficulty with yesterday's eye injury (which is almost 100% healed, by the way). No, actually, what really bothers me more is, specifically, seeing my daughter smash her toe and tear most of her toenail off. With a giant axe.

Yeah.

So at about 4:00 PM today we hit the emergency room. The emergency room again - that's three for the family this year. I guess I should stop bragging about how healthy my family is if I'm getting karmic retribution (yes, karma works that way!) visited on us by trauma.

My daughter did very well. In the first moments after the injury the neighbor girl was trying to say something to me while I was holding Sophie's toe. Problem is, I couldn't hear anything except my daughter's screams. I like to think of myself as a low-drama person. In these situations I am able to speak normally and think quickly and calmly. Only later, when everything's OK and I am at the hospital holding Sophie's hand and she on a bed and under a blanket, do I realize my outward calm is balanced by internal shakiness. I'd like to have just a moment to go to the bathroom and have my own reaction - to cry for my daughter's pain and shock and my total dismay that accidents happen to those I love - but in this case I didn't get that time away. I had Sophie in the emergency room* within about four minutes of the injury and remained by her side until we were patched up.

It occurred to me only later, after pulling my daughter (now completely calm, bandaged, and thrilled at the prospect of both medicine - painkillers and antibiotics as a prophylaptic measure against infection - and an Odwalla Strawberry C Monster beverage) and her variety of medical sundries out of the car, as I say it occurred to me only then that within seconds of her injury I had ordered Ralph to confine Nels, bring a clean cloth and tape, and some clothes to take to the hospital - all the while applying pressure, holding her, and calming her.

And by the way, the x-rays showed no fracture and there is even a chance she may keep the toenail (not likely). Photos posted later for your viewing pleasure.

* The emergency room gave us extremely swift, friendly service today - in part because it was a slow day and in part because it was an injured child, I think. By the time Sophie had left she'd had no fewer than five staff members give her TLC, a stuffed animal to take home, a Polaroid of the event (Sophie and I cuddled on a hospital bed with her foot elevated), two kids of stickers, her own bandages, and three coloring activities complete with a shining new crayon set. By the end I was almost annoyed and slightly concerned she would consider hurting herself on purpose to achieve such thorough and detailed care.

I just watched the debate of Eric Schlosser (the author of Fast Food Nation fame) vs. a UK McDonald's executive. You can watch the debate in parts 1, 2, and 3 here. I have to hand it to UK TV which seems to know how to conduct an affair like this with dignity and a minimal amount of sensationalism.

The issue of McDonalds might at first seem moot since I never eat there (and haven't for years). But if we're thinking about our earth, our fellow human beings, and if we're going to be progressive and practical about large business practices, the issue is worth following. I swim in waters with a pretty smug camp in Port Townsend - those who don't eat fast food ever or hardly ever and seem to lump these companies as "evil" and leave it at that. On the other hand I have my father's views (who I've actually got into rather heated arguments on this subject, for about two seconds until I dropped it, which is about how long I can stand to argue with my father) who seems to think anyone who questions or calls fast food restaurants' practices into question is being a liberal pussy (my words, not his) and is an absolute beacon for the Personal Responsibility arguments (nevermind that some of our versions of "personal responsibility" might include taking these issues seriously and improving life for others than ourselves). Watching Schlosser is inspiring; he is intelligent, calm, not fanatical, and seems to toe a moderate line (for instance, he's not in fact a vegetarian but proposes high standards for animal husbandry and slaughter). Not to mention his book and others like it have influenced companies like McDonalds in a revolutionary way - something I wouldn't have thought possible several years ago.

[ /soapbox ]

And rather off-topic, I am looking forward to the movie version (the poster for which is both chilling and hilarious) - because in part I know Greg Kinnear always tickles me in my notty place.

Today was kind of a funny day. It started out great: we gathered up the kids and some cash and hit the Farmer's Market. While there I enjoyed the purchase and consumption of Rosa's Mexi-Cart's tamales (these things are fabulous) then stopped for a baked good from the Pane D'Amor booth (for the kids) and finally a fresh strawberry smoothie (please do email my husband and let him know that $4 for a 12 oz. ALL ORGANIC and local smoothie is not in fact a ridiculous price). We hit the park and the rec center - air hockey and ping pong - then finally headed home.

Then my son poked me in the eye so hard I couldn't see and started crying and writing in agony immediately.

Yeah, he hate-fucked my eye. Scratched it, bad. Not the eyelid or anything. The eyeball. A giant, red scratch. Agony to move. Tearing up, over and over, throughout the day.

For anyone who knows me they know that I have never been to the opthalmologist or an optometrist or any other eye care professional is precisely because I don't want people to fuck with my eye. Do not touch my eye. Do not say, "Oh, you have an eyelash!" and make a move for my eye. Let me know if you're planning on messing with my eye and I might say yes, I might say no. First of all, eyes are gross and probably germy; secondly, do not touch my eye or eye area.

You know, this whole episode really indicates to me how impressive our reflexes are, for the most part. I mean the worst I've ever experienced in my life is something that gets in your eye and hurts long enough you have to find a mirror and remove some tiny speck (whereas my brother once got an entire paper airplane stuck in his eye and the funniest part is, he couldn't even see it - and I am not making this up). I really don't know where my body and my reflexes were when Nels snuggled up to me, aimed, and jabbed his dirty fingernail directly into my eyeball. I have long suspected he is actually faster than the speed of light (oh, on Friday he had his first successful incident of darting into the street without being stopped by an adult, did I tell you that?) and this incident supports the theory.

Oh, and finally some advice - if you do have a problem with your eye do not go to the WebMD site to see if you should go to the hospital because if you weren't already on the verge of throwing up / passing out, then reading the eye trauma diagnostic queries (Does someone who can answer "Yes" to the question "Has your eye moved downward in its socket?" really need someone to tell them to get medical attention?) will surely get you there.

As I type this I am still in a lot of pain but (thanks to a call to my PA) going to tough it out and see how things are in the morning. If you see me sporting a patch, don't laugh. I'm in a lot of pain.