Today in my inbox I received a newsletter from Naomi Aldort:

"It is fine to find ways to nurture yourself away from your child. But, when not available, enjoy the ride. If you knew how close the end of this period is, maybe it would be easier to relax and enjoy each moment. Discover that time for yourself, is time with your child. Being with your child is the way your nurture yourself; it is a treat available for a fleeting moment; it is the gift you chose to give to yourself by bringing this child/ren into your life.

Being with the joys of mothering now is fulfilling. Fearing that you are missing something (or needing a clean house) is painful. When the children become independent, you will find that your interests have changed anyway, or that you can pick them up further than where you left them. These former skills may or may not be relevant to you any more. Life moves only forward. Attaching to the past hurts and separates us from the happy moment of now and now and now. Without the wish to do something else, you love the moment fully and peacefully. Enjoy it. Like the rest of life, it is a passing ride that gives no second chance."

Today I accidentally lived my life this way. I was out on the bike with the kids from 11:00 in the morning to 3:30 in the afternoon. We went to the bank then the market where we bought my mother* a bouquet of local sweat peas, a pie, our farm eggs. We had lunch in our favorite deli and went to my parents' to visit and do chores. We dug potatoes. We went to the store for supplies to make a birthday cake for my mother. We walked our garden. We bought her gift and had it wrapped. I was in parallel with my children. I waited on their schedule and timeline as I would a guest. I didn't snap or order around. Well, not as much as I usually do. They in response were agreeable, helpful, and took excellent care of our groceries and packages. Ralph was home almost before I knew it as our birthday cake was ready to be assembled.

The days I am very busy with my family and with my parents. Daily I visit them, cook for them, listen to my mom, and I talk a lot too. I sit in their living room. We go long stretches not saying much, then the conversation will liven up around something frivolous (the movie I saw last night), or something less so (this week my dad was classified hospice and has had oxygen, intense pain meds, and inhaler, a bed and wheelchair delivered). I mop the floors, do the dishes, wipe the counters. I listen as my children run around in the garden. Eventually we go and I say goodbye and tell them when we'll be coming back.

* It's her birthday! 59 years old.

Labels: family life, FOO, garden, Nels, Sophie

Today after this-and-that chores and breakfast we went to my parent's house. While Ralph mowed their lawn I cooked custard (my dad loves it), made two loaves of egg bread, washed all my parents' bedding, and dusted the bedroom and grand piano. And we all had lunch and visited, of course. I started in on making jam out of the fresh blueberries we picked but sensed my mom was ready for me to exit her kitchen. A project to tackle tomorrow.

I felt so unbelievably satisfied when we left. It's not even that we did my parents "favors". I know my mom appreciated some of it. I don't really know what else. Sometimes I think they must like our company. But I don't even know how much they enjoy that. In fact I laugh to think I don't know, at all, what my parents care for. They are unwilling or afraid to tell me. Sometimes they tell me thank you (my mom far more than my father), but this is a language hard for my family.

It's not about them, it's about me being who I want to be, at least with the information I have.

Labels: FOO, food, gratitude

I had a friend who once told me that because of her dad's habits in childhood, she'd always get a positive, warm and fuzzy feeling from smelling beer on a man's breath. And sure enough, she ended up partnered with a beer-drinker and in fact drank a lot herself. For entirely coincidental reasons I had years ago decided I didn't want my children to smell alcohol on my breath night after night as I kiss them to sleep. Alcohol riddles my childhood; I don't want to be a slave to or obsessed with the eradication of it in my life, but until I sort all that out I really don't want my children to either.

But lest you think this was a long, meandering post about my triumph over alcoholic tendencies, you're wrong. Because this is about what my children likely associate with Love-Mommy, and what Nels just commented on this morning when he told me my breath smelled good: Coffee. I like coffee. I drink coffee. CoffeeCoffeeCoffee. I'm sick, slavish to it. I could probably not go a roadtrip without it unless it was after 6 PM or so (when I'm ready to be done drinking it for the night). You know how smokers need that smoke break? I'm almost like that with coffee. I think about coffee. I treat myself to coffee. OK, I'm not a total fiend: I won't drink "bad" coffee - I won't bother with something from 7-11 or most diners. Living in Washington state though, it's easy to find good (or at least decent) cup of the stuff.

This morning Nels snuggles me a bit before I stick him in bed next to his sister; their fresh pancakes await in a warm oven, and in a moment I'm off to bath, breakfast, and a bit of yoga before the day truly begins.

I watched The Dark Knight last night. It was a great film and I plan to see it again. I put a film review up on a site I write for (hee hee, not linking to it, it's a secret) and in looking up some details of the film on on imdb I see a post: "Who else found the Joker sexy?" Yeah, OK, it needs to be said: the Joker was sexy (and scary. Those things can go together, you know). And this is why - he was extremely self-validated. Probably the biggest turn-on, ever. Well, for me at least.

Labels: childhood, coffee, film, FOO

I love to shop. I love to buy things. Being a one-income family of four I've had to adjust a bit. Mostly, I focus this pleasure of mine on the acquisition of groceries and food. I enjoy immensely learning to cook something new; to find something different to pursue, to go on a hunt for a rare item, to try a new restaurant (although mostly I limit my restaurants to our favorite deli and our local Latino fare). I enjoy buying a big or little thing for the house (last week it was two $1 prisms and fishing line to hang in our small living room windows), to clean or meagerly furnish my "nest". I've always been this way.

Our local garage sales are excellent for spending frugally, and 'tis the season indeed. Some of my best Fridays and Saturdays lately have been spent biking around Hoquiam and Aberdeen with kids in tow, hopping off at various yard sales and going though piles of clothes in hunt for our wardrobe (my children especially do not benefit from newly-purchased clothes). This weekend's garage sale expedition was largely funded by my lettuce sales at our local Public Market (oddly, while visiting my family before I left, my dad first made fun of how little money my lettuce raised, then insisted I wasted it all by driving to the Market. But in reality I haven't driven to that Farmer's Market once in my produce-selling escapades and in fact had just disembarked from my bike to share my excitement).

This Saturday for $11 I purchased the following: an evening scarf (Kelly), 2 t-shirts (Kelly), 2 t-shirts and a dress shirt (Ralph), dress pants (Nels), a pair of herringbone cotton pants (to refashion for kids), denim jacket (Kelly), hoodie (Nels), ls tee shirt (Sophie), and 2 vinyl albums ("South Pacific" for me, "If I Could Only Remember My Name", hippie David Crosby for my parents).

Labels: Aberdeen, consumerism, FOO, garden, HQX, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Today was an odd, ephemeral and lovely day for the most part, consisting of an enjoyable afternoon out first on the bike, then to lunch and grocery shopping with my parents and my children. I can usually only hope to steal my mother away for daily errands in between the events in her busy schedule (said "busyness" sometimes consisting of just being around the house for my dad - it's very sweet, they like hanging out with each other and almost no one else). And of the four members of my FOO I'm the only one who likes going out to eat (not strictly true: my brother likes eating out but is so tight-fisted with cash he simultaneously judges others or feels guilty himself upon indulging), so it's rare I have enthusiastic partners in this endeavor.

I may sound like I'm poking fun of my family but the truth is I enjoy spending time with them near as much as my own wee foursome. One of the chief good trappings of this day was that my father came along with us. He has been feeling better, despite new tumor growths in his lungs and bones. His good spirits seem largely due to the fact he's had more than two months off chemo (his choice). It's sad to see him off chemo because chemo keeps him alive (albeit tortured and sick). It's almost, in its way, even sadder to see his hair thicken and his skintone liven and his skinny 6' 3" frame gain a few pounds. He starts to look startlingly good. I look at him and think to myself, imagine how healthy and hale he would be now without cancer treatment these last eight years. This is almost the worst kind of thought to think because it takes me back to What Could Have Been, a place I for the most part abandoned and don't often glance at.

I feel oddly exhausted to recount a strange episode from this morning that almost ruined my day: we were visited by a gentleman from DSHS on an issue of child welfare - in fact my child, Nels. On Saturday afternoon my son had ventured out (in the nintey-plus degree heat making him restless, I suppose) two blocks afield and was asking neighbors for food and drink. A neighbor brought him back straight away (after feeding him bottled water and Pop Tart) and spoke to Ralph, who apologized for the trouble and thanked the neighbor for bringing our son home. My husband was pissed - cranky from the heat, angry at Nels for wandering off, irritated at me for - I'm not sure what. Because I know Nels and know there's little we can do except to talk to him about what he shouldn't do and why. But anyone suggesting we "make" him forgo venturing off on his own on some too-grown, precocious endeavor (harmless or otherwise)? Bitch, you don't know my son!

So imagine my mild surprise, then shock, then bemusement, offense, and small dark cloud of rage forming between my eyes when a stranger showed up and wanted to look at the state of my housekeeping, the food in my fridge, and the nurturing conditions and mental stimulus afforded my children (all of which were running smoothly, of course). Here's the weird thing: of course I support these programs and am glad to see what I saw operating in Grays Harbor County this morning. And in theory I tell myself I wouldn't judge nor place myself above the parent who would benefit from these services. But I found out today it's another thing entirely to have them at my own doorstep.

The gentleman interrupted the kids and I as we were studying world atlases and preparing dough for chocolate croissants (the food tying into the geography lessons: croissants from France, as pointed out on the map, and chocolate from - usually - South America). The social worker - who was completely professional, matter-of-fact, and friendly, none of which made the incident less unpleasant - told me the call was from someone (maybe the neighbors who'd returned Nels, maybe not - who knows?) who had reported this was a "drug-addled" neighborhood (WTF?). The sole purpose of his visit seemed to be - besides "checking us out", which had included a call to law enforcement - informing us of services we could take advantage of. In fact at no point did I hear an admonishment or feel chastised in any way; rather, I'd seen a window into institutional procedure based around helping people help themselves. This was an odd relief and in accordance with what I would want from social work at large. Still, I couldn't help wonder: what if my fridge had been empty? What if my house was a pit, or I had a sick kid, or what if Nels runs off again?

Before the social worker left I sat my son on my lap and explained briefly that it's a lot of trouble (for me), drama (for me), and paperwork (for Mr. DSHS) brought down on us for a four-year old to venture off like that, even once. I don't think we made it too heavy-handed.

I know Nels couldn't have known that for me the incident sparked this terrifying, irrational, yet nevertheless thoroughly soul-sickening feeling of the loss of one's child, a fear that lives in the bottom third of my heart no matter waking or sleeping and pumps a noxious cold blood-substitute whenever circumstances hint toward anything of the kind.

Labels: FOO, Mama's crazy, neighbors, Nels, nerves, random, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

In just a few hours I will have completed thirty-one revolutions around the sun. Good job, me! And thanks, mom and dad! And everyone else involved, really.

Last year on my thirtieth birthday it was a jumble. I was days away from moving our family for the first time (and in denial); I then had a surprise party that included employees, friends, FOO - who I typically would have to beg or cajole to visit, including during times I faced surgery and baby-birthin' - and this great party only minutes after I'd discovered our dear lovely family cat Fancy had been killed. It was an amazing, wonderful, and emotional ride; this year I'm content with a lot quieter. I love the idea of being 31. I like the number itself.

The weekend entailed a visit from college friend Jodi, husband Doug, and their two children Cyan and India. After they left I darted back to my sewing room to finish baby booties for Nels' teacher's imminent birth and enjoyed my mother's company for a dinner of cabbage rolls and baked potatoes courtesy of Ralph's cooking. So all-in-all at 9 PM I'm tired but grateful and content and looking forward to a lie-in.

Labels: birthday, FOO, friends, milestones, PT, sewing

I tasted my first fresh Krispy Kreme today (what can I say, I'm the OG Country Mouse). It was a struggle, but I got it down eventually (actually, the remainder I picked up are calling to me now). More surprising than the donut hype around the legendary junk food was the coffee - hot, fresh and tasty - and the fact the retro 50s squeaky-kleen donut factory ambience actually worked on me. I felt pleased and comforted and totally forgot I was sitting in the middle of a square mile of strip-mall concrete in Puyallup.

My fabric trip with my mom (and Nels) was bookended by watching my parents fight about their severely damaged roof, a post-storm saga that does not seem to be winding down to a close (yesterday they had another contractor quit on them). The fighting was kind of surprising because growing up my parents "rarely" fought and somehow the legacy was they "didn't" fight. Today there was yelling and cussing and later a cell-phone apology (delivered by my mother who, distracted and sad she'd yelled at my dad, pulled over on our way out of Aberdeen in order to call) and then when we got back, a wind-up, more yelling, tears, and stomping. "It's not my fault," my father reminds my mother as he angrily saddles up to drive to the roofer's offices. She doesn't quite apologize again, still angry about the stream of contractors she's alienated, anxious to stop the deterioration of her home (the tarping fix fell apart and water damage has started to hurt the insides of the house), and mad that my father isn't taking care of it in the way she feels he should.

My son and I witness these words. I feel badly for my parents. I am sad they are struggling and fighting over these things while my dad is so sick. I am sad that my parents, who used to enjoy household projects together in their mutual interest and good health, now have a total pain-in-the-ass problem that's costing money, taking time, and making my mom crazy which results in her picking on my dad. My dad is so thin he has those crazy old man legs they can cross at the upper thigh. Yet despite this, despite a near-skeletal frame (he's lost an inch to his height, did I tell you that?) and his tests and poisons he still remains my father, the same. I am not all that sorry for him in the sense I think he can still handle life's complexities. But I am sorry that my mom has this household burden at the same time she's facing the poor health of her mate. Oddly, or perhaps you understand, it's exactly experiences like today that make me glad I moved here to be witness, to help if I can, and to participate in their lives through good or ill.

The fabric store itself was great. Mom and I stuck to our small lists (I did not select an underlining for my brother's coat yet; the addition of my four year old to the shopping experience caused us to cut things a bit short) and found things in short order. I felt joy at the fabrics I saw, more types that I could have pictured, and I did not find myself longing for fabrics I can't have. This is a good thing. I saw dual-colored zippers and plush fake fur and lovely wools and found four color combinations of the rare-ish bonded sherpa / minkee fleece I'd sought for my baby slipper project. I also was cheered to discover their minimum yardage cut is 1". It just seemed so sweet and accommodating on their part.

It's funny to visit "the city" and suddenly realize I could find socks for Sophie, or face wash, or exactly the restaurant food I crave, or the perfect color of sheets, or a tiny teapot from an Asian grocer or whatever. I get so used to being in a small town where your spontaneous creativity is hampered by what you can lay hands on (which does make the occasional inspired find all the more exciting). In cases like today, a list is the way to go. Otherwise I just feel an envious sense of overwhelm.

And now, I have a bootleg copy of Sweeney Todd to finish. I think I'm going to get on that.

Labels: film, FOO, food geekery, Grazdma, Nels, OG country mouse, sewing, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Today at 4 AM I awoke congested with a sore, scratchy throat. I suppose it was bound to happen. I've been around various sick folks (my son, my husband, a good friend, and my hostess for the weekend) and putting travel into the equation seals the deal.

At this early hour my husband hears me up and sick and offers to stay home. He is still getting over his illness - an achy, uncomfortable nausea both he and Nels shared over the weekend. Nels himself sleeps in until 10:30 before awaking. Rest, rest, rest. No sewing like I'd planned, or YMCA workout. Nothing done but holding down the fort, watching TV, reading, and maybe knitting.

Sometimes I don't understand my family - meaning my FOO. This morning I notice that when I tell my parents I'm sick, they express no sympathy - only derision. My mom repeatedly asks why Ralph would stay home. She does not ask about my symptoms. My dad actually calls me a "puss" (I end the phone call, disinterested in this). It sounds callous and assy to write about their response here; but those of you with family know there is some way that family behavior seems "normal" when we live it and only seems rude or strange when it's communicated to an outsider. Thinking about it, it bothers me. And I don't understand it. I ask myself: how do I express myself when my family suffers? How do I wish to be treated when I suffer?

My immediate family and my pets are in more of an accord; loving, cuddling. Ralph offers to make coffee, tea, breakfast. I have some hot broth for breakfast, tea, coffee. A bath. My body aches, my head aches, and I feel chills. Time to go back to bed and maybe later, trying the third treatment:

Labels: FOO, illness, Ralph

Tonight I walked the kids to my mom's to have dinner. She was in a muddle of what her current state often is: stress / drinking to relax or relieve stress / over-giving / enjoying herself. The part that was enjoying herself was the part that invited us for dinner, made a lovely stew, and had rented some family movies. The part that was over-giving was the part that tried to make the stew "perfect" for us then (and this was the part that was stressed and used drink to manage it so inhibitions were dropped but not the underlying stress) used an angry tone on my children for preferring their cornbread and eating it first. My dad took some special medicine and seemed to be feeling better than he had over the last few days (something tipped this week and he has now become someone "dying", no longer someone coping with illness. I'd like to feel differently on that one if I could) but this meant he retreated for our viewing of Harry Potter and I didn't get to see him much. It was a nice dinner and I really did enormously appreciate the night out and the homecooked meal. But I can't get away from the the strain and bad feelings that my life's dinnerplate seems to hold when I look down at what I'm eating.

I'm getting that really paranoid, really perfectionist sense of angst. If anything goes wrong I am a wreck (internal, so as not to inconvenience anyone). Sometimes I get a vision of who I might be when age and senility set in. And it feels small, like tiny wheels turning in my head, mucked up and in semi-darkness and doubt, unsure of myself unless someone tells me they love me or not just that they love me, but they promise not to be mean to me. Today I missed two appointments I had. One I was able to recover OK; the other I just completely missed. This is rare for me. And when I screw up like that on a commitment I make to others, or something I told myself I'd do, or whatever, I really just hate myself and it eats away at me for an indeterminate amount of time.

I don't think but two or three people close to me realize what a perfectionist I am. I laugh at the term "perfectionist" a bit because no one who knows me would think my life looked perfect. Yet that drive, that insatiable unsettledness, has a strong a grip on every aspect of my waking hours. I hold myself to ridiculous standards and then feel bad, like pit-of-the-stomach bad, when I inevitably screw up. I have to have a clean house or if I don't, a plan to get it clean. I can't relax until housework is taken care of; then I'd better relax correctly. I hate myself if I have something to drink, or if my husband and I aren't getting along for the evening, or if somehow during the day I was amiss in my parenting. I have to take care of my kids properly which means clothing and grooming and brushing and flossing and if they miss a night of this I have to demand my husband help but if he doesn't do it I feel like a failure that we don't provide this to them. I have to meet my commitments on the three volunteer leadership positions I'm in. If I don't meet them I feel I can't get over it or make amends to those I might have (usually only minorly) inconvenienced. No, for me if I mess up, it means people hate me and they have a right to hate me. It takes me a lot of internal thought and sometimes discussion with a friend (Ralph, my mom, or Cyn mostly) to "talk me down" from the ledge of I-Suck.

For a half year I wouldn't allow myself to buy the family clothes but had to scrump, sew or thrift them. This was a fun and interesting project, sure - but it also became a burden at some point. I hold myself to the standard of preparing nutritious meals without taking culinary shortcuts. I feel bad if I buy anything "extravagant" or even buy anything without having it on a list first - or else I eschew cooking altogether and go out to eat (which, for some reason, feels like a tremendous ease on my daily cooking burdens). I choose to, for God's sake, plan, write, edit, layout, and design for a zine which I then have to publish on our shoestring budget. I have to balance my marriage such that I support my husband and manage my own needs without asking for his emotional help when I'm fragile - which I am all the time these days, whether it's apparent to others or not.

Some reading here may think these confessions mean I'm a miserable person all the time. That is precisely the problem; I'm not miserable, I love doing so many of these things. Every effort of mine is born of love and energy. I thrive on creativity, on learning now to do things well, on pushing myself just a little bit because it seems like I can. I do sometimes congratulate myself on the fact that I can "coast" as a housemom on some days and do well at providing for my loved ones. I love every single thing I write, or sew, or every meal I cook or the way my counter looks when I wipe it down. It is precisely the dual love-hate of the work vs. the drive to do the work right, every time, that makes for tricky terrain.

Perfectionism, as far as I can tell, has no easy cure. It isn't a matter of, "Why don't you do less?"* That question is like asking, "Why don't you stop having the Kelly-brain?" or, "Have you thought about leaving your tits at home before you go out in the day?" It's a non-sequitur. It doesn't follow. My struggle with perfectionism could probably only be helped by - no offense to any reader who thought I was more hip in some way - prayer and discourse with God. My struggle with perfectionism was manageable in PT. It has become at least trebly difficult since moving here. I have my ideas of why this would be; for now it's enough to recognize it's happening.

One thing, the walk with the kids over to my parents' was nice. I'd prepared us for the cold - coats, hats, gloves and good shoes - but the rain started falling intensely and there was nothing to save us from the wet of eight blocks. How to explain a Pacific Northwest winter rain? It is not violent at all but rather like a cold spell that covers us, the air filling with rain that is safe, nourishing, life-giving. You expect rain so you don't begrudge it except a few weak moments, here and there, in the five solidly soaking months we get per year. You get home and strip off your clothes and put some in the dryer and towel your hair (we don't generally use umbrellas here) and fix coffee and look outside at our beautiful weather. Tonight I watch my children on the walk. Sophie walks self-protectively. She puts her hat on firmly and zips her coat and steps carefully but purposefully. Nels just barges out into the elements, sure that he will be fine. I start to know he's cold and wet when his hand creeps into mine and he falls silent. The children act as if they were born for this weather.

* If any well-meaning friend writes or says, "You should relax your housekeeping standards," or "Why don't you give up such-and-such?" I will deliver a cock-punch via Airmail.

Labels: film, FOO, food, homesteading, Mama's crazy, nerves, on foot, walking

When I ride or walk around my hometown a forgotten house, a sight of a neighborhood tree or the feel of the air, some small synapse gets triggered and I am suddenly reminded of someone I knew or something that happened I had completely forgot about until the moment it hits me. Today it was a surfaced memory of my brother and I. I think I was in ninth grade and going to go to a dance. I found this electric blue, fitted (but not whorish)* lace-overlayed dress. It was perfect for the semi-formal I was attending and my mom bought it for me from - what was the name of the shop? Jay Jacobs? It was just a bunch of shitily-made clothes for teens and young women but exciting to browse in the preoccupation of liberating oneself from kid-hood into female-ness.

So at home I put this dress on and was looking at myself in the mirror, my under-average-height 130-lb body and new perfect boobs and feeling very pretty and different. And my brother came into the room and I said, "What do you think?" and he said, "Oh..." and I said, "I feel kind of self-conscious because, you know," and I gestured to what must have been the world's least-significant slight potbelly (a "flaw" I sensed, rather than felt, would be a detriment). And my brother, Hades fuck him, said, "Well, yeah."

I didn't wear the dress; I returned it. Whatever burgeoning confidence I felt evaporated - maybe not because of what my brother says, who knows - and I remember what it felt like to hate my uncooperative and vaguely displeasing body. I of course excuse my brother who was as much a victim and participant in the gauntlet formed against young females as I was. What mostly I think is, I will kick my son's ass if he ever says anything less than worshipful for his sister's beautiful body (no worries so far; he loves her fully and completely). And of course, I remember how much I loved the blue of the frock, which I have never seen anywhere else (thank you, Taiwanese textile factory!).

Today I discovered my father is super-excited about Popular Science's DIY messenger-bag-cum-solar-cell-phone-charger. I don't even know where he got the idea (it's too bad the link doesn't show a picture; it is kind of cute). Not only does he want to make one (with my husband's help in choosing electronics), he thinks we should make them and sell them (WTF? I think maybe he was smoking some of his medicine). However despite the fact it is semi-strange for him to be soooo excited, Ralph and are actually so happy he has a project that involves us. I said, "You can show it to Ralph when he comes over tonight," and he snorted, "What, time to borrow the lawnmower again?" (actually a software install for mi madre).

* Here's another nice tidbit from dinner at my FOO's the other night: totally unrelated to this story of the dress my mom, telling my husband how much she was glad I didn't dress provocatively as a young woman. "I know, I know," she crowed, "You'd think by her personality she'd be ... you know ... [a slut!] but she was actually very modest." O-kay.

Labels: billy, FOO, Grazdma, HQX, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Since late last night our internet connection has been down. I have always known that email, IM, and blogging keeps me from focussing on other household duties but this morning really proved it. By 11 AM I had roused, fed, and dressed each child, taken Sophie to school via bike, done two loads of laundry, made beds, finished the dishes and cleaned the refrigerator, made homemade pizza sauce for tonight's dinner and brownies for dessert, and finished the machine-sewing for Nels' latest pair of pants (there's a story to these pants I will sew-blog later). The efficiency and pleasantness of the morning is almost enough to make me forgo Inter-Tron during my morning hours. Almost.

One reason I am a badass is that I biked Sophie to school in not only rain but gale-force winds (with the help of The Stills on iPod - thanks J. for the suggestion!). I suspect this will be my life for a while until I can figure out how to come up with $793 for my van and it's fubar'd fuel pump. P.S. I just got the estimate yesterday by phone and tried to hold off telling Ralph who's having mental and emotional problems with the realities of our financial situation. It's too bad we couldn't be down to one car during the lovely summer months we just spent.

Due to the storm I wasn't feeling as excited about my normal modes of getting around (biking, walking, bussing). So this morning I'd called to ask my mom if she'd give Nels and I a ride to the library (my current locale as I type here). She was headed to a funeral today - my lifelong next-door neighbor died last week. So I asked for my dad and he agreed to pick us up.

My father is an intelligent, laconic, grumpy person who likes to rudely tease his three nuclear family members in some sort of twisted way to relate to them (example, "Got a job yet?" in a snotty tone to my brother who is currently living below poverty-level - albeit in a nice home with at least one month's rent paid - while he searches for one and daily grows more anxious and sad). I have decided to choose to believe my father loves me, because his behavior towards me could / does indicate a lack of respect - often. I love him and will always love him. And yes, he can be helpful. When he took me out to my van last Friday he assited me in trying to get a jump and evaluating the problem to be needing a tow, or not (it did. Shit. P.S. I surmised fuel pump and was correct as it turns out. Perhaps I should try to hone my auto-psychic skills to make a quick buck). After we left my van to drive into town he not-so-helpfully treated me to a deriding monologue about how this van is a piece of shit and has been giving us problems from Day 1. When it comes to looking for advice and guidance this kind of meanness / weirdness really clouds my judgment at whether to look to him for assistance and mentorship, or not.

So today when he dropped me off as I packed my son out of the van he abruptly grunted, "What are you doing?" (which meant, "Dear daughter, I am concerned at how you will get home in the storm. Would you like me to pick you up and take you back home when you're done?"). I said, "I'm just going to use their computer and pick up a hold." He said, "You're not coming over later?" I said, "No... I've got to get home and do some chores." He said, "I could drive you back," in his patented half-offer, half-belligerant delivery that is so uniquely Dave Fisher. I told him we'd bus home, I thanked him, and said I'd see him at 5 when they came over for dinner.

I love my father and that's one of the major, and I mean major reasons we moved here - to be near my family while my father was facing the last days - or months, or years; whatever his cancer affords him - of his life. But sometimes he and my mother tire me out. His grumpiness, and even more so her excuses for it (for her own personal settling and to encourage my brother and I to settle for it as well). I still love them both and more than ever. I don't feel victimized by them in any way; I am fully aware that I can bring my desire for different behavior to them at any time, and I have in the past. I am proud of Ralph and I for giving them the kindness of moving my family close to them. I am glad for their help, strings-attached as it sometimes seems. Today, I was glad for a trip to the library out of the wind and rain. That, and the bus-fare I stole out of their van for the trip back home.

Labels: bike, financial panther, FOO, iBeak, inter-tron, library, rain, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

So goes the family legend: my mother attempted to stay home to my brother and I but it didn't work out. I was carefully and repetitively informed that she "couldn't do it". She was "bored", she "couldn't get things done." My father was just "naturally better" at it so, he stayed home. As we got older they both worked more and more, soon having two fulltime jobs. The house was empty after school but the family was together for dinner every night. My brother and I enjoyed a stable and home-centered upbringing and we all knew my mom was too "independent" to be a stay-at-home mom and my dad was "laid back" enough to do it. Read: stay-at-home moms were cow-like and didn't expect much from life; my father was lazy so did well at it.

This story worked well for my interests as at 18 I pursued college (full scholarship) and a career in engineering - a field similar to my mom (she worked in civil; I in chemical). I was one up from most in my FOO since I would be getting a four-year degree right off the bat and supposedly bounce into a well-paying field and then the promotions and if I could catch a man, the coveted DINK status. Sure enough, post-graduation I did well in my workplace; I loved it, I was liked, I was up to the challenge of the job and loved the mental and cerebral energy I could pour into it. Children were not on my radar. Looking back I wasn't doing any of this resentfully, fearfully, or for other people's reasons at all. I loved the schoolwork (not so much the classes or the university) and even more, the work itself. How I loved the work; how I still miss it.

After a few years in the workplace I became pregnant and married my long-term boyfriend and father of the child-to-be. While Ralph and I were pregnant, newlywed, and being begged by our employer (we both worked at Port Townsend Paper Corporation) to stay on to dual salaries we briefly considered it. Not for more than about four minutes. It didn't feel wrong for us to both work, precisely - and my salary was hardly cushy for a single-income family. I think we felt like, Who would be with this baby then? and there was no satisfactory answer. I still can't explain why Ralph and I felt this way - it was instinctive, it was mutual, and it has ended up only strengthening with time.

Of course, I had the better-paying job and the degree, not to mention the familial expectation of breadwinner while Ralph was to get the less glamorous and more onerous duty of nose-wiping, cooking, cleaning, and diapering. When I went back to work after my maternity leave (which, despite being federally protected, I had to fight against my work culture for) Ralph came home as a happy homemaker and loving father to our very, very lovely and precious new baby girl. I remember printing out the latest pictures of her to tape to my hardhat. I remember my pride being an engineer, the first female foreman at my workplace, in charge of men twice my age; a mother, wife, and full-time breastfeeder as well. There is nothing that can take the pride and joy away from me that I felt during that time.

Some people may be under the impression I left work immediately after my first child was born; not so. It happened neither suddenly nor consciously. I left my job because the job started to suck; mostly my boss(es). When I started seriously considering leaving I remember my mother's advice and comments - she was literally split between admiration that I would not be pushed around or work in conditions I couldn't stand - versus many objections to do with my income and my nature - as in, I wasn't the type who COULD stay home and raise children. "Ralph is so good at it... It would be too hard for you!" I remember hearing often.

This internalized bias existed within myself as I quit my job and came home, supplemented on unemployment and more and more reluctant to return to work. At some point it became Ralph more actively looking for work than I (he was doing independent consulting at the time). I still remember being pregnant with my second child as Ralph took on fulltime work with more and less flexible hours and I wasn't quite in ownership of my choices. Deep down I was completely sure I couldn't do it; this sham of Kelly-at-home would crash down. My mother was right, I thought. Helpfully, my father picked on me; to this day makes jokes that I don't have a job, yet he sprinkles enigmatic compliments around our family's lifestyle choices. If I wanted to find out what was beneath his assholian teasings I might ask; perhaps someday I will.

What gradually began to piss me off was this idea that a housewife and mother needs to have "something else" going for her. Money, a job. That a woman who stayed home had to be lazy or have no aspirations or "laid back" in order to enjoy and do well. Because I am none of those things yet time has shown I make a good mother, wife, and run a home well. I existed as a strong, energetic, too-frenetic mother whose strengths were emerging despite being told from all sides this work wasn't worth my or anyone else's time.

It took me years to feel I could stay home. I may have been built to do science and math and work aggressively in a male-dominated field and ironically, I was trained out of thinking I could do anything else. But as it turns out, daily I'm glad I "pushed through" my barriers to staying at home, to leaving (however briefly or for the rest of my life) my career. It hasn't been easy to put myself in a vocation denigrated by so many (men I used to work with would get sad I'd quit, "You had such a great mind!" one once said); nor to feed, clothe, and support four of us on a single income. In fact, in many ways - physically, mentally, and emotionally - it's been the toughest challenge I've faced. In overcoming that challenge along with that of school, engineering, the world of work I discover a few things about myself: one, that I'm good at challenges; two, that I seem to seek them out.

You can't have it all and all at once. I miss work. I miss earning money. I am sometimes sad that my cohorts and peers advance - not so much in position or title but that they are earning work experience in a field I enjoy. I am glad I remain true to myself and don't live life according to anyone's expectations, according to fear or pseudo-security needs regarding money. I'm glad Ralph's career got a chance to flourish and I know he likes it. Mostly I'm glad to get to spend so much time with and love on the three most important and amazing people in my life. I will never regret one moment I've spent with them.

Saturday was my anniversary. Ralph and I have been married six years - which means we've been together for almost ten! Or as Ralph points out, "Nearly one third of our life". I just about fell off the bike when he reported this. I've still been thinking about it. He's been my advocate, cheerleader, lover, partner, best friend, and co-parent for all these years. I guess he's just as up to a challenge as I am.

Labels: family life, FOO, gratitude, homesteading, Ralph

My kids cuddle each other and the rest of us more than you would believe possible. Yes, it's awesome.


A rather blurry photo but does anyone have any questions as to why I am incessantly pinching her bum? Nels is trying to read.


The Princess looks alert, but he's actually quite Pink-Eyed and lacking in coffee! This was a capital "E" Emergency and we rectified it at once.


Like an elderly couple, we rely on Ralph for most of the driving.


Speaking of elderly, my mom turned 58 and we took her out to lunch (my treat and it broke our budget). This dessert was called a "melting chocolate cake" and it was divine.


I picked up some yummy and tender romaine. I love garden-fresh lettuce - drenched in dressing, yes.


We got a new kitty. "As you know." Sophie held him on the drive home and he was quite calm.


Sleepover with Billy! Can you feel the love? The kitty felt it too.


Harris, newly named (Billy helped) and looking - dare I say it? - wise.


That morning Nels helped me make...


Bagels! Recipe and methods coming soon in the zine.


Sophie attempts to swipe one, early, like the Bagel Weasel she is.


This photo disguises the very, very threadbare nature of her suit. She continues to love and thrive at swimming.

I enjoyed this quote I read on Molly's MySpace today:

The fact is, what I hated in the Church was that I hated in society. Namely, authoritarians. Power freaks. Rigid dogmatists. Those greedy, underloved, undersexed twits who want to run everything. While the rest of us are busy living--busy tasting and testing and hugging and kissing and goofing and growing--they are busy taking over. Soon their sour tentacles are around everything: our governments, our economies, our schools, our publications, our arts and our religious institutions. Men who lust for power, who are addicted to laws and other unhealthy abstractions, who long to govern and lead and censor and order and reward and punish; those men are the turds of Moloch, men who don't know how to love, men who are sickly afraid of death and therefore are afraid of life: they fear all that is chaotic and unruly and free-moving and changing-- they fear nature and fear life itself, they deny life and in so deny God. They are presidents and governors and mayors and generals and police officers and chairmen-of-the-boards. They are crafty cardinals and fat bishops and mean old monsignor masturbators. They are the most frightened and most frightening mammals who prowl the planet; loveless, anal-compulsive control-freak authoritarians, and they are destroying everything that is wise and beautiful and free. And the most enormous ironic perversion is how they destroy in the name of Christ who is peace and God who is love.

- Tom Robbins - Another Roadside Attraction

Labels: birlo, birthday, family life, FOO, food geekery, Nels, Ralph, Sophie

I had a difficult time this last weekend. And what I want most when I'm having a difficult time is company. Not necessarily to talk about my troubles, not to do my dishes nor sponsor me in a spa trip or even drink with or have a shopping spree. Simply someone to talk with, recreate with, cook with or for (I love cooking for people), go out to talk over a coffee, and relax. Time is something my FOO gives very sparingly, with vague limits suddenly and mysteriously imposed, with reneging of original plans and a culture of denial that original plans even existed. I am probably the only of the four of us who is generous with their time in an open and honest way and a clear communication of boundaries. I also note that when someone is having a hard time, I love to help them. I appreciate all the times I've been directly asked because it's hard for me to know sometimes when someone wants my help or to know how to give it.

There's a fifth member of my genesis family - my half-sister Jules, who was raised for the most part by her father. I wasn't thinking about company or family this weekend when I emailed her and told her I was having a hard time. However her immediate response was to literally drop everything, rent a car, drive from Portland and take me to dinner (all with very grateful and slightly overwhelmed thanks). It was at first hard for me to accept her offer because - I don't know. Some part of me didn't want to admit I wanted that time. Part of me suspects that some people make these amazing offers and don't mean them (this is actually rare I think). But mostly it's just that growing up and now my family didn't work that way. They don't seem to need help, expect it, or offer it. One result is I have trouble knowing for myself when I need help and what kind to ask for. I also feel sad asking for help and very sad being rejected. I am working to be different than the way I was raised.

The closer I got to expecting Jules the more excited I got. I began to realize I was going to have a night off from the family. I was going to have all the time to talk and listen that I could want in a visit. We were going to enjoy food or maybe rent a movie or go to a movie or stay up half the night. It was going to be open-ended. She wasn't going to tell me she was staying until such-and-such a time then suddenly leave early (classic FOO behavior). She was going to tell me she was leaving Tuesday afternoon and that would be when she left. She was going to believe me and support me when I told her my troubles (not "hint" at how I should or could do things better or differently). A part of me even distantly surmised she was being so generous with her time because I myself had made the same priorities about twelve years ago as her relationship with her husband was faltering (they later divorced). I was a young college student who knew nothing about marriage and I don't know how much help my advice or presence could have been. But I remember riding the bus as often as I could to hang out with her and do whatever she (or we) wanted to do. I remember spending so much time listening to her and caring very much about her and Mark. I realized I have this incredible gift in her and a few of my friends; true, adult friendship that is give and take. It would have been easy in some ways to say "No, but thanks." I'm glad I didn't.

Jules got here at 6 PM and as soon as my daughter's swim class was over I found her and we went out. I hadn't dined in the restaurant we ended up choosing in a long time - over a decade. We also immediately met and began chatting to two men on the Tour de Fat. I ate every single bit of my dinner and had a bloody mary. I started feeling much better. Ralph took the kids to my parents' where they had a slumber party / video game night in the upstairs guest room. Jules and I stayed up until 4 AM just talking. I ate too much candy (I literally had a candy hangover the next day) but my sleep was deep and only cut short by the morning responsibilities of my own children.

One problem with taking half a day off: you want more! And I intend to get it. Everyone should try for it, if they can.

Labels: FOO, gratitude, jules

Because I'm hosting a "little" get-together on Friday and it is the first time I've invited more than a few people into my house. Suddenly I realize I feel like my house looks freakishly bare (it is), I need to go buy more dishes (I do) and build a firepit (I don't, I'm just weird), and I know there's no way I can figure out stuff for the attending children to do (P.S. my own children play games like, "Guess Whose Clothes These Are?" which is my daily ploy - and it works! - to have them help me with laundry folding and putting away).

I'm just hoping a willing host family, a clean house, and lots of good food is good enough for my friends; I'm sure it is. P.S. I think I might reserve the services of some kind of clown / balloon-blowing / stripper person in the yard and hope we don't have rain and if just one thing goes wrong I will hide in a closet crying.


It's summer in my mom's yard which is a beautiful time of year. Ralph and I were married about this time (early September) and had the reception at my parents' (which is the house of my great-grandparents); I remember the quasi-unruly garden being in full bloom and lovely. I remember being caught on tape revealing I was wearing Friday panties (or whatever day it was).

Tonight, this was odd: my brother is going for a trip until late August to visit friends and his girlfriend (in CA) and he kindly accepted a dinner invitation at my house. This evening after we ate I thought perhaps I'd been smoking crack when he actually hinted for a hug before he left. I assume now that he's planning on dying in a train derailment or perhaps he's eloping, never to return.

In some ways I think my children have brought a lot more demonstrative love to my family. After all they quite frequently hug, kiss, say, "I love you," and "I'll miss you" which is definitely not how I grew up talking with my family. In fact my brother's own hug request was after my children had hugged him, kissed him, said, "Come back soon," and "Have a good trip," not because I trained them to say those things but because we say affectionate things to one another in my family and they feel genuine and deep affection for their uncle. Even their grandpa, and propriety forbids me from writing out all the ways that mean old man barely deserves love (just kidding, I ruv roo daddy!).


She is biting with the side of her mouth to avoid her loose front tooth. That thing is crazy-assed loose.

Labels: birlo, family life, FOO, friends, garden, party animal

Roadtrip! Today my mom, brother, husband, children and I headed to Olympia - mostly for fabric and sewing purchases. My mom bought us lunch and post-shopping snack - how awesome is that? I didn't eat a snack but I did bring home some amazing cinnamon bread for Wagner's.


I just want to say that the only reason my mom took us on such a long trip - 11:30 AM to 6 PM - was that Billy was along. She likes spending time with him more than with me. Because they are dating.

I love hanging out with the FOO. Sometimes certain members are a right pain in my balls, but mostly, I like spending time with them daily if I can. Today my poor brother and I had to run and keep Nels and Sophie at bay in Music 6000 while Ralph was "grinding his axe" (i.e. playing a guitar out of tune, to try out a pedal) and headphoned. Why did we get Nels to monitor in such a valuable commodity shop? I was glad Billy was there, besides for his company.


Nels fell asleep on the drive home and still, about three hours later, is out.


Sophie napped too but, once home, stripped her shoes off and started coloring. She and Billy like taking pictures together.

(And just for my secret thrift-whore housewifery buddy - here are my recent thrift store purchases on Flickr - I really do love the inexpensive and fun thrifting to be had in HQX!)

Labels: birlo, consumerism, FOO, Grazdma, roadtrip

Today while relying on public transportation I was let down. As in, an entire bus went missing and the kids and I stood waiting for about forty minutes. Forty minutes isn't that long but forty minutes is a long time when you're expecting a bus any minute. Forty minutes lost meant I dressed in workout clothes for naught; when we got to the Y there wasn't enough time for me to get my exercise in before Sophie had her lessons. By the way, she's swimming quite well and today told me she wants to be a swimming teacher "when [she] grow[s] up".

After lessons it was a walk back to the bus stop; unpleasant and muggy. Then to my parents' where I am feeling oddly uncomfortable, never knowing if I'm showing up too much for my sewing work (isn't it nice with FOO you get to guess how the feel about you?).

On the happier side, my family has discovered "Spongebob Squarepants" (rented on DVD) - finally. We held out for a long time before checking into it, as most kid cartoons really irritate me. But it turns out the hype is earned. It's a funny show, reminiscent in many ways of old school "Ren & Stimpy" but non-violent and not nearly as gross. Impressive!

Labels: film, FOO

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

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

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

My mom invited us over for dinner tonight: meatloaf. Frankly, I'm dying for a break from cooking (altho' I won't be eating the meat, natch). Here were the negotiations:

Me: "Are there going to be mashed potatoes?" (I love my mom's mashed potatoes)

My mom: "OK. What about vegetables *? What does Ralph like?"

My dad: "How about carrots?"

My mom: "I know what you like. I'm trying to find out what he likes."

Me: "He likes caesar salad - I have a great dressing recipe I can mail you."

My mom: "Good idea! I have a head of romaine. I'll find anchovies for the dressing."

My dad: [ unintelligible muttering because he hates salad ]

Me: "What was that?"

My dad (sullen): "I didn't say a fucking thing."

* My mom's cooking requirements per dinner: meat, one "starch", one veggie.

Labels: FOO, food, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard, verbatim

My son Nels loves to dress himself. But he puts everything on backwards. I mean everything, except shoes, which he attempts to put on the wrong feet. And I just can't bring myself to let him go out like that. So I either ask, wheedle, reason, cajole, or demand and wrestle him to the ground to fix his clothes. Of course he complains about all this; "Bad Mama!" Because he wants to do everything by himself. But if he gets stuck - like he is right now, trying to pull up his pants while simultaneously standing on them - he makes these crazy, help-me-grunts. Then when I help, the second he's decided I've helped enough, he starts in yelling again.

On the other hand, his fine and gross motor skills are quite impressive for his age. Yesterday he stole a basketball from a teenage boy shooting hoops at the playground.

Today:

The ONE day this week we don't have a dinner engagement! Oh, except we kind of do - we're off to swim lessons and Ralph and Nels have Playschool. Tomorrow: family of five coming over and I'm not sure what I'm going to make for dinner.

I'm about to chuck the kids in the bike trailer, head to my current favorite North End drive-through latte stand (Morning Fix Espresso), and go to my mom's and hope to get some lunch.

I'm just a little pathetic today.

Labels: coffee, FOO, Nels

I really enjoyed taking tickets tonight for the 7th Street Theatre's* showing of Monty Python's Holy Grail; in doing so I briefly recalled Julia Sweeney's fascinating narrative on ticket-scamming her job to the tune of hundreds a night. I know if / when I work again as ticket agent this won't be happening for several reasons: one, I am not a thief; two, the theatre doesn't seem to make much more than a few of those hundreds gross per weekend; and three, it was fucking hard to do and I even messed up a bit! Yes, I had one of those embarrassing moments where someone gives me money and I'm in the middle of giving their change back and they suddenly push some more back at me and claim a confusing number of extra tickets they wanted. I know there is that whole "start over" possibility but there were ones and fives in the ticket booth in a pile and a press of customers waiting and finally I accepted the customer's word - not that he would be deliberately dishonest (in general, Little League coach-looking dudes in Grays Harbor aren't into grift) but I certainly didn't have my math brain there to help back him up.

Whoops. I did the best I could and documented my mess-up. My mistakes will result in the cash being higher than the book amount so at least I don't look like a goddamned criminal.

Ralph and I biked home - it was so fun to have a date, albeit a short one! - and upon arrival my mom, flushed with wine, told me a success story of spanking Nels after he threw something at the cat. It was a "success" because it bothered him and he cried and cried and felt remorse. Oh, if anyone wants to ask me, please don't spank my kid(s). They get enough terror at home.

* Wow! Who made that sharp-looking website?

Labels: bike, film, FOO, Ralph

No sooner had I finished my Mother's Day entry the other night as Ralph was off at a concert when I got a panicked call from my mom. My father had collapsed in a faint on the floor of the bathroom. This was new. She wanted me to come over. I reminded her she could call her son that lived a few feet away, upstairs, and told her I'd be right over. I packed the kids up (they were in the bath) and went straight away.

Yesterday my dad had his typical chemo poisoning (along with an EKG ordered to investigate his fainting spell) and seemed the worse for wear. His weight is "up" as in, it's not the lowest it's been. But his spirits have been flagging a bit. And my conversation with my mother last night was depressing. She and my father seem miserable. They're "doing the math" again - his CEA count is steadily climbing, this is the last treatment out there and it's losing efficacy, etc. Doctors have asked them repeatedly not to focus on the CEA count. My mom is panicking and my father is losing heart.

It isn't the thought of my father having limited time left in number of months or scant years, facing eradication by this disease. I have accepted this at least mentally, if sadly. But I don't feel, as my mom does, that "the circumstances have changed" (meaning they're on the last leg of treatment); we've been talking the last six years about the eventuality that cancer will claim his life, increasingly more aware of this when we found out it had become metastatic. What I'm finding troubling is my parents' process; their drinking, my dad's depression. My dad's state of mind seems to fluctuate; at times he does not seem depressed as just - sick and in pain. At times it's hard to tell why he's morose, quiet, not speaking to us.

I can't tell if our - meaning the children and I - frequent visits to their place are a welcome joy and distraction, or simply a loud clamoring nuisance. My children have become as familiar with grandpa and grandma and their home that they are no longer on their best manners, but rather expect enjoyment and community on every visit. My father always seems especially happy to see them. I try not to overstay.

The other day my mother, the children, and I walked past a cat who'd died mysteriously, spread out on the sidelawn of the Elks building - a massive, beautiful striped tom. Now whenever we pass that block my son says, "Kitty is dead!", clearly not feeling any great momentous emotion about this, but rather still turning it over in his mind: What is dead? How did this happen?

I feel so sad how little I got to know two of my grandparents, while I had only limited exposure with the other two. It isn't just that I didn't spend time with them; even when we children did, there are so few stories that survive about the experience. We live here in HQX now, for the time being and for a handful of reasons, but in large part for both my children and parents' experiences of one another for as long as they may have together.

Labels: FOO, illness, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard