Life is Art

This week we had a sort of bittersweet milestone. My dad is officially done with cpt-11, the horrific chemo that has held his metastatic cancer at bay all these years. He's done because it is losing efficacy. So our celebration is mixed; he won't be sick for a while and he will be enjoying his days more. It means the most effective medicine they had for him is no longer working.

Tonight I made him a lemon meringue pie (his favorite) and we had a family dinner. He read to my kids; we talked and laughed and Nels and Grandma did their typical battle of wills which I find delightful. My dad drank some wine and seemed happy and of course looked too skinny.

I feel too tired and sad to write much about my father and his illness. Normally I'd try to dig down deep and let you know how I feel, but I don't want to.

Today was a big day; I was out the door by 8:30 when my mom, my aunt Patti, and her girlhood friend Nancy picked us up for breakfast. From there we were dropped off at the salon for haircuts; then walked to the Y where Nels and I watched Sophie in her swimming lessons. We walked another half mile to the Farmer's Market; then two buses home. Long, long naps for the kids as I baked, made dinner, and blogged my latest sewing accomplishment.

And oh Jesus. I can't stop, even though I know it's fucked up.

Labels: bus, family life, FOO, random, sorrows, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

and yes I am sort of sick.

Labels: hilarity, random

Homemade pizza (again!) cools on the counter. Nels is in the kitchen with Ralph singing a song called "Sophia" to the tune of West Side Story's "Maria" (incidentally, the day after Sophie was born at the tag end of my hospital stay this musical was on TV; we took great joy in not only co-opting the lyrics for this song but laughing at the dance numbers and cameltoes of the "gang" members).

Still, Nels' rendering is lovely. He literally sings every word. Then suddenly he darts across and pinch's Ralph on the bottom (family vernacular is "cup-a-cakes" for someone's bum cheeks) and darts away. Nels is literally a joy for me constantly these days - like how while riding the bus he solemnly repeats over and over as he points to the icons at the front of the bus: "That says No Smoking, No Eating Food, No Wiggling, and No Playing Loud Music." (guess which one mom inserted into the transit mantra).

I walk in my bedroom where Sophie is watching a Spongebob DVD and pause the film (time for dinner). She sees my new haircut which has also been flat-ironed and says, "Straight hair!" with a shy, happy grin. "I'm almost as pretty as you now," I tell her, and hustle her into the kitchen.

Labels: family life, tenderness

It's true. I'm fringe.

I breastfed my children to ages three and two, respectively. In America, only 6% of children are nursed past their first year. That makes my children more fortunate than others and also risked the good looks of my boobs, which seem to have held out OK.

I had a baby at home, in a pool incidentally. Homebirthed babies in the United States are about 0.6% of births. OK, that's pretty goddamned fringe.

But I am not a fringe person. I am a pretty run-of-the mill person, college-educated and in traditional Western science, I'll have you know - physics, chemistry, not a single Chinese medicine elective taken. I shave my legs. I eat sugar and I watch horror movies. I believe in Jesus and not in that live-in-a-commune-away-from-the-rest-of-the-world way; in the more boring, reading-the-bible kind of way.

But if I could convince a breeding family of anything, it is that 1. they should seriously consider a homebirth, and 2. no, I am not insane.

I felt like I could have written this short paragraph from a recent article in [s]Mothering magazine:

"Looking back, my transformation from homebirth skeptic to homebirth advocate seems unlikely. In most communities, we are taught from birth that babies are born in hospitals. And because nearly all American babies are born in hospitals, alternatives are marginalized."

Yeah.

One of the best choices I made, one I practically stumbled on, was to have a baby at home. I differ from the author's wife since I switched my plan at about 38 weeks, not 20. And since I qualified as a low-risk birth like 80% of American women (and that's a conservative estimate) this simple decision on my part (Ralph helped) was smart, fun, inexpensive, safe, exciting, easy (considering it's birth!), empowering, energizing, and in a word, lovely.

Homebirth is safe. Six studies including over 24,000 births and long story short: planned, attended homebirthed babies do better than babies in the hospital. Period. Industrialized countries with a midwifery model have more favorable outcomes than the United States, which scores second worse in newborn deaths for all industrialized nations.

Even a discussion of safety is somewhat disingenuous, because for me that isn't the entirety of the issue. But who started picking on the safety of a birth choice, anyway? Who started telling women and families that their choice to forgo hospital-as-rote was "unsafe" or reckless or all about a political statement? (I have yet to meet the parents who truly would put a "statement" categorically above the welfare of their child - most parents, whatever birth model they choose, are making the best choice as seems fit to them).

If I reference safety I am not picking on the choice to do something different than I. I am not looking down on a woman's first, second, third dose of a planned C-section. I am responding to the many who said I was "brave" or privately thought I was reckless or worse; those who expressed no curiosity about my birth. The husbands who did nothing to educate themselves nor empower their females and later cited their females' high-intervention births as potentially "near death" or the baby as "too big" - as if women dropping dead in childbirth was something that happened far more than it actually ever did (references cited in gentlebirth.org article):

"Obstetricians tend to emphasize that many women used to die in childbirth, implying that we should be grateful for current obstetric practice. However, even in 1900, the percent of women who died giving birth was only 7/10ths of one percent! One has to wonder how this percentage compares with our country’s current cesarean section rate of 22%."

This isn't about safety, or at least not entirely. This is about dignity. This is about rejecting the countless ridiculous, and I mean ridiculous imagery and concepts of birth in our media, in our folklore. How many births have involved puffy women grunting and yelling, lying on their back looking entirely overwhelmed, screaming for drugs and squeezing their husband's crotch in a retaliatory fashion - their husbands near-fainting from the graphic or scary nature of the birth and the surgeon / OB "rescuing" the mother from her crisis of birth? Would that be such an irritating image to me if it was even slightly ameliorated by images and depictions of what birth can be (and often is) - without all that unnecessary fuss, drama, implied farce, and silliness?

One of the most realistic birth scenes I've seen in a film, despite stressful and overly-dramatic circumstances, was the one at the end of Mel Gibson's Apocalypto. Without ruining details, I had no problem believing in the performance of the woman giving birth even though the situation in which she delivered was far from typical and one no one would want. Another realistic birth I saw recently was in Altman's Dr. T and the Women - so convincing I looked into it after watching and discovered it was an actual life birth. I have to wonder why most births in television and film that have more typical "circumstances" (i.e., hospital births) often have silly, high-danger, undignified, I'm-going-to-squeeze-your-balls buffooneries played out.

My first birth I will be forever grateful to the medical professionals who guided me through it. They were part of a system that did things their way, but they honestly gave me the most humane and loving care they could under that system. However, I am not proud of that birth. I got through it; they helped. When I think of that birth I remember lots of fluids, many changes of clothes and lots of pain, hushed voices and beeps, walking in halls where people I did not know stared or averted their gaze, wires and tubes and I was just ugly and unwieldy and very scared and unwilling for much of it. After my daughter was born, and the minute after, I was in heaven and pain-free. And I went home.

Two years later at home while laboring with Nels I watched a movie. I started to get distracted and turned the movie off. I started pacing. People came over. The lights were low. People talked and laughed. I panted and sighed and in between contractions as my doula stroked my back I retreated away from her and everywhere else into somewhere so deeply internal I'd long to be there again. It got harder for a while. Then Ralph and I held one another and whispered things to one another and my blessed pain-free time in between contractions seemed to stretch out forever and I was in a lovely trance. Then it got tough again but within minutes I delivered Nels and I can still see him stretched out in the water, so beautiful and I cried over and over, "I can't believe it, I can't believe it!" And I felt so strong the whole entire time.

When I was done I felt like I'd climbed a fucking mountain. I would love to feel that way again. There is no feeling like it I've had since I delivered my baby while entirely alert and under my own power.

I wished my father and brother could have been there to see my second birth. I think they missed out not to be there. It was bigger than me and as momentous as anything that happens on this planet.

Speaking of gratitude, I will forever be grateful that I birthed both my babies in a microcosm of alternative birth choices, similar to what the author of this article writes on:

"Windy and I are fortunate to live in a neighborhood with a microculture that straddles the phases of acceptance and understanding, a neighborhood that has prompted us to learn more. There are surely other communities like ours across the country."

Had it not been for a community like this one, I would have missed out on so much. It is easy to not pay attention; to not look into something that seems like a no-brainer - babies are born in hospitals. After all, why not? "Most babies" and mothers are safe enough in America, right? Birth is only the beginning of a long relationship - who really cares how it all goes down? And besides, it's just unseemly to align oneself with the "wacko fringe" when at very least your family is going to exhaust you with pesky or hostile questions, judgment, and prejudice.

But I wish I could share my experience without people thinking I'm fringe, that I have something against hospitals (I actually adore hospitals), that I was reacting to the "victimization" from my first hospital birth (I wasn't), that I did a natural birth to prove I was a woman (I already knew that). I wish people could listen to impassioned homebirth advocates and listen - not respond with their own defensiveness, baggage, or judgments.

Every expressed word in response to learning Nels was born at home was supportive. And I do thank friends, family and acquaintances for that. Sometimes I wish the ones who privately held judgments would at least speak up, so they could learn more about me and why I did what I did.

Labels: babies

Ralph (to Nels): "You know how I know you're gay?

...

because you sing 'Twinkle Twinkle' while I paint your toenails."

Labels: Nels, Ralph, random

Today a series of small but essential things happened that made me happy.

One, after checking in with my parents' home (and watering plants) I walked with my kids to a local sandwich shop and people recognized us and greeted us; a woman behind the counter said to her workmate excitedly, "That's the one that bikes with her kids!" This made me feel nice, as well as the fact my children ate every bit of their lunch then ordered their ice cream (each of them chose a horrid, electric blue bubblegum) in a very grown-up fashion. Their manners at restaurants are improving.

Two, after lunch when it seemed my son could not walk the whole way back home without incident (I had a cup of coffee to carry to boot) we crossed the street and I boarded the bus to Quinault in hopes it would get me a bit closer to my homestead. What I discovered immediately is that many people take this bus: it was more than 75% full and as soon as we climbed aboard they let out a collective gasp at my tousle-headed son, who is less than three feet tall and gets on buses with his hands in his pockets and in this case the pockets were in a handmade dinosaur costume. The driver kept trying to engage my son as I tried to ask him if he would be passing Emerson: "Yeah, yeah," he waved at me vaguely, still chuckling after The Boy who mustered dignity, excused himself past passengers, and clambered up in a seat. Soon this driver was blasting past my street of destination as I desperately scrambled for the cord to save us an even longer walk to our house. This whole time half the bus raptly watched my children whose bus-riding skills really are funny to watch, although Nels did nothing more than act like a little boy.

Three, this afternoon as I did dishes a friend called me. She and I talked about our sick fathers. We talked about another dinner and movie date, which is exactly each of our speed. I put it on my calendar and it's what I look forward to the most in July, second only to Ralph's thirtieth birthday where I get him something outrageous (but useful) for his birthday. (Except damn! Ralph has a new rule where we dont' have a kitchen gadget with only ONE function. Shit, I'd also been thinking about a sandwich grill. Back to the drawing board.)

Four, tonight another friend and her kids came over for dinner. Our four kids played marvelously together, and we had homemade pizza, veggies and dip, and more homemade chocolate cake. After our dinner my FOO came over; my parents having just arrived from their vacation. We talked about bears, churches, and I offered my mom as treasurer to my friend's mayoral campaign.

Five, Ralph took charge of the four children as my girlfriend, my mother and I hit a local bar for one drink and some good talk.

I am so glad to have a few very dear, very lovely friends here in HQX. I haven't yet seen much of them - honestly? I don't want to screw anything up. I still feel slighly hermitty and sad, so it is only right I'm not painting the town. It already feels "right" and normal to have my parents back in town; to know I can see them any time (or almost any time) I want. Even to know I get to take my dad milkshakes at the hospital while he gets his chemo or feel aggravated at their pet-like creature.

Labels: bus, FOO, friends, girl life, gratitude, Grazdma, Nels

I'm kind of extra exhausted today. I'm physically tired because I've been biking and bussing everywhere with the children (who continue to love this lifestyle). I'm lonely but I accept this is reality for now. I've made a few choices recently (jettisoning a person / conflict or two) and although I am better off, these choices were painful. I haven't found close friends to consistently spend time with (that's bad!), but neither have I sacrificed my personal integrity to join a group I don't feel right about (that's good!). I also just know it's hard to move, hard to leave a life behind. I'm not trying to push myself feeling any better than I do, which is not so good.

My creative well is being drained slowly and for a while I was watching helplessly; but I'm coming to a decision about my sewing. Currently, I'm not sewing enough to feel happy about my sewing, to succeed in my Etsy contest efforts, and to create clothes for my family in my 6-month commitment. It is not working for me to try to sew at home and this is mostly because my children often do not nap and I am not getting the one to three hours of solid, silent, me-time. In the evening I am far too tired, mostly from the additional physical exercise we're getting. I am not going to bemoan this or be overly frustrated, but I need to find a solution. Perhaps when my parents get home from their vacation I will take my mom up on the "sewing studio" offer. I have finally let go of thinking I could sew daily, and although I'm sad, it's more realistic.

Today my Nels did in fact nap; while he did, my daughter watched and helped as I made a chocolate cake from scratch and homemade pizza (from easy and tasty recipes on allrecipes.com for dough & sauce). I have been enjoying learning to cook new things: also buying cheaper groceries than I'd been used to in PT. Because of this I am now, finally, making yeast breads my bitch! You heard me.

I'm grateful to my husband. He has shown nothing but enthusiasm for our biking routines, for my cooking, for my requests at housework and my desire for more recreation as a foursome (tonight: family swim). And today two books arrived from Amazon: Ralph had surprise-ordered me a sewing book and a cookbook, both that I've wanted for some time.

So due to my efforts being applied in the culinary sphere I now have, foolishly, 85% of a giant chocolate cake on my counter. Anyone?

Labels: bike, bus, food, gratitude, Ralph, sorrows

Today I got to buy a man's groceries. At the checkout I had been forced to go back twice; the second time I grabbed a smaller pack of tp as I realized I wasn't willing to bike through the screaming wind with a giant 24-pack toilet paper "sail" balanced on my handlebars. When I came to the checkout a man in a motorized scooter had taken my place (which was fine, of course). We waited and waited and when it was finally his turn he held up a food assistance card (we have electronic food stamps in washington state). The checker said with compassion, "Those aren't working. Anywhere in town. Something wrong with the state." There was a brief pause as this man considered his groceries and said, "Um well, I guess forget it then."

I stepped forward. "I'd like to buy his groceries," I offered. The checker gave a brief glance, nodded, and started ringing me up. The man tried to look over his shoulder at me as he said, "Oh, that's not necessary." I touched his shoulder and said, "No, I'd like to." (touching someone gently often softens them, I've found). The checker piped up, "Happy Father's Day!" and the man laughed and everything moved forward. His bill was only three items: a gallon of milk, a pack of hot dogs, and some Lay's chips (an excellent lunch, I might add). It only took a minute and I wrote my check for his items and mine.

After the man scooted off the checker said, "That was nice," and I said, "Yeah well, I appreciate it when someone helps me out." "You never know," she said (inexplicably). I was happy because how often do we get a chance to help someone? Usually when the situation presents and the impulse strikes I literally don't have the means to do it or I just am too shy and the moment passes. Besides, I have had to leave groceries before when my card was declined or some other minor financial drama and I know how much it fucking sucks.

Last night I made vegweb's "Outrageously Easy BIG Bread" (my version and method here). Currently Ralph is following instructions for homemade falafel with cucumber sauce (I'll be sure to report if it's better than the mix); we're also having Israeli couscous and Korean cucumber salad. Our kitchen smells so good - garlic, cucumber, cumin, broth - and it's extra awesome he's doing the work of cooking.

Labels: food, gratitude, Ralph

A pamphlet was delivered to us for an upcoming religious gathering: a smiling, Aryan Jesus holds his hand up in invitation, his arm draped with a poncho and his coif softly curling. My husband, without a word, cut out a talk-bubble and applied it - "Who's up for some Ultimate Frisbee?" The Son of Man congenially asks - then put it on the fridge where I saw it an hour or so later and spluttered laughter (Ralph went to Evergreen).

Last night I bathed with both my children. My aching body found comfort in the hot, hot water. Sophie sat behind me and poured water on my back, unasked but so appreciated by me. After a few minutes she said, "Let's lay back," which is exactly what I wanted. I held her and we whispered. She got out and into a towel; Nels arrived next. I smelled his salty skin and his hair - I simply can't describe how good his hair smells to me. His little strong body is the brownest of all of us. I hold and kiss him and think it's remarkable how my children allow me to fuss over and touch them - sometimes they enjoy it, leaning in and reciprocating, but often they don't even notice. I thought, how nice for us all that we touch this much.

I told my son, "Nels, you were born in water." He said, "This feels good," and smiled. Sometimes I simply can't believe I'm allowed to spend time with them in my life. I cherish and love almost every minute.

Labels: hilarity, Nels, Sophie, tenderness

This morning I biked the kids to Aberdeen and back - over one bridge that's rather hilly, returning on one that's treacherous traffic-wise. Our destination was the Canned Food Grocery Outlet which, the more you visit, the more awesome it is. Today I didn't / wouldn't be buying huge, heavy produce (we took the bus / bike combo for that, yesterday) but I did purchase various shampoos and soaps we'd been almost out of as well as a giant box of cereal my children requested. Then home, stopping by the Farmer's Market for eggs.

Biking with 80 lbs. of children plus whatever weight the trailer is plus our coats and groceries makes me awesome. The fact that I am listening to the Hot Fuzz soundtrack at full blast on the iPod makes me a geek, but it makes me feel even more awesome as I do it. Check out the visuals (look at whichever makes my feat seem more impressive):

Labels: Aberdeen, bike, cocky

Today, with two clicks on my Google Calendar, my life suddenly freed up as the three days a week of Sophie's preschool vanished. Some people look forward to school time so their own grownup schedules may take precedence. I can understand this. I however can say I'm looking forward to the summer break just as I enjoyed it last year. With the Siamese-twin-like psychic synchronicity my two children have (desiring to spend every waking, sleeping, and bathing moment together with an astonishing low proportionality of fighting, considering) taking the two of them out - especially now, as they can dress themselves, walk long distances, take care of their bodily functions, and are joyous to take almost any outing - is actually slightly easier than having one of them along.

I haven't set foot in a car since Friday. I continue my no-driving experiment and today my goals were modest: get to downtown Aberdeen, take the kids thrifting (I'm looking for a sheet to sew pajamas for myself; also clothes for Ralph and a pair of pants for re-vamp), hit the taqueria (sauce a la diabla!), go home. (all of this, after I'd planned out our budget and assigned various bill paying and errands for Ralph and I - also feed, clean, help dress the kids, etc, blah blah).

So at about 10:45 we walk the eight blocks to the station, first stopping at the ATM and then purchasing a monthly pass (cheap - only $18). The good news about our bus system is that people actually put it to use here. The bad news is they aren't PT-ecocute - most of them are dirty, half-crazy, and / or poor (or any combo) and a few of them are smelly. Actually - this isn't bad news at all since my children and I are pretty OK in new situations (and the situation won't be 'new' for very much longer as we use the transit regularly). But our bus riding today underscored a truth for me: it's hard here to ride the bus and walk. People here use their cars to insulate themselves from the harsher neighborhoods of Aberdeen and, to a lesser extent, Hoquiam; insulating themselves also from the poverty and hard-living so many do here. I get off and on the bus and don't see anyone "like me". Those "like me" are driving by in their cars listening to XM radio. Those I sit with on the bus go to and from sub-standard apartments and sometimes run-down hotels and their teeth are bad and faces hard-worn.

Heck, it's kind of hard to bike around here too. There are no bike lanes in either Hoquiam or Aberdeen. None. People drive aggressively as well. Not everyone thinks biking is a good thing: Ralph was heckled as a "loser" and "faggot" the other day - merely for being on his unremarkable Schwinn. He was also wearing a dress and holding a sign that said, "I like balls in my face" but I still don't get it.

And now: diving into the 39 cent Stretch N Sew pattern I purchased today at the Salvation Army.

Labels: Aberdeen, bus, HQX, Nels, other haters, Ralph, Sophie

French electonica band Air, awkwardness, old Star Trek, and non-sequiter humor.

Labels: random

We're watching a lot of "He-Man" on YouTube around these parts. Guess what? It's really shitty. Ralph and I were appalled because as children TV viewers* He-Man was heavy, dramatic grist for our idealogical mill.

If He-Man can't entertain Ralph and I with compelling storyline and rich explorations of the dichotomy of good and evil, he sure can deliver an excellent PSA:



Do you think anyone ever had the gall to touch He-Man on his bathing suit area? Perhaps when he was merely a shy, awkward Boy Adam. And I can't help but think the last qualifier is made all the more awkward when it's your rabbi or minister who's doing the inappropriate touching.

* I grew up without a TV; I can only imagine my He-Man viewing was either at the grandparents' or with friends - but I do remember my brother and I watched some. Billy? Do you remember? Was it in the back of that van where that man touched us in the way He-Man is talking about?

Labels: geekery, hilarity, random

We are broke, and it ain't no joke. Ralph gets paid on Monday (direct deposit, yay!) and until then, we have no cash. Guess what I mean by "no cash"? Zero. Yesterday we stole over to my parents' house and scored $19 for their quarter jars (we Hogatrash secretly love this kind of scavenging). So I fed the family with $6 last night (black bean burritos with garlic and jalapeno, steamed broccoli, carrot sticks). It would have been less than $6 but we are also out of gas - hee hee! - so we shopped at the mom 'n' pop which is a bit expensive. Tonight's fare:

Calzones with spinach and homemade ricotta*
Dipping sauce (red sauce w/garlic and basil - yay canned tomato products!)
Sweet and sour asparagus salad

Today I ventured to the somewhat ghetto, rather hilarious, and always thrifty Canned Food Outlet today for our groceries (side note - this was after biking the kids up to my daughter's last-day-of-school picnic at Sam Benn in Aberdeen - up hills!). My aim: the produce section. A bit scary: "Fresh lemons"! the sign reads (needed for my ricotta) and well, a good 15% of the lemons are moldy. But here's a life lesson for you: amongst moldy lemons are very ripe, juicy lemons. Then spinach - a huge bag of it reduced to 49 cents. w00t! Asparagus, young and fresh-looking with decent savings of $1.29 for a large bunch.

All told these groceries came to just a little over $3. Yes, I'm awesome.

After Ralph got home (biking the cool seven miles that is his commute, addendum: sometimes getting yelled at for being on a bike: "Jackass! Fucker! Faggot!"), he cleaned up and took Nels to their shift at the 7th Street Theatre working concessions for the movie (which had, I believe, the highest attendance for the film program yet). Sophie helped me fashion calzones and we had a mellow dinner together before our boys got home. I was so, so pleased to see that my produce was fine - no slimy spots, no wilty brownness. Saving pennies is fun but eating partially-spoiled food is not really an option.

Yesterday was also my daughter's preschool "graduation"; she received a diploma and a special award for "Knowing the Names of Lots of Dinosaurs". At our picnic I ended up talking to moms I hadn't previously spent time getting to know (Chris, Kim, and with me being a Kelly we have an oddly unisex parental nomenclature). It was a happy occasion but as these moms are sending their children to different kindergartens (they live outside HQX) I also felt the tinge of "goodbye" which is something that speeds up and hurries along more and more as you raise children. Sophie's teacher, after seven or eight years at this school, will be moving on to a new position. Both of my children gave her a tender hug before we left. This teacher was a very inspirational and amazing presence in our lives, all the more appreciated as acclimation to our new township.

Summer break has officially begun!

*A friend brought me some raw milk from the creamery in Sequim; sadly, as I thaw out each half gallon they seem on the verge of spoilage.

Labels: bike, goodbye, school, Sophie

Just lately I have struggled with not being harsh with regard to my progeny. I had been on a rather zen, non-harsh Mama roll for months - even during our move and some not getting along with husband! - but lately it's been a struggle. One can say it was the kid doing this-or-that but I believe real harshness resides within the parent and each of us knows if we have it in us or not. My body is flirting with anger right now; it's residing within.

Today seemed to not go well from the get-go. Ralph and I are having a disagreement (ah... how much I'd like to vent, but I won't). This is aggravation that stays with me, even though mostly I have put it on hold. This morning after busting my ass at home I got the kids et all loaded into bike trailer: shit! tire is flat. OK. I can deal. Drive to the Farmer's Market for eggs (2 dozen fresh), then I'm going to take the kids to split a steamed milk, then to the park. The kids have been borderline; Nels has been a little naughty. It's nothing I can't handle when I'm at my "normal" self but right now I'm at my harsh-on-everybody-mostly-including-myself self.

While at the Market my kids are just looking at the pies - no touching - and an employee I've observed before (always, every time I've seen her, complaining about or gossiping to someone) with the kind of wrinkles around her mouth that indicate she maintains her puss at a sphincter factor of about 8, 24/7 - passes us by and in a bored, aggressive tone drones, "Don't touch the pies please!" to my children who are looking at the saran-covered pies with their (clean, as it happens) mitts a full eighteen inches away from said pastry.

Well, she actually corrected the wrong kids today - or the kids of the wrong Mama. Instead of ignoring her rudeness and saying a prayer for her day (my gentlest self), or perhaps saying, "I'm sorry, but I'm watching the children. Don't worry, they won't be permitted." (my more assertive form), I say flatly, "They weren't. touching. the pies." At my tone the [ hag ] woman snaps to attention and her attitude becomes more conciliatory to the point where she tries to "friendly"-like interrupt the conversation I'm having the cashier. Get how bitchy I am - I don't even respond to this implicated olive branch. Fuck her. I continue talking to the cashier, pay for my eggs, and prepare to leave.

Sadly, my children take this exact moment to misbehave. My daughter starts wheedling that I'd pulled her hair (actually the clasp of my purse had snagged it) and my son, oddly, grabs a penny from the penny jar and (more oddly still) won't put it back! By this time there are three employees sort of watching my scene. My scene isn't that bad but I want to leave. I am so frustrated and in that moment I am *only* frustrated at the kids (who I know, even in my mind at that moment, aren't being that bad).

I am outwardly calm and nice to my kids, prying the penny out of Nels' hand and guiding Sophie out the door verbally. But inside I am so angry. I walk to the van, holding Nels very firmly by the hand and I'm making plans at "disciplining" them in the most assholian sense of the word. I envision putting them in their carseats and delivering each one a slap. Then I will tell them what they did wasn't cool and why (p.s. - "what they did" includes a bit of other, earlier non-cooperation I haven't written about). If you haven't contemplated slapping your kids before, it's quite a trip. Your rational mind knows, "Not a good plan". Your body and your emotions say, "Do it! Goddamnit!"

By the time I get to the car, my knowing self has given it up. I am tired and sad, not angry. I put them in their seats. I tell them I won't take them to the park and get the milk after all. They start crying (predictably), but not hysterically so. Sophie reasons with me, "I'd like one more chance!" she says. I say OK. I outline what this "one chance" will be - namely, they do A, B, and C in the library. If they do, we will go on the rest of our outings as planned. We are all clear-eyed and only slightly weary as we leave the parking lot.

We go to the library and they follow instructions perfectly; I take them for their milk and park visit. Our relating improves and I read to them - our afternoon turns sweetly.

Obviously, I am glad I didn't slap them or raise my voice or be mean. I am not so sure I shouldn't have slapped the market lady. Sure, it would have been unwarranted, inappropriate, and wrong. But in that moment it would have felt kind of good, don't you think?

Labels: bike, consumerism, i'm a hater, Nels, other haters, poison, Sophie

I think I've alluded to Nels' new clothes-on-backwards-and-by-himself modus operandi. Yesterday he literally put on everything backwards, including socks with the heel part over the bridge of the foot (really, rather creative on his part!). I know this could be classified as "harmless, ignore it Mama" behavior but for some reason I need him to at least have underwear and pants on correctly. Yesterday I first directed him (nicely), then tried to help (he resisted). So it ends up he's yelling at me as I tear off his underpants, and I get this vision of a mean little ninja as his hating eyes squint at me over his hood which is covering his mouth, because I am going to allow him to wear the hoodie backwards. And he's kicking and me and hollering and his sack is like, right in my face.

And this is interesting. This morning I busted my nuts getting breakfast done, kitchen entirely clean (dishes dried and put away, counters scrubbed, rinsed, and air dried) and put together a seed-planting project - complete with half-eggshells in cartons to start our planting.

And Sophie sits on the couch reading manga, not budging. Nels occupies himself sorting our band-aids.

Look, Mama only has so much project time left in her, kids. Get it while the gettin's good.

Labels: family life, Nels, Sophie

Yesterday my father, mother, and their wee little dog loaded up in their homebuilt motor home (actually a converted logging crew bus with black-purple and gold detail, solar power, and an elevated roof - it's a trip) waved, and headed off for a 2+ week trip to Montana - the Tetons, Yellowstone, friends.

My brother gave long, sincere hugs goodbye. I felt just too rotten to do that so I pretended I didn't feel bad and held Nels on my hip (my god... he's three years old! I don't really have the baby-on-hip thing going on anymore, do I?). I occupied my mind thinking of how I was going to steal their lawnmower for a few weeks and pick up some of my mom's flower starts. But really, I felt just inexplicably shitty and couldn't get away from it; as they drove off I thought, well it makes sense I feel bad. My whole life we've been a foursome; we've always been together. And as they left I felt a keen separation as I will when either parent succumbs, and I wonder when that will be. My mother at least is mostly convinced my father doesn't have much hope of holding out much longer; his chemo treatment is losing efficacy and there isn't a backup plan after it stops holding the fort. Daily I go back and forth between letting them do the thing their way and just supporting and loving them; or inserting myself more aggressively: asking them to seek more opinions, going online and looking up experimental treatments. Daily I yo-yo between being allowed to accept his death and the peace and sadness this brings, and fighting for more life. It's an odd state of being that protracted illness and long-looming death can beget.

I also harbor this sneaking suspicion those sneaky bastards that are my Mom, Dad, and brother know something I don't and are keeping it from me. Like that the doctor only gave him a few weeks to live and that's why they're having this roadtrip. I wouldn't put it past that trifecta of non-communication. Last week he was so not-sick after his chemo I grew alarmed and point-blank accused him of not having treatment Tuesday, which he denied. Five minutes later I then ambushed my mother, coming inside the house with my kids: "Did dad really have chemo yesterday?" Her innocent and surprised reply, "Oh yes," was clearly honest. He just lucked out and wasn't very sick. The first time in six years we'd seen him feel good post-medicine, and I'm suspicious about it.

It's hard sometimes to remember that it isn't the cancer that makes him feel so bad, it's the medicine. I can't believe he's even gone through it for all these years with scarce a complaint (to anyone else; I know my mom gets a more full story). Sadly thought, it's also the sickness that contributes as he can get depressed. The depression changes him. I have known and loved him thirty years and up until he got sick I'd never seen anything like the depression, I would not have thought he had it in him. I don't talk him out of it, I talk to him. Sometimes he barely answers. I have found if I keep talking to him eventually he pulls his head out of whatever mire he was in and answers me. I go home, then come back the next day.

I like being active; on their trip, I email them. I work on a care package to send general delivery to whatever township they name. I thank Sweet Baby Jesus in his Golden Fleece Diapers that we moved here. It has been so nice spending time together and I love, love watching my children with my family. Yesterday at breakfast my father and my son sat together and my dad helped him eat breakfast and they fit together like peas in a pod. Nels put his hands up to grandpa's face and said in surprise, "You have glasses Grandpa!" and tenderly stroked his face. My father acted casual (his M.O. even at his most demonstrative) but his entire body leaned towards his grandson and they touched frequently. My dad wiped strawberry preserves off Nels' face and said, "Oh, I let you get some on your shirt. Your mom's going to be pissed." I ignored this. Then he said, "You're mom's going to have a heart attack, she's going to have kittens." so I looked at Sophie and said, "Should we get some kittens today?"

At the table I said to each of my parents: "Ralph and I think you are a good grandpa. And we think you're a good grandma."

Buen viaje, mi padre y madre.

Labels: FOO, goodbye, Grazdma, illness, Nels, roadtrip, tenderness, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Today my day started out like this:


This morning I'd looked forward to a half-day trip with my parents and my children to Olympia (hereon out called ORLY) [ that's good! ]. Instead I get an eleventh-hour bailout from my mom [ that's bad! ]. I mean, I don't want to get too personal or TMI but she basically had some sort of shitstorm going on that meant she couldn't be more than ten feet away from a commode. So suddenly I find myself with my mean ole dad and my son, and no Mom nor the pleasure of her company nor the gravy-train Visa card of hers for lunch, and no help wrangling The Boy, on my way to a more-than-half day errand which I have to run because my dad has fainting spells so it's not safe for him to drive himself.

I sure hope she had fun on that crapper this morning. Oh, and to be fair; she retained Sophie and took her to school and afterwards too.

Tonight I got a date I'd looked forward to; I went out with a girlfriend for dinner and a movie - dinner at Ocean Shores' Galaway Bay (a caesar salad and Fish Tail Ale for me), the movie Hot Fuzz. I laughed so damned hard during the entire protracted ending, which achieved levels of satire combined with heart in a way I had previously never seen. I would have re-watched the movie instantly afterwards and I can say I haven't really felt that urge before. I can't wait for Ralph to see it.

And speaking of Ralph - he sent me this article today (in part of his effort to write a Father's Day editorial, an idea he stole from a friend of mine). I have always loved Carolyn Hax and this is just more evidence. I almost got teared-up reading what she wrote. And yeah - "That's good!"

Labels: film, friends, gratitude, random, sahm